This thrice a year jaunt to a funeral was to become something that I would come to enjoy, not least because I love buffet. From a very early age I have enjoyed observing people, their mannerisms, their cultural differences, their speech patterns and how they behaved in these formal social gatherings. This may be attributed to transplanting a young child from a village on the outskirts of Glasgow to South East London, in the late 70s, these, even for a child, were wildly different places and I had to learn the ways of my peers quite quickly if I was to be part of the gang and my lunchtimes were often robbed of me by sitting in the staff room having elocution lessons just so the teachers could understand me.
My First Funeral
Like my mother, Granny’s funeral was my first. Recollections glare and fade through the haze of time, but do I remember a pair of navy blue Farah’s with a centre crease that could slice concrete easier than piano wire through mozzarella. I was eight. The funeral was at St John’s on Royal Black Heath Standard, I thought this was very grand, I still do if I am honest. Very large shiny black limousines delivered us all, My Mother and Granddad in theirs me my sister and my Dad (I think) in ours. Traffic stopped. Traffic actually stopped. The impression of traffic stopping for your dead Granny on a small child is one of overwhelming pride. She must be important; she must have known everyone and they all liked her. The church was very full, another swell of pride, a warmth of generosity of spirit washed over me, I wouldn’t have described it that way back then, back then it was a feeling of comfort and safety. I knew people were invited back to the house, and I had been given a duty back at the house. I was happy to be given a duty, it was useful. Schooners of sherry, red and white sherry 15 to a tray, cleft neatly down the middle, the odd numbered overspill going to the white side as there were more women. I had my sales patter, ‘Hello, sweet or dry?’ Many many years passed with me wondering why I didn’t say red or white…. Many years, and to this day I am perplexed on the answer, is white sherry dry and red sweet? The colouring not being used as a signpost to drink selection also gave rise to the question, ‘how can a drink be dry?’
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| aah... who doesn't love a schooner with its hips and shoulders and cute tinyness? |
I carefully picked my way through the remains of the congregation, flicking cigarette ash without care into elaborate ashtrays supported on wooden pedestals that later that day I would grip between my legs and pretend were steering columns from a formula 1 car. Carrying a tray of schooners through a gregarious group of adults from predominantly the East end and South East of London without spilling a drop was, if I may be immodest, a bloody marvel. I am not sure how many of them knew me, probably most, but I do remember being constantly baffled by their apology to me,
THEM: Sorry about Dawn (turn to their left or right and in a raised voice repeated to a more senior member of their micro-clan) DAWN’S BOY
OLDER PERSON: (the inevitable reply) Dawn hasn’t got a boy, she’s got a girl, she’s over there (points with surprisingly rapid stick movement, nearly knocking my beloved tray of schooners out of my hand)
THEM: NO… GRANDSON, DAWN’S GRANDSON
OP: I know who he is, here Simon, I'll have another sweet sherry, you’re doing ever such a good job
I would smile let my hair be ruffled by a firm but trembling hand, look at the cress that had taken up residence on their chin and move to the next huddled group. It is a personal view of me – and what I did, I have to say to my shame, I don’t recall what my sister did on this day, I don’t remember how my Mum coped, or how my Dad helped my Mum cope, the only conversation that has registered and stayed over the years was a brief exchange with my Granddad as he ate a banana just outside his kitchen door, eyes looking rheumy and staring at nothing,
GRANDDAD: Thanks Simon, you’ve done a really good job. It is a sad day isn’t it?
ME: (I nod).
GRANDDAD: Thank you.
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| a banana. Just in case.. well... you know.. just in case you didn't know what a banana looked like. |
Not a long conversation, not a great deal of depth in our shared moment. And back in he went to work the room. When I was little, it was MY Granny that had died, not my Mum’s Mum, not my Granddad’s wife, not the cousin, friend or sister-in-law that had died, but the woman who had a sweet tin, the woman who had a video machine and let me use it for a video party when all the other kids in the road didn’t have a video, the woman who threatened to throw a glass of squash over me if I didn’t drink it because I had pestered her so much for it in the first place, the woman I pushed in her wheelchair all the way round a castle grounds leaving my arms aching beyond belief but letting me feel satisfaction in my trusted contribution to the family. Does this narrow view leave you as you get older?
Age and multiple funerals certainly give you a greater wisdom I think. They also give you rare insights to people's lives, who knew my Uncle Sid had been travelling to India regularly through his life to set up charities to help the blind (well most people except me but hey, I didn't know), or that, despite being 30 years his junior, half a foot taller and possessing a beard that he, to this day, has never had, I could very easily be passed off as my Dad at a family funeral that he was unable to attend. Or that it is possible to eat raw chicken drumsticks given to you by the widow of the deceased so as not to offend and not be doubled up in crippling salmonella induced agony. Or that my Aunt would react so strongly as to kick a wreath made of silk flowers and not real ones away from my Grandpop's grave with the power and accuracy of Pelé. Or it is possible to sit through the wrong person's cremation without being rumbled passing on your condolences and simply stay in your seat for the next and correct one. Or that funerals are so formal and polite that nobody will say a word when the Vicar goes through an entire service referring to the recently departed by a totally different name to the one that they had been assigned at birth. I have never seen a coffin dropped, I have never seen a fight at a wake, but on the other hand that would be a cruel comedy to draw on, and not nearly as funny as watching a hearse pull up with a wreath on one side of the coffin saying DAD and the wreath on the other saying PEGGY.
| See? A silk wreath is only good for football. |
Soon my children will be of an age when they too can accompany us, Ginger, just like me, loves a buffet and Blondie is always on hand to goof around when moments are awkward. Funerals are celebrations of the lives that have gone before and to this end should be enjoyed as well as marking the passing of a loved one. And more than anything I want my girls to be able to turn and smile at each other when my wicker coffin lowers into the furnace to merry sounds of 5ive singing 'Keep on Movin'.†
* I appreciate that may appear a facile description to you but some people call their Grandparents lots of different things, Grapsmap, Noona, Schnippaliebersnacht** and in some rural and isolated areas of Europe, Brother. Further to this (what is the generation above Granny called? oh and that we had two Grannies, simply referred to as Granny and Granny. They were separated by the Irish Sea and most of the UK up to Blackheath so confusion rarely raised its head.
** German is not my native tongue so I hope this made-up word is not offensive***
***Although when I say offensive I have reallise that some people teach their kids to refer to certain things as a Noona, so maybe that should be read as Noni****
**** Is Noni***** offensive?
***** Please insert your own non-offensive name for your Grandmother here so as not to cause offence.
† 'Keep on Movin' was the 16th biggest selling boyband single of the 1990s in the UK, selling 421,700 copies. This is nothing if not an imformative blog.
