tales from an ordinary world

1999-01-16

Last week was fairly busy - My grandfather died on Monday night, after being bed-ridden for at least four years in a home. The funeral was on Friday, so I helped out by scanning an old photo of him in his air-force uniform, that we put on the front page of the service (which I also printed out and made copies off for people).

On Tuesday (when I got told about it in the morning), I just walked around in a bit of a daze, letting it all sink in. We'd all known it was going to happen eventually, so it made it slightly less distressing than some freak accident, say. But all the same, it occurred to me that I'd run out of grandfathers. My mother's father, back in England, had had a few strokes in the early 1980's. When I last went back there for 1984 Christmas, at the somewhat tender age of eleven, he couldn't speak properly. I didn't think it'd be the last I'd see of him. A few years later, whilst walking along the beach at Weston Super-Mare (as he did quite often), he had another stroke and died. I could think of worse ways to go.

In my father's father's case, I last saw him on Christmas Day 1999 - my dad, my grandmother and I went to visit him that morning. He looked so withered away I could hardly bear to look. His legs had almost entirely shrivelled away, and his face looked so strained and tired. Nana fed him a drink from a Prima. Occasionally he'd cough, and for a moment there, his face almost looked like it used to. We sat around, chatted to him a bit, even though he couldn't talk back. I wondered if he could really see or hear us at all. Eventually it was time to go, and we took turns saying goodbye to him, holding his hand. I was last, and as I said goodbye, a solitary tear fell from his right eye. He knew we were there, and, what's worse, that we were leaving. I should have said something to the others, to say "can we stay a little longer ?" or something, but my throat froze up, and I couldn't do anything. I stumbled back to the car with the others, thoroughly spooked for the day. I didn't want to tell the rest of the family - it was Christmas Day, and I didn't want them feeling as down as I was feeling...

It was my first funeral, believe it or not. I put on my good trousers, and a shirt - it was going to be 37 degrees, too hot for a jacket or a tie. We drove to the church, the one just around the corner from my grandparent's house in Burwood, where my parents (and I assume my two aunts) had got married. The service went fairly well - I even did a reading (I figured it was the least I could do, even if I don't really believe in Catholicism). I helped carry the coffin out to the hearse. It was heavier than I expected. From there, we had a cup of tea next door, and I met some old workmates of my grandfather's (he'd worked for Commericial Union insurance, from 1926 until 1970 - I can't imagine working that long at one place !).

After the tea, it was time to drive to the cemetery, so we drove down to it, just past Waverley Gardens. We carried the coffin out to the burial site, and two men took it from our hands, and laid it over the grave. The priest did his thing, the coffin was lowered into the grave, and we threw flowers in as we said our final goodbyes.

The cemetery is big. I swear I'd get lost if I ever tried to go there, but I figure I'll try one of these days, just to see the name "John Kennett Cosgriff" on the little rectangular piece of metal, in the middle of a field of grass...