From the moment the taxi door opened, and two sensible shoes were placed on our driveway amid raised voices and a kafuffle about the walker, it was clear that this wasn't going to be quite the pleasant kind of tea and cakes situation we'd imagined. And not one Dad could have easily handled on his own.
Greetings were overshadowed by the continued conversation. "He was very rude to me" and "no, he wasn't mum", hung in the air alongside an awkward smile in our direction as Ula made her way to our front door, pushing aside the nearest son and his suggestions about where to put the walker. It seemed that something had been said over lunch, and she was still quite upset.
Inside our dining room, Ula chose the window bench, where she could see people congregating near her side door below us. Not wanting to sit, she kind of kneeled against the seat, focussed on the goings on next door. Recognising one of the agents, she started tapping on the window to attract his attention, fiddling with the mechanism until it opened. "It'll probably be a Chinese buyer" she commented loudly and with disdain, "and they'll probably fill in the pool. That's what they did across the road". I glanced at dad and he almost imperceptibly rolled his eyes, ever the diplomat. Both sons seemed keen for the window to remain shut.
After the sons had left, one of them cheerily kissing Ula goodbye as if she was a child being left with unpopular babysitters, the three of us weren't quite sure what to do. I offered Ula cake and tea again, but she repeated her polite but firm refusal, having only just had lunch.
A few moments passed before Ula decided that she'd rather go next door and be there at the auction. I made futile attempts to stall or distract, but Ula was now certain. "I'm a big girl, you know" she told me, and I thought of her 60+ years of adulting (as we jokingly call it now); raising three boys, keeping the garden looking lovely, maintaining a marriage for the many decades until her husband's death, managing household finances, driving to fitness classes and the supermarket up until a year ago, reversing her car down the drive effortlessly and navigating the COVID years without a blink. She always struck me as fiercely independant, a clever influencer (she somehow convinced dad to dress up as Santa when her grandchildren were little), and generally cheerful, generous and personable. Yesterday my admiration for her grew.
How is it, I thought, that a woman who has navigated so much of life's stormy waters with grace and stoicism, was now denied the right to observe the final, momentous, step in her journey away from independence? And so as it began to rain, she and I made our way next door, ignoring the horrified and disapproving glances from the sons who dad had frantically been trying to warn over the phone.
There was a pause in auction proceedings as Ula and her walker squeezed into the very crowded lounge room. The real estate agent took a moment to respectfully "greet the vendor" and an older woman guided Ula to a spot on the couch where she was very much amongst the action. The auctioneer recommenced his enthusiastic description of her decades long home, and the bidding gained momentum. Ula was silent throughout, her legs crossed and wearing a pair of checkered pants that I hadn't noticed before.
After the hammer came down and the unsuccessful bidders dispersed, Dad reappeared with his umbrella, despite the rain having eased off, keen to meet his new neighbours. And there was Ula, over in the kitchen, signing away her life and graciously engaging in light conversation with the new owners. I heard her mention that her boys had gone to Barker College. Thankfully, nothing was said about the pool, but Ula did comment later on that she hopes they maintain the garden.
