I’m in a church in Devon, reading the lesson at my stepmother’s funeral.
The last time I saw her was at my brother Tony’s funeral.
And the time before that, at my partner Susie’s funeral.
And the time before that…
Not a funeral, but my stepsister’s wedding.
And the time before that, at my father’s funeral.
And that was in 1986…
To say we had very little to do with each other would be an understatement.
And yet I felt a strong pull to come down to her funeral.
I wonder why. And I wonder what it is, to have a family
What it means to be part of a family…
When we’re told that the family is somehow the bedrock of our society.
And so I think back to my childhood family, where”children should be seen and not heard”, as I was always being told, and where “manners makyth man” and there were all kinds of “oughts” it was important to obey.
And I did keep quiet, mostly, and I did also try not be seen because I knew, somehow, it was safer to be invisible.
There was a sense of order in the household. Lunch was at one, tea at four thirty, and supper at seven.
It was as if these times were the only meal times, the best meal times, the most civilised mealtimes, times that were as set in stone as the fact that the British Empire was the best empire in the world, Stilton was the best cheese, Carr’s water biscuits the best cheese biscuits, and the best marmalade was Cooper’s Oxford marmalade (thick cut).
The Westminster parliamentary system was the best form of government, Shakespeare the greatest writer, Churchill the greatest statesman… and so it went on.
The empire was personified by Mr. Cube, who had a pugnacious face, and carried a sword, and was the logo for Tate & Lyle, the best sugar in the world, and who stood for freedom, apparently, which was a little strange given that the sugar that was the foundation of the firm’s success had been produced by slaves.
And there’s me, thinking of all this, and reading in Ecclesiastes that there was a time to break things down, and all the while things really were breaking down in the world outside the church.
Johnston’s government was falling; and what his down fall was making apparent was just how corrupt and broken is the system of government that my dad sincerely did believe was the best in the world.
I wonder what he’d have made of it all. I’m sure he would have hated Johnson. He always voted Conservative; and if he’d been able to, would have stood to be a member of parliament.
He considered himself a gentleman; and utterly believed it mattered that there be decency in public life.
Just as he believed that good manners mattered, and order mattered, and that the way he lived really was the best and the most civilised way to live.
For breakfast my dad would have porridge oats with all bran and cold milk, two slices of toast and marmalade, and two breakfast cups of instant coffee.
In between the two cups of coffee he would go to the lavatory (he detested the word “toilet”) because it was important to be regular.
And while he drank his second cup of coffee he would read the paper. He had the “Daily Mail” and the “Daily Telegraph” delivered every morning.
While my mum was still alive, there was also room for love and for laughter; but after she’d died, there was little but deadly routine and rigid order.
It wasn’t that my dad was a bad man, and I don’t think he ever set out to be intentionally cruel. I know he loved me and my big brothers; he just didn’t know how to express it.
And so we suffered. All of us: including him.
And it was that world my stepmother entered; and when I first knew her she was full of life and hope and happiness.
My dad was in his fifties, and she was in her early twenties; they’d met in Tenerife, where she was a courier for the travel firm who organised his holiday.
I don’t know how she did it, but she broke through the carapace of his stiff upper lip and gentlemanly reserve, and for a while they were happy together.
They had in-jokes and special forms of endearment, and I saw a playful, charming side to him I’d never known before.
I was fourteen, traumatised by grief, bullied at boarding school, beginning to believe that I would one day be a writer… something that didn’t really give me hope or happiness but rather frightened me and made me feel like an alien in my determinedly non-artistic family.
She was wonderful for me. She loved art and classical music and fine french food - everything that was missing in my life - and we felt like kindred spirits.
We would go on excursions together to beautiful places and I felt like someone cared for me and understood me.
It didn’t last. Understandably, her own children became the focus of her attention when they were born; and then the Carr’s water biscuits and the Oxford marmalade ground her down.
And later, my father’s financial difficulties and increasing health problems caused her great suffering.
And all the while I more and more turned my back on my father and his values and everything he stood for and came to represent.
But those few months of happiness with Jane were so important to me; and I was glad to be at her funeral and say a few words in tribute to her.
To give thanks for that brief golden time that still, all those years afterwards, still shine out in the memories of my life.
And it really is true, and as things begin to fall down around us it’s important to remember, what Calderon said in LIFE IS A DREAM:
Thank you Jo, this is beautiful… resonates with my fathers blind faith and obedience to the government and colonial structures he had been raised by
Absolutely loved this Jo, so very beautifully written!
In my dysfunctional family there was no order, only chaos. One wonders if the persons we’ve become is a result of nature or nurture……dialectical?
Dot x
Ps I agree with your dad about Frank Coopers Thick Cut…(lol)!