full-cloaked, and light is gone / Sudden and soon …’
‘Sudden and soon,’ Grandma repeats after me, her voice tolling like she’s announcing the end of time.
It’s funny how words take on a different meaning, depending on the time and place they’re used. I’ve read this poem to Grandma a dozen times, but this time it’s like the poet wrote it about Dad.
I have this real strong memory of when Grandma was still full of life. She had a massive stack of picture books that once belonged to Mum, and she would read to me and Mikey for hours on end. Sometimes she’d play the piano and sing with us, and in summer she’d take us to the beach to paddle in the shallows, always buying us an ice-block — shivery bites she called them — on our way back home. She used to call Mikey her ‘little munchkin’ and me her ‘little man’. I can’t believe how much I’ve missed her since I’ve been down south.
I read until she dozes off, then carefully brush a kissgoodbye on to her papery cheek. She’s like a little baby when she sleeps, her mouth puckered like she’s nuzzling at her mother’s tit. It’s hard to drag myself away — especially as I’ve no idea when, or if, I’ll see her again. Even though I know her life is shit, the thought of losing her right now is totally unbearable.
Before I leave the room, I take a picture of her with my otherwise useless phone. Way back, people thought that if you took their photo you somehow captured their soul. I hope to god that’s true.
I walk back to the central city, tallying up every cop and soldier along the way. By the time I reach The Terrace I’m up over a hundred, and that’s not counting whoever’s flying the swarm of helicopters overhead. It’s like walking into the middle of a war movie.
I’ve mistimed my walk, and arrive outside the lawyer’s office building way too early. There’s nothing for it but to mooch about, trying not to look suspicious to the cops and trying to stay alert to people’s conversations as they hurry past. No prizes for guessing what the one and only topic is: everyone is absolutely freaked.
At last, just before nine, this really sexy older chick in a tight black leather skirt heads up the stairs towards the lifts, then turns back round and walks right up to me.
‘You must be Ashley,’ she says. ‘I’m Lucinda Lasch.’ Fuck me, she really is a porn star! All she needs is fishnets and a whip. ‘I saw you read your statement on last night’s news. Good for you! Shaun would be proud.’
I follow her seriously tidy tush into the building, mortified to see myself in the mirrored doors. I’m beetroot red by the time we reach her office on the fifth floor. The room is stacked with papers and lined withshelves of box files. She directs me to a comfy chair and leaves the room, returning with a tray of freshly brewed coffee and a couple of steaming croissants. My guts rumble their thanks.
‘Now,’ she says, settling herself opposite me. ‘First let me say how truly sad I am about your father. It’s a terrible loss to everyone, but worst of all for you and Mikey.’
‘Did you know Dad well?’
‘He’s been my client for the last five years. I think it’s fair to say that we were friends.’
If ‘friends’ is code, the old man’s just gone up in my estimation about two hundred-fold.
She pours me coffee and insists I eat both croissants while she sorts her notes and we do the small-talk thing about my uni course and how Mikey and I are managing. Finally she puts on a pair of glasses and gets to the point.
‘Okay. Let’s deal with the financials first. Of course, the flat and all its contents are left to you — with a proviso that you always provide Mikey with a comfortable home. It’s mortgage free and unit titled, so you won’t have to worry about outstanding costs.’
Relief washes over me like a warm wet dream. Now at least I know I can sell it if I have to.
‘A month ago Shaun took out an insurance
‘Sudden and soon,’ Grandma repeats after me, her voice tolling like she’s announcing the end of time.
It’s funny how words take on a different meaning, depending on the time and place they’re used. I’ve read this poem to Grandma a dozen times, but this time it’s like the poet wrote it about Dad.
I have this real strong memory of when Grandma was still full of life. She had a massive stack of picture books that once belonged to Mum, and she would read to me and Mikey for hours on end. Sometimes she’d play the piano and sing with us, and in summer she’d take us to the beach to paddle in the shallows, always buying us an ice-block — shivery bites she called them — on our way back home. She used to call Mikey her ‘little munchkin’ and me her ‘little man’. I can’t believe how much I’ve missed her since I’ve been down south.
I read until she dozes off, then carefully brush a kissgoodbye on to her papery cheek. She’s like a little baby when she sleeps, her mouth puckered like she’s nuzzling at her mother’s tit. It’s hard to drag myself away — especially as I’ve no idea when, or if, I’ll see her again. Even though I know her life is shit, the thought of losing her right now is totally unbearable.
Before I leave the room, I take a picture of her with my otherwise useless phone. Way back, people thought that if you took their photo you somehow captured their soul. I hope to god that’s true.
I walk back to the central city, tallying up every cop and soldier along the way. By the time I reach The Terrace I’m up over a hundred, and that’s not counting whoever’s flying the swarm of helicopters overhead. It’s like walking into the middle of a war movie.
I’ve mistimed my walk, and arrive outside the lawyer’s office building way too early. There’s nothing for it but to mooch about, trying not to look suspicious to the cops and trying to stay alert to people’s conversations as they hurry past. No prizes for guessing what the one and only topic is: everyone is absolutely freaked.
At last, just before nine, this really sexy older chick in a tight black leather skirt heads up the stairs towards the lifts, then turns back round and walks right up to me.
‘You must be Ashley,’ she says. ‘I’m Lucinda Lasch.’ Fuck me, she really is a porn star! All she needs is fishnets and a whip. ‘I saw you read your statement on last night’s news. Good for you! Shaun would be proud.’
I follow her seriously tidy tush into the building, mortified to see myself in the mirrored doors. I’m beetroot red by the time we reach her office on the fifth floor. The room is stacked with papers and lined withshelves of box files. She directs me to a comfy chair and leaves the room, returning with a tray of freshly brewed coffee and a couple of steaming croissants. My guts rumble their thanks.
‘Now,’ she says, settling herself opposite me. ‘First let me say how truly sad I am about your father. It’s a terrible loss to everyone, but worst of all for you and Mikey.’
‘Did you know Dad well?’
‘He’s been my client for the last five years. I think it’s fair to say that we were friends.’
If ‘friends’ is code, the old man’s just gone up in my estimation about two hundred-fold.
She pours me coffee and insists I eat both croissants while she sorts her notes and we do the small-talk thing about my uni course and how Mikey and I are managing. Finally she puts on a pair of glasses and gets to the point.
‘Okay. Let’s deal with the financials first. Of course, the flat and all its contents are left to you — with a proviso that you always provide Mikey with a comfortable home. It’s mortgage free and unit titled, so you won’t have to worry about outstanding costs.’
Relief washes over me like a warm wet dream. Now at least I know I can sell it if I have to.
‘A month ago Shaun took out an insurance
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