Ash and carry

The death of a dear and much-loved aunt saddens Philip howard, although loss, he finds, has many manifestations

The past few months have not been great. My wonderful Aunt Susan died. She was gentle and kind, beautiful and sassy. I adored her. She was actually born an aunt, being two years younger than my elder sister. My grandfather had remarried in his fifties. But she was more of a sister to me than an aunt. She was clever, too, having read english at Cambridge. She loved poetry and could recite reams of it, from Shakespeare to Betjeman. She loved nature and flowers and travel, especially Venice, but, above all, loved people and people loved her.

As the news of her death percolated out, so many people came forward to offer their condolences, not least our friend esmerelda, formerly the well-endowed White Witch of Woolsington, now the well-endowed White Witch of Corbridge. “Divvent wurry, Pet,” she advised my grieving cousin in her finest Geordie. “Yer Mam’s alreet. She’s gannin through the light to the other side. She says she’s not that keen ta be burned, but si lang as ye put er in with her Da, it al all be fine. Yer Gran’s been on, too. Says she sick of being in the cellar and wants to be with yer Da, too.”

Whilst The Aunt had bishops of all denominations among her admirers, she was not averse to the odd bit of crystal-ball gazing and always had a witch or two in tow. She entered my life about 25 years ago, having been poorly treated by my father. But we hit it off immediately, so much so that on her second visit she arrived with a large oak box containing her mother’s ashes. She insisted that, for safekeeping, they should be kept in my gun safe until we arranged for them to be interred with my grandfather. “Mummy so loved it here,” she exclaimed. And who was I to argue. But, unfortunately, the remains remain.

I was discussing this with my builder friend, James, who told me that he had also had ashes problems. his late father had numerous wives, culminating in the fourth, a buxom hungarian fitness instructor. Following the reading of the will at a favourite Italian restaurant in Bayswater, she immediately departed with all the money, never to be seen again. A few years later, James returned to the restaurant. he walked in to be greeted with a cry of joy from the maître d’. “Ah, Signor James! You come for Daddy.” Yes, he replied, he had been here for his father’s wake. “No, no – you come for Daddy,” he exclaimed. No, he retorted, I’ve come for lunch.

The old sommelier appeared with the wine list and, seeing James, threw out his arms wailing, “Oh, Mr James, you are here for Daddy, you come.”

And, turning to the rest of the restaurant, shouts: “he come for Daddy.”

“Look,” James muttered to the waiter, “I haven’t come for Daddy, Daddy’s dead. We had the wake here but Daddy dead, gone.”

“No!” shouted the waiter. “Daddy not gone, Daddy here. Come, come,” he howled, dragging my friend by his sleeve towards a broom cupboard. “We find Daddy!”

And there in the broom cupboard was a small oak casket of ashes, on which his father’s name was embossed. It had been left by the hungarian fitness instructor in her rush to the airport.

We are going to mix The Aunt’s ashes with those of her mother and bury them with my grandfather. I confess, there was a slight hiccup in the proceedings when the day after the funeral a terrible hullabaloo occurred. Where was The Aunt? As is the modern way, it was decided to celebrate the life rather than watch the end. Fortunately, Terry the undertaker arrived a day or two later clutching the wooden casket and then presenting it to my somewhat embarrassed cousin. We checked with Terry that it really was The Aunt. And esmerelda checked with The Aunt herself and it was verified.

I read that tears are the deepest corporeal manifestation of the grief we feel for that physical loss we have suffered. But, also, someone never truly dies as long as there are people left who love them. I will miss her.

‘No! Daddy not gone, Daddy here. Come, come,’ he howled, dragging my friend by his sleeve towards a broom cupboard