The Worst Funeral

December 2023

Hello my friend,

How are you?

As we edge towards new year’s eve, I thought it time for the first proper Short Tall Letter to wing its way to you.

Just as Big Ben strikes out its twelve dongs in the UK I shall be mid-air, somewhere over Russia, en route to Australia. We will lose the first day of the year somewhere along the way and arrive into Sydney on the second of January. This time travelling will never cease to amaze me; this vanishing of hours and jumping into the future. It reminds me of the tattoo on Judi Dench’s wrist, ‘Carpe diem’ which means seize the day, or rather, all we have is now.

So, I wanted to write and let you know that Gill died. She lived on the same floor as me in the block, in the one bedroom flat just right of the lift. She resided on her own, but was not an alone kind of person. Often, she spoke of her sister and niece. She had a special thick shoe for one of her feet, which made her rock as she walked with the help of her stick. Her straight grey hair was brushed to the side, cut just under her ears, like an acorn cup. She loved charity shop shopping on days out to Bournemouth. She would collect ‘finds’ and bring them back home. Her eyes held a soft light and, although she was churchy, she didn’t preach or flinch away from our lesbianism.

Behind her front door I sensed was a fair bit of chaos. She often hinted at how she must tidy up, or sort things out, in a way which I knew was too massive to tackle. She would ask how I was, and I always chose to tell her what I was up to, from going to see a film or writing something new. I wanted to give her the details of my life, instead of offering up small talk. I learnt this from David Sedaris who emphasises how he never misses an opportunity to engage people in different types of conversation. Instead of saying ‘How are you?’ which will mostly generate ‘OK’ as an answer, he’ll ask a question which instigates more interesting conversations like, ‘do you know anyone who uses a wheelchair?’ Or, ‘do you like drinking water?’ One day, with this in mind upon meeting Gill at the bus stop, I wanted to show her she mattered. So I asked her what was the best thing she’d ever found in a charity shop.

‘Plates,’ she said. ‘Interesting crockery.’

‘Why?’ I’d asked.

‘Because I like them.’

‘What is it you like about them?’

‘They are like treasure from other people’s lives.’ Unfortunately, Gill did not say this last bit. This would have been too poetic, too revealing. She just said she liked plates from charity shops, that’s all. These are the things I remember about Gill. And every time I wait for the lift I stare at her front door, and notice how scratched and silent it is.

The day we went to Gill’s funeral, we expected to be just two of the many people from our block of flats. A poster had been put up on the communal notice board, and several neighbours had expressed shock. We thought upset and emotional outpouring implied they would attend the funeral. As we walked down the familiar tree-lined path of the Crematorium, past the gravestones of the indecipherably dead, we arrived at the chapel. A small crowd had gathered, and were all chatting. We knew no one. When the coffin arrived, one woman pressed a hanky to the corner of her eye. A young girl wearing thick glasses peered up at her mother as the coffin was lifted out. I watched to see if there was a family resemblance, or any other clue as to their relationship to Gill. Nothing about nobody showed itself.

When Pachabel’s Canon in D had finished, the vicar began the service, explaining how he had only met Gill once. He was new to the parish, yet, he said, she had made a lasting impression on him. As he spoke he had a strange smile on his lips. There was a bible reading, something about ‘My Father’s house has many rooms’ and there being a place for Gill in one of them, but she had to go through Jesus to get to The Father. It sounded like Gill still had some work to do, some kind of complex admin if she was going to get to The Father. As I listened on, stopping myself from eye-rolling, I waited for the stories of Gill. Alive and vibrant Gill. I wanted the earthbound stories. But the only personal detail mentioned by the vicar was how Gill ‘loved her nosh’ noted on the one time they had met over a buffet. There was not one personal anecdote, no back story about her childhood, or mention of loved ones; there was only God and Jesus and then some more God. The word ‘humble’ became over-used. It was like the funeral of a nobody when in fact our Gill was lively, funny, interesting and interested.

At the end, as the Christian rock ballad ‘I Will Rise’ played us out the chapel, I saw the young family with the daughter circling round the vicar. It turned out he was new to the parish and this had been his first funeral. There was a stage door flutter to the way the mother edged so close to him. He was lamenting how he had fluffed his lines, and she flocked closer, enthusing, ‘Oh no vicar, you were wonderful.’

Briskly I walked away, as quick from the ‘waterfall of remembrance’ as I could. My father’s funeral had taken place here a few years back, along with the funeral of a young friend and all my grandparents. I felt angry at the vicar for his lack of care, lack of stories gathered, how her family mustn’t have thought to collect the stories of Gill.

That evening, me and Min raised a toast to Gill. We said out loud all the things we liked about her: How she was accepting, open, game, and chatty. A bit later, a Harlequin ladybird appeared on the lounge window, ready to hibernate inside the lip of the ledge until spring.

It’s made me think about how I’m going to collect the stories of the ones I love and the ones I like. How I’m going to write them down. Maybe even the ones I don’t like that much (but can come in handy for other occasions).

Isn’t it worth trying to record the love for later on? We’ve all got to find a way out and back in to our pasts eventually.

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Thank you for reading my new Short Tall Letter. Happy new year to you, my friend, whatever time zone you’re in.

Write soon and keep your pens inky.

Love Karen x

P.S For those who wish to upgrade to support my writing and get the bonus of watching my first film, a sort of bedtime story, ‘Dear Alan Bennett’. This is a letter about my dad Alan when he was diagnosed with Lewy Body syndrome and was my way of understanding that time. It was published in Volume One of The Letters Page. For this film I have recorded myself in my writing office for prosperity, so please do don your dressing gown and join me:

And you can write back to me here: