Thoughts of a funeralgoer

Posted by Lyra Mollington

Before Daisy met Barry, they had both been unlucky in love. Daisy’s unhappy marriage ended when her husband dropped dead of a heart attack. Barry’s wife left him and he discovered that their marriage had also been an unhappy one.

With the events of recent weeks we have found out quite a lot about each other. If a near-death experience can’t teach us about ourselves and others, what else can? Another interesting thing I discovered about Barry is that any talk of funerals and his placid nature evaporates.

When Barry was a boy, his father was killed. He ‘didn’t care in the slightest’ that he hadn’t been given the chance to go to the funeral. At his mother’s funeral twenty years ago he felt like ‘Bambi caught in the headlights’.

In short, funerals are Barry’s idea of hell. When his best friend Tom died, the funeral was ‘crap’ and not enhanced by the ‘loud and relentless sobbing’ from the front row. When I suggested that a few tears might be a good thing, I was greeted with a look of incredulity. Barry can’t cope with people crying in public – or in private for that matter.

He was especially aggrieved that a ‘doddery old fart in a cassock’ was in charge of the proceedings, especially as he knew that Tom had strong feelings about religion. Barry had visited Tom in hospital and a chaplain had ‘hovered menacingly’ at the end of the bed. After the chaplain left, Tom told Barry that he had nearly told him to bugger off.

He completed his diatribe with, ‘And sitting in regimented rows in an enclosed space listening to the naff poems and bloody awful songs people choose! Fly Me To The Moon? What the hell is that about?’ Further questioning revealed that Tom had never shared his funeral wishes with his children.

Nor has Barry. ‘Whatever I tell them they’ll still manage to make a right pig’s ear out if it.’ But he agreed that it would be a kindness to his sons if he could give them some idea of what he wanted. The problem is that Barry knows exactly what he doesn’t want (unnecessary expense/naff poems/bloody awful songs) but no idea what he DOES want.

Which is how we came to be standing at the gates of a large cemetery near where we live. It has both traditional and natural burial areas. Which seems to mean that only some graves have headstones. Others don’t and the grass isn’t cut as often. According to the website, its chapel was designed in 1906 and is available for ‘people of all faiths and beliefs.’

We had barely gone through the gates when a small group of people and a coffin caught my eye. Daisy was holding me back with a stern look. I persuaded her that we could move closer if we pretended to be visiting a grave.

We couldn’t hear very much. There didn’t seem to be a vicar but I noticed there was a grave-digger nearby trying to look inconspicuous. The undertaker instructed his four ‘gentlemen’ to lower the coffin.

A young woman nodded to the little girl next to her. She looked about seven years old. She began playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on the recorder. A toddler standing next to her bobbed his head in time to the music. The descant recorder is not my favourite instrument but she was note perfect and there wasn’t a single squeak.

Each person threw a flower into the grave. After a minute or two, they walked towards their cars. The recorder-playing girl and her brother were now holding hands with the young woman. She looked beautiful in her black dress. But with her high heels she was struggling not to sink into the grass.

The cars drove off. A passenger jet flew over. Daisy tried to tell me something but I couldn’t hear a word. And Barry pretended not to wipe his eyes.

I’m back. From the brink of death. And Lyme Regis.

It sounds dramatic but I really did think I was a goner. And Charles tells me that so too did many readers of this blog. He had several emails asking him not to kill me off. I’d like to reassure those people that Charles doesn’t have my address in East Sheen, so the chances of him being able to kill me are remote.

To the gentleman who begged him not to ‘blog-snuff Lyra’: thank you. This is a worrying thought. However, Charles says that I’m safe from being blog-snuffed as long as I keep my posts interesting.

So let’s test his mettle by considering some statistics.

The Office for National Statistics recently published their first annual ‘Subjective Well-being Results.’ Imagine my surprise when I discovered that I am in most of the categories for the highest levels of happiness!

The happiest people are female, married, live in their own properties and are between the ages of 75 and 79. I would need only to move to the Shetland Islands and be Indian to score higher! There is a downside: women are more likely to be anxious. Which is true – I’m a worrier.

The other downside wasn’t mentioned. If you’re over 75, statistically you’re more likely to be dead next week than those people who are under 75. I made that up but it must be true. On the same day that the happiness statistics were released, the ONS published the Monthly Provisional Figures on Deaths. Which did nothing to help my anxiety levels.

But I was greatly uplifted by last week’s opening ceremony for the Olympic Games. It made me proud to be British – even if we are bonkers. Indeed, because we are bonkers. I gasped and smiled when Her Majesty the Queen appeared alongside James Bond. Which lady of a certain age wouldn’t die happy if she’d experienced a few moments with Daniel Craig?

Next week, if I’m still alive and I haven’t been blog-snuffed, I hope to report on a funeral – ideally the funeral of a complete stranger who has lived a long and happy life. Daisy and Barry insist on coming too so that they can look after me and make sure I don’t over-do it. They’re not keen for me to visit a natural burial ground just yet. But I’m working on it.

They’re worriers too.

Posted by Lyra Mollington

It turns out that I am a terrible patient. My sister Myra used to be a nurse so this wasn’t a winning combination. Mr M collected me on Saturday and I’m recuperating at home.

Thankfully I’m no longer confined to my bed although walks on the common are out of the question for at least another week. Barry has kindly offered to type for me again. I wasn’t well enough to proof-read the last one and it was only on Tuesday that I discovered he had been a little mischievous with those brackets.

(Yes Barry – they were quite funny.)

Having almost died, I expected never to take anything for granted again. Sadly, life isn’t as straightforward as that. I was home for barely five minutes when I noticed dust on a side table. I could see that Mr M was disappointed – perhaps he was hoping for a new devil-may-care wife. If anything I’m even more irritated by the little things because I have nothing to do. Mr M can’t understand why I’m still getting upset if Colin doesn’t have fresh water in his bowl each day.

(Yes Barry, I know that dogs drink out of puddles.)

By Wednesday, I was feeling much stronger which was perfect timing – Daisy and Lilian had arranged for all our friends to come round for afternoon tea to celebrate my 75th birthday. I’ve never received so many interesting presents. They included: a CD from Rosie with the warning that, although the music is beautiful, it may take a ‘bit of effort’; the complete DVD box set of Inspector Morse from Lilian; a teapot with a union jack design to commemorate the 2012 Games (I had completely forgotten about the Olympics – Mr M and I have tickets for the Greco-Roman wrestling and I very much hope I will be well enough to go); exotic hand-cream from Daisy; and (to Sue’s slight embarrassment because she had clearly chosen this gift well before my illness) the latest Peter James crime thriller. They all have ‘Dead’ in the title.

We had a lovely time. But we all ignored the elephant in the room: my near-death experience. Was it only a year ago that Rosie had nearly choked on her cup-cake when Lilian brightly announced, ‘Let’s make a list of what we want to do before we die!’? There was no stopping us then, happily deciding on our bucket lists. I think it was Lilian and Kathleen who began shouting out as many adventurous and dangerous activities as they could think of: jump out of an aeroplane (one of them added, ‘With a parachute!’); fly in a helicopter; ski down a glacier; scuba dive; ride a camel… I never did tell them that I had done everything on their list – except for the camel. However, I had learned to ride on the most enormous horse I’d ever seen.

(Yes Barry, I can see that you’re impressed.)

Needless to say, on this my birthday afternoon, no mention was made of bucket lists. As Daisy poured another cup of tea (not too strong; a DROP of milk and no sugar) I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself. As one of my favourite funeral poems says, ‘Matters it now if time began, if time will ever cease? I was here, I used it all, and now I am at peace.’

So I started planning a few activities suitable for my recuperation.

I am going to read the latest Peter James book (with the gloriously apt title – Not Dead Yet). I am going to listen to the ‘difficult’ CD Rosie gave me, even though I have never even heard of Pergolesi or his sacred Stabat Mater. And I am going to listen to it properly – not have it as background music whilst doing the housework. Also, I’m going to start sorting out all those photographs that are in envelopes in a drawer – maybe even scan them. At the weekend, I’m going to watch Bruce Willis in all his Die Hard films.

(Yes Barry, you and Daisy can come round and watch them with me.)

And I’m going to draw up plans for my next funeral – as a spectator I hasten to add. Incredibly, I have never been to a woodland burial.

Posted on behalf of Mrs Mollington by Barry

I have not been well lately so Barry, Daisy’s lovely friend, is kindly typing this as I dictate my latest ‘Thoughts’.  He is an excellent touch-typist despite having builder’s hands.

He’s smiling –  he’s a retired English teacher.  But I don’t think he’ll mind if I proof-read it before he emails Charles.  I hope we meet the deadline.

Yes Barry, type everything I say and if there’s time I’ll edit it later.  If you’re not sure, put it in brackets.

(Deep breath…)

Everyone thought I had made a full recovery from that virus and, when Daisy visited me a few days ago, she said how well I was looking.  It was then that I knew something was wrong.  I could see the concern in her kind eyes.  I chose to ignore it, as she chose to ignore the way I struggled to take a sip of tea.

Dehydration.  Nature’s way of telling us we’re ready. 

The following day, I could barely lift my head from the pillow.  My children, Jamie and Alex, were next to my bed, sitting on the high-backed chairs from the dining room.

Jamie was talking quietly.  It was a while before I realised that she was reading from a book.  Kazuo Ishiguro’s sublime The Remains of the Day.  We had discussed it endlessly and we’d watched the film together.  Poor selfless Mr Stevens.  As I listened to my daughter reading, I decided that Anthony Hopkins would never have found happiness with Emma Thompson.  Then I pondered, ‘Why on earth is Jamie reading this to me when I am quite obviously dying?  Could she not find my Pam Ayres?’

(No Barry, I don’t think Mr Stevens wasted his life.  Well, not completely anyway.)    

My son Alex has an important job in the city.  So the fact that he was here in my bedroom in the middle of the morning meant that it must be serious.  That and those dining-room chairs.   He was talking softly into his phone – someone from work.  Lots of technical jargon and the occasional swear word.  Sounded like one of those characters from the mockumentary ‘2012’.  Things have changed since I worked in an office. 

(Yes, I’m positive mockumentary is a word Barry.  Ignore the squiggly red line.  On second thoughts, right click it and add it to the dictionary.)

We’re told that as we die, our lives flash before us.  My mind was a blank, apart from one vivid memory from more than sixty six years ago.  I was eight years old and really poorly with the measles.  Mum decided to fetch the doctor.  When I realised that she was about to leave, I called out in my delirium, ‘Don’t slam the door!’ As my bedroom door was quietly closed, I cried, ‘Noo!  You slammed the door…’

(Yes, Barry.  I’ll let you spell ‘no’ with an extra ‘o’.)  

Since that day, I have never liked being in a room with the door completely closed.  Over the years, my little foible has been the source of many comical incidents.

(No Barry, I’m not going to elaborate.) 

As Alex put his phone on my bedside table, I couldn’t help worrying about my last words.  One could say something noble, only to live a bit longer and end up saying something like, ‘There’s a cobweb up there.’  I have occasionally day-dreamed about this sort of thing in an idle moment. We’ve even talked about it around the dining room table.  Mr M wants to say the words from Spike Milligan’s tombstone, ‘I told you I was ill.’ But I favour, ‘There’s something incredibly important I’ve been meaning to tell you…’  Followed by a slight choking sound and then silence.

(Why do I call him Mr M?  Have you never seen an episode of Columbo, Barry?  The spouse always remains a mystery.)

Back to my dying moments.  As I was wondering whether I had the energy to say any final words at all, I heard a pitiful yelp coming from the landing.  So I mumbled, ‘Mr Chunky wants to see me.’

As I took my final breath, Jamie whispered, ‘Is she?’ But before Alex could reply, I breathed again and they both jumped, stifling short cries. 

When Daisy stepped out of the wardrobe, I should have realised that my grip on reality had well and truly slipped. She was frantically flicking through the pages of the Natural Death Handbook, shouting, ‘Where’s the cremfilm?  We can’t have any leakage!  She promised me there’d be no leakage!’

(Yes Barry, cremfilm is also a word.  And, no it’s nothing to do with keeping sandwiches fresh.)

Then Daisy calmly asked me if it was all right if she measured me for my coffin, adding, ‘Should it be in inches or centimetres?’

(No Barry, I didn’t see a bright light at the end of the tunnel: just Daisy with a look of determination and a wooden ruler.)

I must have fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep after that.  When I finally awoke, Daisy explained that they had taken it in turns to sit with me and Mr M had kept vigil through the night, holding my hand for hours.   It seems I was delirious at one point.  Everyone was extremely worried especially when I cried out, ‘Remember, I want a burial cloud AND Highland Cathedral!’

(No Barry, it’s not that strange.  A burial cloud is a type of coffin.  Yes, it should have a capital B and C.  And yes, I would like a real piper to play Highland Cathedral.  In a kilt.)

Postscript from Barry: Lyra is making a steady recovery and is staying with her sister Myra (I think that’s what she told me to say although I’m sure Daisy told me her name is Mary). 

By Lyra Mollington

On Sunday I woke up feeling out of sorts and very parched.  With this humid and unsettled weather, viruses will be having a field day.  In these situations, I find the best course of action is complete rest and lots of green tea (Yutaka Midori – ordered online from Japan).  I stayed in bed until the evening but finally the stress of not knowing what Mr M was getting up to in the kitchen took its toll and I moved downstairs. 

First thing on Monday, Daisy came round to see how I was doing.  You may remember that she’s the friend with an alarming number of urns adorning her mantelpiece.  They all contain ashes, although not necessarily of human origin.  Like me, Daisy has a passion for dogs – particularly pugs.  After Smithers died, she swore never to get another one and, so far, she has been true to her word.  Probably because there is a new man in her life – Barry.  He’s lovely and looks like an older version of Dara O’Briain.

You may also recall that she has been my partner-in-crime on a couple of occasions.   And by ‘crime’ I am referring to my hobby of attending funerals as a mystery mourner.  She came in useful as a look-out when I photographed Pat’s cosy woollen coffin with balls of wool and knitting needles woven into the flowers.

Daisy was a reluctant assistant on that occasion, but now she was eager to help out by taking Mr Chunky for a walk.  Sadly Mr M is neither use nor ornament when it comes to dog-walking.  He has a chronic sports injury.  Or arthritis as our GP calls it.

Daisy had arrived bearing a gift which she insisted I open straight away because, ‘It will cheer you up!’ She could barely contain her excitement as I began tearing off the striking Loїs Mailou Jones wrapping paper. 

It was a boxed set of three paperbacks. 

No, not the Fifty Shades of Grey Trilogy… 

The Natural Death Handbook – in shades of grey, teal and cerulean.  Daisy’s excitement had reached fever pitch and her words tumbled out, ‘Barry helped me to order it – we had to visit a website!  It was meant to be for your birthday but, as soon as I found out you were poorly, I thought you’d need a boost because you won’t be well enough to go to any funerals this week.’  I smiled and told her that she was the most thoughtful and kind-hearted person I knew. 

As I later reflected, only Daisy would have the aplomb to buy me the Natural Death Handbook for my 75th birthday – and then decide it would be the perfect get-well-soon present. 

Daisy left to walk the dog, having made me promise that I wouldn’t overdo it by reading too much.   Luckily, this is a trilogy to dip into, not to slavishly read from beginning to end. 

I began by reading the opening section of Chapter 7 of the Handbook: ‘Common misapprehensions and urban myths’.  I felt rather smug that I knew them all.  A gravely misinformed member of the public is quoted as saying, ‘We presumed that you had to have a hearse to move the body.’  I began to imagine trying to manoeuvre Mr M’s body into the back of my Ford Fiesta.  Yes, I would calmly explain to onlookers – it’s all perfectly legal.

I then read some of Chapter 8: ‘Family-organised and inexpensive funerals’.  I already knew that there’s no law that says you must use a funeral director.  However, like most people, I had never considered a DIY funeral for me or my family.  But the savings really are considerable.  I studied the section on ‘leakage’ with a mixture of horror and fascination.  Apparently, ‘This is something that most professionals are extremely worried about, so much so that they line nearly all coffins with plastic, which for the most part is not degradable; it is called cremfilm.’ I was strangely reassured to discover that, ‘Usually the elderly and those who have suffered long drawn-out illness will be dehydrated and leakage will not be an issue.’ Nature’s way of telling us we’re ready?

The next paragraph, ‘A suitable vehicle’ had me chuckling.   ‘This author has witnessed one family arriving at the burial ground with their mother, admittedly a short lady, in a Renault Clio.’ Mr M is quite tall but I began to reconsider my earlier misgivings.  Perhaps with the back seats down, the boot open, some sturdy twine and a following wind…

I then dipped into the volume ‘Writing on Death’ which includes an essay written by our very own Charles Cowling.  I chose to read Carla Zilbersmith first – her poignant and moving ‘Leave them laughing’.

By the time Daisy returned, I was feeling inspired.  And thirsty.  I was ready for another cup of tea.  Good old Yorkshire tea.  This elderly woman wasn’t going to be getting dehydrated any time soon.

As Carla said, ‘I’m madly in love with living.’ 

ED’S NOTE: Carla Zilbersmith, to whose essay in the Natural Death Handbook, 5th edition, Mrs Mollington alludes, died in 2010 0f ALS, which in Britain we call MND (motor neurone disease). Carla wrote a blog recording the progress of her illness. It’s one of the most extraordinarily brave, funny and life-affirming things you’ll ever read, and you can find it here. She made the video above to be played at her memorial. 

The just-out fifth edition of the Natural Death Handbook is available only from the NDC. They are cutting out distributors (people like Amazon) because they know too well that people who write books are right at the end of the food chain where earnings are concerned. They want as much money as possible to come to the charity. Good for them, we say. 

The Natural Death Handbook comes in three volumes contained in a slipcase. Production values are high: it’s a beautiful artefact in its own right. Better still, it’s the direct descendant of (not in any way a departure from) all the other editions of the Handbook, which have been so inspiring to so many. Buy a copy, love it and support the best cause in Funeralworld. Click this link and you’re halfway there – click!

Posted by Lyra Mollington

There was only one topic of conversation at our book club on Tuesday morning – apart from the book we were discussing, of course! 

Yes, it was the fascinating television documentary from the evening before – although we agreed that the whole thing had to be taken with a pinch of salt.  After all, TV producers need something out-of-the-ordinary (and a few shocks) to attract the viewers.  However, that’s what makes great television and I’m not ashamed to admit that I was glued to my seat for the entire programme. 

 ‘Strictly Kosher’ is an interesting insight into the traditions and customs of the Jewish community in Manchester.  As an outsider, I had the luxury of being able to keep an open-mind, but there must have been many Jewish people shouting at the television as they watched members of their faith appearing foolish or eccentric.  Indeed, I am sure some would rather not be associated with certain attitudes and practices.  Like the vast expense incurred when celebrating Jewish festivals.  For example, purchasing a single citrus fruit for anything from £30 to £500 depending on the quality.  As one man commented, ‘I’d rather buy a new leather jacket!’ 

But the characters and their stories were compelling.  In particular, Jack’s story was incredibly moving.  At the age of only 16, he had experienced first-hand the horrors of the Holocaust.  Now an old man, when he visited the grave of his little brother, who was a victim of the gas chambers at the age of nine, we were weeping with him.  But Jack doesn’t spend his days wallowing in self-pity.  He visits schools and tells his story to youngsters, using his experiences to inform and educate.  Yes, it’s painful to hear about these terrible crimes but we need to know about them to learn from them.

Coincidentally, the novel we were discussing at book club was another inspiring story about ordinary people and their struggles against corruption and depravity.  The Book Thief is written by Markus Zusak.  The narrator of the book is Death himself – a compassionate being who despairs about war and man’s inhumanity to man.  He does not cause anyone’s death; however, he must deal with the consequences.  And he longs for a holiday. 

As we left the library, Valerie asked if I had watched a Channel 4 programme about undertakers – it was on just before ‘Strictly Kosher’.  (Regular readers of this blog may remember that, three weeks ago, I wrote about Valerie’s mother’s funeral.) 

Valerie looked troubled.  ‘Perhaps the Jewish people have got it right – they bury their dead straight away.  No lying around for days or weeks.  The worst thing is, until I watched that wretched programme, I was really happy with mum’s funeral.  The Co-op people were brilliant.  Chris and I even sent a thank-you card to the girl in the funeral home.  She was lovely.  So kind and caring.’

I told Valerie that she could feel proud that she had given her mum the best possible send-off.  I continued by saying that I still couldn’t stop smiling every time I thought about us singing ‘The Happy Wanderer’. 

‘But all I can think about now is that hub!’ she replied. 

She went on to tell me that she had been having visions of her mother’s body travelling back and forth to the funeral home every time someone from the family wanted to spend time with her. 

‘She’ll have been up and down that motorway like a Waitrose delivery lorry!’

I suppressed a smile.

Valerie suddenly laughed. ‘What am I doing to myself?  Mum loved a road trip!  She would be horrified to see me fretting over this.’ 

I kept a straight face and said, ‘Yes, and not many people can say, “We sang The Happy Wanderer at our mum’s funeral!” ’

She called after me as I left, ‘Don’t forget!  Part two of Strictly Kosher is on at 9 this evening.’

Posted by Lyra Mollington

With the ‘Funeral Services of the Christian Churches in England – New Edition’  tucked safely in my bag, I set off for the crematorium.  I planned to go to the office and apologise for inadvertently taking it.  I decided that this would be more dignified than replacing the book surreptitiously during a service.  Also, I wanted to leave my options open.  If the 12.30 funeral looked sparsely attended I would head home and catch the last 15 minutes of Bargain Hunt.

As I approached the gates, I spotted a police car in my rear view mirror.  What are the chances?  I told myself off for being silly.  The police had far more important things to do than lie in wait for an OAP to return to the scene of her crime or, rather, to the scene of her momentary lapse of concentration.

Needless to say, the police car parked alongside me.  I took great care when I opened my door.  A few of my previous dealings with the police flitted through my mind…on one occasion I was stopped for going through a red light at two o’clock in the morning.  One glance at Mr M snoring in the passenger seat and the lady police officer let me off with a sympathetic smile and a, ‘Be more careful next time.’ I wasn’t sure if she was talking about my choice of marriage partner or the traffic lights.

Having returned the book, I saw that a large crowd was gathering in front of the chapel doors.  I joined the mourners and before long we were asked to ‘please take your seats in the chapel’.  Yes, I thought, and that’s all I’ll be taking today.  I’m not even going to risk a photograph.  I held back as everyone began filing in knowing that, even if I was last in, I would find a seat near the front. 

I had just ‘taken my seat’ when a short, stocky man off to my right started remonstrating with the funeral director.  He sounded annoyed and I heard the words ‘dim-witted’ and ‘flowers’.  However, after just a few words (inaudible to me) from the funeral director, Mr Short-and-Angry had retreated.

I must have been staring for slightly too long because the person next to me said, ‘Dave’s brother, Roy.  Dave couldn’t stand him.  Looks like he wants to play the grieving relative.’

I nodded and pretended to check the shelf in front for an order of service.  My neighbour chuckled, ‘Nothing worth pinching here love!’

I could feel my cheeks redden.  Then I smiled hoping that he wouldn’t ask me how I knew the deceased.

‘I’m Neil.  We’ve met before haven’t we?’

I have found that, when in a potentially awkward situation, revealing as little as possible is usually the best option.  I pretended to look thoughtful for a few seconds.

‘Waitrose?’ I suggested.  Neil nodded and shook my hand, ‘Any friend of Carol’s is a friend of mine.’ I smiled again.

To my relief the chapel attendant’s voice boomed out, ‘Will you please stand.’  Unfortunately, my new friend continued talking over the music. (Something by Pink Floyd.)

‘57…no age is it?  Lung cancer.  Never smoked in his life.  Ridiculous.’

As the vicar introduced the first hymn, Neil quipped, ‘Can’t beat a bit of Love Divine – as the actress said to the bishop!’

To his credit, Neil sang beautifully.  But all too soon we were sitting down again and when we were invited to pray, he couldn’t resist another joke, ‘Eyes down, look in…’ And, after Reverend Roger had read from Revelations, Neil whispered, ‘No disrespect but, as Dave would’ve said, “What a load of old cobblers!”’ 

When Rev Roger spoke about Dave’s successful career as a builder, Neil’s commentary continued, ‘He couldn’t wait to retire – poor bugger!  Be careful what you wish for.’ 

After a few words about Dave’s family and his beloved wife Carol, who had nursed him until the end, Roger completed the eulogy by saying, ‘Carol has asked me to tell you how much Dave valued his friends.  He had known his best friend Neil since junior school – fifty years of loyal friendship and a lot of laughter along the way.’

Poor Neil let out an involuntary cry which he quickly stifled.  I handed him a tissue – I always have a handy pack in my bag. He nodded but didn’t utter another word until the final piece of music began, ‘Your Song’.

‘Carol and Dave chose that together.  It’s Ellie Goulding.  Beautiful isn’t it?’

We walked to the courtyard together.  Dave’s brother Roy was slightly ahead of us and speaking in an angry voice again.  This time it was to the vicar.  Something about the eulogy being an ‘absolute disgrace’.  Sadly the vicar didn’t seem to be having quite the same calming influence as the funeral director earlier.

Neil grinned.  ‘He’s upset because he didn’t get a proper mention.  You know, he never visited or phoned when Dave was ill.  And he was always jealous of Dave and how happy he and Carol were.  Come on! Let’s see how Carol’s doing.’

I told Carol that Neil had been looking after me.  She had no idea who I was of course but she put her arms around me and thanked me for coming.  Neil beamed proudly.  I thought about the words on the apron my son bought me for Mother’s Day:  ‘Keep calm and carry on’.

Angry Roy was now kneeling next to the flowers reading all the cards.  The unwanted guest being watched by the uninvited guest. I left before anyone noticed. 

© Lyra Mollington 2012

Posted by Lyra Mollington

When my mother died, I coped really well.  I felt fine at the funeral too.  Well, a little bit angry at the detachment and complacency of the Anglican priest, but otherwise fine. 

However, for many years afterwards, I found it difficult not to dwell on the fact that she hadn’t reached her ‘threescore years and ten’.  I felt resentful when I saw a sprightly old dear out shopping.  And I bristled when people said of an elderly person, ‘Isn’t she wonderful for her age?’

I’m ashamed to admit this of course.  And extremely ashamed by my reaction when one of my book club friends, Valerie, tearfully told me that her mother had died.  Valerie’s mum Emma was 98.  And a half.  And up until a week before she died she was doing all her own shopping and cooking.  I mustered every ounce of sympathy I could find, but all I really wanted to say was, ‘How lucky you had her for so long!  Thirty three years more than my mum – that’s a life time.’ 

I decided to go to the funeral of course.  However, I was not looking forward to it, especially as the last one I’d attended was young Lee’s: only twenty three and with two young children. 

From the moment I saw that there were at least ninety people in the crematorium chapel, I thought that I might be in for a few surprises.  I wasn’t disappointed.  The coffin was carried in to the Andrews Sisters singing ‘Show Me the Way to Go Home’. Emma’s family had planned and written the whole ceremony, and one of her grandsons took the role of celebrant.  He was excellent – well-groomed, with a delightfully expressive voice, and very good-looking.

During the main tribute, I discovered that Emma’s daughters (Christina and my friend Valerie) were in fact her step-children.  Their natural mother had died when Valerie was a baby.  In those days, single parents were expected to put their children into care if no-one in the family could help.  Their father Clifford struggled for as long as he could but finally he had no choice.  Then he met Emma.  Or should I say, met her again.  They had been sweethearts at the beginning of the War but lost touch when Clifford went abroad to fight.  Emma wasn’t going to let him get away again – and a ready-made family didn’t put her off in the slightest. 

Both girls were rescued from the orphanage.  Christina described her mum Emma as compassionate, caring, selfless and fun-loving.  Emma adopted them but never pretended that she was their natural mother.  Indeed she often spoke to them about their mother, showing them photographs, remarking how beautiful she was and how she loved them both dearly. 

Following the tributes, we sang one of Emma’s favourite songs.  Emma loved to sing.  Singing in tune wasn’t her strongest attribute, but she was loud and enthusiastic.  She taught her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren an interesting assortment of songs like, ‘What Shall We Do with a Drunken Sailor?’; ‘On Ilkley Moor Baht ‘at’; ‘Green Grow the Rushes-O’; ‘The Quartermaster’s Stores; ‘There’s a Hole in my Bucket’; and ‘Home on the Range’.  Songs were sung in the house, in the garden, on car journeys and whilst out walking.  They all agreed that the one that best reflected her exuberance was ‘The Happy Wanderer’.  So that’s the song we sang.  Not everyone was in tune but we were loud and enthusiastic!   

Then her youngest grandchild read a poem:

I am not gone  
I am in the hearts and bodies of my children  
I am in the raising of my children and their children to come,  
I am in their laughter and in their eyes,  
Following a lifelong pattern I have set before them,  
I am in their caring and in their strength,  
I am in the minds of everyone who has known me,  
Search your hearts for good memories,  
And then you will know, I am not gone.

By the time we were invited to stand to say the farewell together, I could barely read the words in the order of service. 

We left to ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ (sung by Blake) because ‘Emma loved watching the rugby when the England team was playing.’ 

By the time I stepped outside, I was feeling uplifted and emotional.  I made a bee-line for Valerie and did something I should have done when she first told me that her mother had died.

I gave her a big hug.

 Posted by Lyra Mollington

Three days ago I decided it was high time I donned my ‘mystery mourner hat’ again.  There was quite a large crowd gathering which boded well for an interesting service.  However, I felt slightly uneasy when I saw that the people standing outside the crematorium chapel were nearly all twenty-somethings: pretty women in high-heeled shoes and short black dresses; and muscular men in slim-fitting trousers that barely covered their bottoms. 

Luckily they were too busy hugging each other to notice me.  Worried that this was going to be the funeral of someone who had died tragically young, I started to leave.  Unfortunately a man with a diamond in each earlobe urged me to move forward ‘to make sure you get a seat love.’  I then heard the unmistakeable sound of horses’ hooves.  I was transfixed as two white horses pulling a glass carriage appeared.  The coffin was buried under a mass of floral tributes, edged by flowers spelling SON and LEE.   

Just before we were invited to follow the coffin, I noticed a beautiful blonde girl handing the vicar a folded piece of paper.  He shook his head.  A large shaven-headed man with tattoos creeping up the side of his neck intervened and the vicar began nodding vigorously.

To my embarrassment, I found myself at the front, two rows behind the family. On the plus side I had a seat with a good view.  The vicar introduced himself, welcomed us and then, to my dismay, asked us to stand to sing ‘All Things Bright & Beautiful’.  Such an impossible hymn to sing: it really should be banned. 

In amongst the prayers and some words from Jesus, one of Lee’s friends, Darren, spoke.  They had been mates since they were banged up together.  Darren completed his tribute by drinking a can of Red Bull. 

As the raucous cheers subsided, Reverend Phil looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights.  A rather sweaty rabbit.  After thanking Darren, he looked up as if to say, ‘Beam me up Scotty!’ Or perhaps it was a silent prayer. 

Lee’s auntie also spoke.  Her nephew was a loveable rogue who would do anything for anyone.  His only problem had been that he was easily led.  However, he had tried really hard to turn his life around since meeting his girlfriend. 

I had forgotten about the piece of paper Reverend Phil had been given earlier.  He hadn’t.  He smoothed it out, cleared his throat and began to read.  It was from Lee’s girlfriend, Stacey – the beautiful blonde girl.  The intimidating bald man with the snake tattoos was her father. 

There was laughter as Rev. Phil read Stacey’s account of how, when the police came round looking for Lee, she and her mum and dad had hidden him in a wardrobe. She added, ‘We were cacking ourselves!’  More laughter.  But even though Lee was only twenty three, he was an amazing Dad to their beautiful babies Lacey and Tyler.  He was always there for them. 

Apart from when he was incarcerated at Her Majesty’s pleasure, I was thinking. 

We then listened to a song performed by Eminem.  I am not a fan.  And from the look on Rev. Phil’s face, I could tell that he wasn’t either.  I’m fairly sure he had not taken the precaution of checking the lyrics beforehand.  Thanks to my grandchildren, I am familiar with a wide variety of contemporary popular music.  And now I was feeling quite smug – I could have told poor Phil that where Slim Shady is concerned, even a song called ‘Beautiful’ has a good chance of containing the f-word. 

The song was faded after two minutes.  Phil regained his composure by taking a deep breath.  After the commending, the entrusting and the committing, he looked heavenwards again before introducing Coolio and ‘Gangsta’s Paradise’.  An excellent choice by Lee’s nan and one of the few rap songs I like.

Once outside, we were asked to make our way to the display area for the releasing of the doves.  To his credit, Phil stayed to shake hands with all the mourners, albeit with a fixed smile.  Stacey’s dad came up and gave him a firm and lingering bear-hug.  Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted – even if they do have hands like shovels and a menacing stare.

No-one had mentioned how Lee had died.  As I was deciding between a drive-by shooting and crashing a stolen car, I saw the collection box bearing the legend, ‘Donations to Leukaemia and Lymphoma Research.  Lee never complained and never gave up.  His bravery will always be remembered.’ 

I took a twenty pound note out of my purse and decided to slip away before the doves were released.    Suddenly I was aware of someone behind me.  It was Darren.  Had he discovered that I was an impostor?

‘Have you got one of these?’ he asked.  ‘It’s to say thanks for helping us to celebrate Lee’s life.’ He handed me a laminated bookmark with a photograph of Lee on one side and these words on the other: 

To my babies. Stay strong. 
And to the rest of the world, God gave you the shoes 
That fit you, so put ’em on and wear ’em 
And be yourself, man, be proud of who you are 
Even if it sounds corny, 
Don’t ever let no one tell you, you ain’t beautiful

© Lyra Mollington 2012

As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I take a look at my life and realize there’s not much left
Cause I’ve been blastin’ and laughin so long that
Even my ma’ma thinks that my mind is gone
But I ain’t never crossed a man that didn’t deserve it
Me, be treated like a punk, you know that’s unheard of
You better watch how you talkin, and where you walkin
Or you and your homies might be lined in chalk
I really hate to trip, but I gotta loc’-
As they grew I see myself in the pistol smoke, fool
I’m the kinda G the little homies wanna be like
On my knees in the night
Sayin’ prayers in the street light

Been spending most their lives living in the Gangsta’s Paradise
Been spending most their lives living in the Gangsta’s Paradise
Keep spending most our lives living in the Gangsta’s Paradise
Keep spending most our lives living in the Gangsta’s Paradise

They got the situation, they got me facin’
I can’t live a normal life, I was raised by the strip
So I gotta be down with the hood team
Too much television watchin’ got me chasin’ dreams
I’m an educated fool with money on my mind
Got my ten in my hand and a gleam in my eye
I’m a loc’ed out gangsta, set-trippin banger
And my homies is down, so don’t arouse my anger, fool
Death ain’t nuthin but a heart beat away
I’m livin life do-or-die-a, what can I say?
I’m twenty-three now, but will I live to see twenty-fow’?
The way things are goin’ I don’t know

Tell me why are we, so blind to see
That the ones we hurt, are you and me

Been spending most their lives living in the Gangsta’s Paradise
Been spending most their lives living in the Gangsta’s Paradise
Keep spending most our lives living in the Gangsta’s Paradise
Keep spending most our lives living in the Gangsta’s Paradise

Power and the money, money and the power
Minute after minute, hour after hour
Everybody’s runnin, but half of them ain’t lookin
What’s goin on in the kitchen, but I dont know what’s cookin
They say I got ta learn, but nobody’s here to teach me,
If they cant understand it, how can they reach me?
I guess they can’t; I guess they won’t
I guess they front; that’s why I know my life is outta luck, fool!

Been spending most their lives living in the Gangsta’s Paradise
Been spending most their lives living in the Gangsta’s Paradise
Keep spending most our lives living in the Gangsta’s Paradise
Keep spending most our lives living in the Gangsta’s Paradise

Tell me why are we, so blind to see
That the ones we hurt, are you and me
Tell me why are we, so blind to see
That the ones we hurt, are you and me

Posted by Lyra Mollington

Our neighbour Keith had no idea that the woman who visited him every day in the care home was his wife of 57 years.  Their children and grandchildren were also strangers to him.  After he died, Doreen felt guilty that she wasn’t as grief stricken as she thought she should have been.  She was also worrying about how Keith was coping in heaven.  When the children told her they were going to help her to plan the send-off their dad deserved, she felt a glimmer of hope returning.

The sun was shining on the day of Keith’s funeral.  His widow was wearing a cream dress with a pale pink jacket.  There was no floral arrangement – instead Doreen, her children and her grandchildren each placed a rose on the coffin before they sat down.  Everyone had chosen their favourite colour.  The roses clashed beautifully.  Jim Reeves was singing, ‘Welcome To My World’.

After some words from the celebrant (a homely looking woman with a warm smile) Keith’s daughter and son held hands and came up to the front to read the poem ‘One At Rest’.  The celebrant then told us how Doreen and the family had spent the weekend reminiscing, talking to friends old and new, and looking at photographs going back to 1933, the year Keith was born. 

They had decided not to have a eulogy.  Instead, there was going to be a slideshow set to Rodrigo’s ‘Fantasia Para Un Gentilhombre’. 

As soon as I saw the first black and white photograph of a little boy sitting on his father’s shoulders, I was captivated.  We all were.  We smiled, laughed and shed a tear as photographs from each decade of Keith’s life appeared: the school boy with a crooked tie; the soldier standing to attention; the beaming bridegroom; the Chelsea supporter with his blue and white scarf; the proud father and grandfather; and the fisherman with his arms outstretched describing the one that got away.  We even saw Keith dressed as a pirate.  By the time the final photograph of an old man cradling his great grandson came into focus, I was desperately hoping for more. 

The music ended.  But then there was a short piece of camcorder footage.  Keith and Doreen were on the dance floor at their granddaughter’s wedding reception.  This was just a few months before the Alzheimer’s diagnosis.  Doreen was wearing a cream dress and a pale pink jacket.  Keith spotted the camera, smiled and waved.

Later, Doreen told us that this was the man she wanted us all to remember.  More importantly, this was the Keith she wanted to say goodbye to.