Wednesday
My Mother’s funeral. Got up at 8, had a leisurely breakfast. Fine and cold, fleeting thin clouds. Dressed in my best blue suit, left
9.30. Went up to Becket’s to see the
wreath Mary had ordered for myself and Father – chrysanthemums, quite
hideous. There was another there, even
more repulsive from Uncle Frank and Lydia.
Went to Winnock Lodge, Father
seemed very well. Talked to him
cheerfully, told him how lucky he was to be indoors on such a cold day. To office rest of the morning.
Got back to Winnock Lodge by 2
and found Uncle Frank, Aunt Het and Margery [Rudsdale's cousin] there, with Uncle Bob just coming down
the road. Margery looked just the same,
but poor old Bob was very shaking, and seemed on the verge of tears. I had not expected them to go to Rallings, so
as there was only one car Margery and I walked down to the church. Half the blinds in Winnock Road were drawn, but I had
forgotten to lower our own.
Just as we got to Magdalen Street,
the old cracked bell clanged out, as I have heard if for a thousand times. Solomon Sadler, the verger in his black
apron, stood by the door, looking like a little wizened rabbit. There were a few old women in the back
pews. I walked up to the front, into our
old pew, where I sat as a child. It must
be 20 years since I was there. It seemed
so small, from what I remembered. Just
in front of me were the two tall trestles.
We knelt, but I could not think of my prayers. I looked through my fingers at the hideous
stained glass window, with my grandfather’s name at the bottom. Nothing seemed to have changed in 20 years,
except that the transept windows are patched with boards, owing to the bombs
which fell behind the Alleys a year ago.
The parson came in from the
Vestry, and spoke to me to tell me to go out with him when the time came. I felt terribly cold, and shivered, Margery’s
teeth were chattering. In a very short
time, it seemed, the parson signalled to me and walked down the aisle,
underneath the gallery which my Father decorated one Christmas long ago. There were about 20 or 25 people in the
church – old Mrs Adams, Mrs Cheshire, Miss Polly Browne, Miss Horwood, all old
friends, all sitting there thinking of 40 or even 50 years ago, of coffee in
the mornings up town, or chats in the butchers.
Outside stood the motor hearse,
and there was my little Mother in a shiny oak coffin, so tiny, almost like a
child’s. There were two or three wreaths
on it, and several more on the roof of the car.
Behind the hearse was a car which had brought Mary Ralling, Aunt Het and
Ella. Uncle Frank and Uncle Bob had decided
to walk and we had to wait a few minutes, standing in the cold wind, while Aunt
Minnie’s old shop, shuttered and closed because it was a Thursday, looked down
on the pathetic little scene which must have been enacted there countless
hundreds of times. At last the two old
gentlemen came hurrying across the road, their faces red with cold. The hearse was opened, the undertaker’s men
slid Mother out quietly and smoothly, old Mr Becket steadying the coffin and we went across the churchyard, the cracked bell
slowly tolling. Aunt Het walked with me,
Ella and Mary Ralling came behind.
I showed Ella, Aunt and the
Uncles into our pew, and the coffin was placed on the tressles. Becket and his four men retired to the south
transept, where they sat on one side and he on the other.
The service was short – first the
23rd Psalm, then some prayers, then a hymn. Mother was less than a couple of yards away,
her head towards me. It all seemed very
dream like. Every few minutes, tears
welled into my eyes, and I had to stare over the top of the coffin at the
Crucifixion in the window.
Suddenly I saw Becket’s men come
forward again, raise the coffin, shuffle round and walk slowly down the
aisle. We all walked behind again, I and
aunt first. So Mother went out of Mary
Magdalen for the last time.
Outside, the old men who spend
their time sitting on the churchyard wall raised their hats as we all got into
the cars. Uncle Bob was not coming to the cemetery, and said goodbye on the pavement, his voice shaking. I had to sit between Aunt Het and Ella, making
chatty remarks about the weather. Ella,
apropos the cold, said “Well I’ve got my winter woollies on.” Becket drove and the parson sat with him.
We went slowly up Wimpole Road,
past the butcher’s and the grocer’s where she so often shopped, past the old
house, as it has always been called in the family, where she and all the others
were born, past No. 63, past No 1 Harsnett Road, where she began her married life,
and where I came into the world. It is
almost exactly 29 years since I peeped round the edge of the blind in the front
bedroom of No. 63 and saw my grandmother’s funeral go by, the pall-bearers
walking each side of the hearse, the top-hatted drivers high on the box-seats.
As we went past the parked
ambulances at the Recreation Ground, an old road-sweeper raised his cap. Against the railings of Bourne Pond were two
Italian soldiers in prison uniform, idly stroking the jennet. They stared curiously at the little cortege
as it swept round the corner.
And so into the Cemetery, up
the left had carriage road. We all got out, myself, Uncle Frank,
Aunt Het, Ella, Margery, Mary Ralling, Nurse Horwood. Mr Wolsey stood nearby, and the two grave
diggers, in brown dungarees, were a few yards away.
In a few moments the little
coffin was laid on two balks across the grave, and the parson was uttering the
words of committal – “… man is born of woman …” All round us lay the forgotten dead. I found myself reading the names on nearby
stones. Every name meant suffering like
this. Then, in a few seconds, the four
bearers lowered the coffin into the grave.
When the parson came to the words
“ashes to ashes, dust to dust” Wolsey stepped forward, picked a few crumbs of
soil from beneath the green carpet and dropped them into the grave, so that they
fell rattling on the coffin.
By now I was near tears, and felt
I could not bear to ride home, so I asked Marjery to walk with me which bless her she did. I shook hands with the parson
and thanked him and the organist – “my wife”, he said, thanked Becket and
Wolsey, who gave me a white card, inscribed –
“Borough of Colchester Cemetery Dept.”
Agnes Rudsdale Age: 76 years
Section Division Space Date of Int.
M 9 45 17/11/43
Purchased 6ft.
You take your Mother to the
Cemetery, and they give you a receipt, that is all.
Walked with Margery, talking, and
she was most kind. Offered to take the
old man, but I know this would be most inconvenient for her. I know too that she has a real affection for
him. At the house they were all having
tea in the sitting room, while Father stayed in the front parlour, as he felt
he could not face them. The Rallings
could not have been kinder. It was now
only half past three – the whole business had taken no more than an hour – and
they all decided to catch the 4 o’clock train, so as not to be in London after
dark, in case of a raid. Much tearful
kissing, and they went, Aunty clinging to my hand, and said, “You will write, wont you?”
I decided to go as soon as I
could. Father looked tearful, and I am
sure that if we had both stayed together there would have been a complete
breakdown. Went up to the Essex County Standard
Office, and checked the list of wreaths, etc for this week's paper. Saw Hervey, who was most sympathetic. Then left for Dedham, cycling in the dusk. At Dedham, was made welcome and fed. Marjorie Sisson let me talk unrestrainedly. Left at 10, and went to Higham, where I found
the light working. A few planes were
about, and searchlights wavered against the clouds, but there was no raid.
Well, tomorrow is another day.
