Saying Goodbye

Funerals are for the living. My friend Ken Brown planned his, with his daughter, Abi, and his local vicar, down to the last hymn. It was a glorious day on Friday 13^th June; a date he would have smiled about, as we met at Adam’s and then walked up Loampit Vale to St John’s Church. Apart from me, all the men were suited and booted. Although I’d expected to wear something loud (and I have worn a Hawaiian shirt to a funeral before) I compromised on a floral patterned white shirt. And yes, if you can see the picture, the obvious joke was made. 

We assembled awkwardly to greet people outside the church, with lots of acquaintances renewed. The bells were ringing, competing with the high-pitched calls of the swifts; a throwback to the last conversation I’d had with Ken. 

Eventually the hearse arrived and the vicar asked us to go inside. By an accident, some of us ended up in the second to front pew. As Ken’s family filled one side, we were at the front. Not something we’d have planned, but never mind. There was a wide mix of people there, who knew Ken through work, church, socialising, socialism, university, science fiction…. And yes, some of those circles overlapped. 

The service started with the coffin being brought in while scripture was read. Ken had designed this service for the living, but particularly those who shared his beliefs. I’ve identified as an atheist since my late teens, but I have no problem with this. Equally, I hope my lack of religion gets reflected in mine, though to be honest; it matters far more to those who live on. There were a lot of clergy, but they all seemed very friendly. Next was a very long hymn that was one of Ken’s favourites. As a non-believer, I’m awkward singing in church to start with. I also find it impossible to sing along to a church organ and end up growling in a quiet low voice.  It didn’t help that none of us knew the hymn (I’ve looked it up, it was “And can it be”). Prayers and readings followed, including Ken’s mum reading Psalm 23.  The next song was Jerusalem. At least I knew it and felt quite happy singing it. It’s a song I’ve discussed with Ken before, because it asks leading questions about Jesus’ presence in England all of which merit a firm negative answer. But the beauty of Blake’s Jerusalem is that it speaks of a real-world heaven in this life; that we can resolve our problems and live together in a New Jerusalem. Ken always took this to mean socialism, so I joined in, probably a bit flat and a bit loud. 

There followed more readings and tributes, from family and friends. I admire them all, it is no mean feat to get up and speak about someone you have lost and I could feel the emotion as Ken’s sister, Sarah,  Abi and friends spoke of this knowledgeable, lovely man. 

More hymns and prayers followed, then communion. The service was meant to end on “The Red Flag”, which ended up being sung at the graveside. Later the vicar told us that it was simply because the organist didn’t have the music. I would have happily belted it out a capella had I known and I daresay the same goes for many of us there. Ah well. We left, I shook hands with a bishop and we meandered down to the pub for the wake.

It was what he would have wanted. 

As an atheist humanist, I have to say I really enjoyed Ken’s funeral. It was heavy on the religion, but it would have been false without it; Ken’s faith was always there. Even on beer festival camping trips he would disappear off to visit a church. The sermon was good, talking of how Ken had made his peace with God. He was remarkably calm the last times I saw him, but then nothing ever seemed to faze him.  I’ve been to too many religious funerals which seem to run as if by numbers. I don’t need to share the beliefs to enjoy the love and care in evidence at Ken’s. 

It was a fitting way to say goodbye. I already miss my chats with him. I miss the things we shared and regret the things we will never come to share.

Ken Brown: An Appreciation

I can’t remember exactly when I first met Ken, although I can place a rough time and an exact place: around 1990-1 in the Labour Club in Lewisham. I seem to recall Ken had just moved up from Brighton and there were a lot of fellow Brightonians who drank there. 

He was an enigma, a man who it was hard to pigeonhole and impossible to dislike. He moved in circles, which sometimes overlapped. It’s always a joy to talk with someone who knows both how to discuss and understands where you are coming from even if they don’t agree with you. Ken was that man (to be fair, at that time in the Lewisham Labour Club there were probably several people who could also be described this way). 

He told us he was ill last autumn. It was easy to see something was up – he lost weight and stopped drinking and smoking, at least for a bit. It was also obvious it was pretty serious, though I was not expecting the sudden decline, barely six months later that has robbed us of him. Sometime after Christmas, he hinted he’d like to go bird-watching again – something we’d done in the past but hadn’t fitted into our busy schedules for a while. It was on my mental to do list – probably somewhere along the North Kent marshes or the RSPB place at Rainham. As you can guess, events overtook it. We talked about birds when we last spoke, just a few days ago. Occasionally he could see one above the trees from his hospital window. I had seen the first swift of the year the day before, on my way to the pub, screeching high up, sickle-shapes against a vivid sky that promised storms and worse; but no matter, I defy anyone not to have their spirits raised by the first swift of spring. At the pub I saw Abi, Ken’s daughter, and learnt the gravity of the situation. Of course, Ken was expecting the swifts to have arrived. “Always see them by May 14^th.” 

Birds were not his specialist subject, but he still knew an awful lot. Botany and microbiology were specialisms. But his interests were far and wide. Politics, history, science, computing, religion: being with Ken (which usually meant drinking with Ken) was like being with a one-man curriculum. He even got into football, late, going along to Millwall like a good proportion of the regulars in our local. He was interested in so much, that ability to go off at a tangent is something I probably share. Good for solving problems, not so if you want how to solve it documented. 

He could also appreciate and play music. He would pick up an instrument and get a sound out of it that made you think he’d been doing it for ages. Then he’d put it down again and wander off in search of something else. He had a broad knowledge of the stuff he knew, whether it was classical, folk or lovers’ rock: not a combination anyone would expect, unless they’d met Ken. 

Obviously, we had our disagreements. On politics, his attachment to Labour was tribal: his dad had been a councillor and it was obvious that Blair’s warmongering was something that personally pained him. His socialism was not revolutionary, but what revolutionaries sometimes miss is that behaving decently to other human beings that disagree with you is actually a good idea. Nor did I ever know him not stand up for his principles. 

On football, we supported teams who were rivals; though I have to say personally I’ve no particular beef against Millwall. Religion was perhaps our biggest disagreement: I am a humanist and atheist; Ken was a devout Evangelical Anglican. I won’t pretend I understand the doctrinal differences between the various strands of Christianity. And I won’t pretend that I wasn’t surprised that someone with a rational, scientific background such as Ken could also be a believer. But he was and somehow reconciled it in a way that was a good advert for Christianity. He was tolerant and had theological reasons for disagreeing with other believers, often the sort of Christians which are so easy for people like me to caricature. 

We disagreed on a lot, but always respectfully. It was a pleasure to disagree with him as I always learnt something.  

As I said, circles. It’s funny how they overlap. Through work, politics, birds, sport, beer, talking to the early hours. He was an avid reader particularly of science fiction. I sent him a story, it seemed like I would always get a chance to ask him what he thought about it. Alas, no. 

Farewell, friend, comrade, companion.

Memorial

It was a beautiful early spring morning. The sun’s rays warmed Jim as he walked the dogs over the recreation ground. The light green buds were poised to burst open, the birds chattered. Jim smiled as he thought about his early retirement later that month. He would get to spend more time with the grandchildren or on the allotment.

            He approached the house and saw Nettie at the window. Her face was white and she looked like she’d been crying. Jim’s brow furrowed and he quickened his pace, up the steps. She opened the door.

            'Oh Jim, it's Davey... he's been killed!' she sobbed.

            Jim felt as if he was being suffocated.

            'How? What?' he spluttered.

            'At work. There's been an accident they said. A fork-lift...' she trailed off. Jim sank down onto the stairs.

Jim's retirement has not taken the route he expected. He's hardly been on the allotment, though he has been helping Josie with the kids. They've all pulled together. They’ve had to. The kids don't understand where their dad has gone, and Nettie has been withdrawn and drained. She's not been sleeping at all. He's had to be strong. And now, this is the end. He is sitting on the steps outside the coroner’s court, salty tears dripping onto his best suit. Angry and confused and defeated. The evidence at the inquest was dry and empty, his son a walk-on character in a bigger drama. The villains, company directors all in expensive suits, gave evasive answers and joked among themselves when they thought no one was looking. His lawyer has already said that the CPS don't think a prosecution is likely. He is at the end of his tether when a group of Davey's mates approach. He pulls himself together one more time.

            The first to speak is tall, with a shaven head, pierced eyebrow and tattoos.

            'Mr Fowler, we're some of Davey's mates. We're disgusted by what's happened. We're angry. And we want to talk to you about what we're going to do next.'

The policeman's patience was wearing thin. Jim could see it in his eyes. The youngsters were right. No resources to keep a workplace safe and healthy. Loads to protect the profits of the firm that killed Davey. Jim glanced across at the row of people locked to the factory gate.  He was surprised at how resourceful Davey's mates have been, getting bike locks and being here at 6am before the early shift started. They dealt with the press. There are cameras all over the place.  He didn't know his son as well as he thought he did and learns more every day. Every day he feels heartache, but also pride. Pride in his son, and that his friends think so much of him they will risk so much for his memory.

The Troubles of Vincent Malone

'The defendant will rise.'

            Vince felt his mouth go dry and his stomach tense. He glanced over at Kitty in the gallery and tried to lose himself in her deep brown eyes. He had to tear his gaze away. The judge was talking, but Vince was thinking about how he'd let her down, how he'd miss the kids, how she'd miss his money coming in, the sense of security she got from having a man in the house.

            The sonorous tone of the judge forced his attention back to the courtroom. It was a long list of his failures and past lapses. He heard his full name, which was only ever used when he was in trouble; now the bit he was dreading. Five years! That was longer than he'd expected - the bastard had taken no notice of how Copeland had driven Gerry to kill himself. This wasn't on. Numb, he looked over at Kitty – all colour had drained from her face. Her sister was holding her. Vince mouthed 'I love you' as he was taken down to the cells.

            Three days later, after he had revisited the humiliations of processing at Pentonville, Vince met his lawyer, Michael Thomas. Thomas was tall, greying at his temples with restless dark eyes.

            'Hello, Vince,' he said, uneasily. Vince smiled.

            'It's not your fault, Michael. The bastard had it in for me and my previous went against me.’

Michael’s shoulders relaxed.

‘Now what are my chances at appeal?' asked Vince.

            'Well, the sentence is very high and we can argue that the judge didn't take the extenuating circumstances into account,' said Michael.

            'I can't stay inside for five years, Michael. Kitty's been really good to me, straightened me out, kept me clean. She's got the kids to think about, and Barney's autistic. It's a lot for her to cope with and I'm scared I'll lose her.'

            'OK Vince, I'll get onto it. We've got grounds.'

            'I don't know what I'll do.' Vince sat and shook his head.

            Over the next few weeks, Vince settled into the prison routine. He had a visit from Kitty and the kids, which made his day. Kitty gave him every indication that she would stick by him, but warned him not to mess her about. Barney was fidgeting and wobbling his chair. The screws kept looking daggers. Kitty said she'd explained about his condition on the way in, but it was rarely any use.  Vince’s mood was good as he asked for another visiting order and thanked his stars he was in a local prison.

            Roger Maplethorpe picked up the files from his desk. The governor had asked for twelve names to transfer to the Isle of Wight. He had eighteen files in front of him. He was a thorough, conscientious man, which meant it would take a few hours to check on these men's circumstances and who would suffer most from a move to the relatively inaccessible Isle of Wight. He didn't notice the loose sheet of paper fall out of the last file and slip down the gap between his desk and the next.

            Maplethorpe began reading the files, placing those with a direct local family connection on the left, others on the right.  After sixteen files, he had eleven to transfer. File seventeen was Salvador Fernandez, a Colombian national with a conviction for drug smuggling. There were lots of supporting letters from the man's local priest, his probation officer and community groups. He had no obvious family mentioned, but Maplethorpe knew they might actually be here, just not legally. Any letters in support of Fernandez would not mention this.

            He decided to see what was in the last file. Vincent Malone, GBH. Against a supervisor in the sorting office. Maplethorpe frowned.  The file was quite thin, he'd not long been inside, no next of kin information. There was nothing in the file to indicate Malone would suffer from loss of contact if he was moved. He put the manilla file headed Malone BZ8542 in the right hand pile and allowed himself some inner congratulations for reading between the lines on the Fernandez case.

            Vince rose and started washing. The screws would come banging on the door in a few minutes and he liked to be ready. His cell-mate Ray was still snoring. A minute later there was the customary clang on the door, but then the latch slid back and prison officer Norris shouted through.

            'Malone, get your stuff together, you're moving out!'

            'You what?' replied Vince. 'I've got a visit this afternoon.'

            'Nothing to do with me, Malone, Governor's orders. You're off across the water.' Vince's heart sank. That meant one of the prisons on the Isle of Wight. It wasn't just their reputation as hard places to serve time, it meant there was no way Kitty would be able to visit.

            'Coach leaves at 11. You can call your missus and let her know, but you're on that bus.'

            Vince blagged a phonecard off Ray and headed to the phones as soon as they were let out. Kitty would be just getting ready to drop the kids at school. This wasn't going to be easy. She answered.

            'Hello love,' Vince said.

            'Oh sweetheart, what you doin' callin' me when I'll see you this afternoon?' She knew how hard it was to score phone cards. Vince hesitated. 'Vince?' There was uncertainty in her voice now.

            'They're moving me, Kitty.'

            'Where?' she asked.

            'Parkhurst.' It wasn't called Parkhurst any more.

            'Bloody hell, Vince! What did you do?' He could hear her anger. His shoulders sagged.

            'I didn't do anything, love, I swear. I was told this morning. I don't know why they're moving me, I really don't. I wanted you to know so you didn't come over and find me gone... '

            'This is just too much to cope with at the moment. First you get sent down, now you're out of reach. I know it ain't far but it's too far with Barney the way he is. I can't take him that far in a day.' Vince sighed. He knew from experience her anger would subside and there was nothing to be said.

            'I've gotta go. I'll be in touch.' She sounded exasperated.

            'OK love, bye,' Vince replied. He turned away in a daze, wondering how much worse things could get.

             

            Four weeks ago, Vince was transferred to the Isle of Wight. He has lost weight, his hair is untidy and his face covered in coarse stubble. He trudged into the yard at exercise time, his shoulders drooped inside his creased prison-issue sweatshirt. He kept his eyes on the ground, avoiding eye contact with his fellow cons.

            'Alright, mate.' He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Denis King, an old lag he had got to know.  Den has been in and out of gaol since the mid seventies. First sent down for what he called 'armed resistance', he has been back plenty of times for 'crimes of necessity'. As he put it, 'I needed money and drugs, so I took them. Unfortunately, I got caught.'

            'Hello Den.' Vince tried to summon up enthusiasm but his voice betrayed him.

            'How you doing?' Den asked in his broad Scottish accent.

            'Not too good, mate,' Vince replied.

            'You did a good thing, you know, tackling that bully. Just because the law disnae see it that way.' Den said.

            'I know he needed tackling, but look at what it's cost me,' said Vince, amazed at the emotion he found.

            'I know, I know. But doing the right thing always costs. If you fight against an injustice, you can expect the people who benefit from that injustice to hit back. Where was the union when all this bullying was going on?' Den asked.

            'They were useless. The rep was in Copeland's pocket. It blew up a bit before the trial but they didn't support me at all,' Vince said.

            'Well, they should've.' Den was emphatic. 'You need to think about what you need, Vince. I can have words with people on the outside to get you some support, but you have to take the first step. Moping around won't help. Sort yourself out.'

            It was nearly yard-in. Vince had a lot to think about.

            'Cheers, mate,' he said to Den as he headed back to his cell.

            Vince steadied his hand and carefully drew the brightly coloured disposable razor up his neck to his chin. He rinsed out the coarse bristles in the bowl that, not long ago, he had used for his cornflakes and repeated the process. He combed his hair and checked the results in the tiny mirror. He smiled at his reflection and thought of Kitty. He had a goal.