I must confess to having been quite excited about my first
Catholic funeral; I’m always interested in seeing things from the perspective
of another faith, and that can be a little difficult in Northern Ireland. It
had never mattered, Walter and Nance being Catholic, which is of course
precisely the way things should be. I do, however, remember one amusing
occasion when we were still living next door: a friend from school had left me
home late at night, but I had forgotten my house key and couldn’t get into the
house as my parents were both sound asleep, so I went to Walter and Nance’s
house to ask if they had a key, and my friend, Molly, came with me. It was
rugby season, and Ireland were playing England in the Six Nations – I remember
this because when I introduced Molly to Walter, he asked if her father followed
the rugby, and when she answered affirmatively, said “But I suppose he supports
England, does he?” I don’t think she quite realised he assumed this because he
knew she was a Protestant, or maybe she did; at any rate, she immediately
responded with outrage to such a suggestion, loudly declaring that no, of
course not, Ireland all the way! I was proud of her, and pleased with how much
this seemed to impress Walter. Otherwise, I barely even remembered that our
next-door neighbours adhered to a different version of Christianity, and it
never made any difference at all to our relationship with them.
The funeral
wasn’t my first Catholic service, so I knew the drill; keep quiet when you
don’t know the responses, remain seated when they kneel, and don’t partake of
the Eucharist. I think Nance had grown up Protestant, or at least, she had
Protestant family, so there were enough Protestants there to stop us from
feeling conspicuous. I also found that, being part of an Anglican Church while
away at university in England, I knew some of the responses, although I wasn’t
quite sure whether or not say them. I decided that I may as well, as I was
still worshipping the same God, even if I was in a different building. My
parents and I all joined in when it came to the Lord’s Prayer, although there
was an amusing moment at the end when everyone else stopped after “And lead us
not into temptation, but deliver us from evil” and a lot of the Protestants
continued “For Thine-‘’ before realising that everyone else had stopped. Father
and I both did it, then looked at each other and smiled.
When the service
had finished, we left the chapel and proceeded to the grave, which was only a
few feet away from the chapel. I looked at the gravediggers, their old working
clothes providing a stark contrast to the crisp, formal dress of the
undertakers, and tried to decide which job was less unpleasant. It struck me
that they’re two careers which you never tend to think of until you need them.
I then remembered a joke Father had once told me about a man who was asked by
his vicar if he’d take on the job of gravedigger at the church. He replied that
he would do it, but only if the vicar could guarantee a minimum of three
funerals per week. I don’t remember laughing aloud at that one.
The mourners all gathered in a sort of
semi-circle stretching away from the grave, beginning with Walter and Nance,
who were standing right by the graveside. I was quite far away, with several
rows of people behind me, and they talked throughout the entirety of the short
burial. They were barely even whispering, discussing how such-and-such was
related to their brother’s sister-in-law’s aunt’s cousin who was related to
Nance, and that was why they were at the funeral. It made my blood boil to hear
this nonsense being poured out in gallons behind me, preventing me from hearing
what the priest was saying, and I was very close to turning round and telling
them to have some respect and be quiet. The only thing that stopped me was the
thought that it would probably just result in them complaining about the
rudeness of the younger generation. It made me furious to think that these same
people were condemning the drivers of the cars who had earlier driven past the
coffin, and that they were completely oblivious to their own hypocrisy. I was
relieved when the burial was over and I no longer had to struggle to keep my
temper.
We proceeded into the hall for tea, sandwiches and cake, of
which I ate what could probably be considered an inappropriate amount. I didn’t
much care for the conversation, which was exactly the same as every time I’m
around old neighbours or friends of my parents and grandparents; “Oh, you’re so
tall and lovely-looking”, “You’re at Cambridge? Wow, you must be very intelligent”,
“Russia? Aren’t you scared to go there?” et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. During
my second cup of tea, I looked over at the table where the family members were
seated. A lady was bending down to hug Marjorie, who seemed to be crying into
her shoulder. I thought back to the last time I had visited Walter and Nance.
Marjorie was there, and despite being rather frail, and missing quite a few
front teeth, it felt as if she were the one taking care of the other two,
holding them together. It was Marjorie who had seemed strongest back then,
calmly telling us of all the medical treatments the other two were going
through, and seeing us to the back door when we left. Now, she seemed drained,
exhausted, frailer than before, whilst Walter, sitting down the table from her,
continued to look strong and solid, even joking with us as we said goodbye.
Exiting the hall,
leaving the funeral behind us, felt like a significant point. Not the end of
the story, because Walter and Marjorie were both still alive, but the end of a
verse, a full stop at the end of a line in the middle of a poem. And as with a
caesura in a poem, we couldn’t stop here for too long. A moment, yes, to pause
and to reflect, to write a detailed description of the day’s events, but then
we must move forward, we must keep reading. We must attempt to rediscover the
rhythm of our lives, the rhythm which has been disrupted by death, which is daily
disrupted and so easily lost in the midst of all our triumphs and tribulations.
The rhythm which we may never find. The rhythm which may not really exist. But
the rhythm for which we must keep searching, because belief in this rhythm can
give our lives meaning. And, let me tell you, we all need to feel that our
lives have meaning.
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