05. Sprig

They’re playing A Whiter Shade of Pale in the next room over. If it didn’t already feel like they were at a funeral, it did now.

The funeral director with a stony face calls Gerald up next. She softly touches his arm in passing, quietly saying, “I’ll see if we can do something about the sounds from next door,” as she passes the podium microphone.
She walks out with a purposeful stride as if it’s just another day. But it isn’t, not for Gerald and his sister Lisa. It isn’t for the people next door either, Lisa guesses. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. They were supposed to get the church her mother had wanted, the grand catholic one they’d attend the town’s Christmas service in every year. How were they to know churches required so much planning, even for a bloody Wednesday morning service? Lisa feels her inner atheist has let her mother down.
Gerald is red-faced as he approaches the podium. His shiny forehead and tight collar make him look as though he’s being suffocated. Lisa knows this version of Gerry well. It’s the Gerry who has slipped back to old habits. She takes a long breath in as he shuffles the pages of his eulogy awkwardly.
”Mum,” he says, too close to the microphone, sending a sharp ring out into the small room. He takes an apologetic step back and starts again.
“Mum was never what you would call conventional,” he starts, pulling out a small pair of wire-framed glasses from the breast pocket of his suit.
“On my first day at primary school, she packed me up with half a baguette and some camembert and sent me on my way. Completely unaware that Aussie kids don’t eat like that.” Gerry chuckles. The mourners politely chuckle with him.
Lisa remembers the way he had cried when he came home that day, wailing that all the other kids ate something disgusting called Vegemite. She remembered thinking she would have to get used to the foul dark paste before her turn the next year.
“But Mum got down on my level and told me, ‘What do they know?’ And that always stuck with me, you know?”
Lisa thinks about all the times their mother gave her the same pep talk. When the girls at school would tease her for her Mary Janes because everyone else wore chunky pairs of Clarks. When the boys in her class would call her a frog. When her teachers would call her a know-it-all in French class.
“Mon amour, what do they know?” she would always say, softly patting Lisa’s tiny head.
“Their world, it’s this big,” she’d say, making a pinch with her fingers.
Gerry clears his throat and shuffles his papers. He takes a sharp inhale.
“Mum had a hard time adapting to Australia,” he goes on, “she was always complaining that the supermarkets never had any good produce. She’d wake me and Lis up at the crack of dawn and drag us down to the Queen Vic every Saturday to get the freshest produce and meat.”
Lisa thinks about those car rides into the city. They’d pile into the Ford Cortina, leaving while it was still dark. Her mother would pack a thermos of tea, and some blankets, and wrap them both in several layers. By the time they’d arrived at the Queen Victoria Market, they’d peel off their coats, jumpers, and extra socks.
Wandering around the market, still dozy from the car ride, Lisa would take in the sights and smells. Her mother would drag a trolley with her as she collected the freshest fruit, vegetables, meat and fish she could find. She’d do her best to keep up with the fast talk of the vendors, but occasionally she’d look to Lisa or Gerry for help.
On one particular Saturday, they were on a mission. For the very first time, Gerry and Lisa were going to meet their grandparents next week. For their mother, this meant making her famous gâteau au yaourt with rosemary and raspberries; Her father’s favourite. They flew past the usual stalls at the market, scooping up fresh produce and meat, heading toward their final conquest–rosemary.
Just when they were about to bid the Queen Vic adieu, her mother spied a stall that sold herbs by the pot. Lisa remembers her mother haggling, telling the stall owner she didn’t need a fully grown bush of rosemary.
“I just need a-” Her mother searched for the word in English but nothing was coming, “-Un brin,” she said desperately.
The stall owner, a pudgy man wearing a stained coat and a paperboy hat gave her a scornful look.
“No idea what you’re saying love,” he sighed frustratedly.
Her mother looked at them both, “What do you call this?” she asked, tenderly holding a section of the rosemary plant between her fingers.
“Rosemary,” the stall owner repeated for the umpteenth time. Their mother ignored him.
Lisa didn’t know what the word for one bit of rosemary was, evidently, neither did Gerry.
“Like a branch?” Lisa offered meekly.
“Or a twig?” Gerry tried.
The stall owner looked at the kids, who were as lost as he was.
“Do you mean you just need a sprig?” He asked, finally getting it.
“How much?” their mother asked, meaning how much was the measurement of the sprig.
The store owner shook his head and chuckled softly, plucking three or four sprigs of rosemary from the plant, wrapping them in a bit of butcher's paper and handing them over.
“For free,” he smiled, relieved to understand, “just don’t go telling anyone. I’ve gone soft in me old age.”
Relieved to be free of the ordeal, their mother thanked him and tucked the sprigs into her coat pocket.
Lisa chuckles to herself at the memory of her mother pulling the car out of the Queen Vic market and repeating the word “sprig,” over and over, committing it to memory.