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.