10

Farewell

John, one of our bishops, who has visited Tom on a couple of occasions, comes to see us to talk about the funeral, which we have asked him to take. We tell him we want the funeral to have dignity, authenticity and honesty. No platitudes or bullshit please. We definitely don’t want that popular, Scott Holland poem which falsely affirms: ‘Death is nothing at all.’ The Bishop asks us about Tom’s life. We relive a number of anecdotes from his childhood and teenage years. Each of us has different memories to share. His Bottom1 sense of humour. His witty remarks. His love of sport. His loyalty and steadfast love for those closest to him. His quiet steadiness and ability to rejoice in the success of others. His great generosity. His huge courage in adversity. One thing we talk about is how, even when he was desperately ill, Tom was concerned not just for himself, but for others too. How were we coping? How would we cope?

The Bishop asks me what he should wear for the funeral. ‘Oh,’ I reply, ‘whatever you like. Nothing fancy.’ I am interrupted by a loud chorus from our kids. ‘No way!’ they say. They are insistent that, for Tom, only the best is good enough. They want the full works: embroidered robes, sparkly gowns, mitre, staff, rings and anything else he can think of. Nothing else will do! It has to be the best possible send-off. Holy Cross, where I am the vicar and where the funeral will take place, is used for children’s clubs, dancing, our MP’s surgery, St John Ambulance Cadets, lunch clubs and other community activities during the week. For worship on Sunday, the folding doors at the end are drawn back to reveal a rather ordinary altar and cross. This is no Ely Cathedral. This is a pragmatic, 1960s, oblong box of a building, with nothing aesthetically pleasing to commend it, but that will be offset by having the Bishop, dressed in all his finery, robes shimmering in the flickering light of the fluorescent ceiling strips, which we can’t reach to replace.

There is another painful row about whether Grandma should be at the funeral. In the end we drive up and bring her down. She is very confused. The day before the funeral, while we are all upstairs or out, she thinks we’ve gone to the funeral without her. So she wanders outside and falls in the road, banging her head. A neighbour finds her and helps her back home. She has a black eye but is otherwise, mercifully, OK.

On the morning of the funeral, Tom’s coffin is brought to our house. When the time comes, we walk behind the coffin the short distance from our house to the church, next door. The whole place is heaving with people. All the seats are full. Many more are standing. Some people have travelled for many miles. Sainsbury’s have closed the bakery, where Tom worked, for the day and some of Tom’s colleagues are here. It is one of the many kindnesses of Sainsbury’s and their staff.

The coffin is carried in to the theme music from Star Wars. The great mates have prepared a tribute, which they ask my friend Michael to read for them. Annie and I have also written thanks and tributes. In case we are unable speak, we have our friends, Mary and Alan, standing with us, supporting us, ready to take over if need be. The knowledge that they are with us, alongside us, gives us the strength to speak. Then the Bishop speaks. We sing our all-occasion, ‘family’ hymn: ‘Guide me, O Thou Great Redeemer’. Then the prayers, during which the repeating chorus of a Taizé chant echoes around the room:

Within our darkest night,

You kindle a fire that never dies away,

Never dies away.2

Bishop John commends Tom to God’s mercy and prays God’s blessing upon us. Then, just as the coffin is lifted, there is the soaring sound of ‘Gabriel’s Oboe’ from the film The Mission. We walk out, past the tear-stained faces of so very many people who love us, and head for the crematorium.

The following day we set off for Yorkshire. Ever since I was a child I remember going, with my Grandma Hargrave, the only one in the family to own a car, on trips to the Dales. My brother and I, with Grandma and her great friend, Aunty Annie, singing ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes’ at the top of our voices as we drive down Otley Chevin, at a steady 25 mph. A favourite stopping place is Fewston Reservoir. It feels like a place we belong. Our roots are here. Three years ago we went there to scatter my dad’s ashes, in the deep water of the reservoir. Now we are heading there again, to scatter Tom’s ashes. We will scatter my mum’s there when she dies, a couple of years from now, and hopefully one day, our ashes will go there too. We make a joke about a future BBC Look North news report of a strange, white island which has appeared near the shore of the reservoir.

There has been a drought, so we have to climb over a low wall and walk a fair way to the water’s edge. We struggle to carry Grandma in her wheelchair, but she seems to enjoy the ride. Ben carefully pours the ashes into the water, I read some words of committal and we throw roses where the ashes have sunk, waiting until the wind carries them beyond our sight. It is a cold, overcast day, but then, just for a moment, the sun comes out. Mostly, I am too cynical to think of it as a sign, yet I can’t stop the words of Julian of Norwich ringing in my head: ‘All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.’