Setting: St Matthew’s Church, Guildford. 1920.
The church is filled with mourners (the audience) who sit in silent reverie,
for they are participating in the funeral of Mrs Augusta Wentworth. Augusta is also
there, but clearly not one of the congregation as she is dressed with her usual
flair in a slightly dated gown of a golden yellow, and is wandering around the
church. She is aware that it is her own funeral and is providing social
commentary as was her habit in life.
Augusta Wentworth is a fictional pioneering
member of the Guildford community. She and her husband Thomas arrived in 1860
with their two sons and settled on the upper Swan, north of Guildford which
remained their local township. Though she had a rather privileged upbringing in
England, like many women in her situation, she experienced hardship in the new
Perth colony. As she grew older she became one of the personalities of the area
and was renowned for her vibrancy and energy, particularly amongst the younger
generations.
Augusta: You’re late my dear, but that’s alright. They’ve almost finished, so
come, sit beside me and rest. We’ll wait until they’ve all gone. It won’t be
long now. (She sits listening to the
speaker) Ned is such a wonderful speaker, isn’t he? As grandparents we’re
not supposed to have favourites, but he was always mine. He’s just like his
grandfather; Thomas would have been so proud of him: the way he’s taken up the management
of the estate. I suppose we never really expected the orchard to be this
successful. 30 years ago it was doing better than I’d ever imagined, but Ned
has improved upon that 10 fold. And when he married Miss Eliza it couldn’t have
worked out better. They do suit each other so well don’t you think? It’s just a
pity it took them so long to discover that for themselves. I remember when Miss
Eliza and her sisters first arrived here. Three young ladies all in grey
quietly seating in their family pew, each one eyes modestly downcast, but
perfectly aware of the attention they were receiving from the congregation:
they caused quite a stir, and not just on that first Sunday. Until their
arrival there were never enough visual distractions from the monotony of the
sermon, particularly in this church. Who would have known they would return to
Guildford such beauties.
(She
softens as she catches sight of the font.) Miss Kate probably doesn’t
remember but she was christened here, in this very font. In fact they all were.
(she laughs) John screamed the church
down when he was christened. He certainly inherited his father’s lungs. (she pauses to recollect). That wasn’t
John. That was Anthony (God bless his soul). The Reverend christened him one
week and they buried him the next. He never had a chance at life. His brother
married here though: Mr John Wentworth to Miss Katherine Townsend. I remember
it well: I had to lend Mrs Townsend my handkerchief as she’d wet her’s through.
Such a beautiful wedding; Mrs Townsend made sure of that. The bride, with her golden
halo, and strawberries and cream complexion was a vision in white tulle and
pink roses. (I do sound like the society pages.) Her sisters less so: delicate
pink just doesn’t suit Miss Eliza’s complexion or Miss Mary Anne’s style.
The second Miss Townsend was never so
conventional though: Eliza and Ned bypassed this church for a quieter one down
south. A far prettier one too if it’s the one I’m led to believe. Very intimate
from what I’ve heard: just what they wanted. It wouldn’t surprise me if they’d
planned it all along. They were clever like that. We’re not supposed to know,
but so as long as you don’t tell Mrs Townsend… she’d never forgive her daughter
if news of the elopement reached her. Not after all of the effort she put into
arranging that wedding. You can’t blame them though: two spirited children and
a very determined mother of the bride? I probably would have done the same. In
fact I know I would have.
I didn’t though. There was never any need to
follow anything but my parent’s wish. Thomas and I married in London, nothing
elaborate, just white, lace and orange blossoms in the beautiful little church
around the corner. Mother and Father
then hosted the wedding feast before Thomas drove me away to our own dear
little house. I remember the pattern of the stained glass window dancing on the
white silk of my dress before classing horribly with the wallpaper with which
the hall was lined. (She looks around
before adding sarcastically). No fear of that here. These walls are more
appropriate for a hospital than for a church: bright, white, unadorned, and with
long thin windows that won’t even open to let in the afternoon breeze. It’s
really too puritanical for a C of E church, in my eyes. And I don’t know why I
never contributed towards replacing that alter screen… when there were so many
opportunities. Perhaps we still can, as a Wentworth family memorial... I’m sure
the reverend wouldn’t mind.
At least they were thoughtful enough to decorate
it with flowers today. Wattle always was my favourite: the little downy balls
of sunshine brightened the hardest of days, then and still now. (Augusta has her back to the reverend so
that she can only hear his voice) I gather the Reverend hasn’t changed
though. (A dear little man, so kind and well meaning, but heavens he knew how
to put his congregation to sleep.) (she
turns to face the altar) Good heavens, he has changed. Poor Canon Everingham must not be with us any
longer, he was old even then.
(By now
Augusta is at the other end of the church near the door where she can survey
the church and the congregation in their entirety.)It really is a drab
little church isn’t it. Divine intervention saved us from the previous one and
we should have learnt our lesson for this one. I don’t know why I never
considered being more vocal when it was being built. Well, I do know really; it
was just a matter of managing our own building plans at the time and keeping an
eye on two teenage sons. So instead we’re stuck with this: looking at a boring
wall whilst listening to a boring sermon; my apologies Reverend. Anything to
liven it up! Well, not that! (She’s just
caught sight of the World War I memorial.) The Great War! The war to end
all wars: the Boer War, the Franco-Prussian War, the Crimean War, the Opium War…
I’m just thankful our name is not included. That would have been a tragedy too
terrible to bear. We did our part though: here, as far away from the action as
possible. John so desperately wanted to
go, but he contributed to the cause in a far better way and without the
needless shedding of more blood. (It was
enough that my cousin died in the Crimean.)They weren’t all so fortunate though:
poor Miss Mary-Anne. I hope she bounces back as it’s too quiet around here
without her laughter. (She pauses)
I remember the summer it was so hot in church
that Miss Mary Anne queried wearing her swimming costume to the service. She
reasoned that if she was going to dampen so many clothes, it should at least be
an outfit that was used to getting wet. It really would have been a sensible
idea, if her mother had allowed it. Then again, I’m not entirely sure how the
rest of us would have reacted, and the Reverend would have fainted at the sight
of her legs swinging in the front row. But of anyone, Mary Anne could have
pulled it off. (She pulls out a fan and
starts fanning herself) Heavens! I’d forgotten how airless it gets in here.
These summer services always were the worst. And yet we never adapted to the
climate. A service at sundown would have been far more sensible.
Oh dear, they do drone on, don’t they. I don’t
see why, as they all know my life story: I’ve told enough of them. And those I
didn’t tell, gossip reached anyhow. It had a way of doing that in this
community. I suppose they are family though and I was allowed such outpourings
of pride and grief at James’ and his family’s. A mother is not supposed to bury
her son! Particularly not when he’s accompanied by his wife and daughter. Such
an unexpected tragedy. Poor Lucy. I made sure her flowers were pink. Wreaths of
her favourite pink roses. It was the least I could do. They bring back so many
memories, even now. Not only of the funeral, but of walking in the gardens
cutting flowers for the house with Lucy by my side. She always insisted on
carrying the basket no matter that it was far too big and too heavy for her
delicate size. I’ve come to hate pink roses, but I couldn’t tell Kate that, and
ruin her day.
I was only fortunate that Thomas did not have
to experience it with me. His funeral was the first, and that was almost thirty
years ago now. It is strange how it still feels as though it were yesterday.
The doctor said I was lucky to have had him that long, but that was why we
moved to Australia, uprooted a small family and bade farewell to a very happy
lifestyle: so he would live longer. So
we could share a full life together. He was only 65. I suppose I just didn’t
expect to reach 87. At least, not without him. Truthfully, I’m surprised I
lasted this long. This pioneering lifestyle should have exhausted me years ago.
Perhaps it was the pioneering spirit that kept me battling on so long. An
unwillingness to give up on anything. This is the last one though. I suppose I
can relax now.
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