Why perfect the funeral is a JOYOUS KNEES-UP
Novelist MAGGIE ALDERSON couldn’t bear the thought of a sombre send-off for her vivacious mother — so the whole family threw the kind of party she’d always revelled in
NO ONE looks forward to a funeral — but at the end of a very long life, extremely well- lived and full of love, is it time for sadness or celebration?
When my mother died in June, aged 97, my siblings and I decided it was very much the latter.
We didn’t want it to be odd or embarrassing in any way, but to be as good a reflection of her as possible and an event she would have enjoyed. And, boy, did she love a party . . .
So we arranged with the crematorium to have our favourite photograph of her and our late father projected on to the wall during the service.
Taken in about 1965, she is wearing a gold lame cocktail dress and our father Doug is in black tie.
My mother is holding two champagne coupes in one hand (a ciggie in the other . . .), with Doug holding another glass to her lips. She is smiling as she sips, her eyes alight with characteristic, glamorous mischief.
I was determined my mother’s passing would not be marked with misery, the pomp of a traditional funeral.
For years, I was scarred by memories of my father’s funeral, when I was 24, which heaped more sadness on to my raw grief. He was only 63 when he died and my mother was so devastated she couldn’t bear to have anyone there apart from the immediate family.
So we sat in a cold crematorium, a huddle of five traumatised adults and one baby grandchild. Not even his sister was invited. No music, no eulogy, no tributes, no drinks afterwards.
It was terrible — and it felt like a betrayal of the wonderful man and respected doctor he had been. I bitterly regret that we kids didn’t have enough experience to know better. We bowed to our mother’s wishes, not realising grief had rendered her unable to make rational decisions.
But when the time came for us to arrange her funeral, we had 36 more years of life behind us and a better understanding of how a good send-off can support those left behind, and making a funeral reflect the person being mourned can make the event more meaningful.
A funeral for a good friend in Hastof ings was brilliantly suited to her and her family. Leaving behind a young daughter, she wanted it to be a party and asked to be placed in a cardboard coffin at the venue, with felt tips provided for the children and anyone else to write a farewell message, before it went off to the crematorium.
SoWE met the funeral celebrant at my mother’s flat in Malvern, Worcestershire, to give a sense of Peggy’s character.
Not a meek old lady, but at just three years off 100, still fully engaged with life, with original art on the walls, lots of books, a stack of 45s next to her turntable and a well-stocked drinks tray . . .
And so, the celebrant was not so taken aback when we said we wanted no hymns or prayers. Vicars, priests and nuns were all on a list of ‘Peggy’s Scunners’ to be read out during the service.
A ‘scunner’, meaning a strong dislike, is one of many Scottish dialect words that Peggy loved to use, although she had lost her Fife accent on moving back to London after leaving school.
It was a long list, starting with poetry and ending with biscuits, passing through Morris dancers, social kissing, Joni Mitchell, tights and custard. My daughter, Peggy Junior, at 17 the youngest of her nine grandchildren, read it at the funeral.
It got the first of many laughs: laughter of the warmest kind, from a fond, shared recognition
quirky traits, from people who really knew and loved her.
Draped over the cardboard coffin (overpriced fancy ones were another scunner) was the Scottish Saltire flag with pink and yellow roses, some from my sister’s garden, on top. Her favourite flower in the colours of her favourite fondant fancies.
My brother, sister and I walked behind the coffin, arm in arm, to the sound of bagpipes playing the Skye Boat Song, which Peggy had sung to us as a lullaby, a sadder bagpipe air and finally a spine- tingling lament. And although grieving deeply, none of us was dressed in all black.
I wore a black and white silk dress — a favourite of Peggy Senior, who was wearing something similar inside the coffin, her last favourite party dress.
Setting off my frock was another detail my mother would have appreciated. In 1999 she had arrived unexpectedly at my first book launch — a hat party — bringing a prize for the best.
The first sight I had of her was a tall pink feather bobbing over guests’ heads, which turned out to be attached to a shocking pink cocktail hat. In tribute to that, at the funeral I wore a fascinator with a huge purple bow.
My sister’s younger daughter, Lottie, 32, stood up to share her memories, her mouth painted with fluorescent pink lipstick. Lottie never wears lipstick, but Mum was always on at her to so she’d decided this was the day to take her advice. And to go large.
Lottie’s stories were hilarious — particularly those of Grandma suggesting to people in the queue at Waitrose that, given their size, they might want to reconsider some of the choices in their trollies . . . yet never causing offence. Peggy could make friends with anyone, often by opening with a charmingly delivered insult, containing excellent advice.
I gave the eulogy and my sister’s older daughter, Katy, 34, read the goose section from Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, which my mother always quoted on Christmas day — although, as Katy pointed out, goose was something else on the scunner list. Peggy never ate poultry after keeping chickens herself.
Then more music, The Party’s over by Peggy Lee. It was the perfect combination of tear jerking and cocktail glamour.
We then defied Peggy’s poetry scunner by asking the celebrant to read She Is Gone by David Harkins. The Queen chose it for her mother’s funeral, a detail Peggy, a devoted royalist, would have loved.
Then there was the ghastly curtain bit and the final piece of music, which did cause surprise when we sent the track list to the funeral director. It seems not many people choose Everything Changes by Take That, but it was one of Peggy’s favourites and we wanted to walk out — or even dance out — on a high note.
We had the wake at a nearby hostelry where many bottles of prosecco were consumed, plus a metre-square of pink and yellow fondant fancies from Bettys Cafe Tea Rooms in Harrogate, one of Peggy’s select list of approved places, the unscunners.
ANDit really was a most marvellous party, helped along by my instruction to the manager to keep the fizz coming until the very last person left. That was how Peggy always used to run her parties — and I’m so glad we gave this marvellous woman a send-off that met her high standards and truly reflected who she was.
As a result, the event I had been dreading ever since my father’s funeral became almost joyous. And this has helped me to come to terms with my loss.
So, rather than sticking to particular ‘rules’ for funerals, the best approach is to make the event reflect the person being sent off and the manner of their death — and in a way which will most support those left behind.
If it’s a tragic death, go ahead and mourn. Cry, weep, wail, let it out — something I don’t think we do enough, although we need to.
But if it’s a long life, lived to the full, like my mother — go ahead and have a party.
It’s just such a shame that she wasn’t there to enjoy it.