Called up yonder

The people from the particular flavour of Evangelical Christian religion in which my Dad was a Minister for over thirty years arranged a funeral that was much more personal and knowledgeable of the deceased than many. My brother, who is still in the God Squad, did a most impressive oratorical exposition of Psalm 23, full of rhetorical devices in his speech and gestures. Overhanging the ceremony was the reason Dad lost his job and his (our) house -- his affair with one of his congregation, about which one can never speak.

One of my other brothers, and my sister, gave a short reading. This was mine.

My Dad didn't have the easiest of starts in life and it didn't get a great deal easier as time went on. Dad didn't find the outgoing, social game an easy one to play, but he did well under often difficult circumstances. The two ways I remember him dealing with this were first, by using his strong work ethic, exemplified most clearly in his going to London, friendless and homeless, receiving no help at all in doing this for his family.

And second, through his sense of humour, which was very English, located firmly in his delight in the absurd and the endless fascination we have with class difference and awkwardness, along with a pleasure in physical humour – which struck my next eldest brother quite literally one Christmas Day. Dad stood in the middle of the living room energetically swinging a key around on a yard-long piece of knitting wool. “Wouldn't it be a pity,” he said, “if this flew off and hit someone” – a couple of seconds before the key unleashed itself and shot towards [my brother], hitting him just above his eye.

Earlier this year, it was a pleasure to see my Dad on fine form at his and Mum's Golden Wedding celebrations, which was a day he clearly enjoyed – with all the extended family and one or two recent acquisitions from the online mail order catalogue.

Whilst it wasn't planned that way, I am glad that is those memories of that afternoon, seeing my Dad happy, relaxed and contented, that will stay with me from one of the last times I saw him.

Afterwards in the short service at the crematorium my brother produced three last letters from Dad, which, he said, he hasn't been able to read yet. Every time I attend a cremation it seems more repellent. You claim to love someone, then at the end you put them in an oven and burn them.

Then it was back to the hall where the local ladies had put on a tea. Mum bore the day well and my Dad's sister is staying with her for a few days. I got sat opposite these incredibly attractive two young sisters, the daughters of a friend of my Mum's, all black minidresses and diaphanous tops; but unspoilt and easy talking.

Me and Trina managed to get off for the evening and had one of the best pub nights out I've had in ages. People in the Northeast seem to have a confidence, or perhaps a carelessness, that you don't find so much in Lancashire.

In the first pub, we got talking to Ten Ton Tessie and her even fatter husband and sister-in-law. Next onto a brilliant couple of hours in Wetherspoons, where we got talking to a couple at the next table, for a woman with a pint is always going to be a conversation starter. They were both CAMRA members and recommended a nearby pub renowned for its ale, in which we became counsellors for a bloke who didn't seem to be sure whether he was going out with a girl who came and sat with him for a drink.

Trina went to get us another couple of pints. The barmaid, gesturing towards me, said "He's really into his real ale isn't he?" and presented her with a tankard for me. It was just a promotional thing that they had left over from Greene King, who brew real ale which tastes like diluted handwash, but it was a nice gesture nonetheless.

Next day all the family and friends (but not, unfortunately, the tightly-outlined sisters) went out for dinner. One pint and I was giddy, rewound from the previous night. We left that afternoon, since we were going back the following day to Huddersfield, for a full afternoon of the complete string quartets of James Dillon, a composer who Trina said looks like Frank Zappa dressed as Charles I, although I think the resemblance is more to 80s funkster Rick James. Great music though.