I get an early morning email from an Auckland friend saying he knows it isn’t my Robert, because the kids’ names are different, but – um – a Robert Burgess, “Bob – lovely husband of Linda”, has just died. Another friend says she’s had a bit of a shock but “the lovely husband …” Nah. “Not that Robert isn’t lovely,” she says, tactfully. It’s just that she can’t quite see me calling him that in a death notice.
I’m driving up to Karori, stop at the lights, and the Manawatū Standard calls. “I know this is a hard time,” the person at the other end of the phone says, cautiously empathetic. I say it is a hard time, as I’m driving. “He’s alive,” I say as I hang up.
I drive on, reflecting on how my father’s first response to Robert getting into the All Blacks (53 years ago) was, “His name’ll be in the paper when he dies.” Death notices aren’t what they used to be. Our friends are divided into sub-groups: those who still get the paper; those who go online to see who’s crossed over; those who know the names of our kids; those who know we live in Wellington, not Wairarapa.
Robert rings the Rugby Museum and they agree to remove his obituary from their e-newsletter.
A friend phones from Nelson. He’s really sorry, but I’ll be getting a card from him. He had found it hard to believe, Robert being so fit and all that, but the scientist who phoned to tell him swore it was Robert. The scientist had agreed it was a surprise: he’d seen Robert walking his dog in Kelburn only days before, fit as a fiddle.
We knew there were another Linda and Robert Burgess because when we moved to Wellington, they kept getting our mail. We formed a casual, though distant, friendship with them. Thanks to a mix-up with a Mitre 10 loyalty card, we learnt they’d moved to Wairarapa.
I go to online obituaries. “So sorry, Mrs Burgess!” writes a girl I’d taught 50 years ago at Palmerston North Girls’ High School. I leave my condolences for the other Linda Burgess. Two days later on the same site, the (late?) Robert Burgess gets in touch. “Remember me?” he writes. “Our mail in Wellington used to get mixed up! So sorry for your loss,” he writes.
Weeks later, I’m off to the dentist. “I was going to ring you,” he says, patting my arm in a vague manner. I assume it’s because he wants to tell me there’s no more that can be done for my teeth. Then I realise he means the rumour about Robert, and I laugh, mouth wide, showing my fillings. His taken-aback expression is the first evidence I have that he’s not joking; he believes I’m a widow.
Before Christmas, we broke our trip to Auckland at Taupō. We’d booked into one of the 100 or so motels on the edge of the lake.
“You’re here for four nights,” says the owner.
“No. Just one,” I say.
“You sent two emails,” he says. “I thought that you perhaps have whānau. You were booking for a larger group. I’ve put you in adjoining suites,” he says.
“Hello, Linda Burgess,” I say to the woman who answers the door.
“Hello, Linda Burgess,” she says back.
“Are you the one who lost your husband?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “We got some cards for you,” she says. She adds, “You do know there are three of us?”
“At least,” I say.
Then she says, “I think we need a hug.”
Linda Burgess is the author of three novels, three non-fiction titles and a collection of short stories.
