IN MEMORIAM

St. David's Day . . .
We were sitting in the crematorium car park, drinking coffee from a
thermos flask and watching hearses come and go.
It was a big crematorium, the largest on Teesside, with five chapels
covering the different religious denominations and two other reception
halls for those who didn't know, or care. It occurred to us, if they
fired up and soot began to fall from the chimney we might get some of
it in our plastic cups.
We had arrived early for the funeral of my former cricket captain and
best man, Robert Thomas Harriman Sprott. Later, the young vicar would
insist on calling him 'Sproat', making us look at each other and wonder
if we were paying last respects to the wrong corpse. Barmaids,
landlords, and sportsmen the length and breadth of the country had
known him as 'Bobbie', a fine chap and a wonderfully straight
bat.
I did say he was best man at my wedding?
As we followed the family cortege into the chapel, I remembered that
day so well . . .
The church had been packed to capacity with disbelieving family and
friends - more particularly, ex-girlfriends who had thought such a day
as this would never dawn. Their attendance was more as witnesses to an
execution than the celebration of a notable and happy event. I recalled
the vicar - older than the one conducting the funeral, be-whiskered,
ex-Royal Navy and not at all taken aback by the alcoholic fumes we were
giving off in such rich profusion - asking me the necessary questions
and me being unable to give specific answers. I was so terrified by the
prospect of marriage. I was temporarily struck dumb. Gazing about me,
waiting for the resumption of normal service, I saw a butterfly flutter
lazily down from the church ceiling to settle on the ornate altar cloth
and spread its wings, while behind me the increasingly agitated
congregation - or rather the male members of it - rattled coinage in
their pockets to remind me that the pubs were open. There was a deal of
coughing and much clearing of throats. Bobbie nudged me and I opened my
mouth to emit - a squeak? It was nothing more nor less. Both Bobbie and
the vicar gave me funny looks, but they were as nothing to the one
thrown at me like a missile by the blushing and embarrassed future
bride. It questioned my status - was I man or mouse? I wanted to say
'Man!' in stentorian tones, but when I again opened my mouth my voice
betrayed me and said 'Mouse' instead.
As the service progressed, the vicar's voice became much more
masculine while mine . . . declined. Describing it as tailing off into
insignificance would not be gross exaggeration. I could feel the doubt
of my future bride settle on my shoulders like a thundercloud. . .
Then, in the middle of what was rapidly becoming my most embarrassing
moment, an inspired Bobbie cracked a joke and we all laughed. The
tension flooded out of me like water from a breached dam. I recovered
my proper voice and bellowed out my responses. In the stalls, choirboys
flinched. On his stool, the organist shuddered. To all and sundry it
was obvious that once again God was in his heaven, and all was right
with the world.
And all of it, thanks to the man we had come to say goodbye to on this
St. David's Day.
He - and us - had been taken by surprise by something so virulent it
had killed him within days.
'Sproat!'
How he would have laughed.
I looked round at distressed faces, and with absolute certainty knew
his family would not be the only ones to miss his supportive and
cheerful presence.