It wasn't raining, which was odd. It always rains in Stockport. But we were glad of our coats. Stephanie, our sister, with Peter's son, had opted for one of the practically sited hospital burial businesses, who did their duty with suitably blank faces, conveying Peter's coffin to its bier in one of the several chapels in the large cemetery. This chapel was Roman Catholic. We forbore to mention that Peter had abandoned his Catholic religion a couple of decades ago; which would have been a breach of good manners as the aging priest shuffled his papers and prepared to bring comfort to the allegedly stricken mourners. The priest of course had never met Peter, nor his two now grown-up children, nor either of his two very pretty wives - one an ex-wife. And the priest had not met any of us, the brothers.
Of the brothers, the youngest, Jeremy, had died a few years earlier, and Richard didn't do funerals - he was at his home in Provence or Cote D'Ivoire, probably drowning his sorrow in a few bottles of wine. His wife, Sylvia came over from France. Martin and I attended. Martin was still well-enough to travel the thirty-miles or so to Stockport. And of course Stephanie was with us. Our parents were dead. They were mercifully spared the sadness of burying any of their children - but they were undoubtedly with us in spirit. The chapel was surprisingly full. Peter had spent his last years in a flat in the centre of Stockport and as a friendly soul he had many local friends and acquaintances. His wives and family all came and Peter's colleagues from his past accountancy practice were there. Stephanie, Sylvia, Martin, my wife and I sat on the same bench, with one or two strangers.
This was not a congregation from which skilled speakers volunteered homilies, odes and orations. Peter was a simple soul, which the silent gathering reflected. The priest, tired but experienced, rose to the occasion. He would smooth Peter's path to heaven and bring us solace. In one hand he held the Funeral Service Prayer Book and in the other a note of relevant names and dates supplied by Stephanie and Peter's son.
Unfortunately, the priest had no knowledge of our Mother - or our family relationships.
"...and so we pray for the soul of our dear departed ...er ...Peter who will enter heaven to be with all the holy angels and blessed saints (we drew comfort from that thought). And will be re-united with his father ...er ...Edwin; and with his mother ...er ...um ...Winifred, who departed this life in ...1963 and in ...1966, who wait for ...er ...Peter to join them. And his brother ...er ...er ... Jeremy who tragically died before his time in ...1995. His dear mother ...Winifred, will welcome and embrace him to spend Eternity, in bliss, with her and ...er ...Edwin. Forever, in the bosom of Christ and his Holy Father (our bench was vibrating along its length in rhythm with our quaking shoulders and we dared not look at each other. Eternity with Mother was not compatible with anyone's vision of heaven. But the priest felt he had not comforted enough and pressed on in a sing-song cadence, in a quietly compassionate voice). And ...Peter will be held forever, in the loving kindness of his mother ...Winifred, forever, for eternity, (our bench was now quaking; would it shake and split at the seams. We stared straight ahead, very, very hard and rigidly did not dare to glance at each other. Forever? With Mother? Even leavened by Father and his bumper-fun-book of bad puns, it would be Dante's Seventh Level)."
The priest was now gazing up to heaven, raising his weary but kindly eyes in transcendence, contemplating his own eternal conjoining with the heavenly hosts and his loving and beloved mother. He glanced at his notes in-between his raptures. "And so, ...Peter and ...Jeremy and ...Edwin and ...Winifred, will be forever, eternally joined in joy..."
We imagined that our facial muscles could take no more, and feared our shoulders would lock up in deadly cramps as we suppressed our manic giggling. This Minister of The Lord, clearly had never met Mother.
Peter died of cancer, caused by life-long cigarette smoking. After he lost his small, business, split up from his wife and children and moved in with his second wife, he worked as a chauffeur, driving to and from the airport with wealthy travellers. He had been a steady and reliable soul, but gradually increased his pub and drinking habits to the point where it interfered with his career; having inherited Father's wealthy thriving central Manchester accountancy firm - which I guess Peter did not have the capacity to manage. We recognized that he was less bright than his parents and siblings - due, Mother told us, to a difficult birth that deprived him of oxygen. "Peter had been born blue - with the cord around his neck." In compensation, he was by far the best looking in the family, six-feet tall with a taut Greek god physique and blond hair. And he was affable; popular with the ladies and with many friends. Everybody liked him.
Peter's main fault, obvious from early childhood, was obstinacy and stubbornness. He was difficult to persuade, dissuade or reason with. Peter was hampered by fixed-ideas. It was this trait that finished him off. Although he had several symptoms of lung cancer - he could still stubbornly function and drive his taxi. It was only when the cancer blocked his throat and stopped him swallowing that he consulted a doctor. Within a few weeks he was admitted to Stepping Hill Hospital, where it was decided his cancer could not be treated. On my few visits, it was obvious that even at 63 years old, he was the nurses' favorite. His good looks and good nature stayed with him to the end. His two wives and children moved him to a hospice in Heald-Green where he had great palliative care - and retained his good-humour; like his father, trotting out really bad puns in place of deep conversation.
His most regular visitor was brother Martin, just one year younger, with whom as children he had shared a bedroom. Martin always looked after him. Peter and I had a few conversations at the hospice, which made it clear to me that he had no religious or overtly philosophical thoughts. The next world did not preoccupy him. He approached death without fear or heightened emotions. It was inevitable, we are all going to die, he accepted it. He died quietly, on 26th April 2008, aged 63, surrounded by his family, including both wives. How very civilized.
When Peter arrived in heaven - he was undoubtedly eternally reconciled with Mother - and lived happily ever after.
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