Leslie's Funeral.

Norman and I rise early, as we have a busy day ahead and breakfast on soft boiled eggs and rye toast. Two giant pullet eggs for me and one for him. Afterwards I drink my coffee in the garden room and look out of the window onto half an inch of crisp, new fallen, snow, it is going to be another cold day. After showering and dressing, we leave the house around a quarter past nine and drive to Cherry Burton, where we collect the terriers, before proceeding to the Westwood for our usual morning walk. Dolly has been kept indoors for a week, whilst her season was at its height, so I let her off the lead first, once we are in the woods of Newbegin Pits. Teddy remains on the lead and old Normy trots along a few paces behind me, the early snow has now melted and the paths are becoming quite muddy, so we skirt the edges, ducking under the occasional low hanging branch. Overhead the birds are in full voice against a cloudy sky and every now and then, Dolly dashes back to check in with me, before shooting off in pursuit of yet another rabbit. It is much colder when we come onto the open common, after switching Teddy and Dolly off the lead, the wind is blowing from slightly east of north and is bitterly cold. When we reach Black Mill, I return Teddy to his lead and am about to clip Norman on his, when the old boy sets off at a jog in the direction of the car. He is obviously trying to preempt any plans I may have for a longer walk this morning, but he needn't have worried, we need to get back as I have to prepare for Leslie's funeral, which starts at one o'clock. We return home for half past eleven, after delivering the terriers safely back to Two Riggs, and I give Normy a few biscuits and some fresh water, before making myself a cup of tea. I dress in a navy blue business suit, white shirt, black tie and two pairs of dark blue socks, as Queensgate Cemetery can be a cold place on a snowy day. Before leaving the house, I slip on a navy blue overcoat and scarf, and after consulting a clearing sky, decide not to wear a hat. This turns out to be a mistake! Parking near the Cemetery is difficult at the best of times and more so on market day, but I find a space opposite the gates of the Grammar School and squeeze the Chrysler into it, with inches to spare. It is only a few hundred yards up Queensgate to the Cemetery, and when I arrive at the small chapel, there are four people sheltering from the cold wind, in its lee. They turn out to be relatives of Leslie's deceased wife, Julia, and live quite nearby in Cottingham. We are soon joined by Jeremy Fletcher, the vicar of Beverley Minster, in just his vestments and looking quite cold. The sky has darkened again and flurries of snow are starting to fall. Beyond the Cemetery gates, a bus is trying to perform a three point turn and is having difficulty, because of some roadworks and momentarily, I have a concern that the hearse bearing Leslie's coffin and followed by the family, may be blocked from entry. I needn't have worried, the hearse and entourage arrive on time, and as they pass the chapel, we follow them on foot to the graveside. Leslie's daughter Margaret says hello to me and says I wasn't at all what she expected, although we had spoken almost daily on the phone for the last two months, this is the first time we have actually met. Leslie's nephew, Tim, and his family have driven up from Hampshire to be here and Mary Hodgeson, accompanied by her children and grandchildren, are also here. She and Leslie became friends on an alpha course at the Minster, after their respective partners were deceased and then travelled extensively together. I seem to know all these people by default, through the stories about them that Leslie has told me over the years, almost like meeting fictional characters from a favourite novel. The snow is now falling quite heavily, and as we gather round the open grave, one of the pall bearers slips off a plank over the gaping pit, as the heavy, solid wood coffin, is being manoeuvred into position, before being lowered into the ground. I manage to grab his arm and stop him being prematurely interned, and he is unhurt, apart from a little clay on his grey striped, undertakers trousers. This little drama over, Jeremy conducts the graveside service, Mary stands with her family a few steps away, supported by two walking sticks, unable to navigate the uneven ground. We commit ashes to ashes and dust to dust, and as I sprinkle earth on my old friend's coffin, a lump chokes my throat and my eyes flood with tears. The snow gently falls and we all have a white covering as we leave and make our way back to the Minster for the memorial service. Tim has a brief word to thank me for the help I was able to provide his uncle and says he will speak to me later at the reception. It only takes a few minutes to regain the car and then drive the short distance to the Minster, fortunately the Minster car park has been reserved for the service, so parking is unproblematic. Inside the magnificent gothic building, there are many more people than attended the Cemetery, neighbours and friends from the congregation and colleagues from the Minster greeting group, who act as guides to the building. We mill about and chat for a while, before taking our seats for the service, which has been meticulously planned, down to the last detail, by Leslie. William, his son in law, tells me that the only discretion left to his executors was a choice of coffin. The hymns are, "Lord of all hopefulness", "Be still for the presence of The Lord", one of my favourites and "The battle hymn", to conclude, with psalm 121 and a reading from Philippians,, chapter 4. Jeremy gives a short sermon on the meaning of the Greek word Kyretie, which means both hello, goodby and rejoice. Very apt. Tim Farmiloe gives the eulogy, which recounts the highlights of my friend's life, starting from humble beginnings and progressing through a scholarship and wartime service in the RAF, to a first class degree in chemical engineering at Imperial College London, to a working career with Procter and Gamble, most of which he spent in Cincinnati, in the USA. Returning to Beverley in 1998, shortly before I met him. There is a surprise in the sermon, as Leslie is revealed as the anonymous donor of a stained glass window, by the York artist, Helen Whitacker. It is a modernist piece, with a focal point of emptiness, in the midst of colourful abstraction and quite beautiful, in it's south facing setting. It caused no small controversy upon its installation, with a number of people, including Mary, who thought it looked misplaced. Still it typifies Leslie's generosity and modesty. After the service, Tim and I go to view the window, and I am a little surprised to find that he felt a little intimidated by his uncle, who apparently described me as his intellectual friend. I try to put him at ease by telling him that, as a marketing type, I am good at bluffing! He laughs and we make our way to the church hall, where Tina Cerutti has prepared a buffet lunch. Cerrutti's was Leslie's favourite restaurant. During the reception I circulate and chat to Tim and his wife, Meike, who hails from Bielefeld in Germany, not far from where I was stationed in Lippstadt. She tells me there is now an airport only twenty kilometres from Lippstadt, that also serves Paderborn, and I make a mental note, as I intend to revisit the town where I spent five years of my army life. Later I end up chatting to Mary, and her grandchildren, most of whom have travelled up from London to be here. Just before the gathering breaks up we are joined by Sally, Mary's daughter, who lives in Boroughbridge and has very kindly eyes, but also an air of sadness about her, no doubt affected by the occasion. All in all, I am sure that Leslie would have thoroughly approved of the proceedings and have been heartened by the turnout. It is my sister, Jackie's birthday and I had intended driving over to West Yorkshire to see her after work, but somehow I don't feel up to it, so text her husband, Gino, and make my apologies, before driving home. Norman wags his tail in greeting and after his obligatory run in the garden, I open a tin and give him his dinner. A little later, I fasten his winter coat around him and take him for a walk, he has a sniff around and a quick leak in the bushes by the end of the cul de sac and then pleads to return home, so I concede and we go back to the warmth of the house. The children are making their first confessions at Saint John's this evening, with the sacrament open to us adults afterwards, so I drive back to North Bar Without and enter the church for about six O'clock, unable to remember the precise time of the service. The church is empty, lit only by some candles, which are burning by the sanctuary, so I must be early, but it feels like home and I light a candle for Leslie and for Huby Nana, before praying for them and later examining my conscience before confession. Father Roy arrives around twenty past six, switches on the lights, and says hello. The children's service starts at a quarter to seven he tells me, so I sit quietly and continue to pray, while he prepares the altar for the service. Saint John's is a modest Victorian building, in stark contrast to the towering architectural splendour of the Minster, but it's more human scale provides greater emotional context, at least for me. The children arrive in family groups, shepherded by their parents, who give last minute instructions and encouragement before the sacrament begins. The service is conducted jointly by Fathers David and Roy, two sopranos from the choir sing hymns, as the children make their confessions at the altar. After the service Father Roy announces that white smoke has been seen from the Sistine Chapel and a new Pope has been elected, but as yet we have no name. Father David, hears my confession and afterwards, I switch on my phone and find that the new Holy Father, is an Argentinian Jesuit, who will be known as Francis the first. As I am the last person to confess, I return to the altar and share the good news. Perhaps our prayers have been answered and a Jesuit will lead us to a more catholic, ie, universal and less Roman, church. It is nine o'clock when I return home and after making a bowl of porridge in the microwave, I sit in the garden room and stroke Norman, who snores contentedly on my knee, while I ponder the events of the day, before turning in around ten.