In Memoriam Liz

 In Memoriam Liz

 

A memorial service or secular event for someone you have known well is nearly always disconcerting because of the numbers of people attending that you have never met and of whose identities you have no idea.

 

You realise that you were just one part of your friend’s life, both temporally and socially. This should be in no way diminishing. It is equally humbling and uplifting to learn more. You leave with greater appreciation and a sadder feeling of loss.

 

Lauderdale House is a more-or-less 16^th century building on the edge of the steep and pleasant Waterlow Park in Highgate, London.

The building is much repaired and renovated, but still has its attractive original outlines. These days it contains a café and spaces on two floors for exhibitions, genteel markets and private events, such as that for Liz. It is set in gardens of great attractiveness. It was a good place for a late summer memorial.

 

The main ground floor room (once the reception and ballroom?) is large and L-shaped, the longer bit open through French windows to a garden path. On arrival, this section was full of chairs in rows, giving the impression of a seminar room or, in the circumstances, a chapel.

 

A memorial is an occasion when, one hopes, the raw grief of loss has mostly passed ( although the occasion itself may bring it back, especially for those giving tributes). People greet, smile and chatter, sipping drinks and nibbling canapes. Among the throng of strangers, old acquaintances are met.

 

Then the mood changes. We are called to order, and take our seats in the rows, to listen to the short but completely moving reminiscences.

 

For Liz, there were eight speakers. Her oldest friend, who met her at high school in upper New York State (as Hertfordshire is to London, someone later explained). Together they had enjoyed wild teenage adventures in Manhattan. A man whose mother and Liz’s father were in a relationship for some years -so he and Liz were quasi step siblings. Liz’s sister-in-law (her husband, Liz’s brother also died early of cancer) spoke of later family life, as did her daughter, Liz’s niece, to whom Liz always gave loving support. Two of Liz’s friends in London, remembering their (over)sharing times with Liz, and numerous holiday fixtures. Liz’s son, paying a raw and difficult tribute. Finally a woman journalist colleague of Liz leavened sorrow with humorous memories, including their hilarious tour, as a “honeymoon” couple, of Welsh B&Bs – by bicycle.

 

There had been no conferring between these contributors. Each brought a piece of the jigsaw picture of Liz’s life. Each piece fitted with the others. Perhaps we didn’t learn anything new or surprising about Liz. We already knew her kindness; her boldness, always eager for and rising to new challenges, in spite of her surface diffidence; her consuming love of travel, by any means (dog sitting in Europe, mature chalet-girling, as well as writer’s freebies); her seemingly permanent good humour, although that sometimes belied the troubles in her life. She always lifted the spirits of the company she was in, single friend or group of friends. But the survey of her life enriched us all.

 

We left with greater knowledge, regret, and love.

 

Sept 2023