I’d washed the car for the occasion, but it rained again on Friday, liquefying the mud that had started to dry in the potholes, so that by the time I got to Lincoln I wondered why I’d bothered.
The day was grey with the drizzle interrupted only by periods of actual rain, and the cloudbase persistently low. There would be no Red Arrows; it wasn’t a day for flying.
I’d bought a silk RAF tie to go with the black suit; a purple rose in my buttonhole.
The funeral director told me where to stand, and then my Uncle John came over.
“Nobody told me… I want to carry, too.”
Then Uncle Bill walked up. “Yes. Me too.”
The director began his briefing again.
“When the casket comes out you put your hands here—” he said.
“No,” said Bill, “It’s not the ‘casket’. It’s our brother.” I nodded.
Then,
“Thank you,” and dad came out of the hearse, for the last leg of his final journey. We held him, then lifted him onto our shoulders.
Bill and I linked arms; John was front right, with the only professional pallbearer in front of me.
“Thank you,” again, then, “Left, right, left… good.”
We lowered him onto the catafalque—Bill is the tallest of all of us, so I had to take most of the weight for a moment, but we managed the job smoothly enough: the funeral director commended us at least three times for doing a good job. Writing this, I’ve suddenly realized why my right wrist—injured a month ago—suddenly is hurting again.
I found a place between my daughters on the front row, picked up the order of service. We sang I Vow to Thee My Country—at least, some voices were piped and some of the mourners sang; every time I opened my mouth to try to form words I cried and nothing more would come out.
Afterwards, I ran to fetch my umbrella, and sheltered mam as she leaned on my arm back to to my sister’s car. We drove past the Bomber Command memorial and into Waddington for the wake. Brown food and poor beer. But it was good to reconnect with my uncles, at least.
Then the long drive home, raining most of the way but with a brightening of the sky as I approached North Weald.
There were no Red Arrows on Friday. But they will fly again.
Bye, dad.
