Clown

The young man, having taken his time getting out of his seat and on to the detachable stage, placed one hand on his mother's coffin while the other clutched some scribbled notes. He took a deep breath and surveyed the large crowd standing in front of him. His wife sat in the front, rubbing her inflated stomach, their baby now three days' overdue. He took a deep breath; cleared his throat.
My mother… a deceptive person to the very end. I never knew she had so many friends…
Laughter throughout the crowd.
It’s been amazing these past few days, the amount of people who have commented on how amazing she was, how much she accomplished, how much she meant to people. Many of these people say she was like a friend to them, even though they barely knew her. I guess this is the ultimate compliment. To Rick and I she was just ‘Mum’. Loving and wise; nearly always happy. I say nearly because there were a few occasions I recall when everything wasn’t so rosy in the world of Rosemary, or Rose, as she preferred to be called. Although I'm sure some of you know her by another name...
More laughter.
She lived through making others, especially her own children, happy. Always trying to get the best out of people. And I believe the ‘unhappiness’ to which I just referred, is more a reflection on this, rather what most of usually relate to this emotion.
When Rick and I were kids she was often at work, and we’d have to amuse ourselves each afternoon after school until she arrived home. She worked as a local librarian, and there were often days when she got home looking tired. Sometimes we’d leave a mess in the kitchen, which defied one of the few rules she had for us.
‘Clean up after yourselves in the kitchen,’ she’d say. ‘You can leave your bedroom how you want it, but I need everything clear to assemble my nightly culinary masterpiece’. She would ‘tsk’ a few times before grabbing each of us by our school shirt collars and saying, ‘four hands make light of work’.
There'd be a smirk at the side of her mouth but a flash in her eyes that proved she meant it.
She was always bringing home cookbooks. Thai, French, African. You name it; she’d cook up a storm each night. She said it was therapeutic. She was always using what we thought were big words, and demanded that each time she used one that we ask its meaning. Then once she’d explained it, she’d ask us to use it in a sentence. This would always happen amid the flurry of pots and pans and the sprinkling of herbs and generous portioning of various sauces into mixing bowls; steam rising from boiling water, sweat beads on her forehead that she’d wipe with a frilly, flowery sleeve and a smile on her face when we’d use the word in the right context. If we got it wrong the cooking process would be halted until we got it right. Then, when satisfied we understood, she’d go back to her manic cooking show. We’d forget about not having a television as we watched her cooking. It was like having the Iron Chef in our house each night, with a dash of Mad Professor thrown in for good measure.
We didn’t particularly love the meals but we loved watching her. Sometimes she wore one of her many colourful bandannas around her head while she cooked. She said she felt more comfortable wearing them, and that she’d tried, without success, to convince the head librarian that it was okay to wear one of these to work. In addition to the cookery books she’d always be bringing home books for us to read. After she’d cooked and we’d eaten and cleaned up, we’d retreat to the lounge room, where she would read us stories of all genres. She’d mix it up as much as she did her cooking. Roald Dahl one week, something scary the next; realms of literary fiction –­ with all the swear words intact. She even spent one long summer month reading us Gone with the Wind, although she usually saved this for our more restless nights.
This routine changed somewhat in our teenage years. While we’d still get our story whenever we wanted, we’d spend more evenings socialising and therefore away from the house, which Mum encouraged. ‘Be free as a bird’, she’d say. ‘Learn from your friends, then repay them with the knowledge you gain.’
Somewhere around this time she took over the children’s reading class at the library. I believe this brought the best out of her, a welcome relief from the stuffiness of book shelves and dealing with the public and book suppliers. She’d come home and tell us how she’d have thirty or so little people in fits of laughter as she acted out stories. I lost count the amount of people who would comment on her shows whenever I bumped into them on the street.
I remember going along one afternoon to see what all the fuss was about. As I approached the building I could hear the high-pitched laughter of the children, somewhat harmonised by the deep laughter of adults. Once inside I realised this wasn’t just any small gig. There were at least one hundred children, hailing from several different schools in the district, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the library. They were all looking up with eager, giddy smiles on their faces. Behind them there were twenty or so adults watching on, their faces wide-eyed with joy. I kept looking over at one middle-aged guy in a truckie singlet, thinking he didn’t belong here, watching how his beer belly wobbled as he almost keeled over with laughter at Mum acting out an embellished version of the Big Bad Wolf from Little Red Riding Hood. She kept true to the story enough to keep the kids amused but threw in the odd mischievous comment to keep the big kids entertained. Extra frilly night cap and all, she said she hadn’t shaved in weeks in order to give realism to the wolf’s character.
That was an extra special day for the crowd as she gave an encore performance. In a story she wrote herself, she played a luckless clown who ends up in cahoots with the gingerbread man, trying to rob a lolly shop. The clown kept messing up the heist because of its clumsiness. It was zany and ridiculous, and utterly engrossing. She had assumed the character of the clown with such ease that it seemed like she’d been doing it all her life. The other staff members looked on, some bearded, some bespectacled, some clad in cardigan and flared pant, sipping cups of tea and watching on in awe as one of their own had seemingly found their calling.
That night she had an air of excitement about her that I’d never seen. She was giving up the librarian life, she said, and would become a clown. In no time at all she was at clown school. She wanted to become what she called a clown doctor, and help put some smiles on the faces at the Children’s Hospital. Soon she was a must-have at kids’ parties and, on occasion, dinner parties. The circus wanted a piece of her. She was always at it, juggling socks when putting away clothing, and staying in character around the house.
One night when I was around 16 or 17, I had a mate over and, being the silly teenagers we were, we stayed in my room smoking pot all night. As the sun came up my friend was in dire need of some nourishment so I told him there’d be chips and chocolate in the kitchen cupboard. A minute or so later he came back empty-handed with a freaked out look on his face, saying ‘I just saw a clown in the kitchen making toast’. I was too frazzled to explain, but laughed uncontrollably as I thought of how the scene wouldn’t be the most trusting for the senses for a stoned young man. Suffice to say he didn’t touch marijuana again after that night.
There was the time I went out with friends and didn’t get in until 8am. I was still a week away from my 18th birthday and Mum was angry, sitting there waiting for me in the kitchen in her dressing gown. She said: ‘That’s it; I’m putting my foot down now’. She stamped her feet but instead of a foot stomp I heard the slap of rubber on the floor. I looked down and saw a pair of huge, bulging, multi-coloured shoes and laughed. In fits of laughter, I told her I couldn’t take her seriously. She tried to keep up the façade of anger but just couldn’t, soon giving into cries of laughter as she pulled the big red clown nose out of her dressing gown pocket and honked it a few times. ‘It’s great being a clown,’ she said. ‘No-one takes you seriously, not least yourself’.
Then there was the day a few months ago that will forever stay with me. My newly-married wife Joanne and I visited her on a Sunday afternoon. She was sitting in the kitchen drinking herbal tea as she’d always done, dressed up as a clown in preparation for a house party. I noticed black mascara dripping down her white-painted cheeks. ‘I’m crying the tears of a clown’, she said, looking up at us as we walked in. Never one to hide her emotions, I knew something was up when she put her head in her hands. ‘Mum, what’s wrong’, I asked. She looked up, her eyes red and moist and her expression downcast. Trembling, she drew her tea cup to her lips and took a sip through large red lips. She placed the cup back down. It rattled on the saucer for a few seconds before all was still again. She opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out. I grabbed her hand, feeling nauseous at my mother’s sudden fragility.
‘Mum?’
She bit her lip took a breath and then looked calm again. I kept hold of her hand. A million thoughts jostled with each other in my brain but none were even close to what came next.
‘I have a brain tumour. Non-treatable. Didn’t think this would be the way to go. Maybe I laughed too much in this life or something.’
Joanne started bawling. I tried to stay strong, to hear what mum would say next. But that was that. I embraced her, pulling her head into my chest. Her nose honked on impact. Joanne looked uncomfortable. Mum and I sniggered in unison. She looked up and stared hard into my eyes.
‘Just make sure you bury me like this, okay?’
Mum, we’ve stayed true to our word, just like you always did.
The young man looked up, his body and mind calm, rejuvenated. Most of the crowd had smiles on their faces even as they wiped the tears from their eyes. He looked over at his wife. She was looking anxious, rubbing her tummy a little more vigorously now. He knew it was time. He put an arm around Rick and together they tossed a bunch of roses on top of the coffin. Then he signaled to the cemetery workers and took his wife's hand, leading her away to their car.