Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (46 page)

‘We can have whatever type of funeral you kids want,’ I told the children gleefully. We were all overjoyed. I couldn’t believe we were fighting over Paul’s remains. ‘I’m gonna call the police and find out where the body is.’

‘And I’ll book flights,’ said Shoshanna.

We’d been told there’d be an autopsy, and I called the mortuary to inform them that
my
undertaker would be collecting the body— under no circumstances should it be released to Deirdre’s.

The phone was ringing incessantly with friends who’d heard of Paul’s death. I was desperately trying to contact Paul’s half-brothers, but had no phone numbers for them. I also called one of my aunts. She’d only met Paul once, but wanted to attend the funeral as a gesture of support to me. I was touched by this—other than Deirdre, we would know no-one.

In the middle of all this activity, I received a call from the oncology department of the Mercy Hospital. It had been several weeks since my massive cyst operation. Now I was told my pathology report revealed a rare and aggressive high-grade ovarian cancer, which had spread to my peritoneum. I was scheduled to begin chemotherapy immediately.

My reaction was shock; the children’s was disbelief. Right now, however, I could only focus on Paul’s funeral and put my poor prognosis out of my mind.

Somehow, I would have to make sense of his wasted life and write his eulogy. I’d long thought of him as a flawed genius: he had been so gifted, but he’d frittered his talent away. He had so much potential and was so many things: writer, artist, film-maker, entrepreneur, actor, salesman . . . he even had that brief stint as a real estate agent. If he’d been born into a nurturing family, he could have been something spectacular. Instead, he became a pornographer.

We arrived early at the Mount Gravatt Cemetery; I wanted ample time to view Paul’s body. The undertaker had warned that we might be shocked by the discolouration and bloating but he had done what he could, without overdoing the make-up.

I was struck by how much Paul had aged in the six years since I’d seen him—what was left of his hair was now mostly grey. He looked serene as he lay there in his white satin shroud. His face was asymmetrical from the blood that had pooled internally on the side where he’d lain.

Ya’el was first to caress his head, tears streaming down her face. The others followed. I too plucked up the courage to stroke his icy hands, clasped neatly on his chest. Whatever our differences had been—and there were many—I felt no anger or bitterness, just affection and sadness for him and his lost life. After all, we had loved each other once.

There was only a handful of mourners, who sat with Deirdre on her side of the chapel. Some were fellow market stallholders, but most were apparently friends of hers who barely knew Paul. Bravely, each of the children recited a poem, Ya’el reading her own moving composition titled ‘Dad’s Quirks’. It felt odd to be sharing this intimate moment with strangers, but then Paul had never had many friends.

The celebrant read my eulogy. To finish, I used the same Shakespearean rhyming couplet I’d previously quoted at the funerals for Egon, Dory and Trudie. Of all of them, it was truest of Paul:

Golden lads and girls all must

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

After the funeral, Deirdre handed over to us a box containing Paul’s possessions. Among the old and tatty clothes were only two things of sentimental value: his portfolio of drawings, and his pool cue. The former, mainly from his youth, still encapsulated the life force and creativity that was Paul.

The undertaker delivered the ashes the following morning to the serviced apartment we had taken in Brisbane. He included a cutting of Paul’s hair—tied with a tiny bow—for Ya’el, who’d requested it. We had bought a duffel bag in which to carry Paul’s possessions. That virtually the sum total of his life fitted into a carry-on luggage bag was a tragedy in itself. We knew there were other possessions, but Deirdre showed no inclination to give them to us. No doubt the estate would be bankrupt.

Paul’s ashes sat in a yellow supermarket bag on the kitchen table. He had been a big man, and the ashes were heavy. Naturally, we had assumed Deirdre would ask for a portion, but she hadn’t and I did not make the offer. The children regained their composure as we spent hours talking fondly of their father’s idiosyncrasies. I knew that the grieving process would be a long one for all of us.

The airport was crowded with holiday makers as we made our way to the security gates. We were jostled in line as we waited to go through the X-ray machine.

Shoshanna was concerned. ‘It’s not going to be a problem, is it . . . taking Dad through airport security?’

‘I don’t think so.’

We became separated from Ya’el and Ben in the crowd.

‘Who’s got your father?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Shoshanna. ‘Where’s Ben?’

I found Ben, who at well over six foot tall is always easy to locate. ‘Have you got Dad?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Ben, holding aloft the yellow supermarket bag.

‘Okay, you need to put him through the X-ray machine.’

Ben lifted the bag onto the conveyor belt.

‘G’day,’ said the airport security official. ‘So, what’s in there?’

‘Dad,’ said Ben firmly.

‘It’s their father’s ashes,’ I clarified. ‘I know it’s a bit unusual to be taking human remains on board a plane, but . . .’ I produced the letter that the undertaker had given me. I waited tentatively as he read it.

‘Okay, no worries.’ He smiled benignly. ‘Have a safe trip.’

As I walked down the concourse, I thought to myself, ‘Jeez, that’s the end of an era.’

But could I honestly say I wouldn’t have missed it for the world? I simply don’t know.

Epilogue

Deirdre was the last person to see Paul alive, at around 7 p.m. on Tuesday, 7 April 2009 when she told him to go downstairs. Apparently they had an arrangement that he slept in the basement when he was drunk. She didn’t find his body until 6:05 a.m. on Thursday, two days later. In her police interview, she said she went to work on the Wednesday morning without checking on Paul. She wasn’t asked why she didn’t check on him that evening and no explanation was offered. When asked why she checked on the Thursday morning, she cited the fact that she hadn’t heard his smoker’s cough and thought something was awry.

The coroner couldn’t give an exact date of death, only a range: Paul died sometime between Tuesday night and Thursday morning, probably closer to the former. The autopsy report cited chronic and acute alcoholism as Paul’s cause of death; the presence of vomit in his mouth may have been the immediate precipitator. Prominent marbling—associated with decomposition—was evident, the face being only just recognisable for identification purposes. Autolytic degradation of tissue cells was present in all organs, and severe in some. Other organs (including Paul’s brain) were liquefied to such an extent that sectioning was impossible.

Due to the disturbing nature of the death scene, the coroner most reluctantly released the photos. They depicted a squalid basement unfit for human habitation, with 150 empty wine casks, an enema kit and two buckets—the makeshift toilets used for evacuation of bowel contents. Nearby was the filthy foam mattress on which Paul’s body was found.

He was 45 years old when he died.

Over several conversations with the children and me spanning several months, Deirdre confirmed that Paul was cross-dressing during her time with him. She said that it was ‘almost a relief’ that he was dead, even stating that ‘towards the end, I don’t think I loved him any more’.

To date Deirdre hasn’t asked for a portion of the ashes; nor did she offer to contribute financially to the funeral, although she received half of Paul’s meagre superannuation. Upon request, I obtained a few more items from Deirdre, including several early issues of
Flesh
. The funeral expenses were eventually covered by the sale of Paul’s car, although his estate was bankrupt.

In a remarkable coincidence, Shoshanna completed a hotel management traineeship at the Pavilion Hotel in Canberra (now Rydges Capital Hill).

Inspired by his grandfather’s achievements, Ben is saving to start a pilot training course.

Ya’el won the Cancer Council Victoria art competition. Her work combined a facsimile of my pathology report with her drawing of me.

My community choir, The Chocolate Lilies, released their first CD; I have also returned to drawing and photography.

My chemo was apparently successful and I am now in remission, although the statistics for ovarian cancer are chilling.