My Early Days

Little realising at the time, I was very fortunate to live close to one of the best family run funeral companies in Sutton, Surrey. They really were a good company to learn with, and those three years proved to be a very good grounding and experience.

At the time, they had six local offices, with a central garage. I was allocated an Austin Princess limousine, registration MLD6D. Strange the things you remember, but it was a pig of a vehicle. Just like all the other limousines I have driven over the years, it was impractical, uncomfortable for the driver, and a fridge in winter while an oven in summer. Very few had air conditioning, they all had shiny leather seats where you had to hang onto the steering wheel when negotiating any kind of bend as you would slide away from the controls.

There was a sliding glass partition to separate chauffeur from passengers, which was always kept shut so passengers could be candid about the deceased in private. The back seat was uncomfortable, room for three alongside each other, reclining at a slight angle. Between the partition and the back seat were fold-down collapsible seats for another three passengers, quite an upright seating position, and on one memorable occasion I had to execute an emergency stop. The three heads behind me on the occasional seats went bang bang bang onto the glass.

It had a four speed manual transmission, with the gear lever on the steering column. Reverse was next to first, and the worn gate meant that it was very easy to select the wrong initial direction. Potentially embarrassing. The gear change was so slow that if you were on anything other than a flat or downward incline, first gear was impractical to use, because momentum was completely lost between first and second gears.

I hated that Austin Princess limousine, and on one memorable occasion the daily garage orders read “HARRY IN GARAGE ALL DAY TO CLEAN AND POLISH HIS LIMOUSINE”. It’s a wonder that they continued to employ me, but I suppose they saw something worthwhile in me. All day my limousine was parked at the back of the garage while my colleagues went about their daily duties. All my labours were directed into ensuring that the limousine was restored to the perfect pristine condition shared by the other vehicles. At the end of the day it was inspected by management, with a grudging nod of approval. As my superior went by, he muttered ‘about bloody time.’ Without knowing it, my reputation for maintaining a clean vehicle was poor.

On my first day as a chauffeur bearer, I carried a coffin for the first time. When I was getting ready for bed that night, my wife looked at the area around my neck and shoulder. ‘What’s that love bite doing there?’ No, I hadn’t been caught out doing naughties, it was the weight of the coffin nipping the blood vessel. At least, that’s what I told her.

I am under 5’7” tall, and when a coffin is carried am in the corner that is technically referred to as the sharp end. The other end is referred to as the blunt end. Easy to distinguish, because one is wider than the other, simply because the shape of a body means that the shoulders are wider than the feet. The upper end of a torso is heavier than the foot, so as I am smaller, would usually carry on the lighter foot end. That always goes first, so the taller men, at the back, have a more even distribution of weight.

There was a hearse driver called Keith, who had an evil sense of humour. We were the same height, so usually were paired on the foot. When the coffin is carried into church, the conductor, or man in charge, follows behind the priest, then the coffin, then the mourners. As the coffin is on the men’s shoulders, their hands can’t be seen. Professionals don’t raise their hands and hold the coffin, the weight is sufficient to carry the momentum.

We were going into a country church for the service, followed by interment in the churchyard. It was a narrow aisle, and the pews were almost brushing our thighs as we were carrying through. We were still a little short of the waiting trestles at the altar, no one could see what was occurring, when I was suddenly aware of Keith’s hand wandering over to mine. But his hand didn’t stop there. It proceeded to play with my testicles. Gently but firmly.

I had to pretend that I was sucking a lemon to prevent showing my face. My first reaction was to burst out laughing, impossible, so all I could do was look at the floor as I placed the coffin on the trestles, and filed past the mourners waiting in the doorway. Keith had a large bruise on his shoulder after I told him my feelings.

***

A few months later, it was wintertime, and we were interring in a country churchyard. It was one of those days that bearers dreaded, pouring with rain, soggy underfoot, a long carry from church to the grave which was right at the back of the churchyard, uneven path, difficult underfoot, and a heavy coffin.

Three very large and heavy floral tributes on the top of the coffin, a very uncomfortable experience for the men carrying the coffin. You knew that your raincoats were going to be saturated, you knew that they weren’t sufficiently waterproof to avoid your suit under it being soaked, and as for the polish on your shoes, there was no way that they were going to hold their shine, as they were covered in mud. The occasion was one of deep mourning, and as it was one of the older churchyards the grave was a narrow one, with other older ones either side. This one was re-opened, but still quite deep. In the usual way, the gravedigger would make the sides even all the way to the bottom, a level surface, then wooden boards around the top to prevent the sides from giving way, and grass matting on top to make it look pretty.

The gravediggers forgot the wooden boards. And I had to stand on the section that had the weakest edge.

We placed the webbing through the handles, and started lowering into the grave after the nod from the vicar. The natural weight took the webbing through our fingers, but because of the rain, the sides started going. With me at the weakest point. First my feet, and then my legs, slowly slid into the grave, with the weight of the coffin on top of my torso. I became wedged, half in, half out, of the grave. Pouring rain, three colleagues starting to laugh at my predicament. So did the conductor. So did the priest. So did the mourners. Suddenly it wasn’t quite such a solemn occasion, and it took my three colleagues at least half a minute to get round to doing something about extricating me.

More bruising when I undressed that night.

***

The owner of the company was referred to as ‘guv’nor’ by all the garage staff. It’s an endearing way to refer to the boss, and one he encouraged. He had two sons, both in their twenties at that time, and the guv’nor was the third generation funeral director.

He rarely went out in charge of the funeral, content to let his staff be in control. Sometimes he would attend as a mourner, occasionally even when they were only casual acquaintances. The traditional funeral companies had a very good policy of assisting each other with the training of their offspring, who would ultimately inherit the business, and it was very common practice for the son in his late teenage years, instead of attending any higher education establishment, to work and live at a competitor who would be some miles away. Excellent grounding, also establishing relationships that would live on for many years to come.

Each of our firm’s male principals had a garage driver allocated to chauffeur them when out in the evening, and the guv’nor had one of the senior men who had been with him for many years. The eldest son came into the business after I had been in the garage for a couple of years, we hit it off as there was an age disparity of a few years, and I soon became his driver.

But before that, when I had been in the garage for about six months, I had my first accident. Well, it was serious to me, and extremely embarrassing.

Any purpose built limousine is a very long vehicle. Usually twenty feet, it is also wide, to accommodate six passengers in the back, and there is an overhang from the back bodywork to accommodate the large boot. This extra bodywork can catch out the unwary, as there is another four feet behind the back wheel, and when reversing the mirrors don’t show at all clearly.

I had dropped the family off at their house after the funeral, on my own without the funeral director who had other duties to perform elsewhere, so was trusted to remember where they lived. Unfortunately, this was in a cul-de-sac, and they were almost at the end, by the turn round area. I swung round outside their house, opened the door, let them out, and had to execute a three point turn, as the circle on the limousine was terrible. They had just arrived at their front door when there was a terrible noise. Metal on metal.

My rear bumper had met a lamp post.

We all examined the back of the limousine. They were very sympathetic, tutting as they examined the huge dent in the middle of the metal bumper. We then looked at the lamp post. Nothing. Very sheepish, still with my chauffeur’s hat on my head, I drive away, back to the garage to admit my inability to reverse.

The garage was empty as I reversed in, dark at the back, so maybe I could have tried to get away with it, but that wasn’t the company ethic. Through the back door as I exited my limousine came the guv’nor and Stuart the garage mechanic. I immediately went up to the boss and said

‘really sorry guv’nor, but I have to admit to you that I’ve dented my bumper.’

They both looked at it, looked at each other, and the guv’nor said ‘f***ing idiot’. He was renowned for his ripe language.

He turned to Stuart and said ‘you can fix that, can’t you?’

‘Yes guv’nor’.

‘That’s all right, then. We’ll say no more about it.’

I learned a lot from that incident. How to gain the respect of your employees.

***

People can die at the most inconvenient times of the night, and an example occurred when a gentleman passed away at 3am.

The authorities were called, with the appropriate steps completed. It was clear for the phone call to be made to the funeral company, so within an hour or so the two men on duty were woken from their slumbers to go to the house to collect the gentleman. His family preferred him to be taken to the chapel of rest rather than wait for the next morning, so the duty staff were pleased to be paid the standard three hours overtime, despite it taking less than an hour from the time they received the phone call waking them up and returning to their still warm bed.

He was an elderly married gentleman, the couple living in accommodation connected to their son’s house. The son of the deceased was a very caring man, and despite being devastated at his loss, also had to be very considerate to his elderly mother. She had taken her husband’s demise quite well, probably being prepared, as her husband had been receiving hospital treatment for some time.

He had arranged everything, and it was the son who knocked on the front door of the funeral director’s premises at 7.30 the next morning, asking to see his father. A very unusual request, so not unreasonably, he was asked ‘why?’ His reply was quite simple. When father had been taken away during the night, his false teeth had been handed to the staff to accompany, so he could be ultimately prepared for his final journey.

The problem was that mother, despite her grief, was wanting some kind of normality, and that included breakfast. She could not eat any meals, because her false teeth were accompanying father, and they needed to be swapped before she could eat the first meal of the day.

Discreetly, the swap was accomplished.

***

Fortunately for this book, others have been able to contribute, and I am grateful to David Thompson, a past company general manager, for the next reminisce.

This would have been in the early-1970s, in his first year. The scene was Bandon Hill Cemetery, in Wallington, Surrey, a horrid winter’s day, burial ground exposed on a hill to the elements, and it had been snowing.

Rain, snow, they are both as hazardous to the bearer with a heavy load on his shoulders. David had the unfortunate physical size to be one of the taller men, so always carried on the head end, with the extra weight.

Bandon Hill was one of the newer cemeteries, council owned and run, with a grim superintendent who had a persistent glower, living in a house located just inside the cemetery gates, and a short walk to the pub where he spent most of his evenings. His assistant might in the early days have shown some sense of humour, but by the time I was acquainted with these two gentlemen any laughter lines on his face had been replaced with a dour countenance.

The superintendent was only a few months older than his deputy, so the unfortunate underling knew that his only prospect of an early redemption was his boss occupying the designated at present empty burial plot that was awaiting his final resting place.

The cemetery chapel was a couple of hundred yards inside the gates, and it was the custom for the superintendent to await the arrival of the cortege, and then walk with the vicar and the funeral director to the chapel doors. Normally, the procedure was to then replace the coffin into the back of the hearse for the drive to the grave, which was usually some way away, as it was a very large cemetery. David and the rest of the crew were in for a bad day, however.

While the service was occurring, there was fresh snow on top of the previous ice, so it was impossible for the hearse to drive the short distance to the grave. Nothing for it, the men had to have the coffin on their shoulders, being really careful how they walked. But they could only shoulder so far, the last few yards had to be carried in hand.

That is because of gravestones in the way, too narrow to negotiate easily, so the four men would be manoeuvring the coffin very gingerly over the ice, gravestones, ruts, to the open waiting grave. As it snowed.

David’s feet slid.

He tried to save the situation, but impossible. He decided to save his fingers instead, because there’s nothing like a coffin landing on your hand to provide maximum pain. The coffin was sturdy, no damage there, but as it went down, David landing on top, there was only the floral tribute on top to save his face from the impact against unyielding and unforgiving wood. It was mimosa arranged in a metal frame.

Facial impact against this object meant that his glasses were knocked off his face, his nose bleeding, and as well as the floral impression on his face, the mimosa was impacted and had to be gently removed.

The widow was very kind, providing David with a hanky to stem the bloody nose. She also gently removed the mimosa, with no scar remaining to this day to mar his otherwise handsome features.

He remembers little of the rest of the day, as there was slight concussion. We were hardy in those days.

***

The people coming into the funeral profession these days have many advantages over us older ones, more training, more learning, more qualifications, but something I have over the lot of them is the fact that I had on the job training, learning as I went along, and there was one incident from the late 1970s that they will never see. I can guarantee that they will never be involved with a gypsy funeral as I am just about to describe.

I was a lowly, ordinary limousine driver, one of six on this funeral, where we arrived in a country lane in the depths of the Surrey countryside. It was a gypsy caravan site, one designated as a site for permanent residence, with probably up to a hundred people living there. The patriarch had died, and it was to be a huge affair, with travellers arriving from all over the country, as well as Ireland, to pay their respects.

Flowers for travellers’ funerals are always elaborate, with the prestige of spending more than anyone else on your tribute. In those days there was a particular florist that didn’t advertise, didn’t have a shop, but made floral arrangements just for the travelling community for all occasions. I have no idea if they are still going, you won’t be able to find out for yourself, as they receive instructions via word of mouth. Strictly cash, they don’t pay tax I am sure, they are there to provide a service for a specific area of the community, you will never even know their contact details, they are so secretive.

But their arrangements are simply the best, bespoke to instructions. I have seen: three square feet cricket pitches with full teams that needed four men to carry so it didn’t break: boxing rings with ropes, two fighters, referee, seconds, red flowers depicting blood on the floor: huge horses, with rider, all on a metal frame; a caravan to scale complete with a man in traditional gypsy costume sitting atop. These tributes would take a normal florist days to complete, supposing they would agree to the commission in the first place. But this particular florist would have a team on standby, ready to accept every single order so it could be complete for the funeral in a few days time.

I seem to recall that they had a week on this occasion, they must have worked late into every evening before they had all ready. When we arrived at the site, we were greeted with a good couple of hundred people milling around, three flat bed lorries, and more flowers than I could possibly count. The whole day had been allocated for this funeral, our crew were there just for them. It was a warm spring day, so our first task was to very carefully load the flowers onto the lorries, saving the family tributes for the hearses. We had two, a horse drawn one for the coffin, and the second just for flowers.

It was mid-day before we arrived at the church, with a long cortege following the two hearses, flat bed lorries, limousines, and then family vehicles. Following tradition, they carried the coffin into the little country church, which had already been decked with many flowers. A lot of alcohol had already been consumed that day, so those conveying the coffin into church had a more difficult task, with a very unsteady progression before none too gently deposit onto the trestles before the altar.

Doors were left open throughout the service, with a steady stream of men quietly leaving to find a tall tree to hide behind while conducting their business. While the service was going on all the funeral men were taking as many floral tributes as possible to the graveside, with some of them having to be handled very carefully due to size and potential to break up during transportation. Hasty repairs were not uncommon in these circumstances.

We had just about finished sweating with the tributes when the procession exited the church with the suited male mourners attempting to make their way between the gravestones. Country churchyards are notorious for hiding hazards for the unwary coffin bearer, so these men had a particularly problematic duty as they were feeling the alcoholic effects as well as the need to relieve their bladders. As main mourners they had been unable to make subtle exits. Soon they were beside the grave, with the professionals threading the webbing though the handles ready for lowering. Very soon the minister was intoning the words of interment as the weight of the coffin took him down very fast to the bottom of the grave. They stepped back, we stepped forward, took the webbing away, so the gravedigger could pass them the five spades. All men took it in turn to back fill, but it still took them over half an hour of continuous labour to complete. One male mourner removed his hat, which was then passed round to be filled with cash for the gravediggers

It was then time for hugs all round, back in the vehicles, for the return journey to their site. And this is where the uniqueness of the occasion occurred for me. The limousines were instructed to park in the narrow road outside, and we were not allowed to leave. We were told to come onto the site and watch the final part. Intrigued, we stood on the fringes as the patriarch’s wooden caravan was wheeled forward. It was gaily freshly painted in red and yellow patterns, and the main male mourners poured some petrol from cans onto it. They then set the caravan alight.

It soon went up, complete with all his possessions.

This was the only time I ever witnessed a traditional traveller’s funeral with the burning of the family caravan. It just doesn’t occur these days, those new to the funeral profession over the last thirty years will never see the likes again.

The next day the family went into the funeral office to pay the account in cash. No questions were ever asked as to the source of this huge amount, but the manageress was sufficiently foolish to hand over a receipt, and place the cash in a drawer for paying in the bank later in the day.

Half an hour later when she went into the drawer it was empty.

***

We had a lovely garage mechanic called Stuart. He had the responsibility of maintaining the ageing fleet, which he just about managed to do. He was also on the duty roster, so if someone passed away outside normal business hours two men earned overtime by collecting the body and removing to either the public mortuary on behalf of the coroner, or back to the chapel of rest.

Stuart was a blusterer, you might have heard the expression bullshit baffles brains. That sums him up, and he would often attempt to fog a situation he didn’t comprehend himself so you couldn’t realise his lack of knowledge. Stuart ultimately rose to the challenge of self-employment, starting his own funeral business which proved to be very successful. He sadly passed away before he was able to appreciate the fruits of his success, and his son Howard has more than proved himself to improve the foundations.

He was usually rostered to partner Ralph, the garage foreman, a figure of authority who had favourites. These were allocated the cushier jobs, able to disappear for long periods during the day to spend refreshment time while their colleagues were in the blinding snow, or sweltering in their hot vehicles.

This particular incident was all the sweeter to the rest of the garage staff, because it involved these two gentlemen.

7pm on a summer Sunday evening was the time, and the location was the Roundshaw Estate. This is sprawling, on the site of the old Croydon aerodrome, and where problem families were inserted amongst people who had pride in their surroundings. Very little crime, the place was kept clean and tidy, flowers, anti-social behaviour was frowned on, and you knew that if you had a funeral from the estate it was impeccable, with a tip for the men at the end.

Stuart and Ralph parked the private ambulance close to the bottom of the steps leading to the flat where the deceased was waiting, they took the stretcher into the flat, and despite the weight managed to carry back downstairs without incident. They placed the stretcher on the back of the ambulance, closed the doors, Stuart got behind the wheel, and they looked at each other.

‘Have you got the keys?’

‘No, I thought you had them.’

‘No, you’re the driver, you’re responsible for them.’

‘well where are they then?’

Their attention was drawn to outside the vehicle, where three local Roundshaw youths were sitting on their bikes, doing nothing, just staring at the front of the private ambulance. They were close to a drain.

Stuart and Ralph then realised that these three lads were smiling. Grinning. Then openly laughing. Because the ringleader had the ignition keys in his hand. Staring straight at Stuart the driver, he opened his fingers, slowly releasing the bunch. They didn’t just land in the gutter, down they went into the drain, never to be seen again.

***

My duty partner was a man called Len. He used to drive the hearse, I drove a limousine. It should have been the other way, so he would have been Lennie the lim and I would have been Harry the Hearse, like two characters from Damon Runyon.

A strange thing, really, but a lot of funeral staff failed to make old bones. Stuart and Ralph passed away at early ages from heart problems, as did Len. A lot suffer from back problems in later life, as I do, because of the weakness caused by carrying heavy dead weights.

However, Len was one of those characters you go through life and never forget. The funeral profession is full of them. He had no tact at all, swore constantly, and didn’t ever realise how offensive his language could be. One lunch time in the driver’s mess room, Len was holding forth about something close to his heart, maybe like fishing, and after five minutes I interrupted him.

‘Len, do you know how many times you said the word f***in the last five minutes?’

The room fell silent. ‘I’ll tell you, It was 84.’

‘I f***ing never!’

Because of his lack of tact, on our first weekend together I wanted to gain first hand experience from an old hand what to say to the recently bereaved. It was 2pm on a hot Saturday afternoon in August, and we had to attend a house in close to one of our country branches. The procedure was to bring the body back to head office and be placed in refrigerated conditions for the weekend.

The poor lady had been looking after her infirm husband for a long time, so the death was expected, though sudden, as she had been out shopping, returning to find he had sadly gone. Doctor called, happy for us to come and collect, we placed him on the stretcher, so Len and I went back to reassure the lady that he was in good care, and answer any questions she may have.

Widow. ‘Thank you so much for taking care of my husband. Where are you taking him to now?’

Len ‘Back to our head office, madam’.

Widow. ‘Oh, I thought he would be going to your local office.’

Len. ‘No, they haven’t got any fridges, and he’ll go off over the weekend.’