Modern Funeral

 

Last week I travelled to Staffordshire where I attended a funeral. I had met Uncle Lewis a couple of times in my life, both times very briefly. I knew almost nothing about this man but had the impression he'd been quite naughty in his time and was intrigued to hear what the memorial tribute would reveal about him. 

Uncle Lewis had arranged the disposal of his body with the Co-op, they let us know that his body was at the local store should anyone wish to go and visit him. 

Lewis's eldest nephew arranged the memorial service which was held in the boardroom of the assisted living complex where he had spent the last few years of his life. Guests were invited to get themselves a nice cup of tea and take a seat around the conference table. Several care staff were in attendance and a 'Room Safety Officer' who made sure that no more than 15 people were in the room, Lewis had had several domino chums and was popular with staff, I was there with some of my cousins and we soon exceeded the allowed number, latecomers had to peer in through the slightly opened glass doors.

The celebrant was a woman with a broad midlands accent, red lipstick and eyes sharply accented with black wings that pointed straight up to her eyebrows, she had discovered little about Lewis beyond a childhood near-drowning, some senior dominoes games and the fact that he liked to make his own bed. There was vague mention of travel and one precious memory offered by someone

he liked animals, he got butted in the back by a ram once and banged his face

This weekend I visited my parents

and came away laden with apples from the tree at the end of their back garden.  

Whenever I visit 'home' I enjoy looking at the end of the back garden, a movie behind my eyes plays through all the transformations it has undergone.

We moved to that house when I was three, one of the end corners of the garden was a site of constant change as Dad built a series of swings and seesaws, climbing frames and rabbit hutches for us. The top picture commemorates the single occasion, during our childhood, that my brother and I sat peaceabley next to each other - we have clearly been bribed to do this with ice lollies but nevertheless ...

I can also see the excavations of our neighbours the Garthwaites, who were about to install a swimming pool.

By the following year I have grown plaits, the hutch has been replaced by a seesaw and lollies are not enough to induce my brother and I to share space nicely. The neighbours have finished their pool - I remember watching them enjoying it. That little wire-and-stick plot divider was soon to be replaced by a properly tall, un-peek-overable wooden fence, presumably because they finally got tired of my gazing over yearningly at their cool, watery fun.

There were also two apple trees at the end of the garden, one is long gone allowing the other to become fat and gnarly, it still produces an abundance of bulbous green cooking apples.

This evening I peeled and thickly sliced some of those apples, tossed them briefly in a bubbling pan of butter, muscovado sugar,  a little salt then transferred the mix to an ovenproof dish. I combined thick jersey cream with two egg yolks and vanilla essence, poured that over the buttery apples, sprinkled on cinnamon then popped in a low oven for half an hour.