The Hard Blue Edge

I am the rest between two notes
That harmonise … reluctantly …
             —Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Hours (1905)

During her prolonged illness, some members of the family had felt that the compilation of a book might help visitors while away the time during lengthy hospital visits. Here, fond memories of the woman could be recorded, cards from well-wishers pasted in and general observations made. Since it seemed recovery was impossible, the book might also assist in the reconstruction of a life well lived.

At the end, the book contained a random collection of items:

• Drawings and messages from great grandchildren who could not be expected to understand the gravity of the woman’s predicament.
• The woman’s own much loved recipe for cumquat marmalade on a page colourfully illustrated by an adult granddaughter.
• A reference to and recorded comments on the woman’s dislike for the variety of wine known as Pinot.
• A list, compiled by the woman’s son-in-law, and probably not exhaustive, of the twenty-eight countries the woman could recall visiting and with a note that her favourite country had been Italy. This was accompanied by a rather ineffectual drawing of an aeroplane.
• Photocopied snippets from old newspapers, 1937 and 1939, relating to elocution awards gained by the woman wherein the judges had made comments on the display of such things as correct emphasis.
• A short piece of writing in the hand of a granddaughter, the ill woman no longer able to write with her former fluency. This piece noted the importance, as related by the woman, of gaining a scholarship to complete her secondary education at a time when life was hard.
• Several old photographs annotated with recollections, once again in another’s hand. These portrayed the then young woman’s first job as a primary teacher (eighty-three pupils in the class), bike riding in the bush with the young man who she would marry and whose ashes many years later she would disperse at a favourite coastal location. There were also photographs pertaining to the marriage itself and the cruise honeymoon to Sydney.
• A small and rather good study in blue biro of the ill woman’s withered hand as it rested on a section of her torso.
• And on what would be the final page, the words Requiem Mass, and underneath the subheading: Music—and beneath again—the surnames Mozart and Bach; then, Ecclesiastes 3: 1–8, then, in brackets: A Time for Everything.

By the weekend before the Saturday on which the ly ill woman would die, the bedside book had fulfilled its meagre purpose and had ceased to be referred to. In the palliative care unit to which she had been moved, some treasured possessions from her home had been placed in her room.

On the Sunday afternoon of that previous weekend, she, together with her daughter and son-in-law watched several horse races on the television above her bed. The three had no financial interest in the outcome of these races, yet their progress allowed a form of escape from the repetitive phrases and words that had come to replace, what in more normal times, had been enlightening and entertaining conversation. Also, the seeming unpredictability of these contests acted as a momentary blind for the inevitable. The races had provided each of the three the opportunity to make selections on the basis of the name of the horse or jockey, the racing colours, a fancied number or whatever else may have influenced a selection in the moments leading up to the race. As it happened, in the final race—and it must be said that, thus far, luck had not been on their side—the dying woman’s selection was involved in a finish so close, that the decision on which horse and rider had won, could only be ascertained by the use of sophisticated photographic equipment. The image taken by this equipment, when displayed on screen, showed her selection to have been beaten by a nostril, as the man commentating so aptly put it, and on her chosen horse being declared the second placegetter, the dying woman had half smilingly offered that this had been the story of her life. The two others present, perhaps more in an effort to console themselves, assured her that this had not been the case and that by any measure she had led a life where she could rightly call herself a winner.

Some weeks after the funeral, an extended family group headed towards a large rockpool which lies in a popular section of the western Victorian coastline. It is a testing walk from the public car park to the rockpool and it must be done at low tide to avoid being trapped within a series of narrow beaches, some menaced by sheer faces of rock. When the group reached the rockpool, the daughter of the dead woman knelt by its edge and gently eased the ashes from the crematorium urn into the pristine ripples on the water’s surface. These signalled the first inkling of a turn of the tide. At this precise moment, a man and a woman, not connected with the group, appeared and stood quite still on a nearby ledge of rock.

The urn now emptied, all present reflected momentarily, each after their own fashion, before conversing with the man. The woman accompanying him chose to remain silent. The man explained he had done the same for his parents, though further west and where there is a large recess in the rock known as the “Blowhole”. He said he was returning from there just now, having shown the woman, who he described as his new girlfriend, where he in more youthful days had taken considerable care and time to chisel his initials deep into the rock wall. He then reflected on his parents, extrapolated on sadness in general and philosophised on the passing of time. He noted that it seemed like yesterday and added, in conclusion, that none of his own extended family had continued to holiday in the area. All present now looked to where the sky appeared to meet the darker blue of the sea. Each had a specific point of focus: and the curve of the horizon held its hard blue edge.

Barry Gillard lives and works in Geelong. He is a regular contributor to The Australian.