It’s difficult to say goodbye to a cousin, after all we’d grown up together. Andy was the eldest of us, and the alpha male. Two years my elder and a maverick: a role model at ten; someone to avoid at thirteen; a good bloke from the age of twenty-one. Today was the ultimate goodbye.
“He’s not heavy, he’s my brother” drifted from the speakers. Tremolos? Dave, Dee, Dozy Beaky, Mitch and Titch? I’ll check it later but that’s now a song I won’t be able to hear on the radio without switching off. Some of the congregation tapped along as the coffin was carried into the crematoria by six of Andy’s drinking pals. I held my daughter’s hand; my tears mirrored in her eyes.
Andy was the first of my generation to die. Married at nineteen, father of two by twenty-three, divorced at thirty, dead by thirty-nine; a short, fast life. He was bright, good fun and great conservationist. He was also a big drinker until... until his liver packed up and he required a transplant. A transplant that gave him an extra seven years of life; time he spent well.
I remember now, it’s the Hollies. “He’s not heavy he’s my brother” is by the Hollies; no need to confirm the point. It is definitely the Hollies.
The crematoria was packed with friends, family, drinking pals; a plethora of life’s characters. Many I’ll speak with, one or two to politely ignore and quite a few I don’t know. Strangers and friends united in grief, joined by one person’s departure; Cousin Andrew.
“Why are people so happy?” asked my daughter as a late comer slapped an old acquaintance on the back. I tried to tell her but my voice was too croaky. I wish I’d been able to tell her how fond Andy’s friends were of him. He was a friend to everyone.
The controller of the service helped with his accurate eulogy. It’s difficult to know his title. He’s definitely not a Rabbi, Priest, Vicar nor Mullah. Andrew was non-religious in life and death wasn’t going to compromise his principals. After all he’d died before reaching an age when people start gardening and discovering God. Married at nineteen, father of two by twenty-three, divorced at thirty, dead by thirty-nine; not much of a tribute for an eight year old’s role model.
Sunday 21 February 2010
Friday 5 February 2010
Second Lieutenant Joseph Emmerson.
Freda Emmerson, widow and mother, entered her parlour and pulled back the aging velvet curtains. Dust particles danced in the insipid October sunlight as she walked toward the unlit fireplace.
Glancing in the small oval mirror hanging against the chimney breast, her eyes stared tiredly back; her mouth set firm and proud. She patted a loose hair she teased it into place and stared, hardly recognising herself.
Her hand reached towards the mantle-shelf and touched the small brown envelope propped against a copper candlestick. She removed the small beige letter she read it without reading; knowing the words by heart. Letters from the front were pre-prepared and told mothers little. This one told Freda much. The options her son had taken with his crossing out simply confirmed he was well. His signature revealed more. It was signed “Second Lieutenant Joseph Emmerson”.
Joe and his brother Percy had always made her proud. She was proud when Joe qualified as a surveyor; proud when they’d both signed up to fight the Hun. Now she was proud that Joe had been promoted to officer in less than one year. He’d be able to look after Percy, make his life a little easier in the trenches.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a rap on the front door. She replaced the letter in the envelope and placed it against the candlestick.
She opened the door and her life stopped. A uniformed youth was holding two telegrams.
(Joseph Emmerson was born into a mining family in 1890 in the town of Bagsworth. He qualified as a surveyor before enlisting in the Great War as private with his brother in 1914. Awarded the Military Medal and promoted to officer on 8th Oct 1915. Both brothers were killed in battle five days later.)
Glancing in the small oval mirror hanging against the chimney breast, her eyes stared tiredly back; her mouth set firm and proud. She patted a loose hair she teased it into place and stared, hardly recognising herself.
Her hand reached towards the mantle-shelf and touched the small brown envelope propped against a copper candlestick. She removed the small beige letter she read it without reading; knowing the words by heart. Letters from the front were pre-prepared and told mothers little. This one told Freda much. The options her son had taken with his crossing out simply confirmed he was well. His signature revealed more. It was signed “Second Lieutenant Joseph Emmerson”.
Joe and his brother Percy had always made her proud. She was proud when Joe qualified as a surveyor; proud when they’d both signed up to fight the Hun. Now she was proud that Joe had been promoted to officer in less than one year. He’d be able to look after Percy, make his life a little easier in the trenches.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a rap on the front door. She replaced the letter in the envelope and placed it against the candlestick.
She opened the door and her life stopped. A uniformed youth was holding two telegrams.
(Joseph Emmerson was born into a mining family in 1890 in the town of Bagsworth. He qualified as a surveyor before enlisting in the Great War as private with his brother in 1914. Awarded the Military Medal and promoted to officer on 8th Oct 1915. Both brothers were killed in battle five days later.)
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