KAT

The initials stand for Kenyon Air Transportation. The office was in Chiltern Street, parallel to Baker Street. The office is opposite the building that used to be the Chilton Street Fire Station, which closed down some years now and is one of the trendiest most expensive London restaurants.

I have not been back for over 25 years, but in my day it was a double shop front, all on the ground floor, with a basement. This was the casket showroom, the stairs were too narrow, so fortunately there was a pavement cellar door, which was swung open to reveal the showroom below. We would slide the casket down, place it on the trestles, which would be covered. The wealthier clients would be taken down the internal stairs, select the casket, and when it was ready to be received at head office workshops all hands would be available to manhandle it up the ramp again to the waiting hearse parked half on double yellow lines, half on the pavement.

The right side of the office was for staff and their desks, the back area was the office of the manager, with the left side of the building the arranging area and our staff refreshment area behind.

I got the job because I was head hunted. J.H. Kenyon was the parent company, and the principals were gentlemen businessmen. They had been funeral directors for many generations, with great influence in the London business community. To mark this respect, many years previously they had been appointed as official funeral directors to the Royal Family. If you ever asked yourself if the Royal Family have their own hearses, staff, equipment and premises on permanent stand-by, the answer is no. They have a contract with a respected company with traditions of discretion, which is now with another London firm. In my time, the chairman would be summoned to the Lord Chamberlain’s office for the account to be disseminated, scrutinised in such great detail that this could easily take a morning. On one occasion he discreetly asked if the company might be granted a Royal Warrant, as they were the only firm that were exclusively used. The answer was that this might be considered an unwise move, as any advertising, discreet or otherwise, was frowned upon.

Kenyons were instructed for the arrangements of Royal servants as well, with the Palace picking up the bill. These people usually lived in grace and favour apartments connected with palaces such as Kensington and Hampton Court, had retired but continued in Royal service if they possibly could for as long as they could. Service was in their blood, and as a mark of this the reward was to be looked after right to very end. They knew that they would be looked after by Kenyons.

Michael Kenyon was the chairman, his cousin (I think) Christopher was a director and head of KAT, and there was another Kenyon who with his wife were branch managers in Westbourne Grove. Michael’s son Peter was younger, recently arrived in the firm, and destined for greater responsibility.

If you worked for J.H. Kenyon, you were considered to be at the top of your profession, you could not possibly improve elsewhere. Even better still was to work at Kenyon Air Transportation, because this office was for the best.

Kenyon Air Transportation had been founded in the 1930s to meet a need. Air travel was expanding, and the crashes were increasing. As funeral directors to the Royal Family, the company were in an ideal position to appreciate that a firm with connections was required to assist authorities when a disaster occurred. This widened over the years until my arrival in August 1984. By that time KAT was mainly used for repatriations to and from all over the world. If a foreign national died in London, then KAT would inevitably be involved. If a British national died anywhere in the world then it was highly likely that KAT would be involved not just in repatriating them back to the UK, but actively involved in either local funeral arrangements, or acting under instruction from a local funeral company.

I won’t try to fog the issue here, but start with an example from my very first day, August 4th 1984.

My immediate boss was Phil, who had been with KAT for many years. We were the same age, and I immediately liked him. He was tall, thin, and full of nervous energy. The office was only a small one, with a shop entrance from the street. There was a private office at the very back of the room, occupied by Mike R., who had interviewed me. He was a little older, and Phil’s desk was right outside his door. Mike’s knowledge was not as great as Phil’s, and he relied on him for a lot. He was more of a gentleman, but this was not the same kind of set-up as my previous office. These people were gentlemen with manners and intelligence.

I was sent to an apartment overlooking Hampstead Heath to receive payment on an account that was £4,982. I remember the amount very well.

The bus went quite close to the address, and then there was a last mile walk across the Heath. There was a grass pathway alongside the very busy road, and the address was a stand-alone building with superb panoramic views. As it was summer, there had been little recent rain, so no mud underfoot. I was wearing a suit, with tie, clean polished shoes, very respectable and professional. There was a very wide front door, which opened to my approach, and I was greeted by a very tall African gentleman who was very well dressed, with suit, tie, and also polished shoes. He had a colleague not so well presented, who was obviously muscle without the intelligence and authority.

They asked my business, and then proceeded to frisk me for anything dangerous that may be used against their employer. The reason for the repatriation back to Nigeria had been assassination, so no-one was taking any chances any more. The underling stood to one side as I was escorted into the lift that was hidden in the corner of the huge waiting area, otherwise full of furniture and a desk in the doorway. The lift had no buttons, being controlled by an as yet unseen person in an upper floor. The door opened, to reveal this man standing there, again in suit, tie, and polished shoes. A uniform, then.

I was led to a very tall, distinguished looking gentleman who was obviously the man in charge. He shook my hand, and asked me for the account, which I duly presented. He then said

‘Would you like a drink?’

Bear in mind that this was 10am on my first day, and I had no idea what to expect.

My reply was a very politely said ‘no thank you sir’.

He forcefully said ‘You will have a drink’.

‘Thank you sir, a gin and tonic if I may.’

He looked at one of his people, who immediately came forward with a tray, on it an unopened bottle of Booths gin, another unopened bottle of tonic, a glass that looked and felt as if it came from a set provided by Waterford, and a dish of ice. He nodded at me, and then disappeared, giving me the opportunity of looking properly at my surroundings. I was in a huge room, probably forty feet across, with the whole of the front wall a glass panoramic view. The vista was of Hampstead Heath, and you could literally see for miles. This place was worth a fortune.

The room was split into four levels. I was at the back of the room, looking down into the lounge area, with lots of leather sofas, arm chairs, wooden floor covered by rugs. Nothing matched, it was just a hotch potch that looked as if it had been designed by someone with even less colour sense than me. The upper level by the window had some more seating, this time a dining room table that could seat at least a dozen, then further round to the left another smaller dining room table for only six. There were also some leather chairs facing out onto the Heath.

The kitchen level was out of my peripheral vision, but I was aware it was over to the right somewhere at the back of the room, on another level. The client had disappeared into one of the bedrooms, which was on a middle fourth level, with views I assumed of the front of the property, also with more stunning vistas. I hadn’t been appreciating the view for more than five minutes when he returned, this time with two sealed Nat West plastic bank enveloped with £2,500 each in cash. That made £18 in change to be handed over. I didn’t have it.

I patted my pockets, and apologetically thanked him for the payment. He made a dismissive gesture with his right hand as he waved away the attempt at apology for the lack of change. So I had a tip of £18 just for collecting an account. I thanked him, and was just about to leave when he stopped me. He said

‘You’ve forgotten something.’

Bemused, I replied ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

He gestured at the gin bottle.

‘Take it with you.’

***

This was to be my introduction to another world, where largesse and gratuities were commonplace. The opulence and luxury were extreme, one inhabited by few English. A typical day would involve arranging repatriations to any country in the world, or maybe taking a London funeral, or maybe being instructed by an Embassy or local private hospital such as The Harley Street Clinic.

There was a saloon car as a company office runabout, which was used to take clients from hospital to registrar’s office to embassies to airports, anywhere necessitating the smooth passage of documentation. It was fortunate that I had already quite a good working knowledge of London, which was to be extended greatly during my period of employment with the company. Summer could be the busiest time for repatriations, because in early Spring the Arab households would decamp to London before it got too hot in their home countries. They would also require private treatments, often liver related involving excess consumption of alcohol, the operations sometimes failing which was where my office became involved. My view on life became sceptical, realising that clients from a non-English background would fudge the truth in any way so they gain their successful wishes. An excellent example of this involved a family from Bahrain.

There were two brothers connected to the Embassy, and their mother had come to London for an operation. This was not a success, and the two brothers were on the diplomatic list. That was for the privileged few, doors opened for them, formalities by-passed, troublesome documentation ignored, so as their mother had suddenly died they wanted her to be added to the diplomatic list. Posthumously. They did everything they possibly could to have her added retrospectively, but the Foreign Office would have none of it. Diplomatic representation was made in a very senior way, to no avail. It had never been done before, and no precedent was going to be created for anyone. No matter their background, country, or influence. It just wasn’t going to happen, and I saw all this evolve because I was sitting in their Knightsbridge apartment, waiting.

Part of my job was to wait patiently while clients made up their minds what they were going to do. On this occasion, I was waiting patiently for the decision from the Foreign Office. So when the inevitable decision was made, I then had to escort them to the hospital to collect and complete the paperwork, then to the office of Registrar for Deaths then to the Embassy. This was a straightforward procedure, one I had conducted many times previously, but this arrangement stood out because of the transport arrangements being discussed.

As well as the Foreign Office negotiations, they were attempting to hire a plane for the journey back to Bahrain. I frequently had to escort the coffin and family from their London apartments to usually Heathrow airport, as they would close their London house to return home for the funeral, only leaving a small staff to maintain the home. What made this different was the difficulty they were experiencing in finding a plane to hire. There is a specialist brokering company, who after initially failing to find a London based plane extended their enquiries further into Europe. This again resulted in failure, a word the Bahrain family didn’t understand. If they wanted something, they got it, and they were pretty miffed at the diplomatic list refusal. They just would not be denied, so in the end instead of hiring a plane, they bought one. For $11million. From Paris.

As soon as I had the green light when they accepted the diplomatic situation, I rushed round gaining the documentation, then the same day we were off to Heathrow. Maybe it is still there, but in those days, the mid 1980s, there was an area between terminals one and two for private jets and planes, with its own private waiting area. This is for the seriously rich, and I was a frequent visitor. The newly acquired Swissair 300 seater plane landed, and I escorted my hearse and driver to the bottom of the ramp. The family had no regard for the future sale of the plane, or its condition, so the next instruction was for the chief baggage handler to remove a row of seats at the back. These were discarded, never to be seen or used again on that plane, so then the coffin took its place, strapped securely to the floor. Once this was completed, the hearse driver and myself left the plane, the family boarding. We were not allowed to leave until the doors had been closed, and the head of the household had presented us with our obligatory gratuity. This took the form of two £50 notes. We were then allowed to leave, starving hungry, because I had not been in a refreshment situation all day, just managing to find the occasional toilet. It was gone nine, and I finally arrived home about eleven, after a fifteen hour stressful day.

***

The main front men were Phil in the office and Eddie who was the document driver. They had both worked for the firm for many years, were still aged about forty, approximately my age, but like me despite an excellent education were not gentlemen from the top drawer of society, not necessarily precluding promotion to main board director but without substantial financial funds it was unlikely that we were ever going to progress to the top slot. When we arranged repatriations to and from the UK every day, it could be for anyone with the ability to pay the fees. They may come from any echelon of life, and these memorable comparisons come from the same cemetery. St. Mary’s next to West London crematorium.

This is a cemetery for people of the Catholic faith, and example number one concerns a family of travellers. As already mentioned, with forty years of funeral experience, I have only ever encountered an occasion where a gypsy caravan has been burned after the ceremonies. That was in Coulsdon in Surrey in 1978, when the head of the family passed away. The family I am writing about now were more from the Irish tinkers community.

There had been a feud between them and another family for many years, with violence only allowed after all formalities had been completed. The bereaved family and the other were to attend the funeral, because they had been traditionally close for many years, both based in West London, only uniting at weddings and funerals.

There was a strict protocol to be complied with, the agenda starting with each family taking over a local pub for three or four days while the arrangements were finalised. The landlord would have some heritage with each family, the till takings would be immense, with blonde-dyed haired women vying with their men to consume the greatest quantities of alcohol. The children ran everywhere unrestricted, arguments were allowed, but no physical contact. Knives and guns were allowed to be shown, but not used. Yet.

The pub would open by 8am, with breakfasts served. The car park would be taken over by that family and their vehicles, with an unspoken rule that outsiders were not allowed to be served. If you were a regular in that pub, tough, find somewhere else to drink for the next few days. All day into the late hours any licensing rules were conveniently suspended, no police attended to administer any infringements. There weren’t sufficient suicidal police for this role. However, discreet police observation was maintained at each pub, so they were aware of numbers in anticipation of the subsequent outbreak of hostilities. Or should I say war.

There is a reasonable sized chapel in the cemetery for the service, overflowing on this occasion. I was the conductor, the man in charge, supervising. This was well within my capabilities and experience fortunately, as the occasion was so sensitive that one word could result in premature carnage despite the cease-fire. The secret of any successful funeral is always to ascertain the head person, man or woman, ask them the questions, so smooth procedures and continuity are maintained. That was the way here. The head man was the son of the deceased, the oldest brother of four, with a further three sisters. All with partners.

The men wore black suits, white shirts, narrow black ties askew with the shirt top button undone, polished black shoes. The women wore black skirts, patent leather shoes, white blouses, black jackets, dyed blonde hair. Both sexes had body piercings. Children were smartly dressed.

It was a warm spring day, no rain, starting at the pub with a horse drawn hearse followed by a flat bed lorry. Floral tributes organised for travellers funerals were the most ornate of the lot. Great prestige was attached to the complexity of design, I have seen many huge floral dart boards that were so heavy they would take two or sometimes three men to carry safely. This funeral even had the design of a horse and cart, the black flowers depicting the horse, real leather reins and saddle, the wooden cart covered in flowers. The wooden base was obviously very strong, and I insisted that some of the mourners carry it from the pub where we started to the flat bed lorry, where it stayed until after completion of ceremonies at the cemetery. Then it didn’t matter. The more you read, the more you appreciate the complexity of successful funeral arrangements.

The procession from the pub to the cemetery was a long one. They were only a mile apart, but I had allowed for an hour. The mourners had already consumed copious amounts of alcohol by the 10am departure, so when we arrived at the cemetery gates there were a lot of derogatory comments when they saw a large police presence outside. This comprised four full minibuses, one coach, and the only time I ever saw a police helicopter hover over a funeral. That’s right, they were filming everything from the air. They knew it was all going to kick off afterwards between the two pubs, and wanted to be ready.

The whole funeral went off without a hitch. We came away from the cemetery chapel, the priest kept them all well behaved, we walked to the grave, interment happened. Bizarre, with the police helicopter intrusively observing, and what was even more weird was the fact that there was an allotment overlooking the grave, with even more police watching. Nothing the mourners could do, apart from look daggers. Bad form to shout and gesticulate.

A very large cash tip of £250 was handed over to me, that would definitely not have occurred had they been dissatisfied. We all went back to the pub, we dropped them off, in anticipation of what was to come. That was where the police came in.

Darkness fell, they left their two pub strongholds, and armed with guns, knives, chains, bottles, hostilities commenced on a waste ground. The police knew it was going to occur, there was nothing they could do to stop, so they just let them get on with it. No-one was killed, quite a few broken bones, a lot of blood, casualty department was busy that night but they knew beforehand.

However, another day, another funeral, same cemetery, something completely different.

The famous entertainer Danny La Rue had a West End apartment in the middle of theatre land. His close friend and manager sadly passed away while in Australia, with KAT arranging for him to be brought back for funeral. One of the reasons I was invited to work in the office was my background as a funeral conductor, and it was usually me who took all the services from this office, wherever it might be in the UK. We arranged for the repatriation, with the funeral at the same West London cemetery. Fortunately again the weather was a superb day, with a very high attendance of every gay from the entertainment profession. It was an occasion to be seen, with plenty of mwah mwah on the cheeks as ‘hello dahling’ was sincerely uttered loudly. Most were in strong floral and colourful outfits, with my heterosexual staff maintaining professional straight faces.

No police helicopter, no minibuses full of butch coppers, just all the gay community from London’s entertainment world gathered in one place. I can’t list them all, there were too many, but I do remember Barry Howard from Hi de Hi and John Inman from Are You Being Served prominent in their presence. There was genuine love and affection for family and friends, so it was as well that plenty of time had been allowed for formalities. I remember that two limousines had been booked, so it was back to the theatreland apartment where we dropped them off.

Such a contrast, which made the office a very interesting and different one to work from.

***

Van Gogh painted eight different versions of Sunflowers, and I read an article about them in a newspaper some time ago whereby seven are either in museums, or private collections, with the whereabouts of one unknown. Despite the art world being fascinated by the location, I am one of the few people who have seen this missing Sunflowers, which came about in a mundane way taking me completely by surprise.

Work in the office was allocated on a random basis. There were three of us who took it in turns to be duty manager, one week at a time, so we were on call to attend any client requiring our executive exclusive services. This could be straightforward, or complicated, or maybe simply holding someone’s hands. Saturday attendances were quite frequent, as if you knew where to go it was usually possible to obtain the correct documentation, except for those issued by the local registrar’s office. They wouldn’t open for anyone.

The country of Greece has many families connected with the shipping industry, not just those well known such as Onassis and Livornos. These are the ones who are maybe just as wealthy, but shun publicity. Such was the family I made repatriations for. There was only one thing that made this particular occasion stand out from the thousands of others. The senior lady of the house was waiting for me in her 1920s Knightsbridge apartment. It was the top floor, with a concierge service to screen callers, when I arrived a solid wooden door was opened by the lady, no servants, just her. The corridor was long and narrow, she walked, I followed. Half way down, I stopped, as my attention was arrested by a painting at eye level on the left side. It was one of the Sunflowers.

It was completely unguarded, no protection, no strip light over the top, no glass, just natural light from an open door so I could see better. My mouth must have been open, because she saw I wasn’t following and returned to my side.

‘Is that?...’ I asked.

Very matter-of-fact ‘Oh yes’.

For her, having a masterpiece on display was completely natural, nothing unusual, so I can only assume that the majority of her visitors were close friends who would not have been fazed in any way by seeing painting perfection so close, without the museum rope in the way. This was the most amazing thing that ever occurred to me, and there were many others while working in that office. All these years later I can still be there, run through the sequence in my mind, still seeing the ‘Sunflowers’ that no-one knows the location.

***

Another occasion had the potential to end my career as a funeral director. It had to be handled with so much tact and discretion, while all the time being on public view.

It didn’t take long to know which planes were suitable for transporting coffins. If they were too small, it just wasn’t going to happen, because the design of a 12 seater jet is quite straightforward. You walk up the steps, in front of you are the galley and toilet, if you turn left there is a curtain, behind which are the seats for pilot and co-pilot. Turn right and there are twelve seats. Maybe at the back this is where the toilet is located, if the design of the galley is larger. The twelve seats are plush leather reclining armchairs, so without two of the seats there is no room for a coffin. That is presupposing that a coffin will turn in the narrow area at the top of the stairs, because there is no passageway, all space is carefully utilised, and a solid object like a coffin, even though it is possible to carry it up the aircraft steps, it is just not physically possible to turn it in the narrow confined space to get into the passenger seating area.

Sometimes clients have opinions that just will not be budged, even when confronted with common sense and logic, and this was one of those occasions.

The family originated from Bahrein, with the intention or repatriating their relative back to the home country for burial. For the office this was something we arranged sometimes half a dozen times a day, we were so experienced, and that was why we were so successful. We knew what we were doing. But this family just would not be told when I said that the coffin would not fit in the private jet. They were obdurate. They insisted that it would fit, it would work, it was possible. I knew that I was going to be the man on the spot that evening, about seven o’clock on a winters evening, in the private jet area between terminals one and two at Heathrow, overlooked by bored passengers, very likely with cameras, ready to send photos to The Sun and Mirror papers. I knew that I was going to have a confrontation at the bottom of the private jet’s steps when the coffin would not fit. And I had to have an alternative plan, or my career was gone.

At 10pm that same evening there was a scheduled flight going to Bahrain, so I booked the coffin on this as freight, including as part of the pre-paid fees on the understanding it would be refunded to the family if not used. As per usual, I reported to the family at the bottom of the aircraft steps. It was an unpleasant rainy evening, and it was just me and the hearse driver to carry the coffin up the steps. We both walked up the stairs, and confirmed my fears. There just wasn’t room to turn the coffin. It was not going to happen, but this is where the awkward situation started.

The client said ‘If the coffin won’t go up the steps, then we will take the body out of the coffin, and strap it into the seat.’

‘Sir, regrettably, I can’t allow this to happen. You must appreciate that we have various rules and regulations for the transportation of human remains, and allowing them to fly in such an unprotected way is not allowed.’

‘I don’t care about rules and regulations, my brother is going to be taken home in this jet, and that is that.’

‘Sir, I really want to co-operate, as I appreciate how much of a distressing time this is for you. I realise that you want to do everything you can for him, but in reality I just can’t allow this to occur. It has never happened before, because it is not allowed.’

This is when the pilot intervened. He was a John Voigt look-a-like, tall, blonde haired, very attractive, looking good in his navy uniform with gold braid.

‘I have done it before.’

‘Excuse me for asking, but would you kindly tell me the circumstances?’

‘Yes, it was last year, in Paris, and we flew a body without a coffin.’

‘That must have been interesting. There must have been more to the story than this. Kindly elaborate.’

‘Well, we had eight passengers on board, we were on the Paris tarmac, waiting to take off, and there was an argument between two of the passengers. It was a violent one, with knives. One passenger attacked the other, killing him.’

My client was fascinated by this story as well, not having heard it before.

‘What happened next?’ said my client.

The pilot continued ‘We were in a very difficult position, the plane was ready to go, we would have had to return, then the police, then all the other authorities, so the decision was taken to strap the body into the seat, take off, and sort it all out at the other end, which we did.’

I looked at my client. ‘I think that makes my point, don’t you sir. I have the coffin booked freight, so by the time that your plane arrives there is only a three hour difference, and the scheduled flight will be arriving as well. With your permission, that it what I propose to do.’

The client just nodded, the hearse driver and I got into the hearse and drove off to the cargo area, while the passengers got into the plane.

Sometimes you just have to be firm, polite, and get your own way.

***

Conducting funerals was just one of my many roles, and the office had the contract with the Ismaili Mosque in Knightsbridge. It almost always followed the same procedure.

The start time was usually 10am, so the hearse would come to the office by 9.30 to collect me. I would be dressed formally, with herringbone trousers, white shirt, black patterned tie, black waistcoat, and black tailcoat. I did not wear a top hat for these funerals, and the tailcoat would be swapped for a black raincoat in wet weather, and a thick overcoat during the winter. The funeral clothing was kept in the office to change into from my usual formal suit.

I would have all the relevant paperwork, and we would have been instructed by the man who would take the service. His name was Missionary Hajji, a very serious man in his mid 40s. He was responsible for paying the account as well, so wanted to keep the overheads down as much as possible. This meant that we did as well, so there was just me and the hearse driver as staff provided, male mourners at the mosque and burial ground would carry at all times. In a way I was superfluous, but had to be there in case of any eventuality requiring management intervention.

The hearse driver was almost always Ernie, a smart, presentable man who had been a sergeant driver in the Metropolitan Police and retired after his thirty years, then coming to Kenyons as a hearse driver. He was used to driving fast police cars, and a 4.2 litre Daimler hearse was another wonderful toy for him to manoeuvre round London traffic.

We would arrive at the mosque by 9.45am, double park outside, so at 9.57am Missionary Hajji would bring the male mourners out from the mosque. They would have already removed their shoes inside, so if it was a wet day then they suffered. No rule breaking. Up to twenty men would manhandle the coffin from the back of the hearse into the mosque, Ernie and I stood to one side and let them get on with it. We were both of the same opinion. If there were willing people to carry the coffin, then let them get on with it.

Missionary Hajji would always chant the same words, the men would always chant the same words back. Women were also in attendance, but they were always inside, never being allowed to touch the coffin. After about 15 minutes a pre-booked coach would arrive, usually the same driver, after about an hour of prayers the mosque door would open, the men would bring the coffin back out, Ernie would secure it in the back, I would sit in the seat alongside Ernie, and male family members would be allowed to sit in the two mourners seats behind, alongside the coffin on the bier. Missionary Hajji would be in the coach, and then Ernie would drive with the coach following behind to Brookwood Cemetery, near Woking, in Surrey, which usually took in the region of 45 minutes.

The coach could only get so close inside the cemetery with the narrow roads, so the men would have to walk. Missionary Hajji would lead the chanting again, the gravediggers would provide four shovels, and the male mourners would then fill in the grave. When all complete, Ernie and I would return to London. It was a matter of professional pride for Ernie to drive as quickly as possible, and he was very proud that he managed to get back into west London within 21 minutes on one memorable occasion. We travelled in excess of 110 m.p.h.

On one very funny occasion, we had a new coach driver, who hadn’t been primed by his boss, so didn’t know what to expect. Ernie and I had quite a rapport, both being able to keep a straight face when perhaps not quite being truthful in a blokey way. The coach driver arrived, nothing going on, so asked what to expect. I have a silly sense of humour, Ernie and I looked at each other, so without cracking I said words along the following lines.

‘What’s going to happen is this. The man in charge is Missionary Hajji. When the prayers have been completed, he is going to lead the men out, and they’re going to place the coffin in the back of the hearse. He is going to be chanting. What he’ll be chanting is “Ha ha sunni na, sunni sunni suli na”.

Now, I happen to speak a bit of Arabic, so I know what he saying. He is singing, In Arabic, “Old Macdonald Had a farm”. Ernie and I held it together.

‘Then, they are going to chant back the same words, “Ha Ha sunni na, sunni sunni suli na”. In Arabic, that is translated as “eei eei mo”.

The driver looked at us, completely unsure. He got behind the wheel of his coach, waiting, and Ernie and I deliberately watched his face when the coffin and procession emerged, chanting away.

***

We would arrange any kind of funeral services both in the UK and overseas for people from a vast varieties of backgrounds. One such occasion merited the return of the Ambassador from New Zealand back to his home country, as he sadly passed away while still in office. This warranted the Home Office to be heavily involved, as it was important to show that our country takes the repatriation of dignitaries very seriously, with all protocols being observed.

The official Residence at the time was in Chelsea Square, so I arrived with hearse and driver at the appointed time. After discussing details with the person in charge, checking through their requirements, the hearse driver and I then had a very revealing chat with the police sergeant in charge of his detail.

There is a pecking order with the police motorbike attachment, the sergeant is the man who is responsible for the smooth running, and they are usually on Royal protection. Motor bike escorts are from one to five strong, depending on the security risk and importance of the Royal, so if it is the Queen, say, then she always warrants the full quota, whereas if it is to be more low profile, say on the rare occasions that the Duke of York’s daughters warrant a police motorbike escort, then it would likely be one bike and one patrol car. As this was one of the most prestigious occasions where show was the maximum importance with a very low security level, we had the full five motor bikes, together with three cars. Despite the extensive experience, this was a new one for me, so I said to the sergeant in charge

‘So what happens here then? We are off to Gatwick, what route are we taking, how long will it take?’

His reply was along the lines of ‘your hearse rides on my back wheel. You don’t allow as much as a fag paper to get in between, and we don’t stop all the way. Whatever happens, your vehicle is the important one to get through the traffic, so we will make sure that nothing gets in our way. Don’t worry,’ he said with a grin, ‘we’ve done this before.’

‘So your responsibility ends when we get to Gatwick?’

‘Correct. When the wheels stop rolling, you’ve arrived, and you’re on your own.’

‘Looking forward to it.’

The cortege consisted of two police cars in front, then our friendly sergeant, with the other four bikes waiting idly. The hearse was next, then one limousine provided by my firm with Family, then more cars with staff and other family who would be returning in the plane for the funeral, then a couple of luggage cars, then a last police car to end the procession.

After about ten minutes we were ready to go, so off went the four extra bikes, leap-frogging each other at every junction, holding up the traffic, whistles blowing to gain attention, then when we were past riding off again in front. Quite a procedure, but it meant that we kept a steady 30 mph in London traffic, which included Wandsworth High Street. Now I don’t know if you are familiar with this infamous bottleneck, but it is notorious for adding on unnecessary time to the travel time. Not this time. We did not stop. Not for roundabouts, a drive-through McDonalds, red traffic lights, pedestrian crossings, traffic in the way mysteriously disappeared. This was the way to travel!

Very soon we were on the three lane section of the A3, which was when it continued to be very interesting. The extra motor bikes were not necessary to stop traffic at junctions, but two were at the front with the cars to clear traffic out the way, and two were at the rear with a car, straddling all lanes, so nothing could overtake, with the whole procession serenely moseying on down to Gatwick at a steady 50mph. No other vehicles in sight, they had all sped away in front, nothing behind, they couldn’t get past. Believe me when I say it was the fastest and smoothest journeys to Gatwick I have ever undertaken, and all my years I know I have been there over ten thousand times. Simply the best journey of the lot.

All too soon we were at the North Terminal private section, where representatives of the Foreign Office were waiting for us. I recognised a couple of political ministers, there must have been a couple of dozen of them there, just standing around, waiting, not knowing what to do next. It was a coffin, so they didn’t want to be seen to be insensitive, ordering people what to do in case it was a the wrong thing. I took control.

We drove to the bottom of the aircraft steps, with the head of the airport cargo section standing in front of his team of men. It was a lovely day fortunately, no rain, but they were all afflicted with the same malaise. Don’t know what to do.

I had all the correct documentation and accreditation to accompany the coffin, which was minimal due to the fact that as a serving diplomat he had immunity, so in front of all the Foreign Office dignitaries, the Family, and waiting Police, I said to the cargo chief

‘whereabouts in the plane is the coffin going to go? Is it the cargo hold as usual?’

‘where do you think is best?’

I turned to the Family. ‘If I may, I will give you some advice. As the plane journey is a very long one, it is going to be distressing for you if the coffin is placed in the main passenger section of the aircraft. In any case it is very rare for the coffin to travel in this way, so with your approval I will organise for it to be placed securely and with dignity in the lower section of the plane, so when you ultimately arrive home it can be safely and with dignity transported to your final destination.’

‘Yes please, kindly arrange.’

‘Certainly madam, just leave it with me while you freshen up and take advantage of the facilities the airport has to offer.’

I then turned round to the cargo chief, looked at the conveyor belt that went up to the cargo area. I suggested to him that a couple of his men went up into the hold, my hearse driver and myself placed the coffin on the belt. Up it went into the hold, all was discreetly handled and conducted, everyone was satisfied, professional job completed.

Lesson to be learned? Just because it is an important occasion, never lose sight of the fact that people still need to be told what to do. Take control, make sure you get your own way, and all will be well. This stood me in good stead for all my career as a high-profile funeral director.

***

One of the most memorable funerals I ever conducted occurred on a Saturday morning. Working in the overseas office as I am sure you will already have gathered was an interesting place to be, often being available at short notice and odd hours. Saturday funerals are rare, with a financial premium putting off the majority of mourning families. However, when the monetary source comes from crime, being cash and limitless, then what they want happens.

A gentleman involved in a North West London crime family had met a sudden end, so a show occasion had to be arranged. They had ordered a 14 gauge metal casket, with a split lid for viewing, with the funeral arranged into quite a few sections. The first was to meet at the venue for the public displaying of the casket. Praed Street Paddington was a one way street, sufficiently wide for many buses, lots of heavy traffic, and the venue was close and on the opposite side of the street to St. Mary’s Hospital.

There was a long terrace of shops and businesses on the south side of the street, deep basements, one of which was the venue for a seedy club. The entrance doorway was quite wide certainly big enough to accommodate two bouncers standing shoulder to shoulder every evening, so they were opened wide for my team of six men to stagger through and down the stairs under the burden of the very heavy metal casket. These men were all on an excellent overtime rate from start to finish, so were in no rush to hurry proceedings even if they had been able to. I had already been downstairs to check the layout, discussing in detail with the chief mourners exactly what was feasible and what was not. All their instructions could fortunately be completed to their satisfaction.

The club had a large bar against a side wall, but the main feature of the room was the small stage. It was raised by about three feet, only long enough for six showgirls to stand shoulder to shoulder, not that there were any showgirls present that I could see, and deep to the rear wall the stage was set by a further four foot. There was a side curtain to the rear ‘dressing’ room, so when my team manhandled the casket down the stairs wooden trestles were waiting on the stage. These were covered in a velvet material so the bare wood was not evident, making them appear suitable to rest the casket on. They were sturdy and wide, because the casket base was four foot across. There could be no possibility of imbalance, because when the lid was raised, its weight could take the whole of the casket weight back with it if the funeral staff were sufficiently inexperienced to anticipate.

We balanced the casket just right, and withdrew to the back of the room. I am not being fanciful when I say that between me and my team we reckoned that every villain in London was there to show their respects. Our company was frequently used for these occasions, we certainly didn’t socialise, but we knew who they were, they knew who we were, and they greatly respected our professionalism and tact when they required our services. Some years later when I owned Cheam Limousines Toby von Judge was a very good friend and client. Toby is well worth Googling in to learn more about London’s underside, an interesting and fascinating man who knew the Kray family well.

The timing of these occasions is crucial, we had a schedule to keep, one hour had been allowed for at this club. While all this was occurring, Praed Street’s five lanes had been restricted to just two, with three outside the club double and triple parking with flashy mobster motors and men in dark suits and sunglasses staring at everyone, daring them to object. No traffic wardens, they would very likely have been bought off to stay away.

After an hour I approached the chief mourner, asking if it was in order to proceed. When he affirmed, my team went forward, lowered the lid, sealed it, and then with as much dignity as possible carried the casket up the reasonably narrow stairs to the waiting hearse. I waited for ten minutes as all arrived through the doorway into the waiting sunlight, then got in their waiting fleet. It is easy to exaggerate in a situation like this, but afterwards when my team discussed the flashiness of the occasion, it was generally reckoned that there were well over fifty vehicles in the cortege, and it could have been one hundred. I walked in front of the hearse to the first junction, waiting for the traffic lights to turn favourable. My top hat was carried in my right hand, I was wearing my full funeral uniform, it must have made an impressive sight as we set off on our Saturday morning jaunt.

The men driving the following vehicles were all professionals, they were on each others’ bumpers straight away, no-one could possibly get in between the whole fleet, once the lights went green, it made no difference what colour they subsequently turned, the cars followed. After five minutes of walking, I paused, bowed to the hearse and casket, then got in the front seat alongside the driver. We were off, never travelling at more than 20 mph. When the cortege arrived at the southern end of Park Lane, just before the Hilton Hotel, we turned left alongside the Playboy Club. This was my cue to get out and walk again, because waiting for us was a ten piece New Orleans jazz band. They played us into Piccadilly, where we turned right to Hyde Park Corner, we walked all along this route, playing an assortment of tunes, such as ‘When The Saints Go Marching In’, then north into Park Lane again, where the band stopped playing, I got back into the hearse, so off we went to Golders Green Crematorium. After committal, the casket was discarded because it could not be cremated, so another cheaper wooden casket was waiting and used.

This funeral was mentioned many times on Capital Radio that morning. Avoid the area, massive traffic jams. Such power.

***

There was another hearse driver, even more experienced, whose name was Harold Longhurst. Harold had been with the company for many years, and was the senior hearse driver through merit as well as seniority. He was a professional through and through, lovely sense of humour, so I feel privileged to have known Harold. He was a crafty old bugger as well. There are usually four men to carry a coffin, normally matching height, and he was well known in his later professional years to bend his knees slightly so he carried less weight, increasing the burden of his colleagues. Afterwards, he was also well known to say with a wry smile ‘that was all there, wasn’t it?’ as if he had done his bit.

This particular incident occurred in Harold’s last year, as he retired at 65. The office had a funeral to take at Oxford Crematorium, just over an hours’ drive west of London. There were just the two of us in the hearse, as we hired three local Oxford bearers. We took the A40 road, and were about twenty minutes from our destination when Harold uttered the words every funeral director dreads to hear.

‘We have got a problem’.

It was a flat tyre, the rear one on the passenger side, so there was nothing for it but to pull to the side of the road. I was in my late 30s at the time, Harold was 64, so there was no other option but for me to change the wheel. Off came the jacket, up went the pure white shirt sleeves, out came the jack, under the hearse I went to fit it, wheel changed, twenty minutes later all complete, but now I was dirty. No problem, Harold being the old school professional that he was, he went under the bier and came out with soap, water, and hand towels. Suitably clean, I dressed back to previous presentation, so we carried on as if there had been no problem, no-one any the wiser.

This had occurred on the Friday, so on Monday morning I was walking across the garage floor when Harold called me over. ‘Harry, Harry, come over here.’ He was chatting to at least half a dozen of the other drivers.

The one sided conversation went like this.

Harold: Harry, did we go somewhere last Friday?

Me: Yes, Oxford.

Harold: Did we have a problem?

Me: Not really, except for the puncture

Harold: who changed the wheel?

Me: me

Harold: How long did it take you?

Me: about twenty minutes

Harold: Did you watch the Grand Prix yesterday?

Me: Yes

Harold: Did they change any wheels?

Me: Yes, four

Harold: How long did they take?

Me: Less than ten seconds

Harold: How long did you take to change just one?

The men collapsed with laughter

When a few months later, dear Harold finally retired after many years of loyal employment, the firm held a leaving party for him. One of the directors was a man called John Sheldon, who should have retired a long time previously, but because of his shareholding and other factors was still hanging in there. He was a very patronising man, he had been a funeral director for many tens of years, owning a London firm that had been purchased some years previously, thereby gaining his importance. It was him we listened to when he gave Harold’s farewell speech. It contained a memorable sentence I can remember word for word. This sentence typified the way that the firm looked at its staff, with those fortunate enough to gain importance looking down on those lowly serfs fortunate to have a job. The sentence John Sheldon said was

‘I don’t know where we are going to find servants like Harold in future’.

***

We made all funeral arrangements for people of a celebrity background, and one such occasion was when Felicity Kendall lost her sister Jennifer Kapoor, who was married to the Indian movie director Ravi.

Miss Kendall did not come into the office, which was a great disappointment to Phil, the office manager. He was a great fan of this famous actress, but Phil almost always confined his professional activities inside the office, as he was better able to control the smooth running of this complex operation. It was a very rare occasion for Phil to venture outside, leaving visits to others. Less than half the clients actually ventured into the office, as all arrangements could quite easily be made without bothering, our clients were wealthy and busy people who were used to services being provided for their convenience.

The house visit was made by a colleague, so I did not meet Miss Kendall at any stage. However, this didn’t mean that there was some mileage to be exploited with a vulnerable colleague when I could indulge in my silly sense of humour. I would also say that the actress was never aware of what subsequently occurred, and if she ever gets to read or hear of this incident, hope that she sees the humour of the situation, rather than any degree of unprofessionalism or bad taste.

Phil was a lovely chap, extremely efficient at his job, over six feet tall, slim, fit, almost a workaholic, and someone who shunned the limelight while enjoying show business connections. He was ripe for a prank.

In the mid-1980s, a lot of communications were transmitted by fax, or a tickertape machine. This device received messages on a long strip of paper, had a keypad like a QWERTY so the words could be written by the sender, and the message received on another machine with holes that could be easily read. The taped message could be composed first, ensuring accuracy, and then the send button pressed. Each machine had its own identity code, so the receiver could ensure the veracity. But I got round this by composing my message, and then getting a friend to send from his machine. Yes, there was a code, but it was a difficult one to identify, and if the recipient really wanted to believe the message, then they would not doubt it at all. My message to Phil went like this.

HI THERE. WE ARE TRANS-GLOBAL PRODUCTIONS IN L.A., CALIFORNIA, AND THIS IS THE LONDON U.K. OFFICE. WE HAVE A MOVIE PLANNED STARRING FRANK SINATRA, MARLON BRANDO, SOPHIA LOREN AND FELICITY KENDALL. ONE SCENE HAS A FUNERAL AND WE NEED AN ADVISOR. YOUR NAME MR. HARRIS HAS BEEN GIVEN TO US AS AN EXPERT, AND WE WOULD LIKE TO OFFER YOU TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS FOR ONE MONTH ALL EXPENSES PAID IN L.A. PLEASE RING HOLLYWOOD 718 6358 IF YOU ARE AVAILABLE.

Phil was really excited, he could barely contain himself, and rang the company chairman Michael Kenyon to ask for the time off. The boss asked why, asking Phil if he had been able to get through to Trans Global Productions. Phil replied that he had a little temporary difficulty, and the advice was to wait a little while before actually taking the time off.

I was out of the office while this phone conversation occurred, and when I got back Phil took one look at me and a red mist descended. I legged it. I was gone. Chiltern Street is one way, and I ran faster than the traffic with him trying to catch up. No good, I couldn’t run any more, I was laughing so much, I turned to face him, and we both stood in the middle of the street, roaring our heads off.

***

One of the reasons why Kenyons was such a prestigious company to work for at that time was because they had something called the air crash team. That was instructed by the authorities should there be a disaster anywhere in the world involving British nationals - or sometimes not. Its full title was Kenyon Emergency Services.

I was on that team all during my Kenyon employment, so it was a very interesting period in my professional life, because among the disasters I was involved with were Air India in the Irish Sea, The Herald of Free Enterprise ferry, The Marchioness pleasure boat in the River Thames, the Piper Alpha oil rig, and the most memorable of all, the Lockerbie Pan Am plane crash.

Various company main board directors were involved with the air crash team, but we had a specific level of responsibility. As a KAT operative, I was under John Nicholls, Albert Cook and Christopher Kenyon; the first two of these were legends in the business, John giving lectures world-wide.

He was a great ambassador, gruff voiced, always suited, the voice of experience. John was the epitome of how the profession should be presented - a mature man who was prepared to share his experience, passing on his wealth of knowledge to eager minds, while maintaining the air of mystery surrounding such a complex subject. I am pretty certain that he had been a funeral director over the years, coming into this speciality due to being in the right place at the right time. John also had to be firm in very difficult circumstances, when being pressed to do things by suddenly bereaved families that were just not on. A prime example was the Air India disaster in 1985.

This was my first hands on experience of being involved with a disaster of this magnitude, being based at the London office and then attending the air crash room in head office out of office hours. The hours were onerous, the tasks requiring a great deal of tact, and we were not paid any extra, because we were management and expected to perform extra tasks when required.

On 23rd June Air India flight 182 was en route from Toronto and Montreal in Canada, stopping in London, then on to Delhi, with 329 people on board. Due to a bomb exploding while over Irish air space, all those on board perished. While only 24 passengers were registered as from India, a large number had strong connections with this country, with the majority being recognised as Canadian citizens with Indian descent.

It took a few days to locate the aircraft on the Irish sea bed, which gave us in the office a little time to prepare ourselves. It was to be my first experience of a major disaster, so despite the seriousness of the occasion human nature being what it is I was intrigued as to what to expect, and what my role would be. The main board room of Kenyons was at their Freston Road garage in West London, garage premises, mortuary, offices, administration, no facility to arrange funerals as no public were usually admitted. It was quite a conventional layout for a building of this nature, the freehold owned by the company. It was a very short walk from the local tube station, the road ending just beyond the premises due to the railway lines. The main garage entrance was on the right side of the building, going back a long way to accommodate at least a dozen funeral vehicles, the embalming room at the back, workshop the otherwise. Offices were upstairs, which is also where the Muslim preparation rooms were located. The directors’ offices were also on this floor, and it was here that I reported every evening after work. My role was a simple but functionary one. I answered the phone, fielding calls, and operated the telex machine. We had white boards on the walls to aid identification purposes, because we were the home team. The main hands on operation was in an aircraft hangar on the Irish west coast, close to a port, so when the bodies and possessions were brought in, they could be categorised with the minimum of fuss, the maximum of professionalism, and dignity could be maintained as much as possible. These hangars were inevitably cold and unwelcoming places, because despite the fact that they were temporary mortuary facilities, due to the large number they would have to be embalmed as soon as possible. Bear in mind it was June, so the preservation process had to be started as soon as possible.

As well as all these handicaps that the Kenyon staff were working under, they also had to liaise with the air crash investigators, and local coroners authority so the bodies could be identified and returned to families as soon as possible, the press, and the worst people of the lot, the families. They were vociferous, distressed, and blaming everyone to hand for the disaster. It made no difference that the people in the hangar were doing their best to maintain their dignity and professionalism under extremely trying circumstances, all they were interested in was having their relatives returned to them. Part of their religion meant that some senior male members of the family had to fast until the funeral had been held, human nature being what it is they were very hungry, they were angry, and they saw that anyone in authority was delaying their ability to have their farewells to their family member. Therefore, on a lot of occasions, there were many people all claiming that a particular deceased they were viewing belonged to them, they wanted the body, and then they could have their funeral.

The bodies were being recovered from the wreckage a few at a time, so when word went round the identification village there was a mass of relatives demanding to view so they could successfully identify. Unfortunately, only 132 bodies were ever recovered, and there were a lot of very unhappy families without a funeral.

My role, as I said, was an office one in the home office of the air crash team, in the first five or six days there were half a dozen of us all the time, with a director to take the most difficult calls, and one person stayed in the room all night to answer international calls, which was me for two nights. There was a temporary camp bed, and I did get some sleep both nights, despite answering a lot of phone calls and using the telex and fax machines. Of course, I didn’t get to see my family on these occasions, reporting for office duties the next morning after breakfast, having a change of clothing including shirt in my office locker.

After a week of intense activity, all settled down, the hangar only had one embalmer and one office administrator, the pair staying for a month until it was calculated that all the bodies had been recovered that were going to be.

***

Townsend Thoresen owned a ferry called the Herald of Free Enterprise. She was a ro-ro ferry, which means that when you drive on at the back, you drive off the front when the doors have opened. Unfortunately, the rear doors were not sufficiently secured when she left Zeebrugge harbour in Belgium, so when she found the first good sized wave, water filled inside, creating an imbalance, and she sank very close to shore, with the resultant loss of 193 passengers and crew. This occurred on the night of 6th March 1987.

By this stage I was a very experienced funeral operator, having gained an excellent company reputation for keeping cool under pressure, and was a man on the move inside the most prestigious funeral company of them all.

The sinking of the ferry was international news, the vast majority of passengers and crew were British nationals, and so I went into the office early the next morning, fully expecting not to see my family for the next few days. This was to be the case.

As part of my Kenyon Air Transportation duties, I had to accompany and transport bodies and coffins into Europe, maybe driving the hearse, perhaps the funeral van, sometimes on my own, maybe with a driver to accompany. I did this many times, so would not have been surprised had I been delegated to the identification team in Belgium, but the powers that be decided my worth was better valued on the home team, probably because of the responsibilities I had in the office, conducting the funerals, escorting families. On reflection, I am rather glad that I did not go to Belgium, because those lads had a pretty difficult time of it, poor accommodation and diet, with the last of the team returning a couple of months later.

The pressure was intense from the very start, ferry disasters were unheard of, as well as the bodies to be identified there were the vehicles to be moved, windows had been blown out, the retrieval was going to be a protracted process, ultimately becoming more uncomfortable as time progressed as inevitably the bodies would deteriorate in the conditions.

The administration procedure continued as before. Between the Air India plane crash and now, there had been three or four minor disasters where Kenyons had been involved, less than a dozen casualties, and these experiences had stood me in good stead for the sudden catapult into the spotlight. Believe me, we were thrust right into it.

Every word was disseminated by people on the other end of the phone, asking direct questions that usually had the reply of ‘I am really sorry, but I have not been given that information.’ It was a very sensitive situation, with nutters ringing up as well, giving false identification, trying to trick you into giving away something that no-one else was aware of. From the very beginning, we knew the scale of the disaster, we knew who was going to be on our teams, we knew where they were working, we knew where they were staying, we knew where they were eating, all they wanted to do was get on with their jobs, not to be asked questions by people who had no business asking, so we just had to be as very careful as possible, being discreet at all times.

The press were the worst of the lot, no sensitivity at all, voyeurism and sensationalism so they could sell more papers to their voracious readers. Of course, families were liaising with identification authorities such as the Belgian coroner, but they couldn’t get through a lot of the time, so were ringing us as we had a helpline. A couple of days after the disaster, families were taken to the Belgian site, but not all chose to go. Again, we used the white boards, so each victim could be named, then placed in a coffin after embalming, then released to families for the funeral, but all this inevitably took a lot of time. It is not until you are actively involved in a disaster of this magnitude that you appreciate the care and concern that goes into the successful identification of each body, so when you have 193 families then pressure is greater than you can possibly conceive.

A very strange thing occurred during this disaster, one that has never gained any publicity at all, I have an idea that no-one has ever mentioned it since, but it is something that was discussed among the Kenyon staff at the time, and one that has never been resolved to my satisfaction. It probably never will.

There was an extra English car in the vehicle part of the ferry, and the manifest gave it as being owned by a man in the English Army. He was stationed in Germany, and was returning to the UK on disciplinary charges, very likely going to be dishonourably discharged. The ignominy he was returning to was going to be great, but he had no escort as he was travelling under his own recognizance and honour. The car was there, but his body was never found. His was the only body never recovered, and there was some supposition that he swam ashore, and simply disappeared.

True or apocryphal? No idea, just repeating what was said at the time.

***

Occidental Petroleum owned an oil rig in the North Sea, and on the 6th July 1988 there was a huge explosion, which resulted in 167 fatalities. We were placed on standby, but I had very little involvement on this occasion.

I had been with the company for four years by this time, with my duties taking me away from the overseas office of KAT and into the administration office. This meant that I was in charge of the control room of the company, responsible for fourteen London offices, two garages, almost fifty staff, and three thousand London funerals annually. Despite theoretically being on the team, available as back-up, my role was more of as observer. As it happened, this was, strangely, one of the lower key operations that Kenyon Emergency Services to be involved in. Yes, there were a lot of fatalities, but because of the location of the oil rig, the disaster site was a long way into the North Sea, so the bodies were inaccessible.

Only a basic team were despatched to Aberdeen, after a couple of months stood down, until the accommodation platform was recovered much later on in the year, I seem to recall close to December. The other problem was the fact that the oil rig was still ablaze, despite most of it disintegrating and sinking, it was to be three weeks after the disaster until the famous Texan trouble shooter Red Adair was able to extinguish the flames. This meant that despite the best will in the world for the bodies to be identified and returned to families, very few initially were recovered. That meant that the air crash team were standing around a lot of the time waiting instructions, so it wasn’t too long before they were stood down, only returning when there was something concrete for them to do.

Of course, this was a very distressing period for families who had lost their men, psychologically they were to find this period of their lives exceedingly difficult, with subsequent studies of the aftermath documenting how they coped with such trauma. Impossible to comprehend until you have experienced.

When the accommodation section was ultimately recovered, those poor men had numbered approximately 100, but there were only 87 bodies identified. The Kenyon staff returned for this process, embalming and identifying, and it must have been pretty harrowing for them as well. And then, the same year, just before Christmas, Pan Am flight 103 exploded over Lockerbie in Scotland.

***

Flight 103 was a regular daily flight from Frankfurt in Germany to Detroit in the USA, calling via London and New York. There were 243 passengers and 16 crew on the section from London to New York, but unfortunately the bomb went off as it was flying over Lockerbie, close to the Scottish Borders region. The debris covered a huge area, but where it was concentrated over civilisation there were eleven fatalities, making the death toll 270. Kenyons were immediately instructed. This time my role had to be a more active one, and it was to be a deserted Christmas in my household that year.

Because of where the disaster occurred, over land and easily accessible, it meant that the recovery process was going to be a lot more straightforward than on some of the more difficult occasions.

The air crash emergency team had grown considerably by this time, because the company directors had appreciated that there was an increasing likelihood that there was going to be a larger disaster, liaising with all authorities, bringing their vast experience and influence to aid the planning. This meant that Kenyons had to anticipate by training more operatives in the field, so there were increasing weekends where funeral professionals including embalmers with vast experience and years of expertise in problematic situations could be available for just this eventuality. This forethought was to prove invaluable, as the procedures in the Lockerbie area were able to be completed with professionalism and dignity, something that might not necessarily have occurred five years previously with such a large number of fatalities.

Because a large number of passengers came from the USA, 189, and a lot of them were relatively young, there was a lot of intense pressure exerted on apportioning blame. We were there, answering questions, and if we were not being as forthcoming with information as vociferous grieving families required, then we were there to be vilified. That occurred a lot on the phone, and with the others I had to exercise a lot of tact and discretion. I remember one particular grieving father who became a spokesman for a lot of others was particularly unpleasant and difficult to deal with. He was completely focused in his grief, if you couldn’t help him, then he was against you. He wanted to know everything, it soon became obvious that this was going to be a precursor to litigation, every comment would be disseminated, and I was by now a senior member of staff, one level away from the main board of directors with the resultant experience and responsibility, it was inevitable that other team members would refer to me for guidance.

The press were on the phone to us all the time, and so were the aforementioned nutters, you know, the ones that find satisfaction from being aware and involved. We had one idiot in the garage who was a driver and when the Marchioness sank in the River Thames the following year, heard about it on the media and immediately turned up on site, loudly proclaiming that he worked for the funeral directors who would be identifying the bodies and he was prepared to remove his jacket and start working there and then. It was my job to have the satisfaction of terminating his employment. My, but there were some good aspects to the job.

The first few days of a disaster are usually the most intense, but company chairman Michael Kenyon appreciated that even though those in Lockerbie could not be spared, the home team could be wound down, so as long as there was one person to man the office at all times of the day and night, some could be spared so they could spend time with their families. I managed to get away on a couple of occasions like that, and later on in January Michael was very kind to discreetly give me an envelope containing £100 in cash as a bonus and appreciation of efforts.

Pretty early on communications had improved, so we were able to liaise with the field team, being privy to facts not widely known, so caution was essential. The recovery process was fast and efficient, so after less than a month the vast majority of local personnel were stood down. The staff rotation was very efficient, quietly performed so most people were completely unaware of what my colleagues were doing. I am quite certain that nowadays this procedure has been further refined, as successive governments have appreciated that there has to be a contingency in place. That is where the Kenyon expertise was invaluable, and I am proud to have been part of it, albeit for only a few years.

***

The next episode is one that I am not particularly proud of, despite the fact that I performed with professionalism and tact. It concerned a branch in West London. The resident office manager and his wife were on holiday for a week, so a relief manager was in charge. There were to be two burial services, one on the Thursday in July 1989, the other the next day, both coincidentally preceded by Mass in the local Polish Cathedral. So far so good, but unfortunately Mark the relief manager was a lazy man, so did not check that the correct coffin was taken out for the first funeral on the Thursday. The Friday coffin was taken out instead.

It is very easy to criticise, but if you are distracted for example by being on the phone, or arranging another funeral as you were in the branch on your own, then the staff can enter, assume they have the correct one because the flowers are on top, thereby hiding the identifying inscription plate. The men can be on their way by the time you realise that an error has occurred. I am not attempting to condone Mark’s actions, because to this day I feel highly aggrieved at his actions and the subsequent decisions made by higher management. I sit here recounting this story all these years later still highly upset that firstly an error of this magnitude occurred, and secondly it was covered up to save blushes.

Mark allowed the first funeral to continue, despite knowing they had the incorrect body. He just hoped that nothing would be discovered. To compound his calumny, he then ordered another coffin plate for the second funeral, so it could be swapped onto the Thursday coffin, thereby a second funeral would occur with the incorrect body.

He must have approached the Friday morning with a high degree of trepidation, knowing he was going to do something so morally and socially unacceptable, as well as illegal with a custodial sentence a likely outcome. But Mark allowed that second funeral to occur.

I never discovered how his actions were discovered, but suspect that alarm bells were rung when the workshop were asked to prepare a substitute coffin plate at very short notice when records would show that there was no error on the first one. As area manager I only found out about it when my director came to me with the details, then delegating me with the task of discreetly resolving so there would be no publicity or prosecutions. At all costs the company reputation must be unsullied, as at that time we were still funeral directors for the Royal Family.

My first response was to visit the Priest in charge of the Catholic Cathedral. My conversation to the stony faced priest went along these lines:

‘Father, my company has made a monumental error, one that we want to resolve with as little distress as possible. Our relief branch manager has allowed two funerals yesterday and today to be completed with the wrong coffins being buried in the wrong graves. It has only come to light now, and I have immediately come round to ask your indulgence, compassion, and assistance in righting such a heinous wrong that is so unforgivable and almost impossible to imagine.’

The Polish Priest replied ‘What do you want me to do?’ This was said in a very stern, disapproving manner, it was obvious he found the whole episode distasteful and did not want any part of it, being dragged in against his wishes.

‘My suggestion Father is that I have my car outside, and I drive you to each family’s house. I then explain what we have done, tell them that we will do everything in our power to carry out their wishes whatever they may be, without any consideration for expense, and do my best to show the families that as a company we take this sort of error with the utmost seriousness.’

To my relief, he concurred, went into a back room so he could change into suitable attire - is there ever any suitable attire for this kind of occasion - and then we were in the car to the first family’s home. Of course, they were surprised to find a priest and funeral director on their doorstep the day after their male family member’s burial, inviting us in with curiosity. We were sat in the front parlour, me, the priest, the widow, her two sons and one daughter, only slightly relaxing after the traumas of the previous day. This is where my presence of mind having the priest sat next to me became very wise, because there was an absolute certainty that these two sensitive sons were going to inflict some serious damage on me, as the representative, but they couldn’t possibly do this with the Father sitting next to me.

The family were also Polish, so I had to explain very slowly and clearly what had occurred. Repeating my regret that we were there in their lounge explaining what a monumental error our company representative had allowed to happen. I explained the consequences, that the Priest and me would be visiting the other family, and it might be a good idea if they were to communicate with each other once the news had sunk in that they were visiting the wrong coffin in the correct grave. If both families wanted, we would arrange for both to be exhumed and then re-buried in the correct cemetery. There would be no cost. The previous day’s funeral service would not have an account. And when they ultimately decided on what cemetery outcome both families wanted, there would be no charge for headstone and monumental tributes. All costs would be met by the company. I also said that of course news of this magnitude would need a few days to take in, so with the Priest’s permission we would go and see the other family and break the sad news to them as well.

Of course, they were completely stunned, but I could see real anger on the faces of the two sons and one daughter, they were almost beside themselves with fury. However, I did not rush my exit, assured them instead that I would do everything in my power to ensure that whatever wishes they had were completed. I would be their liaison with the Cathedral, so if they didn’t want anything more to do with me, I understood. I never saw them again.

The next visit was even more difficult, because their grief was even more raw, the news was even more sensitive to share. The family gathering was larger, everyone wanted to know why the Priest and undertaker were visiting, and they had already consumed quite large quantities of alcohol. I was clear headed, took a deep breath, and started explaining. The widow had a poor understanding of English, so the Father had to translate every sentence for me. While giving me extra time to gather my thoughts for the next sentence, it also gave the male members more time to hear first in English and then in Polish what had occurred. I knew that I was going to have to be very careful to ensure a safe exit from this house. They were shouting and exclaiming loudly, but the surprising thing was the widow was the calming influence, realising very quickly that it just wasn’t my direct fault, I had nothing to do with it, I was there to resolve, to admit responsibility, and try to make the best of an impossible situation. That was my salvation. I was never to see this family again either.

The couple responsible for the normal smooth running of this highly efficient office returned from their holiday the following Monday, immediately contacted the cathedral, and were able to smooth as well as they could, but of course I was aware of what was occurring from behind the scenes.

I left the priest at the second house with his permission, the widow even taking my hands in hers in a very understanding and sympathetic way. I then returned to my boss’s office, as he was waiting to hear what had been resolved.

By this time it was early on the Friday evening, about seven pm, we were alone in his office, the mood though serious was initially relaxed because I told him about the way that it had been accepted initially by both families, they accepted that we had erred and wanted to atone immediately, and there would be no publicity. They would not be reporting the matter to the authorities, there would be no prosecution, the company would not be fined. We then came to what was going to happen to Mark.

My boss informed me that nothing was going to happen, it was going to be brushed under the carpet. I was simply astounded. Had I gone through all that anguish, resolved everything so well, all so that revolting creep could get away with it. All he could do was wring his hands in a very weak ineffective way. I seem to remember telling him what I thought of him as a man, as a boss, as a person, as a weak worm without spine, backbone, a creep. I was incensed. I choose not to identify him now purely because I consider it to be the correct thing to do.

He then calmly explained that the company could not afford any publicity of any nature because we were in the process of being taken over by a larger outfit from the Midlands, and any adverse news would affect the sensitivities of the situation. That made me explode all the more, accusing my boss of allowing these circumstances to overcome what is decent and the principles the company stood for. I told him that it was going to be Mark or me. He had to decide, there and then, because I didn’t want to work for a firm that would allow its traditions to be destroyed in such a way. I was shouting at him, he was using all the tact he could to calm me down. He explained that he didn’t want to lose me, he would do everything in his power to sort Mark out later, it was just not expedient to do it now. This is where to my shame I capitulated. I calmed down, saw the bigger picture, so Mark was suspended for three months without pay, with re-training when he returned. My only lapse in memory of all of this is Mark’s surname, because believe me if I could recall then his full name would feature heavily.

The news broke in the press that weekend that Kenyons were being taken over by a Birmingham funeral director, who was a complex character, a reputation for ruthlessness, and the Royal undertakers were now in the hands of a very different class of person. Gentlemen became commoners.

***

Kenyons had principles. These meant that profit was not the ultimate aim, as they were gentlemen with traditions, then they were also vulnerable to the predator. Their profit margin was in the region of 10-11%, but the new owners was closer to 23%. He had investment banking money as backing, so was buying up everything he could, attempting to gain a monopoly in the funeral profession. Money men saw this as a good thing, reducing overheads, spreading the liabilities, traditionalists saw it from a different viewpoint.

He was dictatorial, running the business as an empire with only one ruler. This had worked for him, with a mercurial progress that was the envy of a lot of his peers. In a way, they saw him as a saviour, with a moribund funeral profession desperately in need of a new way of approaching tradition. He had been born into the profession, somewhat undistinguished until he took over the running of the family firm at quite a young age. He was extremely personable, blonde hair cut in a long style, attractive, able to converse at length on his chosen subject - himself.

During his astronomic progress he had surrounded himself with a coterie of people he could trust, those who were prepared to get their hands dirty in the mundane task of running the empire under his direct orders. One such man was hatchet Harvey. Again, memory fails me so I can’t recall his name, it would immediately return if you were to tell me. He was to be my ultimate boss, as he was not a main board company director.

The career problem as I saw it was I was too high in the chain, but not sufficiently high from the previous regime. Yes, I might have some support from previous Kenyon directors, but that counted for nothing with a man like Harvey. He had a reputation for complete ruthlessness, was devoted to his boss, had his ear, wanted nothing but to serve his master 24 hours a day 7 days a week. He would be given a task, such as trouble shooting the Kenyon previous empire. Save money, cut costs, trim the deadwood, get rid of anyone who had any form of independent thought. My days were doomed.

It was a hostile takeover, because of lack of financial planning the Kenyon company had been vulnerable and susceptible to another company being in the ascendancy. This was despite the fact that Kenyons were the more respectable, and much larger in the south of England. The other company base was in the Midlands, in Birmingham, spreading further north, so my company represented a real coup, especially one with such tradition and prestige. That is another reason why it had been important to bury (excuse the pun) the illegal interments.

Harvey moved into my offices immediately, the Kenyon directors were ousted, I was moved into the administration offices in a ground floor cubbyhole. The atmosphere was immediately a reign of terror, who was going to be the first to go. But my, they were subtle, very clever, especially with the way they divided key personnel. They made my old boss the regional director.

I seem to recall there were seven or eight of these, all men, mainly from larger funeral homes previously taken over. My old colleague came to hate and dread the area meetings, which were conference calls on the phone. The CEO would be in his Birmingham head office, while for at least an hour the others would be sitting by their phones around the country, being told what to do in shouting, stringent ways. His favourite was to take off a shoe and bang it on his desk, Khrushchev style, if underlings refused to immediately agree with his ramblings. Maybe I was glad that I had not been ‘promoted’ to this position. Let’s face it, my old boss was ideally suited after his experience as a Kenyon director.

My employment managed to last until early December, I still had responsibility for the running of my depot despite the interference of Harvey and his fellow hatchet men. I even had a company car, albeit it a ten year old one that frequently broke down, my salary was the same, it was just the fact that I was working for a company I had no concern for because of their lack of standards and obsession with profitability. All new edicts involved saving money.

The first weekend of December had the tradition of being a break at the NEC Birmingham hotel for a company conference. Our Saturday night accommodation for Pam and I was paid for, but we had to pay for any additional nights. It was impractical to arrive from our South London home for a 9am Saturday start, so we stayed on the Friday night at our expenses. The conference room was huge, a raised platform had a very long table, room for a dozen bigwigs to be seated, and the central aisle at the end of the table had a focal point. A huge framed photo of our beloved leader, on an easel, probably ten feet high. It was just like a Russian, Chinese, or North Korean dictatorship, your eyes were drawn all the time away from the speaker who was spouting the company mantra to stare at him. Spooky. Each speaker banged on and on about how good the company was, how safe we were in his hands, how positive everything was, all is great. Just like in Russia, China, or North Korea. It was easy to allow the eyelids to drop, I actually saw some starting to go, the room was warm, little ventilation, a lot of heating because of the time of year, but me being the good boy that I am, managed to stay awake. What a load of company twaddle.

After a buffet lunch standing up and free of alcohol - wouldn’t dare, had the afternoon session to endure - we dutifully filed back. But this was to be something different. It was the awards afternoon.

Coffin polisher of the year, hearse licker of the year, embalmer of the year (how the hell could that be judged?), all sorts of stupid awards, until we got to the area of the year. The Scots had been particularly well behaved that year, so were awarded the accolade. To the tune of Scotland the Brave on bagpipes, a dozen men came onto the stage in kilts, sporran, tam o’shanter, lucky white heather, anything else relevant to the country, and received their award. Lots of cheering, screaming, whooping, chairman very pleased with himself. Don’t remember much of the rest of the afternoon, hardly surprising really, so we had to report for the formal black tie dinner just after 6pm, so it was back to rooms to change.

We were on large tables, there must have been in the region of 300 people there, all paid for by the company, and you had to be pretty strong company person to be allowed near that room. Or have a reasonably senior position like I thought I had.

After the dinner, the chairman took centre stage, with the microphone, he knew what was coming. To the repeated tune of Scotland the Brave, the dozen men in kilts trooped onto the stage, but without any warning proceeded to show their backs to the audience, then raising their kilts. They proved the myth that Scotsmen wear nothing underneath. The flash was quick, the uproar great, led by our beloved leader. He was really in his element. To more cheers, the Scotsmen then turned round, showing their full frontal to the audience. That resulted in a shocked silence. This was a formal dinner with prestigious guests from around the world, a line had been crossed. There was a further line however. The Scotsmen had arranged for a stripper gram. She was huge, in the region of thirty stones, and dressed as Mummy Christmas in a red tunic and not much else. She stripped off. Completely. The chairman was beside himself with pleasure, which increased when she found some baby oil. Mummy Christmas decided to remove his shirt, and rub some oil on his chest.

Now I am not a prude, far from it, but also I am aware of a time and a place for everything. Pam and I looked at each other, nodded, both of us got out our chairs and made for the door. Very discreetly, we hoped, but we had been seen by two of our Kenyon colleagues, who also left with us with their wives. My regional director was by the door, and as I passed him I said something along the lines of how can you stomach this sort of behaviour. His reply was along the lines of I need a job. The unspoken message was to accept this sort of situation if you want to continue in employment. I am sure if he ever reads these words he will have conveniently forgotten this incident.

The three of us were sitting in the bar with our partners when ten minutes later another of the chairman’s underlings came to us and suggested it would be a good idea if we returned. I simply asked if he was still unclothed. He said yes. I then said in a very calm manner that when he learned to behave himself in public, then I would be very happy to return.

Harvey did have some decency, he wasn’t the complete nasty person he attempted to be, so on Monday tried to warn me that the chairman had been aware of my departure, saw me as a ringleader, and don’t be too surprised if things don’t work out well for me. His advice was to keep my head down and hope for the best.

I tried to adopt this counsel, with some success as I was not bothered for quite a few weeks. But then came Friday 5th January 1990.

This was the night of the long knives, when 14 Kenyon personnel were told that their services were no longer required. I was the most senior, my old boss survived.

The way it was done was unnecessarily nasty, which was in keeping with the way that the company was being run. Three of the office personnel, myself included, were deliberately kept in seclusion on the ground floor, while one by one we were summoned to the top floor. By the time we arrived at the very top of the building, the heart was thumping in anticipation, we were out of breath, and on the back foot. All part of the psychological advantage. There were three of them sitting there, Harvey in the middle, one was a hired solicitor, the other I had never seen before and was never introduced to. Ten minutes later, six years of service counting for nothing, I was shown the door. Get out, you’re fired.

And what was my annual salary on the day that I was fired? £16,000. Pretty poor, all things considered.

***

So, how did the company evolve? Hatchet Harvey survived for quite some time, ultimately being sacked (shame!), but the Kenyon group altered a lot over the subsequent years. By this time, after the acquisition, the Royal Family withdrew its patronage, which was passed to another long standing traditional family run London company.

My old boss and Michael Kenyon’s son Peter were great friends, living quite close to each other, and as there was financial security with the pair they started another funeral company in the far west of London Home Counties, but I have no subsequent knowledge.

Phil Harris, who was a man of great integrity, honour and decency, survived for some time, but then left, taking all those years of experience, working for a funeral company closer to his home so he was able to appreciate family life without the business pressures. Good for him.

Various personnel who I have not named, but who came under my influence as their line manager, managed to creep their way up into the hierarchy by being perpetual yes men, have had a long and happy career, with clear consciences. John Nicholls, a man I greatly respected and admired, is apparently still alive and well although of senior age now.

The Kenyon company went through various guises over the years, and is now the premier independently quoted funeral company. They are nation-wide, enjoying a superb reputation as a respected firm.

The chairman who bought out firm out is still active in the funeral profession, running his own company. He never once looked at me in the six months I was in his senior employment, we never exchanged any words on any occasion. I was never introduced to him, but we both knew who each other was. That was his style of management, if you counted, then you were acknowledged. If you didn’t, you were disposable.

So, what happened next in my life?

Well, after I was relieved of my car and career, I caught public transport home on the Friday evening. When I walked in the door with the devastating news, I hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol. I dropped the bombshell, and we discussed the future. I was 42, had worked for the best company possible, there were no senior opening at any opposition nationally or locally.

I consulted a solicitor about unfair dismissal, because I was told that I would receive one weeks salary for each year I had worked for the firm. The employment legislation at the time was that if you were in receipt of a company car, then you were entitled to keep this for six months after termination of employment. That didn’t happen. My solicitor thought I had a very good case, so the paperwork was prepared. The advice was to have my day in court as a last resort, because my contempt for the Kenyon personnel was so blatant that I would come across as an unsympathetic witness. Too bloody right, I wanted my day to say my piece.

Two days before the court hearing, which was scheduled for two days, and I would be the only person on my side, with a range of Kenyon personnel on the other, they offered a settlement of £10,000. I countered that I wanted this to exclude my lawyers fees, plus an extra £500 as there was something specific I wanted to indulge myself with. Of course, I had the ultimate bargaining tool in reserve - the two coffins buried in the wrong graves. They just didn’t want the publicity, and I was very ready to shout about it. Their usual settlement offer was considerably less than that on the table, contemptuously in the region of doubling the minimum legal requirement. They accepted my counter offer.

By this stage, I had started my own limousine company, called Cheam Limousines. I lived in Cheam in Surrey, and had one limousine.

The cheque was received in December 1990, and the extra £500 was spent on a sound system for my car.

In May 1990 I returned to Kenyons as a sub-contractor, driving my limousine under instruction from people who had been my former colleagues under my orders. I can’t have been a bad guv’nor. However, they stopped using me after the tribunal settlement under senior instructions. Pathetic, petty, and typical. Now of course it’s under different ownership/management, much improved.

I expanded the business, retaining my membership of the National Association of Funeral Directors as an associate. I am very proud that I was elected Croydon area President in 1994. Cheam Limousines grew and grew, so I sold to one of my drivers in 2003 to live by the seaside at Eastbourne in East Sussex. I bought a guest house, then a larger 28 bedroom hotel in partnership with a moron from California, writing a book called How Not to Run a Hotel. Financial hardship followed, I dealt in antiques and collectables and give talks on the subject to clubs and societies.

In 2012 I became the only person licensed by Eastbourne Borough Council to be a sight-seeing guide, and also take parties out on coaches for the day, giving commentaries. More on www.harrythewalker.com.

I am also a writer, hence this book, Buried Secrets. www.harrythewriter.com I won a writing competition some years ago, the prize was £100 plus a commission to write an erotic novel. That was called Hot Vegas. That caught the attention of an internet publisher, so I have a writing contract with them, the second book is called Hot Hits (it’s about a contract hit lady). My third in the series is Hot Milf, that will be coming out some time soon.

There is also a short book called Volvo’s Child, another longer one called Harry the Blogger, extracts from my daily blog. Then there is The Brick Monster, for children, all about a monster who is thrown out of the family cave because of his anti-social habits at the age of 57 (young for a monster).

If you are reading this and are employed in the funeral profession, I am quite sure that there will be sufficient material to be collated into More Buried Secrets. Why not contact me through my web site, or harrythewriter@btinternet.com. I would love to hear from you.

I am also a public speaker. There are various topics, Buried Secrets; How Not to Run a Hotel; What’s It Worth; Eastbourne History; The Royal Hippodrome Theatre. My fee is reasonable, and I am also booked as a keynote motivational speaker. The size of the audience is immaterial, I perform instead of coming out just with boring old dates and facts. Each talk is unique, I love to share my knowledge in an entertaining way.