"Cheryl’s in My Bloody Grave” – Friendship, Fate, Petty Revenge and Losing the Plot by Julie Hayes

I’ve never been one for being petty and small. Not because I’m above it – far from it. I’ve tried to be petty. I’ve given it a red-hot go. But it just never works out for me. Every time I have a go at being a little bit spiteful, or getting the upper hand, the universe catches wind and smacks me in the face with a dead fish.

Take Cheryl, for instance. My friend, my rival, my sister – not by blood, but sure as hell by life. She moved up the road from our farm when I was still young. Old Mum found her hiding in the paddock, broken and bruised from an abusive husband. Mum took her under her wing because Cheryl wasn’t exactly the rescued type. She was tough as old boots, blunt as a butter knife, and loyal to the bone.

Her and Mum? Thick as thieves for the next fifty years. Proper alpha females, the both of them – stubborn, bossy, opinionated – with moments where they were a train wreck and others where they were bloody brilliant. The kind of women who didn’t have many friends, probably because neither of them suffered fools gladly and their bluntness did not sit within the boundaries of city living. They had a way of fighting that was something to behold. They’d go months without speaking, a cold war of stewing, and none of us dared step in. They always sorted it out in their own time, with their own rules.

I was always just a bit envious of Cheryl and Mum’s connection. Mum and I were close – best friends, even – but it was a different sort of love. Daughter love has rules, expectations, baggage. Cheryl got the unfiltered version of Mum, the one who laughed too loud and swore too much and didn’t care about the dishes. And, of course, Mum always carried on about how well Cheryl’s kids were doing. “Did you hear about Cheryl’s daughter?” she’d say, eyes sparkling. And I’d sit there thinking, “Well, my kids are doing alright too, Mum – thanks for asking.”

But Cheryl was family. No two ways about it. She had keys to the house, rights to the fridge, and opinions on everything. We might have sparred occasionally – well, often – but there was love there. Deep love. Ancient, unshakable love.

So when she was given three weeks to live, I copped it like a punch to the heart. Old Mum had been gone three years, Dad last year, and now Cheryl. She was bossy right to the end, of course. Sat me down in the hospital and issued orders like I was applying for a job: “Say this. Do that. Don’t make a fuss. And don’t bother coming back – I’ll be gone by the weekend.” And, true to form, she was.

Bloody Cheryl!

Her family rang me a day later and said she wanted to be buried next to Mum. I was floored. “Have they got a plot there?” they asked.

I said I thought there was one spot, but I’d check. Then it hit me – what if Cheryl took the one beside Mum and there wasn’t another one for me? What if she nicked the prime real estate in the afterlife and left me stuck near the dunny block – or worse, with my brother!

Now, I have to be truly honest because this is just between you and me. I hadn’t really decided what I wanted when I croaked it. Cremation had always appealed. I kinda thought I’d sprinkle a bit with Mum, toss the rest in the ocean, call it a day. But suddenly, with Cheryl eyeballing that plot next to Mum, I felt the green-eyed monster rise up from the depths.

So I got in the car and floored it up to the cemetery, car wheels smoking. Found the spot. There was one each side of Mum. And I decided then and there – I was claiming the best one. Beat Cheryl to it by a whisker. Rang the cemetery and paid for the plot on the spot. Felt smug as a dog with a bone and a bun with a rissole.

“I won,” I thought smugly. “She’s next to Mum, sure … but I’m on the other side, and that’s the better side.”

The funeral was beautiful. Her kids did her proud. I sat there with tears streaming down my face, thinking of all the decades of bickering and laughing and crying and shared cups of tea and dreams. Fifty years of colourful life together.

After the service, they all walked the long way round to the gravesite. I cut through, needing a quiet moment with my mum before everyone got there. And that’s when I saw it.

I stopped dead. Walked a few steps forward. Then back. Then forward again. I squinted. Looked at the numbers. Checked the names. Swore softly under my breath.

“Are you alright?” my husband asked, watching me have a full existential crisis among the gum trees.

“No,” I said through gritted teeth. “Cheryl’s jumped in my bloody grave!”

Turns out, somewhere between my smug little booking and her family’s request, the wires crossed. Or maybe the cemetery stuffed up. Or maybe – and I wouldn’t put it past her – Cheryl sorted it herself.

Whatever happened, she got it. My plot. The better side. Right next to Mum. Prime positioning. Shade in the summer, morning sun, the lot.

And me? Who knows where I’ll end up. Might still get cremated. But one thing’s for sure – Cheryl got the last laugh. Again.

And me? Well, I’ll say it one more time for the people in the back:

Being petty never works out for me. It always bites me on the bum, and this time it cost me $4,000.