Soon Read Free

delay long enough to walk in with the Hallwrights. It was one of her favourite things: to feel the stilled conversations, the hundreds of eyes.
    The driver moved the car into the cordoned park and Karen pretended to consult her watch. ‘Go around the block,’ she said.
    The driver screwed around his head, looking affronted. ‘I can’t do that.’
    â€˜It’s too early. Circle round.’
    Simon said, ‘Let’s go, Karen.’ He reached across her and pulled the door handle.
    The driver jumped out and went around. Karen gave her husband the sweet, mildly astonished smile that said , You’ll pay . With ironic courtliness he escorted her to the entrance, where the dean of the cathedral was waiting, robed, primped and wearing his most ingratiating smile.
    Simon daydreamed his way through the service, hearing very little of what was said. He’d wandered into the garden the previous evening and found Ed Miles at the outdoor table, typing Graeme’s eulogy on a laptop while David bounced Johnnie on his knee.
    David had told Ed, ‘It’ll be televised. Make it useful, mate.’
    Ed, sitting back, stretching, cracking his knuckles: ‘OK, King’s, blah blah, rowing. Graeme Ellison instilled his values etcetera in his children, and the scholarships he founded will ensure that young people absorb the principles he cherished. The principles he held dear. Cherished. Before he died I discussed Graeme’s work with him. And my pledge to him and to the country is that none of his work will be in vain.’
    â€˜You’re my prince,’ said David, tickling the little boy. And Johnnie, who had his mother’s potent eyes, laughed and twisted away.
    When Ed had gone, Simon had said slowly, ‘There are words that get thrashed in eulogies and death notices. Instil. He instilled values in his children . And imbue. People always bandy that one around. They’re terrible clichés.’
    David was expressionless. He said, ‘In politics . . .’
    â€˜I thought it was a eulogy.’
    â€˜You know what Graeme’d say. It’s never just a eulogy.’
    During the funeral service he thought of the valley at Rotokauri. The little house, the white pony. The green field . . . The order of service lay on his lap, on its front cover a black-framed photograph of Graeme Ellison — old Graeme, with his avid, gap-toothed smile. Simon now entertained a mental picture of Graeme as Toad of Toad Hall (jacket, bow tie, skinny green legs) giving a last mad parp of his horn before motoring off the page into oblivion.
    Graeme’s wife Trish, wearing a giant black hat, sat between Karen and Roza, clasping their hands. Then there were pews-full of Ellisons: the beefy blond sons and their pale wives; the daughters who all resembled Graeme (dark, portly, solid); a trio of young pinstriped husbands; rows of fidgeting children and a thinly wailing baby in a pram.
    David had come in last with his two bodyguards, had spoken to Trish and then slid along the pew next to Simon, who was now registering, at close quarters, the Prime Minister’s inability to keep still. David’s right leg pumped up and down, he folded and unfolded the printed photo of Graeme until the image was streaked with lines. His phone vibrated in his pocket; he stealthily checked it and never stopped looking about.
    Long shafts of light slanted in through the windows. Simon suppressed yawns, his eyes watering. The dean lowered his voice. It was an honour to speak of Graeme Ellison. One of the richest men in Australasia, he lived his life for others. His record of service was second to none: to his many charities, to the National Party, to the Business Roundtable, to his alma mater King’s School (all Ellisons attended King’s School). To the sport of rowing, to rugby. Tireless champion. Life member. Founder. Campaigner.
    Schemer, Simon thought. Dark master. Perpetrator of