PRAISE FOR

NEW ANIMAL
‘New Animal is a wild, moving and original debut—​a nd like the best
bits of sex and funerals, it’s very, very funny.’
ROBERT LUKINS, author of The Everlasting Sunday

‘If Six Feet Under was transplanted into small-town Australia and
centred on a mordantly hilarious mortuary cosmetician in the throes
of her Saturn return, it might look something like New Animal.
Ella Baxter’s prose is clear, confident, and delectably off-kilter, and
Amelia is one of the most memorable heroines I’ve encountered in a
long time. Sex, death, humour, and heart—​t his novel has it all.’
LAURA ELIZABETH WOOLLETT, author of Beautiful Revolutionary

‘So complex is Amelia’s character and narration that as I read New

Animal, I found myself squirming with discomfort, sniggering at the
earthy and often incongruous humour, and tearing up—​often at the
same time. New Animal is an unputdownable read, which will linger
with you long after you’ve torn through the pages.’
ERIN HORTLE , author of The Octopus and I

‘Equal parts profound and profane. Somehow both darkly hilarious

and just plain dark. Baxter gives you everything you want in a
debut—​f resh ideas, fresh language, and fresh blood. She has
officially exploded into the literary scene. I shrieked with laughter
and horror. New Animal is a book for anyone who’s struggled with
the interminable disconnect between brain and body. I tore through
this and I guarantee you will too.’
BRI LEE , author of Eggshell Skull

‘A novel about having so much grief you want to break your body
to match your heart. New Animal is funny, raw, gutsy and stealthily
sweet. I sobbed my way through the last few pages and was left
feeling bruised, but also wiser, braver and more generous.’
EMILY MAGUIRE , author of An Isolated Incident
First published in 2021

Copyright © Ella Baxter 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior
permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever
is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational
purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has
given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australien
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com

A catalogue record for this

book is available from the
National Library of Australia


ISBN 978 1 76087 779 8

Internal design by Simon Paterson, Bookhouse

Set in 12/19 pt Plantin by Bookhouse, Sydney
Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press, part of Ovato

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper in this book is FSC® certified.

FSC® promotes environmentally responsible,
socially beneficial and economically viable
management of the world’s forests.
 CHAPTER ONE

There is a man with kind eyes and crooked teeth in my bed.

He’s facing me and smiling, preparing to talk. I cough once,
loudly, because talking is unnecessary at this point.
We both watched patiently as he prodded my vagina with
his hangnailed finger, and we took turns sighing mid-thrust.
Afterwards, Adam squashes my memory foam pillow until
it’s wedged beneath his armpit for support. He squints at my
framed certificate hanging above the bookshelf. My stepdad
Vincent paid for the framing in honour of all the technical
skills I had to learn, because he likes to celebrate stamina
and effort. My mother even made a cake.
‘Certificate IV in Embalming, awarded to Amelia Aurelia,’
Adam reads aloud.
‘I tend to focus more on the cosmetics aspect,’ I explain.

1
 Ella Ba xter

‘Right,’ he says, turning towards me. ‘Funeral make-up.’

He purses his lips, while continuing to crush my only good
pillow.
I kick at the bed sheet until it’s down around our ankles.
The cotton has absorbed the smell of sweat and salt. Some
foot odour and a slight muskiness lingers. I toss the whole
thing onto the floor and lie back on the bed, uncovered but
still sticky in the muggy room. The February moon must be
close to full because the clouds are low and brightly backlit.
I can’t help but feel that if it were a bit darker, we wouldn’t
be making so much accidental eye contact. He smothers a
yawn, and I force my own mouth into a yawn shape so that
we can yawn together and pass some time.
Adam picks up his wineglass from the bedside table and
I watch him, wondering how I would do his make-up if he
passed. Accentuate his ambiguous heritage maybe. Fill in
his eyebrows and sweep a bit of bronzer along each temple.
His hair would look lovely brushed back, too. Some of that
high shine cream could really bring out the warm brunette
tones. A burgundy shirt.
I glance quickly at the side of his face.
Forest green would also suit him.
As the pause stretches out, and he shows no sign of leaving,
I wonder if he has assumed he’s sleeping the night.
I get up to use the bathroom; it’s important to urinate after
sex, otherwise bacteria climbs up your urethra like a staircase.
As I slide the ensuite door shut behind me, I can hear Adam

2
 New Animal

change position in the bed less than a metre away. I can even

hear him scratch an itch. I lean over to the sink and run the
tap until the sound of water is louder than anything else, and
my vagina can finally relax.
I take a moment to acknowledge my naked body. Long-
limbed with the slightest hint of a tan. I turn to the side to
look at my face in the mirror. The freckles smattered across
my nose and cheeks are best seen in morning light, when they
look rose gold. Under fluorescent lighting I just seem spotty.
Kind of warm on the colour scale—reddish hair. Auburn
usually, but fire when the setting sun hits it. Dark eyes and a
long, aquiline nose. It’s hawkish. I have been told a few times
by people not related to me that my face is full of character.
I flush the toilet and wash my hands slowly. I’m unsure
if he will ever leave. I  could initiate sex again but make it
better by telling him to slow down until he’s barely moving.
This slow? he might say—like they all say, incredulous. Even
slower, I will tell him.
I shake my hands dry and slide the door open, making
immediate eye contact with Adam, who raises his empty
wineglass towards me.
‘Refill?’
I slip through the beaded curtain separating the bed and
the kitchenette, and it clatters together in a loose tangle
behind me.
‘It’s getting late,’ I  say, sliding a bottle of wine behind
the kettle.

3
 Ella Ba xter

‘So will you be working on someone tomorrow?’ he asks,

while pulling at some leg hairs on his exposed thigh.
‘Yes. There’s a big funeral, actually.’
‘Why big?’
‘She’s young and it was suicide.’ I cross my arms and check
the clock. It’s almost midnight.
‘Oh,’ Adam says. ‘Wrists or neck?’
‘Wrists,’ I say, rejoining him in bed. ‘In the bath.’
‘Shit,’ he says.
I’m used to people impulsively asking the most macabre
questions, then being unsettled by the answers.
What does a body smell like? Chemicals. Sometimes like
talcum powder. Sour.
What does a body feel like? Firm and cold. Clammy. Heavy.
Does it ever move? Yes. But you begin to expect the slow
decompression. It helps to think of them as old balloons at
times. They deflate.
Does it frighten you? No. Never. Sometimes. Rarely.
I can see Adam gearing up to keep talking, but I don’t
have the patience to answer all his questions in a way that will
both satiate his curiosity and maintain my professionalism,
so I reach for my phone, select the first album that appears,
then lie back as the opening bars start to tinkle out from the
tiny speaker. Snare drum fights for space. I am twenty-eight,
almost twenty-nine. The tambourine commences. I should turn
this down so it doesn’t wake Mum and Vincent. Relentless
rattling metal of the tambourine. Or my brother, but he should

4
 New Animal

really move in with Hugh and Carmen. Tambourine outplays

the snare. He’s thirty now. Trumpet interrupts them both. Time
to go, Simon, you lump. Trumpet and tambourine fight. At least
I live in the bungalow, not the main house. Trumpet wins. It
has a separate entrance.
The main house is fundamentally suburban. Two brown
leather couches and one pine bookshelf, which proudly display
a large collection of Reader’s Digest. But the bungalow is
different. It has a rug woven from strips of rags. It has floor
cushions, most of them remnants from when Vincent had
a mild interest in Buddhism and used it as his meditation
zone. For one whole winter he wore kimonos and spoke softly
when he remembered to. As he slowly lost interest, I equally
slowly moved the contents of my bedroom into the bungalow
until all my furniture surrounded his, and just like that we
swapped places.
‘Is it gross?’ Adam asks.
‘It’s the opposite.’ I  rub one eye and let out another
wide yawn.
‘Lovely?’ He looks suspicious.
‘Very.’
The deceased are beyond beautiful, but only because they
are so emptied of worry. Everything tense or unlikable is gone.
Like a shopping centre in the middle of the night, they have
lost all the chaos and clatter.
‘Is it gory?’ Adam wants to know. ‘Like, when you see
how they died?’

5
 Ella Ba xter

I stare steadily at his hands, which are clasped together.

‘It can be.’
I think about all the skulls I’ve had to drill back together,
and all the wounds I’ve filled with plaster of Paris. On some
days, I’ll unzip a bag that contains a body so broken it has
become like shards of ice; like unearthed soil. There are
hours in which all I do is map a whole person out. And even
though he’s asking, I won’t tell him that we are both two long,
fleshy sacks full of bones and electricity, and that one day
the switch will be flicked. We are on, and then we are off.
I’ve told people down at the pub that life rests like a layer
of chiffon over a body: one puff of wind and you’re dead. It’s
a revelation that doesn’t sit easily with most, but I’ve learned
to adjust by compartmentalising. I can separate feelings into
imaginary boxes inside the mind. In one box, I put all the
delicate, fractured wounds of the bodies I see all day. I fill
it up with uncomfortable emotions and images. Then, in
another box, I  shove all the vivid warmth and liveliness of
the people I see at night. I need both boxes, one balancing
out the other, me ping-ponging between them.
Adam crosses his legs, letting his limp penis hang between
us, somehow a part of the conversation but disengaged.
‘Do they look empty?’
He seems genuinely thrilled that we are talking.
‘Sure,’ I say. It’s not inaccurate.
‘So what made you do this for a job?’

6
 New Animal

‘It’s my family’s business, but I would have picked it

anyway.’
‘You love it that much?’
‘I do.’
I squeeze his thigh, pressing each finger one by one into his
leg. I push my chest forward and gaze at him, while trying to
lengthen my neck and look elegant. Shakespeare once wrote
that two people together is a beast with two backs, and most
nights I find myself trying to combine with someone else to
become this two-headed thing with flailing limbs, chomping
teeth and tangled hair. This new animal. I am medicated by
another body. Drunk on warm skin. Dumbly high on the
damp friction between them and me.
‘You’re quite confident, aren’t you?’ he says.
‘Yes.’
‘And you seem to want to have sex again?’
‘Yep.’
‘Do you want me to go down on you?’ he asks.
‘Not right now,’ I say.
I stand at the foot of the bed and put my t-shirt back on,
and then cross one leg in front of the other so that my vulva
is at least partly covered. I  find that redressing sometimes
helps to get things moving again. There has to be an element
of desire in order for us both to get a bit lost in the mix.
‘I want you to say to me, I’m going to ruin you, in a low
voice,’ I tell him as he kneels up on the bed facing me.

7
 Ella Ba xter

He frowns, confused. ‘I’m going to ruin you?’ He wobbles

slightly and places one hand over his crotch.
‘More heat, please,’ I say.
He raises a hand half-heartedly, before dropping it and
looking out the window. ‘I am going to absolutely ruin you.’
‘Say to me: I’m going to obliterate everything you know to be real.’
‘Amelia, no. I don’t want to.’
‘Say the other bit then.’
‘I will ruin you. I. Will. Ruin. You.’
‘Perfect,’ I say. ‘Now lie down and put the pillow under
your hips.’
Adam falls asleep afterwards, which most men are wont
to do, but I kick him near his knee.
He sits up and opens one eye.
‘You need to leave,’ I  say, trying to look less mean by
hunching my shoulders and letting my long fringe fall across
my face. Crankiness is pinned to the structure of my features.
I was made to look mad; it’s in my genetics, and I have to
make a lot of effort to seem tiny and cute. ‘I  sleep better
when I’m alone.’
I switch the bedside lamp on, and stare at him while he
shields his eyes. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he picks up his
clothes using his toes and passes them back to his fumbling
hands. Pausing, yawning, and sighing before each action.
‘Why do I feel like I’m not going to see you again?’ he
asks while standing up and placing a hand on the doorknob.
Turn it. I will him to turn it. Turn the handle, Adam.

8
 New Animal

I shake my head. ‘Don’t be silly.’ I take one last look at him.

I stay sitting upright listening to him step quietly down the
garden path, only relaxing when I hear the front gate open
and shut. I crawl across the bed and pull the curtains closed,
before lying back and pulling the sheet over me, smoothing it
down on either side until I can feel that there are no creases.
My spine curves into the mattress. My jaw releases with a
creak and my molars stop aching.
I open the dating app on my phone and scroll down the
screen until I find Adam’s smiling face. I delete it, and keep
refreshing my recent matches until four new ones pop up.
I copy and paste a message to each of them.
Free tonight?
Free tonight?
Free tonight?
Free tonight?

9
 CHAPTER TWO

At eleven a.m., the landscape already crackles on its way

to reaching forty degrees before lunch, and the sound of
Kathmandu water bottles being refilled ricochets between the
three major holiday parks. Radiant heat beams off the coast-
line in long fumes, shuddering over highways and interstate
buses as the liquid inside our bodies hits a quivering boil.
The Northern Rivers in summer shakes the shit out of you.
I stand blinking in the light on the welcome mat in front
of the main house. My mother leaves the front door unlocked
and a coffee on the console table in the hallway for me each
morning. I let myself in, pick up the coffee, and then stroll
through to the lounge room where Simon and his partners
Hugh and Carmen are sitting on the couch. Everyone has
been buzzed about Simon’s new throuple, and the three of
them have accepted our enthusiasm with grace.

10
 New Animal

‘Morning,’ Simon says, looking up from the laptop which

is balanced on his knees.
‘Come and check this out,’ says Carmen. ‘I think we found
one we like.’
I walk over and look at the screen.
‘It’s a two-year-old Carpet python called Harry,’ Simon says.
‘Hello, beautiful . . .’ murmurs Hugh, while Carmen, who
is running the mouse along her thigh, hovers the cursor
between the snake’s nostrils.
My mother clacks in from the kitchen, wearing heeled
sandals and a sundress, her figure like an ancient fertility
sculpture that could be placed in the bottom of a grain barrel
for luck.
‘I still think a dog would work better than a snake, if
anyone else is on board?’ She passes me a platter of marzipan
fruit, which she makes each week as a snack for the bereaved.
Mourners need sugar; it helps keep their blood pressure from
dropping and stops them from fainting.
‘Our reptile licence came yesterday,’ says Simon.
Our mother scrunches her nose and drapes her hair over
one shoulder, combing her fingers through the length of
it, and I smooth down my own, trying to make it sit flat
against my head. I know she gets up early to blow her hair out
each morning; I can hear it from the bungalow. People often
compliment her hair, admiring how groomed and polished
she is.
‘We can discuss it later over dinner,’ she says. ‘As a family.’

11
 Ella Ba xter

She beams at Carmen and Hugh, before grabbing her keys

from the table and heading to the door.
‘Or you could move out,’ I say to Simon. ‘Then you could
have as many snakes as you want.’
‘Goodbye, Amelia,’ he says as I pass him my half-drunk
coffee and follow my mother out the door, carrying the
marzipan.
Outside, the season continues to announce itself every-
where like an extrovert. Trailing coastal succulents that have
been unremarkable for most of the year are now filled with
dark pink flowers blooming all at once. Nature has no sense
of pacing. The footpath beneath them is stained magenta
from where their petals have been trodden on by enthusiastic,
early morning joggers, and the effect is like tie-dyed waves
underneath my shoes.
We walk to work along the road that runs parallel to the
beach, separated only by the screw pine trees and pearlescent
dunes. On days I don’t work, I wade out past the break and
stand listening to each wave hit the shoreline behind me
like a series of overlapping sighs. If you look long enough
at the green water you can see the white streak of foam
marking an ungodly rip that spirals between the two head-
lands. A  dead baby whale once languidly circled here for
half a week, with one eye to the clouds and the other to the
ocean floor. Everyone from the town made a pilgrimage to
visit the whale, gathering in the sandy car park to watch its
white belly glinting in the sun.

12
 New Animal

As we walk, my mother releases affection in short bursts

along the footpath, pausing to stroke every pet we pass. ‘Good
girl,’ she coos to each one as they dissolve into an excited
mess at her feet. This means it takes an age just to go a few
hundred metres, but I don’t mind.
‘I forgot to say that Jennifer’s parents have dropped off
some photos for reference.’ She sighs. ‘As usual, they’re
useless. Both smiling. Both taken from far away.’
‘And her make-up bag?’ I ask.
‘I had to wrestle it off the dad, but it’s on the bench in
the prep room waiting for you.’
I focus on the irregular mowing that the council has
performed along the side of the median strip, as my mother
takes hold of my hand.
‘Remember, the clients look like themselves in the same
way that a dugong looks like a mermaid, which is not at all,’
she says.
We have this conversation regularly—often on this walk.
‘The sailors need the mermaids, though. Why? Because
they were sad and lonely and . . .’
She lets go of my hand to squeeze her fingers between the
slats of a gate to tickle a whimpering labrador.
‘Mourners,’ she continues, ‘desperately need the body to
look like the person they knew. They need the same clothing,
same colouring, the same expression.’
‘I get it.’

13
 Ella Ba xter

‘I’m just reminding you—some cases are trickier than

others.’
Aurelia’s Funeral Parlour is heralded by a low blond-
brick fence, six apricot trees and a large illuminated sign.
We are well known in this town full of retirees and clumsy
tradespeople, and we only have to compete with one other
mortuary—but it’s a chain, and townspeople here like locally
owned businesses. We walk up the pebbled driveway and
through the double doors that open to reception.
Our receptionist, Judy, trots in from the back office and
plants herself behind the long desk. She’s chewing but seems
frustrated by the amount of chews needed to get whatever’s
in her mouth down. She flaps one hand in the air in a bid to
quicken the pace, and her amethyst rings flash as they move
in and out of the sunlight.
‘You’ve made it so lovely and cool in here,’ says my mother.
‘What’s it on? Nineteen? I can feel each breath hit the bottom
of my lungs.’
Judy smiles at her while masticating wildly before
swallowing.
‘Last week’s marzipan fruit,’ she says, looking relieved,
as I hand her the new batch.
Judy and I are extremely close, having bonded over our
common interest in dating. She let me set her up an online
profile. Under a bio listing Zumba classes and chick-lit novels,
outlet shopping and bonsais, there are some beautiful photos
of her looking poised by the Memory Pond. I did her make-up,

14
 New Animal

and my mother lent her a cream pashmina for the shot. We all
think it has a Renaissance tone to it. There’s another pretty
photo of her laughing while leaning back on the settee; she
got a lot of new hits after adding that one.
Her weekly affirmations pepper the desk in front of her.
On a yellow post-it note stuck to the dial pad of the phone,
she has written, Be present in your fury.
‘How is your fury today?’ I  ask, and she takes a short
breath and places a hand on her chest.
‘I am present and I accept it. I  have made peace with
my fury,’ she says, and we all know she’s talking about her
ex-husband and his jet ski company.
Like most funeral homes, the foyer has been made to
look like a formal sitting room. Boxes of tissues punctuate
the corners, and hidden away beneath chairs and shelves
are wicker baskets full of face wipes and small packets of
complimentary chocolates. Nestled among the lounges and
armchairs is an antique table displaying silk flowers trailing
like comets from a cut-glass vase. From here, I  can see
through to the viewing room, where the services are held, and
to the mourners’ nook, a curtained area off to the side. The
bereaved are welcome to recline here, relaxing on the velvet
settee while recharging their phones and inhaling the sweet
smell of the floral carpet deodoriser.
We take it in turns to have breaks in the nook when there
are gaps between the services. Simon uses the space for
midday naps and I like to eat the chocolates and look at my

15
 Ella Ba xter

phone. Judy and my mother use the space as their personal

lunch room, chatting loudly enough for all of us to hear,
which dispels any feeling of privacy that a closed curtain
would usually bring.
Judy leans over to the photocopier and pulls a stack of
memorial programs from the printing tray. On the front cover
is a photo of Jennifer wearing sunglasses and smiling, photo-
shopped into an oval frame with scalloped edges. Her name
and today’s date is typed in an ornate font, and as I trace the
small circle of her face with my thumb I feel the first edge of
sadness for the day. Over the years I have learned that grief
is contagious. You can catch it if you get too close. Before I
knew better, I would go to each service and sit in the back
row, staring at the families as they stared into the casket,
the low thrum of sadness circling the room until it reached
me, where it would spread through my body like shrapnel.
Vincent bounds through the office door, mop in hand.
‘Ah, I see my daughter thinks it’s appropriate to arrive late
to one of the biggest funerals of the year.’ He rests the mop
against the wall. ‘And her mother too.’
There are already rings of sweat on his paisley shirt and
the large checked cravat around his neck looks damp as well.
‘Turned up late morning, just to torture me.’
He hurries over to one of the lounges and brushes it down
with loud whacks, arcing his flat hand through the air and
creating a cloud of dust motes that is actually quite cinematic
in the morning light.

16
 New Animal

‘And no one except me ever dusts anything!’

Once I saw Judy watching raptly while he cleaned a wall
fan. Vincent moves likes he’s dancing, she said in an undertone as
he waved a damp cloth near the blades. And having witnessed
him undulate the vacuum cleaner around Aurelia’s many
times, I have to agree: he has a dramatic litheness that is rare.
‘Your son is late too,’ I  say to Vincent as Simon pushes
through the door, using one shoulder to prop it open as he
kicks forward a box of biscuits and milk. He drops two plastic
shopping bags full of tissues in front of Judy’s desk before
rummaging around in his pockets for the receipt.
‘We should make a move,’ my mother says to me. ‘Only
a couple of hours until it starts.’
People turn up early if the person who has died is young.
It’s because their discomfort is so agitating that they can’t sit
patiently at home or in the car outside. The earliest anyone
ever turned up was three hours before the service. That was
for an eight-year-old who had drowned in a neighbour’s pool.
The mother couldn’t bear another moment without being
near him; she was already walking up the drive as we were
turning on the computers for the day. It seemed like the
whole town came to the funeral, gazing at the boy in his
small coffin while his mother stood at the lectern with wide,
shell-shocked eyes and spoke about him in the present tense.
When I saw her a year later in the local greengrocer, she was
choosing mandarins with the robotic action of a person who
had nowhere to be. It looked like she was just passing time

17
 Ella Ba xter

until she could be with him again. Drowning—years more

slowly than he did, but drowning nonetheless.
My mother and I take jumpers from the hallway cupboard
and pull them on, then push through the heavy door into the
prep room, adjusting to the temperature and the vinegary
smell of the chemicals. I  switch to breathing through my
mouth, and loosen up the muscles in my back by twisting
from side to side. It’s a big audience today and I need to do
a good job. I’ve read some of Vincent’s books on meditation
and everything is related to the mind and the breath appar-
ently. The mind is a muscle, the body is a vessel. If you’re
anxious you can dilute the feeling using willpower. Dissipate.
Dissipate. Dissipate.
Jennifer is laid out in a mid-range coffin in the centre of
the room. She is about my age, with broad features, heavy
eyelids and a Cupid’s bow for a mouth. As I lean closer, I can
see that Vincent has flooded her body with a rose-coloured
wave of formaldehyde, which makes her look pink and full.
I  brush her fringe either side of her face, and straighten
the green dress she’s wearing so that it is square across her
shoulders. Everyone I see in this room is special in their own
way. You can’t tell me that a cold body is bad, because to me
it’s not even close. Sometimes I try to explain to people that
the shell of a hermit crab is beautiful whether it’s empty or
being used. It’s a sculpture. It’s a home. It’s natural, organic,
delicate. I love the shell. The shell is magical.

18
 New Animal

‘They want her hair in a low bun, some pieces around

her face,’ my mother says as she walks over to the bench and
opens an envelope. ‘The grandmother’s pearl earrings are in
here somewhere.’
She shakes a wad of tissues out onto the bench for me. I’ve
always found jewellery difficult because it’s such a tender and
slow process. I can’t rush through unclasping and reclasping
precious things. Anyone in this industry will tell you that
putting a necklace on someone, or pushing an earring into
an ear, is an intimate thing.
I unzip Jennifer’s make-up bag and spread the contents
across the metal countertop near the sink. There’s a terracotta
blusher. Fawn eyebrow pencil. Pencil shavings. Mango lip
gloss. A  tube of tinted sunscreen. A  bent eyebrow brush.
Mascara, and four lipsticks. Along either side of the zipper
are her faded fingerprints in foundation. A  beige pattern
of her flight path as she got ready each day, opening and
closing this case.
My mother slides the trolley over and I pick out some of the
make-up to add to it. As I wheel it across to Jennifer, there’s
a brief knock at the door, then Vincent opens it, clutching a
bunch of young irises to his chest.
‘These just came but it looks like too many to me,’ he
says, placing them on the bench.
‘No, that’s how many I need,’ I say.
There’s silence in the room while I adjust the position of
Jennifer so that one hand covers the other completely.

19
 Ella Ba xter

‘Who did you see last night? Was it the mechanic?’ Vincent
asks, leaning casually against the cupboard.
‘You can’t ask that,’ says my mother. ‘Let her be.’
‘Just a friend,’ I say.
‘Josephine and I would love to meet some of your friends
one day,’ he says.
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘She’s just blowing off steam,’ my mother tells him. ‘It’s
totally natural.’
‘I’m just checking she’s not depressed,’ says Vincent.
‘She’s doing fine,’ says my mother. ‘Aren’t you, Amelia?’
‘I’m fine, I’m happy,’ I say.
I hold up a few of the foundations next to Jennifer’s face
so I can see which one will suit, and settle on two. It’s good
practice to use the client’s personal make-up mixed with some
industry standards. For an undamaged face like Jennifer’s, you
can just use an oil-based, full coverage foundation. Chemist
brands are highly pigmented and do the job well. Most of
us are already using the make-up that we will wear at our
funerals, unless something severe happens.
I pull on the thin gloves and squeeze a large dot of each
product onto the back of my hand, then roll a short-haired
brush through it before dabbing it evenly across Jennifer’s
knuckles.
For suicide cases I prefer to start where the injury is located
because that’s where people will be looking. For necks I use
scarves and turtlenecks. For wrists I use flowers as a prop

20
 New Animal

so that nothing is showing. Every single person who comes

to her funeral today will approach her coffin and look at her
wrists. I think it’s human nature to want to look at wounds.
It must be.
‘Great colour,’ Vincent says, placing his hand on the edge of
her coffin. ‘You know, before all the legal regulations and blah
blah bullshit, I used to get on the tools and do all this myself.’
‘You were useless,’ says my mother. ‘Ham-fisted.’
‘That’s not true,’ he says. ‘You used to say to me, Only
you are allowed to do my face when I’m gone. Don’t let anyone
else touch me.’
‘That was before Amelia was qualified. Until then I had
to come in here and blend every day. Every day, Vincent. You
gave them all red apple cheeks.’
I change brushes and try to keep my full attention on
Jennifer. There are only two shades of nail polish you can
use in my opinion, and I get the sense that she is more of
a cappuccino than a blushing coral. I’ll paint her nails last,
then spray them with a varnish dryer. I  glance around the
room, trying to locate the crate of nail supplies.
‘Name one person I did that to,’ Vincent is saying.
‘Lucas Reid,’ my mother replies immediately.
He waves his palm through the air like a metronome. ‘That
was thirteen years ago, Josie—thirteen years ago.’
‘Completely unrecognisable,’ my mother says, shaking her
head and clasping her hands together under her chin.

21
 Ella Ba xter

Vincent had set Mr Reid’s face a few shades darker than

necessary. I remember my mother piling navy chiffon around
his face and lighting him from the side, while Judy franti-
cally scattered gladioli around the base of the casket as a
distraction.
‘I really need to focus if you want her to be ready in time,’
I tell them.
Vincent bows deeply in my direction. ‘I’ll leave it to the
expert then.’
‘I’ll go too,’ my mother says before gesturing to the irises.
‘Slip three under her hands when she’s ready.’
‘I know what to do,’ I say, as she follows Vincent out the
door. As soon as it closes behind them, I release a breath I
didn’t realise I was holding.
Finally. Just her and me.
Are her hands comfortable? I  mimic the placement to
test it.
What about her head? The hairstyle can’t look too matronly.
Is she natural enough? Do the eyelids look strained? I tilt her
chin. Where would she have liked her head to go? I  move
it again.
I wish that the people closest to her could see what I do.
Then perhaps they could feel that dark things aren’t actually
always so dark. Dead things. Bone things. Blood and skin
and matter things. It’s now natural that she is this still. That
she turns a different colour. That parts of her harden. But to
the people who knew her and loved her most, it feels better

22
 New Animal

to know that all her openings are sealed shut. Give her face
a fresh coat of paint, and put her in a dress that she never
even moved in.
As I shift Jennifer’s body into a more natural position,
I wonder if her mother is organising a bathroom renovation
that she probably can’t afford. The aunt would organise it.
Aunts always spring into action at times like this. They are
the ones we argue with the most because they seem to channel
all their suffering into creating a space for their siblings to
mourn. Aunts write the emails. Aunts haggle over the prices.
Aunts are titans in this industry. While holding her sister up,
the aunt would be liaising with plumbers and tilers. She would
demonstrate the right way to glance around the bathroom,
ignoring the dark ring of blood marking the tub, and the
rest of the family and the subcontractors would follow her
lead with relief.
My concentration is broken by my mother calling out to
Judy as she drags the vacuum out of the cupboard. She turns
it on, and the high-pitched wail of it merges in and out of
harmony with her rendition of ‘Delta Dawn’ as she shunts
it across the hallway carpet. There’s a loud thump as she
knocks the vacuum head into one of the sofa chairs, almost
as if using it as a point to push off from. Judy has joined in
with the singing and they both hold a long note together,
before my mother voyages so far into the next room that the
cord disconnects from the socket and the wailing stops.

23
 Ella Ba xter

As I brush make-up across Jennifer’s face, I wish I could

tell her what today will entail. How important it is for her
people to see her like this, how they need to witness this
image of her at peace before they can begin to feel peace
themselves. I want to tell her that people sitting in front of
her coffin will be angry and confused by what she did, and
that these feelings will be magnified by her three dull cousins
singing ‘In the Arms of an Angel’. I want to tell her that a
woman can take another woman’s weight, and that my mother
will find her mother and lead her away from it all. They will
stand together in front of the apricot trees outside, with their
backs to the other mourners, and my mother will point to
the trees and tell Jennifer’s mother that each of these trees
loses everything.
Leaves. Flowers. Fruit. Until it’s nothing but sticks under the sky.
She’ll say this part again.
No leaves. No flowers. No fruit.
Her message is significant, so she’ll slow her words down
for the next part.
The tree needs to wait. It will all come back if it waits. But
it’s a long, long time. Longer than it wants. Longer than anyone
feels is natural.
She will take Jennifer’s mother by the hands, and the
mother will nod and say she understands that it might take
years or decades, but yes, one day her fruit will come back,
her leaves, her flowers. She will nod again and wipe her face.
I get it, she’ll say. I really get it.

24
 New Animal

I asked my mother once how long she thought it would

take. Lifetimes, she said, but deep down they already know.
By the time I can leave Jennifer it’s an hour before the
service and people have already eaten the marzipan and filled
the foyer. As I exit the prep room, I pass Judy, who is still
humming the song, and I join in on a long, low note with
her. As usual, Vincent and my mother are working the room
expertly, handing out pamphlets and greeting new guests.
I make eye contact with Vincent and give him a subtle nod,
and he winks back at me. I pick up my bag from behind Judy’s
desk, as well as the spare car keys, and keep my head down
as I walk through the crowd to the car park. People know
my role here and often feel compelled to speak to me, I think
in part because they can’t imagine doing this job themselves
and want to break the social barrier between us by being fine
with it. I  prefer the barrier up. I  love my job. The general
public tends to squirm around death and anyone associated
with the industry, but that reveals more about their own
Victorian standards of cleanliness than it does ours. I wish
I could tell everyone who approaches me that they absolutely
do not have to shake my hand, but they always try. They
want to get those barriers down.
Before I start the engine of the Camry, I swipe sweat from
my forehead and rummage through the compartment and
map pockets looking for a stray water bottle. The interior has
absorbed the heat, and the flesh of my thighs stick together,
making me feel slightly hysterical. Sweat dots my upper lip

25
 Ella Ba xter

and I wipe it away with the back of my hand before unwinding

the windows. I’m about to pull out of the car park when I
see my mother jogging towards me.
She leans through the window, panting. ‘You heading to
the lookout?’
‘Yeah, just for a bit,’ I  say, hand on the steering wheel,
ready to go.
‘Need to commune with nature?’
‘Always,’ I say.
‘Do you ever feel his presence there?’
‘Nope. Just a good view.’

26