Two Funerals

 Two Funerals

 

On just such a November day, almost exactly 27 years ago, my father’s funeral took place. A still, bright day, low sunlight streaming through church windows.

 

Michael died aged 80. Obviously not young, but by no means very old. Of his three brothers, one died of war wounds and the others lived into their 90s. However, Michael had been suffering from vascular dementia for over a year, so his death from pneumonia spared him and his family increasing distress. 

 

The funeral was held in a Cambridge church and was followed by interment in the church’s burial ground just outside the city. The service was well-attended but not crowded. The hierarchy of those attending was conventional: widow, sons and daughter, grandchildren; mostly elderly colleagues and friends paying respects to an elderly and popular man. At the graveside, quite unexpectedly, a contingent of soldiers appeared in uniform, carrying a pennant, to form a guard of honour for Michael (he had been a career military officer and kept up a connection  with a Royal Engineers unit near Cambridge).

 

This November on another bright autumn day, there was another funeral. It was also held in a church – a magnificent Hawksmoor creation- hence my memories of the previous event were stirred. 

 

Similarities ended there. The person we were mourning was a young man, dead in his 20s, after a long struggle with mental illness. He had been very talented and popular, although his problems had caused great stress and anguish to his loving family.

 

Because of his young age funeral conventions were upset. The entrance of the coffin was piercingly sad, not solemnly representing a life fulfilled but one tragically cut short. Most of those present were from his mother’s generation – 40s or his – 20s. It was a set of age groups that one associates with weddings. The large church was packed, even in the gallery. At the end, as everyone slowly jostled towards the church’s doors, I found it difficult to keep in mind that we were going out to give condolences and not congratulations.

 

Eulogies and tributes were unusually sad and moving. His mother had to speak about her son standing next to his coffin. Young cousins and schoolfriends whispered sobbingly, or joked a bit in reminiscence (almost like best men).  School teachers from his sixth form paid tribute to his intelligence and eagerness to learn.

 

Afterwards many dozens of us went to the wake in a vast riverside pub, where the bar did brisk business.

 

November 2023