It is one of those warm still days the city’s residents regard as a miracle, when the warmth and the stillness seem to enter people’s souls, inspiring them to talk to strangers, to smile more expansively, to be better, gentler versions of themselves.
Juliet wakes at sunrise. This is her time of day, a pause, an oasis, both preparation for and protection from the noise of the world. She stands on the lawn in her nightclothes inhaling, exhaling the newness of the day, while the neighbour’s cat winds itself around her ankles and the dew seeps into her slippers.
“Come on puss, let’s get the paper.”
Juliet and cat take the most indirect route possible to the letter box – one of her strategies for forestalling the world, for beginning the day on her own terms. She notes there are roses to be deadheaded and tomatoes to be picked, not yet, but later once the sun has warmed them. She takes a tomato leaf, rubbing it between her fingers as she completes her mission and returns to the house. The resinous sap clings to her skin, its sweet, sharp green the scent of summer, dust and rain.
Juliet prepares tea and toast. The cat, realising once again that neighbourliness does not translate into breakfast, takes its leave and Juliet carries her tea, the newspaper and the mail to her favourite place in the house; the chair in the window of the east-facing living room. Here, looking out over the harbour, a silken swathe of blue, towards the sunburnt hills, she savours smoky tannins and the sharp crunch of toast.
She is ready. The day may begin.
The newspaper is quickly despatched. They’ve discussed cancelling their subscription, relying instead on online news services, but have never quite got to that point. It’s biased, parochial and thoroughly irritating but actually cancelling a newspaper seems a dereliction of their duty to be informed, the beginning of a decline into isolation and ignorance, a descent into the world of talkback radio.
Juliet turns to the unopened mail. This is another ritual, adopted early in their marriage. Anything bearing a logo is set aside, ignored for two to three days, to wait its turn. It might have been David’s idea: a small quiet gesture of defiance.
She fans out the envelopes, selects one at random and opens it. It’s from the Department of Work and Income. It is a polite, empathetic communication, although the politeness doesn’t quite mask the underpinning power of bureaucracy, the right to sanction and withhold. The department wishes to offer its condolences on the recent death of her husband, David Michael Laing. As a widow, she will be transferred from the couple’s pension to the single rate. She may be eligible for assistance with funeral expenses and will be required to visit her nearest branch of the department with the necessary documentation. The department understands this is a difficult time for her. There are a number of social services organisations which can provide counselling. The writer has thoughtfully included a short list.
Juliet’s first reaction is disbelief. She briefly ponders this. A retired psychologist and volunteer counsellor with one of the very organisations on the department’s list, she is familiar with several models of the grieving process. Disbelief she supposes is the initial manifestation of denial. Even so, she can’t help thinking that after fifty-two years of marriage she would have noticed a milestone like this.
From outside, she can hear the tap-tap-crack of a thrush breaking a snail shell on the path, the hum of the waking neighbourhood, and, somewhere away in the distance, a siren.
She thinks of David who in all likelihood is still sleeping. This is a topic to be broached with sensitivity, kindness and a due regard to the event’s significance. Perhaps over breakfast in bed. If death should prove to be the case, this is an important stage in their journey together and should be acknowledged as such.
Juliet puts aside the remaining envelopes (another day will do no harm), picks up her plate, tea cup, newspaper and returns to the kitchen. She takes marmalade and coffee from the pantry, scans the contents of the fridge, regrets the lack of warning. If she’d known this was coming she could have bought some black pudding and mushrooms to go with the last of the bacon.
A pan heats and the kettle boils. Bacon sizzles, toast browns, the aroma of freshly ground coffee fills the air: the kitchen smells delicious. She’s enjoying herself and the prospect of his pleasure and surprise. They’ve often said that the great advantage of retirement is the opportunity it has given them to spoil each other. A song comes to mind. She chuckles. Hums as she works: If I’d known you were dying, I’d have baked a cake.
Juliet prepares a tray. A linen cloth, a glass for juice. A flower, she thinks, it needs a flower. She knows the very one: a small, newly opened rose from the garden. Cécile Brünner with her scent of cloves and spice. She admires her handiwork. Their grandchildren would photograph it, share it with the world, but Juliet feels this moment is for her and David only.
She takes the tray to their room, places it gently on her side of the bed, on the quilt made by their daughter in her superwoman domestic goddess phase. They’d worried about her at the time, about the pressure she was placing on herself, her need for perfection at home, for perfection at work, the way her tension made the grandchildren jumpy and needy. It was the stuff of their late-night conversations; what was it about their child-rearing that had made their dear daughter so driven? Should they have a word with her? With their son-in-law? Was this interfering? Corporate restructuring resolved their concerns. Miranda took the redundancy cheque. She now charges usurious rates as a part-time consultant providing plain English training to her old employer.
Juliet moves to the window, pauses to admire him, this dear, lovely handsome man. The strong jaw, the hint of a dimple in the chin, the thick silvered hair. Such a catch, and still in good physical condition. She draws the curtains, turns her face to the sun. The room is filled with light, a tui sings. David stirs and wakes, sits up, stares at the tray, at his wife, rubs his head to clear the mists of sleep from his brain. He smiles.
“Well, this is something to wake up to,” he says, “as are you, of course. What’s the occasion?”
“It’s your turn for a treat.”
“I must be special. Am I being softened up for anything?”
“Not as such,” she says, handing the tray to him. She prods his legs to make room for herself and sits on the bed beside him. “But there is something we have to talk about.”
Dismay clouds his face.
“You’re alright, you’re not ill?”
“Not at all,” she says, giving his hand a squeeze, “but I think you should see this.”
Juliet almost laughs at the play of emotions across David’s face as he opens the envelope, unfolds the letter and reads down the page. The way mild curiosity gives way to shock, incredulity and wry amusement. The news is at least as much of a surprise to him as it is to her.
“I thought you’d want to know,” she says, handing him his plate and taking the letter back. “Did Dr Fitzsimons say anything to suggest this was coming?”
David, pauses, thinks: “No, not that I recall.”
“It’s very odd. You really are sure? You don’t feel dead at all, not even slightly?”
“Far from it, my love. In fact, I’m sure that if you want conclusive proof I could provide it.”
Juliet bats his leg, laughing. “You rogue. Focus, this is important.”
David feigns disappointment and reads the letter again, aloud. They laugh at the expression of sympathy, the accordingly and pursuant to, the reference to a subordinate regulation and the vague suggestions of consequences should certain steps not be carried out. They wonder who writes this stuff, and, in fairness, acknowledge that it is undoubtedly the labour of conscientious, intelligent people, people like their daughter. “No wonder she almost went nuts,” says David. “She’d have her work cut out with this lot.”
Juliet stands to take the tray back to the kitchen: “Can I get you anything else or will you be getting up?”
“No, nothing, thanks. I think I’ll just stay here for a bit. It’s an interesting proposition being dead in the eyes of the world. I wouldn’t mind seeing how it pans out in practice.”
“Shall I close the curtains, then? Would that be more authentic?”
“No, it’s perfect. I’ve always fancied the idea of a raised tomb, on a hill. Where you can see what’s going on.”
Juliet smiles, tells him not to take too long.
She spends her day quietly, reading and gardening, deadheading roses, picking tomatoes and basil. Thinks about David and his reaction to the letter. What would she do in his position? Laugh it off? Get on with life? She considers this. No, she doubts that she would. The fact is, she tells herself, the letter has given them an opportunity to explore a fundamental metaphysical question. It would be foolish to pass that up. On a purely practical level, at their time of life, this could be a useful input into planning for the inevitable.
It is almost five when David emerges with a report on his experience. Solitary, he says, but not unpleasantly so. Quiet, peaceful, as one might expect. Most striking though, was the almost meditative sense of detachment from the world, from the everyday. Not a severing by any means, nor even a disengagement, because, and this surprised him most, there remained a connection, a fine, silvery thread, like spider silk, stretching through the air.
Juliet is fascinated. She has read of near-death experiences, stories of tunnels and bright light, of reassuring presences and complete peace. That said, she has also read of the emergence of dissociative disorders as a response to trauma. She can’t help thinking that some of what David is saying sounds a little like depersonalisation-derealisation disorder. She listens closely, questions him, puts that very point to him. She is reassured to learn this thought has also occurred to him. Listen, he says, if that were the case, if indeed the carefully crafted bureaucratic letter had flipped him over the edge into some dark abyss of the mind, then surely he would not have felt that connection? Is not the existence of that glistening strand of gossamer confirmation of his sanity?
Juliet kisses him. She loves their conversations, the care they take to analyse, to listen, to explore and test each other.
“So what now?” she asks.
David leans towards her as he talks, brings his hands together, steepling his fingertips. The day in bed has given him some insight into the nature of death but is hardly sufficient for a real understanding. With Juliet’s agreement, he would like to continue the experiment, at least until the deadline for the necessary documentation. Just over two weeks away.
Juliet considers his request. It’s unusual but, under the circumstances, not entirely unreasonable. She too has been thinking, she says, and yes, she will support him in this. Her only question is whether they should tell Miranda, in case anything happens. David would prefer it weren’t discussed, not just yet. He’s not convinced that she is fully cured of her perfectionism, worries that seeing a letter advising of her father’s death might trigger another bout of baking, crafting and decorating. Mourning bunting, he says, funeral cupcakes, do we really want to do that to her?
Playing dead is remarkably easy. Juliet realises how little attention the world, for all its hectoring, really pays to anyone. No wonder, she says to David, that old people go unnoticed, die alone, and are found only after a neighbour notices blowflies in the window.
Of course, there are practical details to attend to. It falls to Juliet to deal with the outside world, to do the shopping, to chat with the bank manager. David takes responsibility for the indoor tasks: the dishes, cooking, vacuuming. They share the laundry: David sorts, washes, folds while Juliet hangs it out and brings it in. The dead, David says, cannot be seen pegging out the laundry. They are quietly amused by this change in their partnership – the public-private delineation never previously a feature of the relationship, the reversal of traditional role separation. The days pass sweetly, gently by, the rhythm interrupted only by a voice message from Miranda.
“She wants to drop round,” Juliet says. “With cupcakes. Leftovers from a hen party. I hope she’s alright.”
“Buttercream roses,” David says. “The thin end of the wedge. You’d better say yes, make sure she’s okay. I think I’ll tidy the basement. Perhaps you can tell her I’m at the library. That I’m writing an article.”
Miranda arrives bearing cupcakes. The decoration is pleasingly minimal: stripes in black icing, fondant squares in primary colours.
“No roses?” says Juliet.
“Don’t start. I know I was nuts.”
“Not nuts darling, but certainly driven. These are excellent. Good balance of cake and icing, not too sweet. Dad will like them.”
“Where is he? I was hoping to see him.”
Juliet could kick herself.
“The library. He said to say sorry, but he’s researching an article. Would you like some more tea?”
It sounds a bit thin to her but Miranda seems convinced. No, she won’t, thanks, she just wanted to deliver the cakes, say hello, she’s already late. She’s pleased her father is still writing, looks forward to reading the piece, would be happy to edit it.
“What’s it about?”
Damn, thinks Juliet.
“Socio-cultural aspects of contemporary New Zealand death rituals,” she says, improvising wildly, “eco-funerals, living wills, trees instead of headstones, that sort of thing.”
“That’s a bit gloomy,” Miranda says, looking for her car keys, “couldn’t he think of something more cheerful?”
“Not gloomy at all, sweetheart, it’s extremely interesting. But it’s his project, he should tell you about it.”
Juliet walks her daughter to the car, kisses her goodbye and stands at the gate waving till she’s out of sight. David is still in the basement.
“All clear,” she announces, pushing the door open, “and the cupcakes are surprisingly… goodness, what’s this? A grave?”
The whole space has been rearranged. Garden equipment is neatly stacked against one wall. The dirt floor has been swept. String and pegs mark out a tidy rectangle. David is digging. He stops, smiles at his puzzled wife.
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“In a manner of speaking?” Juliet arches her eyebrows.
“If I want to experience this fully, I need to do it properly, don’t I?” He drives the spade into the ground, dusts his hands on his pants, and wipes his forehead.
“I see,” says Juliet. “I think it’s time to talk about this. Come and have a cake, you look as if you need one.”
They sit at the dining table, facing each other, a pot of tea, a water jug and a plate of cupcakes between them.
“They don’t look too bad. A bit Mondrian. How was she?”
“She’s fine – balanced, cheerful, busy. She volunteered to edit your article. You’d better get writing.”
David nods, chewing his cake thoughtfully. That could be quite fun. He’ll have to choose a topic.
“Actually, you’ve already got one. Socio-cultural aspects of contemporary New Zealand death rituals, eco-funerals, trees…”
Crumbs spray across the table. David gasps for air.
“She asked and I had to come up with something. Here, have some water, quick.”
David swallows, clears his throat: “What exactly did you have in mind?”
But Juliet is not to be sidetracked: “What exactly do you have in mind with this grave of yours?”
David puts his glass down, takes his time. It is simply, as he said in the basement, that he would like to experience his own death as fully as possible. Think about it, he tells her, it’s one of the defining events of our lives and yet most of us go into it after little reflection. It’s all practicalities and paperwork, he says. End of life protocols. Property, tea sets. Distractions all.
“I need to understand what lies ahead.”
Juliet listens, prods, questions. Has this been part of his plan all along? What else is on his agenda? She draws the line at trialling a cremation.
David laughs. What a sensible wife he has. No, he’s not planning anything else. Could she hire a trenching contractor please, he doesn’t think he can manage the whole job and still meet the department’s deadline.
The contractors are nice young men, fit, tanned, given to whistling. The work is scoped, priced and a discount offered for immediate payment. The pair work quickly, the machine’s noise ripping the morning apart.
“Strange job,” says the younger of the two, rubbing the back of his neck, “looks almost like a grave.”
“Goodness, you’re right,” says Juliet as she writes out the cheque, “I hadn’t thought of that. How odd. It’s for my husband.”
The young man is visibly taken aback. Juliet realises her error.
“For one of his projects,” she says, “not for him. He wants a tank for recycling wastewater. For the garden,” she adds, rather pleased with her new-found gift for improvisation. “Old men and their projects. You have to keep them happy.”
The young man nods sagely, his grandad’s just the same.
The pair stand at the edge of the pit.
“Time to give it a go,” says David, lowering himself over the edge.
He lies on his back looking up at her. He doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands, whether to lie with them at his side or to cross them over his chest.
“What do you think?”
“It’s difficult. Clasped, you look like a mediaeval bishop – is that the effect you want? But by your side looks a bit rigid. Perhaps you could put them in your pockets or maybe just fold your arms.”
“Let me think about it for a bit, I’ll experiment.”
Juliet leaves him to his own devices, brings in the washing, cuts a few roses for the house. She loves this garden, this time of year. The warmth, the lush growth, the scents, the colours. She’s been lucky, they’ve been lucky, she thinks, as she returns to the basement.
“So how is it? A fine and private place?”
“It is, actually. Rather pleasant, cool, you could join me, give me a cuddle, prove that poet wrong.”
David smiles up at her. He looks so peaceful, so rested, so very comfortable. Why not, she thinks, lunch can wait.
“Do you know, I think I will. But let me lock the house first.”
Her dear husband laughs: “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”
She blows him a kiss before turning to go outside, up the back steps into their home. Such a lovely house, it has been so good to them.
Juliet walks quietly, reverently through the rooms, skimming her fingers over polished surfaces, stroking upholstery, fingering books, closing the windows, securing the fanlights. In their bedroom, she pauses to examine herself in the mirror. She looks a little tired but has aged well, they both have, the luck of the genetic draw.
She locks the door as she leaves, taking care to hide the key.
“Welcome back,” says David, patting the earth beside him, “come on down.” He sits up to help Juliet lower herself into the trench: “See, plenty of room.”
Juliet settles down beside her husband and looks about her. At the earth wall, the way it restricts and frames her view. The floor beams above her, the underfloor insulation (such a good investment), the wiring, the pipes – all the infrastructure of domestic life. The experience is not unlike being in bed. Two bodies, side by side, the same intimacy, security, familiarity.
The earth is cool against her back, the air is dry, with the faintest whiff of mushroom.
“You’re right, it is nice in here.”
“Hush,” he says, taking her hand, “listen, how quiet it is, that’s the best part.”
They lie together, listening to the quiet. A shaft of sunlight falls across them, highlighting a single strand of spider silk.
A cobweb grows, dust settles, earth crumbles in their hair.