AN ORDINARY MAN - PART 7 - THE LAST POST

We decided that as we had not yet given Dad’s flat up, the wake should be held there, which was only fitting as he had lived there for over 55 years.

Much of the contents had already been removed, and the medical equipment such as commodes, walking aids and so forth were piled on Dad’s sad empty hospital bed awaiting collection by the appropriate social service.  And of course the stair lift remained, shining white like the skeleton of some awful modern work of art. I could hardly bear to look at it.  Downstairs, the monumental sideboard, three piece suite, table and chairs remained in the living room.  We would decide their fate after the funeral, when they would all be made good use of, possibly for the last time.

My husband’s cousin is an undertaker. Dad knew him well; he had arranged my Mum’s funeral ten years previously, and had expressed a wish that his send-off should be similar to hers.  A friend who does a bit of catering ‘on the side’ offered to do the honours, so it only remained to finalise the funeral itself.

A couple of days after Dad’s death, having obtained the necessary documents, we drove to one of our cousin’s funeral homes in Strood, on the Medway, where Dad was already awaiting our instructions, so to speak. 

He was a skilled carpenter, and had chosen Mum’s coffin carefully ‘There’s nothing like a good bit of English oak’, he had said. So that choice was easy.  Thus our cousin and his wife talked us carefully through the whole thing, much of which went over my head as I was still deep in shock, which must have seemed silly to some, as this was hardly an unexpected event for a man of nearly 92.  We discussed the service with the jovial Minister who was to officiate, and the time and date was booked.

The next hurdle was the Order of Service.  I decided to design this myself, as I sadly had recent experience of doing so for my Father-in-law, and was pleased with the result.  For hours I slogged away at the computer, conferring with friends and family, and with some knowledge of what Dad wanted, as he had discussed it with me many months ago, wanting to make it ‘as easy as possible for you two girls’. Eventually it was done, and we chose a recent happy photo of Dad in good health for the front, and a lovely picture of him at 22 in his RAF tropical uniform with bush hat, taken in India during the war, for the back.

The fortnight between his death and the funeral passed surprisingly quickly, yet at the same time often dragged. I don’t think I had properly come to terms with the fact that I would never see my lovely kind Father ever again, and moved around in a dream, getting everything done with the help of my good friend Terry, as my only sibling, my younger sister, lives a long way off and has a disabled husband to care for too. 

My Dad loved flowers, and it was a sorrow for him that he did not have a garden of his own, so we decided to make sure he was sent off with a good show of floral tributes. Many people say funeral flowers are a waste of money, which could be better spent on charities; but I thought no, Dad had given enough of himself to others in his lifetime; today was for him and him alone.  We did suggest donations to Parkinson’s UK if anyone wanted to though. I ordered an RAF floral roundel for his coffin, and the RAF Association, of which he was a member, sent a flag to drape on the coffin. He would have liked that.  A few days before, we visited him at the funeral parlour to say our last goodbyes, and was pleased to see him in his favourite embroidered shirt, sent long ago from Florida by his brother-in-law Ern, and his comfy cardigan, just as I even now still think of him.  Strange to see him without his glasses, though. 

The day of the funeral dawned bright and dry, and flowers started arriving at 8 a.m. so we had to be at his flat very early.  The older grandchildren were there, but the younger ones stayed with their other grandparents, and my grandson Jack, then aged ten, who was very close to his Great-Grandad, came to the house but stayed with my friend helping set out the feast whilst we were at the Crematorium.

They brought Dad back home at about 2 pm on 10^th May 2012.  The hearse and the following 3 limousines were groaning with flowers by the time we pulled away; so many people loved him, and friends and neighbours of many years watched sadly.  The front of the car had DAD in white carnations and red roses, and GRANDAD similarly fashioned at the back. The coffin handles were tied with little posies of wild flowers, one from each of his Great-Grandchildren. It was a very long procession; people stared and must have thought it was the funeral of someone very important.  Which it was.

When we arrived at Lewisham crematorium, there were dozens more friends and family awaiting us. We formed up behind two members of the British Legion, flanking a smart standard bearer of similar age to my Dad, and we entered the chapel to the sound of the Royal Airforce March, recorded by the Central Band of the Royal Airforce. It was standing room only inside, friends and family at the front of course. He would have loved to see us all together.

The Minister greeted us and the service began with Dad’s favourite patriotic hymn, ‘Jerusalem’, and continued with a Eulogy read by the Minister, setting out Dad’s life story. This was followed by touching and funny anecdotes collected by the family and read by my son Justin and my sister’s daughter Sarah, who managed to smile through their tears as they remembered their beloved Grandad. We read Psalm 23, ‘The Lord is my Shepherd’ together, and joined in Prayers of Thanksgiving for a life well led, and the family prayer. ‘Our Father’, which I had recited to my Father as he died.

My reading of 1 Corinthians 13. ‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity..’, marked the end of that part of the service. Prayers of Commendation and Committal were said, and as the standard bearer lowered the flag, a young trumpeter from the Central Band of the RAF, in full ceremonial uniform, stepped forward and the chapel filled with the strains of ‘The Last Post’.  Dad would have loved the fact that the bugler was a young woman much the same age as some of his granddaughters. The Flag was raised again as the stirring sound of the bugle now playing ‘Reveille’ soared above us. The Minister pronounced a blessing on the congregation, the coffin sank on the catafalque, and we walked out into watery sunshine to the sound of Louis Armstrong singing ‘What a Wonderful World’, just as Dad had wanted.

My friend did us proud with the ‘tea’; a lovely spread, vases of red roses and loads of photos, old and new, telling his tale. That old sideboard had seen many celebrations in its lifetime, including Dads 90^th Birthday and indeed my own wedding. Tales were told, tears were shed through smiles, until eventually all was quiet.

A week or so later I arranged for the furniture to be collected, much of which, including the sideboard I had watched Dad make when I was a toddler, now resides in my front room.  I just could not bear to think of it being broken up.  I can’t say it gets the attention it was used to when Mum was its owner in respect of polishing, but we all love it.  The house keys were given back to the Council, and, after a private scattering of the ashes by just myself and my sister and our spouses, that, as they say, was that.

Except he left a legacy of love and laughter, fine furniture and carvings, stories and photos; and most of all, an ever-growing crowd of family and numerous friends, who will never ever forget him.

‘Si monumentum requiris, circumspice’.