#bringmesunshine

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone

Silence the pianos and with the muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message “Betty’s dead”

Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves

Let the traffic policemen wear black gloves

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun

Pour away the oceans and sweep up the wood

Mum, granny, great-granny’s gone, as we always knew she would.

Well this is weird, isn’t it? As you know Betty didn’t leave extensive funeral instructions or, indeed, hardly any instructions at all. In fact, she was much more specific about what she didn’t want. She’d bemoan the waste of a penny needlessly spent or the value of a penny saved and was aghast at the expenditure at dad’s funeral. So here we are, thanks for coming, to send her on her way as best we can. If Sainsbury’s did own brand funerals I’m sure she would have had one.

The last five years have been a torrid time as mum’s deterioration into a dementia fog worsened. But let’s not define mum by the last five years, she was much more than that, and find some happier times to remember her by.

She certainly had her airs and graces but loved making mischief, she loved bossing dad about, she wasn’t averse to a bit of irreverence. She tried to poison me, you know. Twice.  On a visit to Sleaford she got Billy and Martha to help her make a crumble, with a purple crayon in it. When that didn’t work she tried again with a dismembered leg from one of Martha’s dolls. Famous in her kitchen for her Dundee cakes and my favourite rock solid, lumpy lemon meringue pie. She loved picnics and awful hats, she loved anything colourful, she loved her garden. Most of all she loved all her children, grandchildren, husbands wives and partners and was overjoyed to meet her great-grandchildren although she would wail “All boys, all boys, you would think one of them could have produced a girl!!” Martha/Vic/Amy, be warned. I think she loved the smallest children best, maybe something of the teacher in her. She loved it when the latest newborn grandson was plonked in her lap.

She loved her garden. There was a time when she could go round the garden and give you the Latin name to every shrub and flower. In her later years she loved to be driven along the front at Broughty Ferry, have a walk amongst the Rock Garden and pause for a moment at a bench in the sun. This would usually involve engaging some a hapless stranger in conversation too. Was it only last year that most of the family met at the little cafe there on her birthday? As a child I remember days out to Stately Homes or formal gardens and being put out of the car with instructions not to get in a mess. Of course, within minutes Dave would have splashed in a puddle, I’d stand in a cow pat and Liz would be perfect. I’ve a photo of mum and dad having a countryside picnic somewhere – dad dressed down for the occasion in his blazer, shirt and tie and mum in a white coat and court shoes.

She had green fingers. She could taking a cutting, stick it in a pot of garden mud and, hey presto, nine times out of ten it would flourish and bloom. Sue and I took a couple of tough, hardy Scottish rhubarb roots out of her garden to replant in Newark. How hard can it be to grow rhubarb? I’ll tell you. A few spindly stalks but mostly nothing, nada, zilch. Thanks mum for not passing on that gene.

We were asked if we wanted mum’s ashes. Dave and Liz said No, I said an immediate Yes. Of course, mum had to die sometime but I didn’t want her to go in the winter when the ground is hard and the plants are dead. I’m glad she went in the spring when the garden is coming back to life. So, I’m going to take mum’s ashes and sprinkle them on our vegetable patch and she can encourage new life and new things to grow. Mum will eventually get back to England and this year we’re going to have a bumper crop of Betty Tatties, Betty Beans and Betty Berries.

When we were clearing out Dad’s study I found a little booklet of poems. I’ll read one and then, as per mum’s wishes, we’ll have the lord’s prayer, then there will be a piece of music while Betty leaves us. Mum came to Scotland in 1964 and often said that she hadn’t had a decent green vegetable or felt properly warm since. Well mum, you’re going to be as hot as you’ve ever been in about an hour’s time I can assure you.

Do you feel downhearted or in need of friendly cheer

Come with me I’ll show you one who’ll lend a listening ear

Come with me to Betty’s for a cup of tea.

Maybe sometimes down a bit but hardly ever out

The kettle can soon be on, steam bubbling from the spout

Come along to Betty’s for a cup of tea.

Find the tea refreshing, with shortbread as a treat

Come and talk of family fun and fellowship so sweet

Come along to Betty’s, please say you’ll come with me

Yeah, let’s go round to Betty’s for a cup of tea.

Now the lord’s prayer, which we’ll do in silence. Many years ago I was at an RAF rugby player’s funeral. All blokes uncomfortable and not sure what to do. The vicar introduced it like this. If you don’t know how to pray think of it as a scrum. Prayer is making sense of the turmoil, get hold of the ball, hang on to it briefly then pass it out down the line. We’ll just have a minute now while we say our own private goodbye to Betty.

OK, Betty’s going to leave us now to a favourite tune. When you hear it I hope you’ll know what to do. Mum would love it. (Morecambe and Wise – Bring me Sunshine).

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