He was buried on Thursday. The weather wasn’t very good, it being November, but there was a good turnout apparently. They were all there, except the Americans, who couldn’t make the trip. They had had plans, now cast aside clearly, to go to America.
He hadn’t been on the scene long although she had known him all her life. At a time when things had been difficult he had arrived as a knight in shining armour. He had renewed her happiness and offered her hope. But now he was gone.
I only met him the once, at the 50th wedding anniversary bash. He was a little overshadowed by the noise of the family, the rabble, but he had played his part. That night I wasn’t driving so I had a few beers and I didn’t get much chance to speak with him. I don’t think he was sat close to me.
He fitted in to the stereotype of his generation, as did many of the partygoers that night. The black and white slides evoked memories of my childhood although they weren’t of my side of the family. Quite austere memories really, not of my own childhood but of what I imagined my parents’ to be.
The war had not finished all that long ago and it was only a few years since the end of rationing. Now the funeral made it feel as if those days were back. Black and white again.
So now she will have to start all over again, if she can. It’s a tough old game but it’s amazing how resilient we are. It’s a constant battle though and she will need her family’s help.
As I write I look up and stare into the fire…