Post Funeral Musings

We buried Mother on Monday.  That's a very strange sentence to write and it always seems so literal and somewhat formal to me as it sounds as though we actually donned tools and dug down deep.  It was a very small, but tasteful affair, although the arrival of Mother's former fancy man Mr Pritchard (you remember: she left Father for him and they escaped abroad until their mountainside home got flattened by a rock slide) caused a bit of stir with the neighbours, let me tell you.   He turned up at the house ten minutes before we were all due to pile into the two limousines which would be following the hearse, wearing an off-white suit, the trousers of which were pulled up far too high and rendered the bottoms far too short for his long legs.  This was also topped off with a somewhat battered Panama hat.  He was out of breath, sweating and his too-small shirt was riding up his torso - in short, he looked a complete state.  Father gave him a look of disgust, turned on his heel and took his place in the first car.

Luckily my cousin Eleanor was there and able to whisk Mr Pritchard off into the second car and the cortege set off for the cemetery.  We had a short service headed by our local vicar, The Reverend Alan Tompkins and I gave the eulogy, which I've recreated here:

"My Mother was an amazing woman and I feel truly honoured to be her only child.  She was born in November 1938, the eldest daughter of Frederick and Margaret Boggis.  Through sheer hard work and determination she managed to secure a place at the prestigious local girls' grammar school where she learnt to recite the works of Geoffrey Chaucer in the original middle English.  After leaving school at eighteen she worked as a freelance poet and gave readings in such diverse locations such as prisons, factories and abattoirs.  She met her husband, my Father, in 1965 on a London bus, the number eleven to be exact, which of course many of you will know runs from Liverpool Street through to Fulham Broadway.  They married a year and a day later and the birth of their daughter Margaret completed their family in February 1970.

In 1973 they moved to a south-east London suburb and lived happily in a three bedroomed semi-detached house for many years.  Unfortunately this happiness was compromised when my Father caused the house to subside a few years ago due to his excessive tunneling under the structure.   My Mother, tiring of her husband's strange behaviour, had already struck up a friendship with Mr Pritchard from her 'Local Heroes' club and departed abroad with him.  After two years, which she herself described as 'passionate, tumultuous and above all, fun' she returned to the UK and her estranged husband.  It is with great regret that I say goodbye to my late Mother - God rest her soul."

After the burial, which took place in the rain, we were conveyed back to the house where Eleanor and my friend Emma had organised the running buffet.  After nibbling a few dry sandwiches I retired to my old room where I lay on the bed for ages until the wake had ended.  I feel numb.