Chapter 4: A B Walker & Sons

Coroners, DNA testing and Orders of Service. Why would I want to know anything about them? Where do we begin? Serjeant Major Lee Jones would help us (the spelling of Sergeant with a ‘j’ is unique to The Rifles). Body parts. Blast victim. Not sure what condition he is in. What the hell does that mean? Can we see him? Do I want to? No. Yes. He is one of my babies - of course I want to see him - but not in a coffin with white silk strategically positioned around him.

The glue is now in my lungs, choking me - trying to drown me. What happened to my life? How do I do this? Where are the markers? Where is the page to turn that helps me through and guides me along? There are no markers or pages... I have to make this up as I go. I don’t want to do this, but I can’t stop it.

Men visiting, talking about precision marching, coffin-bearing, Order of Service, cars and coffins. I don’t understand what is happening here. My family was not supposed to have to choose hymns or tell their friends that their brother and son had died. Someone is going to tell me that it isn’t real and he will be ringing any minute now, asking us to collect him from the airport. No - now it’s just glue and the flowers that need sorting because the water is starting to smell and they make me feel sick.

The Reverend Canon Brian Shenton came to our house because he would be leading the funeral service. Sitting at the dining room table, he explained the basic order of the service and asked if we had any particular items we would like included. He also shared his sorrow at our loss. We are not religious people and had not realised the significance of Saint Mary the Virgin Church, which is a Minster. ‘Minster’ is a title given to large or important churches, and Reading Minster is a Grade I listed building, extensively restored from 1551 to 1555 with stone and timber from the ruins of Reading Abbey, where Henry I is buried. Ian Tindall, our Visiting Officer, had suggested the Minster for its status, central location in Reading and capacity to accommodate a full military funeral. It was beginning to dawn on us that this until-now surreal situation was becoming reality. This very beautiful church that we’d walked past countless times on our way into town is, coincidentally, less than a hundred metres from the Army Recruitment Office where Cyrus made his pledge to Queen and Country just two and a half years before. Now this church was going to become the focal point of his funeral. It’s all incomprehensible.

The Canon continued and explained that there would be an opportunity to have a piece of music of our choice during the entry. The Sentences, followed by the Introduction, Prayers of Penitence, the Regimental Collect, the Lesson, a hymn, the Eulogies read on behalf of Lieutenant Colonel Rob Thomson, Commanding Officer, 2nd Battalion, The Rifles and a letter read on behalf of Serjeant Leon Smith, Cyrus’s Platoon Serjeant. This would be followed by the Address, which would be given by the Dean - then the final hymn followed by, at our request, the Lord’s Prayer, Commendation, the Blessing, and then another piece of music to exit.

He asked us what hymns we would like, and I was at a loss. Suddenly all hymns I knew disappeared from my mind. Rob said he would like ‘Abide With Me’ as he had always liked it, and it was one he thought most people would recognise. We knew there would be a large number of young people attending, and wanted this service to mean something to them too. A hymn recognised, even if only by the music, is still one they were more likely to sing. A second hymn seemed harder to choose somehow - we were unsure, then the Canon suggested ‘Lord of All Hopefulness’, which is apparently used frequently in Army services. He thought that once we heard it, we would recognise it. Before he left, he said he would leave the choice of the entrance and exit music to us, and that A B Walker & Sons would coordinate with him before the day.

After he had gone, we got out the laptop and listened to ‘Lord of All Hopefulness’, which in fact we had both heard before. It seemed the Canon’s suggestion was more than appropriate, so this was to be the second hymn. It was hard to find a balance, being non-religious, choosing pieces of music, hymns and prayers that merge easily and transcend all beliefs without offending, while being acutely aware of the honour bestowed upon us by being able to use the wonderful Minster. The Canon was incredibly gracious and simply stated that it was our day, to honour our son, and he would do everything in his power to make it as smooth and painless a process as possible.

I’ve never been in a funeral director’s offices before. We sat in the car and tried to compose ourselves before we went in. This is just not right, my legs won’t work, and my mouth is dry. I just want to run away and pretend it’s not happening - but I guess they recognise the look of the lost. The young receptionist said how sorry she was, that she had been at school with Cyrus and on her first day he’d shared a cigarette behind the bike shed with her. This can’t be - it’s not true, not my son, not here in a room in a box.

We were shown into an office and introduced to Carolyn, who would be looking after us, and who had been taking care of Cyrus since he arrived from the Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford. I remember noticing the paintings in the office and reception area, and thinking how unusual they were; black, orange and red naked men with their arms spread - going upwards to heaven, if that’s what you believe. Moving out of this life, and away from those that love them.

Carolyn helped us fill in forms - what we would like put into the paper, how we wanted the booklets to look that would be placed on the pews in the Minster. I’ve no idea what went into the paper and I’ve never looked at the booklet since. We talked about the music that would be played for the entrance and exit. We wanted ‘If I could turn back the hands of time’, played as we followed the Bearer Party carrying Cyrus into the Minster, then ‘Ave Maria’ at the end of the service as we left. We were unsure as to whether or not our first choice was appropriate in such a church. Carolyn smiled and said, ‘It’s your day - you can choose which ever music means the most to you, and we’ll make sure the Canon receives a CD with the pieces on before the Service.’ Everything was overwhelming.

It was then time to go and spend one last moment with him. Just the five of us in a room, our whole family together, for one last time. ‘I don’t know if I can do this,’ I whispered to Rob. He just looked at me and said, ‘Well, you can either come in or wait in the car, it’s up to you.’ I needed him to say that, to snap me out of my moment of panic and self-pity. No choice - no question about what I was going to do. I just needed him to help me stand. I should have been helping him - we needed to help each other and the boys. I felt weak and useless. I couldn’t do any of this without Rob.

The door opened and there he was, all alone, lying there dead. He looked so little in the coffin - pale and cold. His dark strawberry-blonde almost-red hair, was longer than I imagined it would be. He was so proud of his looks with his pale freckled skin, arching eye-brows and slim straight nose. Now his lips were thin and tinged with blue, he had slight grazes on his chin and forehead that had been masked to try and soften their severity. He looked so little. I remember him being so much taller than me - so lithe and athletic, so handsome. My handsome men... and now one was dead. This was just too much for one heart to bear. I was too short to kiss him, but I stroked his hair and face - his cold, hard face. He was always so full of life, always smiling. He had such corn-flower blue eyes, framed by long, fair eyelashes, and now they were closed and I couldn’t see their colour.

He still had the cigarette that Zac had rolled for him in Lyneham, together with the yellow clipper lighter. Such a small thing, but the effect it had on us was huge - how kind everyone was who had been involved in his final journey, to make sure that these items were still with him - a mark of respect, both for him and us. We took a bottle of Sambuca and a shot glass; the boys and Rob had one last drink with him. I couldn’t. We left the partially drunk bottle and glass in the coffin against his arm. Zac rolled him another cigarette and placed it in his breast pocket.

Captain Richard Sellars had asked us how we wanted him dressed. ‘Combats’, we’d said. He died in combat - he should be buried in combats. He would have looked so wrong in his dress uniform. He looked so wrong anyway - so still, so empty. Where was my boy? Where had his essence gone?

I left the room first. Someone had to make the first move and I didn’t think I could bear to see him like that any more. Steely was going to be the last one to leave - he had his own last message - words only for Cyrus, and he had things he wanted to leave in with him. I don’t know what - only he and Cyrus will know. All those nights they shared, talking to each other through their bedroom wall; all those years they shared. They needed one more secret. He so loved his older brother. Oh God, Steely, how the hell do we move forward from this?

As we took our last look, Rob asked, ‘All right mate?’ Steely’s nod was barely noticeable. ‘Yeah,’ was the whispered reply - and we walked away and closed the door. Steely hadn’t planned to leave it, and I’m not sure he was aware he had, but he left his childhood in that room that day. I hoped he wouldn’t be too long inside - I needed to go. I couldn’t be here any longer. We sat in the car numb, almost unable to leave, knowing there would now be only the four of us. Would I ever get used to that number? No.

I live in pockets of time. They have no seconds, minutes or hours. They are just pockets. Some are deeper than others. Some are clear, but most are dark and scary. I don’t like being alone in those pockets, but like my nightmares they are mine, and I can’t share them. They are my own personal sores. Sores that weep, and no matter how much you clean them, they don’t scab over and heel... like my blistering skin.

I want my ‘normal’ back - my ‘ordinary’. There is no anger, just pain - hot searing pain, that electrocutes you, causing blisters and opening those festering sores. I put on my brave face, but I have to strangle the screams in case they jump out and bite the faces off the people around me.

When I’m alone I’m not so brave. The sobs come in waves, racking my body and leaving me exhausted. Sometimes I have to stuff my fingers into my mouth to stop myself from sobbing.

I’m now part of an exclusive group that I’ve no wish to be in. Every death is personal, but now I share a common agony. Stripped entirely of any power to do anything to help, I feel useless. What do I say to someone else who is going through this? How can I be of use? Perhaps just knowing how they feel is enough; they too will understand in time, I guess, as more and more of us join this group.

As a mother I’m supposed to be able to make things better for my children - bathe their grazes and soothe their fevers. I can’t help Zac and Steely though. I can’t kiss it better and make the pain go away; this is another torture I face. How can it be that this has happened and I have no way of making it better? It rips me apart knowing that Rob and the boys are suffering, and there is nothing I can do to help. I feel useless. All my instincts are to nurture and protect - but this is out of my league, and I’m at a loss as to what to do. I can’t even help myself, so I know rationally there is nothing I can do to help them - but you can’t stop instincts.

It’s the loss of power and one’s ability to help, knowing Rob as I do - someone who has always been able to make everything ok, fiercely devoted to us as a family, strong and capable, hard-working and honest - reduced to a shell. I am completely unable to help this man whom I have loved since we first met at school in Henley-on-Thames when I was thirteen and he fourteen. His fair hair now shows signs of greying over his ears, and his eyes have lost their deep blue lustre. We’ve lost our youth. We’ve lost ourselves. The people we were have gone.

What does our future hold? Everything we do goes back to the fact that we have three sons - but now only two remain. It throws us off balance. I used to struggle with three small children because I had only two hands to hold them. Now I long for that struggle again. With every new child I grew a new heart - a heart that was as full and capable of loving as my others, a heart for each child. I have a lifeless heart now, still full of love but empty all the same... a space that cannot flourish any more. My other hearts will continue to grow, and with each new second of my children’s lives they will swell and make room... but one remains the same size, never to bloom again. It hurts because it can’t grow, but it will never go or fade - just sit there in my chest as a constant reminder that I have three children.

If sorrow were an old coat it would be nice to be able to take it off for a day, and be relieved of the weight of it. I know that I would have to put it back on again, but it would be an attractive thought, to be able to unburden myself for a while. I need a means whereby I can extract the agony from my brain. Sometimes I think I’m going to implode from the sheer pressure.

Arriving home, exhausted with the whole process, I thought I’d already plummeted the lowest level I could possibly reach - but that was deeper than low. Nothing can be as wretched as the things we have just had to do. Say ‘goodbye’, take one last look, one last touch, one last secret. This is the ultimate pain, and the last time we would ever see him.

We just sat, unable to talk, too wrapped up in our own glue to help each other. Nothing could be said to erase those awful memories - nothing can be said to make it better. My splintered family - my men gone in a moment, never to be the same again. Changed.

It wasn’t in the kitchen - nowhere near it, in fact - and Steely was the one who found it, in a small white-painted wooden box that had been my younger brother Sam’s toy-box, and which Cyrus had used as a bedside table. The ‘Sam’ box was the keeper of this treasure. A couple of hours after we had come back from saying our last goodbyes to our most precious soldier-son, Steely was going through some of Cyrus’s things and he came across it.

‘I’ve found it! He did write a letter,’ Steely said, coming downstairs two at a time. He held it as though it was an ice-cube that might melt in his hands, and then sat down with us and read it out loud. He was so brave reading it, tears streaming down his cheeks, sobbing uncontrollably and choking on the words, absolutely determined to carry on, no matter how much they burned and twisted into his heart and brain.