An East End Farewell

by Yvette Venables

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Joy, I’m Stan,’ I said, offering her my hand.

  As she took my introduction she said, ‘Oh, I can see the resemblance with your uncle. Fine figure of a man he is, and so charming!’ she said coyly. ‘Come in, come in.’

  I could think of a lot of adjectives that would fit the bill but ‘charming’ wasn’t one of them. So many women used to say that about him; shame they didn’t work with the miserable old bugger; that would’ve shattered their illusions.

  She led me into her delightful little sitting room, and pointed to an armchair. ‘Please sit down. May I offer you a small sherry, or maybe you would prefer tea? If it helps you to decide, I’m having a sherry,’ she added.

  ‘In that case, it would be rude of me not to join you, wouldn’t it?’ I said, smiling.

  ‘It would indeed!’ she replied warmly, as she went over to her drinks cabinet and poured two Bristol Cream sherries. As we drank, she talked about all sorts of subjects, from the weather to the economy.

  She continued for quite some time, then paused. ‘Oh, Stan, hark at me wittering on! You don’t want to sit chatting to me all day. I suppose we should get on with business.’

  She hesitated, and I could see she was trying to compose herself.

  ‘I told you on the phone that Bertie had died last night. I knew he was very ill, but you always think where there’s life there’s hope, don’t you,’ she said sadly.

  ‘Yes, of course you do, and miracles do sometimes happen,’ I said sympathetically.

  ‘Yes, you do hear about things like that, but it wasn’t to be. I don’t know how I’ll go on without him.’ She stopped to wipe her eyes and blow her nose.

  ‘Take your time, Mrs Joy, there’s no rush. It’s obviously a very difficult time for you.’

  ‘You’re very kind, Stan. Thank you for being so understanding. You see, since I lost my mother, father and my darling husband, Auguste, we’ve been constant companions to each other. I’d like to show him how much I . . . love him by giving him the best send-off I can,’ she explained.

  ‘Of course, and you know that we’re here to fulfil your wishes. How do you feel? Are you ready? As I said, there’s absolutely no rush.’

  ‘No, no. I’m ready as I’ll ever be. We should get started,’ she said, biting her lip, as she twisted her handkerchief in her hands.

  ‘Shall we start with the casket? As you’re aware, we make them from elm or oak.’

  ‘I would like the elm, as it’s lighter and I think he’d like that. Oh, and I would like the ruffles to be inside,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, of course, what colour would you like? Purple perhaps?’ I suggested.

  ‘Oh no, that’s far too dark!’ she said. ‘I’d like the palest of blues, could you do that?’

  ‘Yes, pale blue’s not a problem. We’d normally use this for babies and small children, but if that’s what you’d prefer,’ I said as I wrote down the details. ‘Have you a vicar or priest you’d like to conduct the service?’ I asked.

  ‘Funnily enough, I spoke to Father Goose this morning – he’s an old family friend – and he’s quite happy to do it,’ she said.

  ‘Excellent! He’s wonderful; we use him a lot for our services. Now will it be burial or cremation?’

  ‘Oh, definitely a burial,’ she said.

  ‘Lastly, how many cars will you require?’

  ‘Only the one; there aren’t many of us left,’ she said wistfully.

  ‘OK. I think I have virtually everything I need. I assume Bertie is at the hospital. Could you tell me which one, so we can collect him for you?’

  ‘Hospital! No, no, he’s not in a hospital, Stan, he’s here. He died at home,’ she said, looking surprised.

  ‘Oh, my apologies,’ I said. ‘I just assumed . . . so he’s upstairs in bed, is he?’

  ‘No, no, he’s right here by my side where he’s always been.’ And with that she leant over the side of her armchair and lifted a blanket off the floor. ‘Here’s Bertie,’ she said.

  I couldn’t believe it! There, lying dead on its bed, was a Pekinese dog.

  She looked back at me. ‘You look shocked, Stan. You do conduct funerals for animals, don’t you?’ she asked questioningly.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course we do,’ I stuttered.

  ‘Oh, I just knew you would! That’s made me so happy. I can’t thank you enough.’ It was the first time I’d seen her smile. It was a lovely smile, and I could understand why Uncle had become smitten.

  ‘Would you like me to take him with me now?’

  ‘Oh, yes please, and could you bring him back tomorrow in his casket? Will you be able to make it in time?’ she asked, concerned.

  ‘No problem,’ I responded. ‘Tomorrow it is!’

  ‘One other thing,’ she said, getting up and walking outside.

  When she returned she was holding a box, and in the box was a blanket, brush, several toys, a photo of herself and Bertie in a frame and a paper scroll tied with a blue ribbon. ‘I would like you to place these in his casket, if it’s not a problem,’ she said.

  ‘Of course, but I think I’ll have to return to the shop and pick up our van so I can come back to collect Bertie and his things,’ I explained.

  ‘Oh, Stan, I’m sorry. I should have told you on the telephone. Then you could have come prepared. I’ve misled you, haven’t I? You thought it was a person I was calling about, didn’t you? I realised when you mentioned picking them up from hospital. Please forgive me for not having told you before,’ she said.

  ‘Absolutely not a problem. I won’t lie to you . . . I did think it was a person I was here to see you about, but everything’s fine. No need to apologise. I’ll head off now and be back within the hour.’ And with that I left to pick up the van. I popped in to tell Tom what had happened. We’d never buried an animal before and I wasn’t sure what his response would be, so I thought it best if I checked first.

  ‘How’d it go, boy? Was it her brother?’

  ‘No, it was Bertie?’ I said.

  ‘BERTIE? But Bertie’s her dog!’ he said, looking confused.

  ‘I know. She wants us to bury him,’ I said.

  I was trying to stop myself grinning, as his face was an absolute picture.’

  ‘WHAT! Bury the dog?’ he spluttered. ‘Christ Almighty,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘This’ll be a first . . . for me anyway. Your grandfather only buried one in his time. I remember him coming home and telling us he’d taken it to the Pet Cemetery at Victoria Gate in Hyde Park.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was one there; I only know of the one in Ilford. When was it opened?’

  ‘I think it was around 1880–81, around the time Father opened the shop,’ he said. ‘Prince George, the Duke of Cambridge, was the Ranger of the Park. By all accounts he was a colourful soul; was married to some actress or other. When her dog Prince died, he used his position and told the gatekeeper to give the dog a decent burial in the garden of his lodge. Course, once this was discovered all the society circles jumped on the bandwagon and wanted their pets buried there too.’

  ‘Perhaps she’ll want Bertie to be taken there,’ I said. ‘Is it still open?’

  ‘No, don’t think so. But what do you mean, perhaps she’ll want the dog taken there, haven’t you asked?’

  ‘I forgot . . . it threw me when I saw it was a dog,’ I said, waiting for the barrage.

  ‘You forgot to ask?’ he yelled. ‘What’ve you been doing round there? I bet you’ve been enjoying yourself, having cups of tea and a nice chat, haven’t you?’

  ‘We had Bristol Cream sherry actually,’ I answered.

  ‘Sherry . . . bloody hell, it gets worse! But how in heaven’s name can you forget basic questions like that? You’ve been doing it long enough!’ He stood there shaking his head, muttering ‘sodding Bristol Cream’ under his breath. He then looked back at me. ‘How many cars has she ordered?’

  ‘Only one,’ I said.

  ‘She knows that the dog can’t
be taken in the hearse, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Oh no, I didn’t think of that either!’ I said, horrified.

  ‘Sounds like you didn’t think of a lot of things. Well, you’d better make it clear when you go back. Explain it would be unethical but he can go with her in the car. Get around there now and get it sorted out and do it properly this time.’

  After being screamed at again – truthfully after nearly twenty years I had got used to it – I got in the van and headed back. There she was at her window again, and had opened the door before I’d even got out.

  As I walked in I said, ‘If you don’t mind, Mrs Joy, I just need to clear a few points up.’

  ‘Is there a problem? Have you changed your mind about burying Bertie?’

  ‘No, not at all. I just need to know where he’s being laid to rest.’

  ‘Oh, yes, we didn’t discuss that, did we? It’s a plot in the Ilford PDSA Pet Cemetery.’

  ‘I know the one, that’s fine. You also mentioned one car. Normally when we discuss cars the hearse is obviously included to carry the casket, but in this case I’m afraid we’ll not be able to take Bertie in the hearse. He’ll have to be put in the car with you and the other mourners. Is that OK?’

  ‘Of course it is. I perfectly understand. It wouldn’t be right, would it? There’ll be plenty of room, as it will only be myself, my brother and his wife. My niece was going to come but she has another appointment,’ she explained.

  ‘Well, that’s fine then. I’m glad we’ve got everything sorted out and you’re happy. When would you like the funeral to be held?’

  ‘Could we do it sooner rather than later? If you bring him home for the night tomorrow, could we do it on Wednesday? Would that be too quick?’

  ‘No, Wednesday’s fine. I shall drive you myself.’ I smiled.

  ‘That would be wonderful, thank you, Stan.’ She smiled back. Uncle was right. She was a lovely lady.

  ‘I’ll be on my way now,’ I said, as I bent down to lift up the basket containing Bertie. She was in tears. She stroked him, and said, ‘Goodbye, precious boy. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  I carried him to the van while she stood watching me from the doorway. She looked so sad. I did feel for her.

  After taking him down to the workshop, to let Jack see what size casket he would have to make, I thought I’d pop along to see Father Goose and have a word with him about Wednesday, and see if he wanted to travel with us to the cemetery.

  As I said before, Father Goose was a wonderful man. He’d been around our parish for many years, and during the war helped so many people through the Blitz. He also spent a lot of time helping at the boy’s mission, where homeless boys were housed. He was always cheerful and positive. In fact, he was a pleasure to spend time with.

  As I parked nearby, I saw him standing outside the parish church, with Reg, his assistant, although he was more like an adopted son. Poor Reg had been thrown onto the streets as a small child. He had a crippled leg and an unfortunate speech impediment, due to having no roof to the top of his mouth.

  I could see they were talking, but couldn’t hear what they were saying. As I got closer, I saw written on the church wall in large whitewashed letters: ‘Father Goose is a Prick’. How on earth could anyone write that about him? I couldn’t understand. There were lots of people who it could refer to, but he certainly wasn’t one of them.

  ‘Hello, dear chap, how are you today?’ said Father Goose, smiling.

  ‘That’s a disgrace, Father!’ I said angrily, pointing to the wall.

  ‘I know, I know, Stan, but what can you do?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But, do you know what . . . they’re not wrong, as I think I can be sometimes!’ he said, having a laugh about it.

  We then had a brief chat about Bertie and he was more than happy to travel with us in the car, so everything was fine.

  Jack made the casket that afternoon. I polished it and fitted the ruffles the following morning in the rear of the shop, as I thought it would attract too many questions if I did it in the front window.

  Before I placed Bertie in the casket I groomed him with his brush, placed his blanket at the bottom and laid him on top, putting his toys around him and the picture propped up by his head. I picked up the scroll to put between his paws, but as I was holding it I had an uncontrollable urge to read it. I thought it would be a poem but it wasn’t, it was a letter.

  My Precious Boy,

  I cannot believe you are gone. How lucky I was to have had you with me for so many wonderful years and how I shall miss seeing your lovely face every day when you run up to greet me when I awake or when I come back from shopping. I always loved that. You filled my empty heart and house with so much joy. You always managed to put a smile on my face, even when I thought I would never smile again.

  You have been there through my worst days, helping me through the darkness into the light with your constant friendship and love. I shall miss your little paw on my arm and your beautiful eyes longing me to feel better.

  Thank you for bringing such happiness into my life. You shall live in my heart until we are together again. I will cherish the day when I shall meet you and Daddy at the gates of Heaven. It consoles me to know that you two are together again.

  All my love,

  Your Mummy x

  I rolled it back up and slipped the ribbon back on. I stood there for a few minutes, thinking about what I had just read. Some people who aren’t animal lovers have no concept of the loss experienced when a family pet dies. How it can release feelings as powerful as when a human being dies. They’re never able to comprehend how a person can grieve so deeply for an animal and, more often than not, ridicule them.

  I took Bertie back that afternoon. Mrs Joy had cleared the sideboard and asked me to place him on top. She looked down at him, her handkerchief held up to her face. ‘I’m going to miss him so much.’

  I placed my hand on her shoulder. ‘At least you have your memories,’ I said.

  She looked at me sadly. ‘Do you know, Stan, after the losses I’ve had, I sometimes wish I didn’t have any. I know it sounds strange, but memories unfortunately do not bring me happiness. They bring me sorrow. Sorrow for what I have lost and will never have again. How I wish I could gain comfort in them as some people do. I do envy them. You know, more often than not I’ll sit here and think of the wonderful times I spent with my mother, father and husband, and of course Bertie, and as I look back on those lovely days instead of smiling I’ll cry. Sometimes I’ll cry so much I think I’ll never stop. But then I’ll think, if I didn’t have them what would I have? Life is a conundrum!’ She looked back at me. ‘You know, I’ve also thought, what if a doctor told me he could wipe my memory clean. What would my answer be? By the way I’m talking, it should be “yes”, but I wouldn’t hesitate in saying “no”, because, for all the pain they bring me, what would it show if I didn’t have them?’

  ‘A dull, boring, unfulfilled life,’ I answered.

  ‘Exactly!’ she said. ‘I’ve discovered that happiness and sorrow are eventual bedfellows, and the sorrow in my latter years sadly outweighs the happiness. But I suppose, as the saying goes, “That’s life.”’ And with that she let out a deep sigh.

  What could I say? I fully understood what she was saying, and trying to talk her round would be pointless, so we just stood in silence for a while.

  ‘Well, I didn’t expect to get into such a deep conversation,’ she said a few minutes later. ‘This is all you need, isn’t it? I must sound like a batty old woman!’

  ‘Not at all, Mrs Joy, I completely understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ she smiled, putting her hand on my arm. As she looked back at Bertie she said quietly. ‘He looks lovely, Stan. The casket and everything is perfect and I love the way you’ve placed the scroll between his paws. Thank you so very much,’ she said, looking at me through her tears.

  ‘I’m glad everything’s how you wanted it. I’ll leave you now and see you a
gain tomorrow at eleven.’

  ‘Yes, yes, see you tomorrow,’ she said, as she turned back to look at Bertie.

  I once again placed my hand on her shoulder. ‘Stay there. I’ll see myself out,’ I said and then left.

  The next day, her brother and sister-in-law were at the house, ready to go. They sat in the rear of the car and Mrs Joy sat in the front with Bertie by her side, where he’d always been, with her hand resting on the top of his casket.

  The short service was held around the graveside, conducted by Father Goose. A headstone had already been carved and was ready to be set.

  It read:

  BERTIE

  3.5.48–12.7.64

  My beloved friend and companion

  If tears could build a stairway,

  And memories a lane

  I’d walk right up to heaven

  To bring you back again.

  I’d seen this epitaph on quite a number of occasions over the years and it never failed to bring a tear to my eye.

  As we turned to walk back to the car, I noticed another one had drawn up about thirty yards away. I didn’t take much notice, as I thought it was somebody visiting another grave.

  Out of the car climbs a young woman around twenty years old, and she’s carrying something. Mrs Joy’s brother whispers something into her ear and she looks up towards the young woman and smiles. ‘Oh, Amelia, you managed to make it. How lovely of you. It’s my niece, Stan,’ she said.

  Amelia walked up to her aunt. ‘Hello, Auntie, I’ve got a surprise for you. Bertie thought that you might be lonely and asked me to give you this,’ she said, handing out a bundle. As the blanket fell away, poking its head out was a tiny Pekinese puppy.

  Mrs Joy let out a gasp. ‘Oh, Amelia! How kind of you, how . . . thoughtful! But I can’t . . . I just can’t take it . . . not now. I would feel as if I was betraying Bertie – that he could be replaced so easily.’ She then started to cry.