A Funeral

'Dominus vobiscum,' intoned the priest.

'Et cum spirit tuo,' was the response.

'Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus Pater, et Filius et Spiritus Sanctus.'

'Amen,' the congregation replied.

'Ite, missa est,' replied the priest, dressed in black vestments and the final reply from the congregation was, 'Deo gratias.'

The priest followed the two altar boys out, and the congregation stood to watch the funeral directors wheel the coffin to the door and then it being carried to the hearse, which slowly pulled away from the front of the church.

'Hello, Catherine,' said a tall good-looking man of about thirty four. She turned to see Mark standing behind her. She kissed him and said, 'Mark, I haven't seen you for ages. How are you?'

'I'm fine,' he replied.

'You'll obviously miss Jean. I am so sorry.'

'So am I,' was the clipped reply.

'Listen, why don't you join us for lunch?' she added.

'Another time.' He moved off toward his car, parked some way from the church.

'Shall we be going?' Catherine said to her husband and arm in arm they made their way out onto the street on a very cold and overcast day with a wind that blew the autumn leaves in all directions.

'It's hideous,' she said. I can't believe ecclesiastical taste has dropped to such a low ebb and the damn church probably cost a fortune. So much for Australian architects.'

'I agree,' said Dermit. 'Just such bad taste.' They drove to the hotel where they had stayed last evening, coming direct from Melbourne late afternoon.

'We'll have lunch and then leave for home,' Catherine suggested, 'unless you want to inspect Jean's house.'

'I might have a quick look.'

'Mark hasn't changed much, has he?' Catherine commented over lunch. 'Still as non-committal as ever, but he will miss Jean.'

It had been the oddest of relationships, that between Mark and Jean. Mark's parents had divorced when he was young, so somehow, from an early age, he was shunted off to Aunt Jean's for every vacation. She had never married and had lived in the same house all her life, a forties weather-board dwelling of no style at all and this description suited Jean as well. The house was in the middle of a street and the pale, faded green with white trim had never altered all her life, except that the colour became lighter, as Jean always said to the painters that she wanted it the same but with time and as the original paint had faded each new paint job had matched the faded shade.

One entered from a tiny front porch into a narrow hall with a bedroom one side and the living room the other. Nothing had altered from the time of Jean's parents. The same stern relatives looked down from dark oak frames that were virtually frame to frame all around the walls, suspended at different levels from the picture rail. The furniture was nondescript and the only addition to this room, which always had an odd smell, was a large television set. The predominant colour, with the cream gloss walls, was brown – in the autumnal leafy carpet to the 1940s large divan and two large arm chairs that matched, in a brown toning in Genoan velvet, a fifties buffet with a solid front door and two side glass doors, which were sand-blasted with a peacock on each door. There were numerous little tables, all covered with doylies and each one had an ornament of no character whatsoever perched on it, not to mention a ghastly standard lamp. The whole house followed this pattern, not so much sad as something that functioned but in a terribly old-fashioned way, and nowhere was that more evident than in the kitchen, where no updating had been done since it had been installed.

It was to this house that Mark had come for his vacations, year after year, even through his university years, and up until now he continued the same pattern with his life. He was, as Catherine described, uncommunicative: one word or perhaps two but a whole conversation was out of the question. Catherine was never sure if he was extremely shy or just bored with the world. But be that as it may, he was still an exceptionally handsome man.

'What is this odd smell?' Catherine asked Dermit, as they walked through Jean's house.

'No idea. But it's always been here. I have always thought my sister used the wrong cleaning fluids.'

'You can say that again,' she remarked. 'Who gets the house?'

'Mark. He is the only young relative. We don't want it and now both his parents are dead he was the obvious choice. I have seen the will. I would assume Jean and he were just an odd couple.'

'Yes. She was thirty or so years older than him. I can't imagine them together, as neither of them had much to say or perhaps that's why they did get along. I don't think Mark has many friends. I have never seen him with anyone, have you?'

'No, never. Perhaps he has friends from work. Who knows?'

'Oh God, look at this kitchen! It's unbelievable! Nothing modern ever entered here. Look at the old-fashioned gas hot water system – a trifle primitive! Poor Jean.'

'She never changed anything, so I guess she never saw these things as a problem,' Dermit said.

'I suppose you're right.' She looked about in this time warp. 'Come on, let's go, otherwise we shall be late. Remember we have a dinner party this evening.'

Dermit looked up as they walked to the car. He said, 'I'm my sister's executor, so unless she hasn't changed her will, Mark gets the lot and it's all very straightforward. I suppose I shall have to go to the reading next week. Oh, what a bore! It's sure to be at an inconvenient time.'

They got into their car and headed towards Melbourne.

Catherine and Dermit had been married for thirty years. They were an example of a success story, both dynamic, both very good-looking and they both had the drive to succeed. Dermit had his own real estate company and it was very successful – money was good and plentiful and as a result of his work they had upgraded their homes until now they were most content in a large Victorian mansion in George Street, East Melbourne. Little by little it had been restored and renovated to their taste and a more elegant home would be difficult to locate. Catherine was very much a socialite and held important positions on several charities. These took up a lot of her time. She was still a very handsome woman at fifty five: she seemed ten years younger, with hardly a line on her face. She was tall, with a mane of auburn hair, green eyes and lips that always betrayed a hint of a smile. She dressed extremely well and as a result of Dermit's now six real estate offices she received for her birthday every year a substantial piece of jewellery which she wore very well and often, and she was well aware of the catty comments passed by the other women. Dermit was seven years her senior and he doted on her. He was still, at 62, a very handsome man, tall, with bushy hair turning grey at the sides. He had twinkling eyes that seemed to follow you wherever you went, a fine strong face, with a cleft chin, strong arms that ended in large, strong hands. He was charm itself, but when it came to business he could be quite ruthless. He made every cent do a dollar's worth of work. He was very popular with his staff and they worked very well for him.

'Well, there is only Mark and me left,' he said in an offhand way, having a drink before going out to dinner. 'The rest are gone.'

'Darling, what an unnecessary comment,' his wife replied, looking at him. 'I shall...