This is, in part, the Tribute to my mother
which I read at her funeral
on Wednesday 17th April, 1996
When Mum died, Dad and I found at the back of her address book the names
of those close to her who had died, and the dates. In addition, she had written
three quotations that - clearly - meant a lot to her, and consoled her when she
was thinking of those close to her who had gone before.
The first of these was from Psalm 103:
"As for man, his days are like grass; he flourishes like a flower of
the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it
no more."
This has always struck me as very sad and bleak and - although Mum clearly
found it a help to meditation and prayer - thinking of her, and all she meant to
so many people, I can't agree. The flower of the field that was my Mum, Eth,
that is gone - but it will always have its place in our minds and memories and
hearts.
Mum always worked, and her work was always in those jobs that contribute
to the smooth running of our everyday lives. The sort of jobs that might be
disregarded, but are missed when they are done badly or not at all. But Mum did
them all well. At different times, among other things, she was a telephonist, a
shop assistant, a solicitor's clerk, and, for longest of all, a school
secretary. She loved working and constantly looked for ways to fill up her time.
Even when we lived in Aden and everyone sweltered in the desert heat, when you
could have spent every afternoon lazing at the beach, Mum qualified as a Tawny
Owl and devoted time every week to amusing and instructing a group of small
girls.
She created things of beauty - not the sort that hung in a gallery, but
actions of creation that showed her very womanly skills. Her knitting and her
sewing skills were famed among her friends throughout her life. So many lovely
sweaters and cardigans, clothes of all sorts, wonderful meals cooked for friends
and relatives. Yet she undervalued her skills. When, in her last months, she was
planning to move into a retirement hotel, she was racking her brains for gifts
for the friends and neighbours who had done so much for her. I suggested that
she should knit something for them, or perhaps make a rug.
"Would they really like that?" she asked me dubiously. I assured
her they would, and it is such a waste that those sweaters and rugs will never
be made, for they would have brought so much pleasure to Mum, and so much
delight for the recipients.
Yet that shows another aspect of Mum - her modesty, and it brings me to
the second quotation, which comes from Addison's play, Cato:
"'Tis not in mortals to command success,
But we'll do more,
Sempronius; we'll deserve it."
Mum never commanded success - if by that we mean that she expected success
to come automatically. She wanted to deserve everything - for everything she
achieved in life to be a reward for her efforts. She sometimes found it hard to
accept presents without making a return - she worried she hadn't done anything
to deserve them.
But Mum worried about everything - particularly other people. She never
worried about herself. This was, after all, the woman who drove home through the
rush hour from a hospital while having a heart attack because, as she told me, "I
didn't want to worry the nurses."
Mum worried about her acquaintances, her friends and above all her family.
Even when she was being taken into intensive care after a near-fatal balloon
accident in South Africa, she was anxiously telling the nurses to check that Dad
had his heart pills. The nurses told her they had rarely seen such devotion -
perhaps they had also heard the other side - how Dad had crouched over her
unconscious body for two hours in a tropical thunderstorm, although injured
himself, to protect her from the elements.
Because the love between my parents was the solid rock on which all else
rested. Everyone who knew them commented on it. Even in the retirement hotel,
where they had lived together for such a short time, their love for each other
had become a by-word.
The final quotation Mum selected to guide her thoughts was from Christina
Rosetti, and it is this:
"Yet if you should forget me for a while, and afterwards remember, do
not grieve ... better by far that you should forget and smile than that you
should remember and be sad."
Yet, although we are sad today, I don't want to remember Mum with sadness.
She was a person who gave a lot of happiness, and enjoyed a lot of happiness
too. I want to remember her and smile because of the happiness those memories
give me.