Page 111 of Where the Wattles Bloom

Twenty-Seven

Reggie was buried ten days later. The funeral was held at a church in town, and the mourners packed the pews and spilled out onto the grassy surrounds. Acacia Junction all but ground to a halt as it farewelled one of its daughters.

The wake was held afterwards at the CWA hall, with a devastated Madge Smyth firmly in charge of the refreshments. There was bucket loads of tea and she’d corralled everyone to make one of Reggie’s dishes, the recipes for which had appeared in every Acacia Junction CWA cookbook for over five decades.

The plates were arranged on tables covered with a selection of Reggie’s tablecloths. Beside each offering, a card stated the year the recipe had been published and if it had won a show ribbon. It was a touching tribute.

Silvano was the only exception. After consulting Madge, he’d brought several trays piled high with bomboloni.

No one objected.

Later that afternoon, the family gathered at the Blairgowrie cemetery for the burial. The news of Reggie’s sudden death had been shocking for all the family and they’d travelled to Blairgowrie from far and wide to pay their respects and say goodbye to their matriarch.

Reggie’s remaining daughters—Lachlan’s Aunty Katrina and Aunty Pamela—had arrived first, but the homestead had quickly filled with McCabes. Rowena had no idea just how vast the McCabe family tree was but, as the bunkhouse beds filled and tents were pitched, she realised it was a big old spreading oak.

While the circumstances sucked, Rowena was humbled to be so readily accepted by everyone. News of the baby was already common knowledge, but to feel the love for Lachlan and the baby, to know that her daughter had a fabulously demonstrative family on the McCabe side who already loved her and rejoiced in her existence, had made Rowena’s heart ache.

In a good way.

It had been a loud, busy, emotional time. The days were filled with laughter and tears, and a lot of reminiscing and photo sharing. Reggie with a baby on her hip at the clothesline. Albert and Reggie, neither with grey hair, grinning at the camera as they sat on a horse, three little girls squashed between them. Lachlan as a blond, skinny ten-year-old in fringed chaps, holding Reggie’s hand at the show. Each photo was passed to Rowena and she’d laughed at the more outrageous ones and made all the appropriate comments.

His family had embraced her and that had been simultaneously wonderful and terrifying. Because, as heartening as it was lapping up the love from his family, she felt like a fraud. Should she ingratiate herself this way when she had one foot out the door?

But … how could she not?

This was a time for family and, wherever she ended up, the baby she carried made her part of the McCabe family.

The nights were very different. Behind Lachlan’s closed bedroom door there’d been just the two of them and he’d been able to let go. He didn’t cry again but, lying in the dark with the family shut out, he didn’t need to be strong for anybody—to comfort anybody. He was able to give in to the emotional exhaustion, and she was happy to be the one he leaned on.

And he leaned. Holding her tight—so tight—with his hand curled possessively around her belly. Like she was an anchor. Like he needed her to breathe. She’d tried to get him to talk about Reggie, about the accident, but he hadn’t wanted to revisit that day.

He’d wanted to get through.

Because that’s apparently what Reggie would have wanted him to do. So they didn’t talk. They just lay there holding each other, his head on her belly as she stroked his hair and he fell asleep.

Thank god for Albert. Reggie tasking the older man with keeping an eye on her grandson had been a genius move and Albert was never far away. The two men spent a lot of time together drinking tea and not talking, but it was clearly restorative for both of them.

It was like their own personal homage to Reggie and, no matter what else was going on or who else joined them, it always felt like they were at a tea party for two. Or maybe for three …

The sun was dropping lower in the sky as they put Reggie in the ground, nothing but the soft sigh of a breeze ruffling through the leaves disturbing the silence in the glade. Albert, in his grey suit, threw the first handful of dirt into the grave. Lachlan, wearing a charcoal suit, threw the second, followed by his aunts, and then everyone else took their turn in sombre solidarity.

Rowena was the last and she threw in two. One for her, one for the baby.

Lachlan ushered her to his side, his arm around her waist as they left the cemetery via the open wrought-iron gate where Red and Blue had sat and watched the proceedings. Albert, flanked on either side by Reggie’s daughters, walked in front of them. He was moving a little slower, his hair seemed a little whiter, but his big frame was as erect as ever.

On foot they all made their way back to the homestead, conversation low, murmured and contemplative. Red shadowed Lachlan as they passed the yards where Ryan, Brodie and Shaun had drenched all the sheep last week, allowing the family to get on with the mourning.

God … was it only last week?

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, not really expecting an answer but enquiring anyway.

‘I don’t know.’ Lachlan shook his head. ‘She’s been with me longer than my parents were. It’s …’ He shrugged. ‘Hard to believe I’m never going to see her again.’

Rowena understood that. Reggie had been in her life comparatively briefly yet it felt alien to walk into the kitchen and not find her at the Aga.

‘Did you know she was sick?’ he asked.

Albert had told Lachlan the day after Reggie had died about the cancer. Rowena thought it had been his way to help ease Lachlan’s mind. To let him know that Reggie hadn’t been long for the world, anyway.