Lottie's Funeral

Funeral services, for me, are punctuated with familiar moments: standing outside the chapel as the hearse and cortege arrive; walking slowly up the aisle ahead of the coffin and bearers; pressing the button on the lectern to signal the closing of the curtains. This one was different. There was no hearse or cortege, just Paul’s own car with Jo and Nick in the back. Jo came out first and went to greet family and friends who were waiting for the ceremony. Nick stepped out next, carrying the tiny white coffin as carefully as if it held a living child. He stayed by the car so I went over to say hello.

‘When do we go in, Zinnia?’ he asked me.

‘Do you think everyone’s here?’

He looked at the small gathering of people. ‘I think so.’

‘Whenever you and Jo are ready, then.’

He caught Jo’s eye and motioned her to his side.

‘Zinnia says we can go in when we’re ready, if everyone’s here,’ he told her.

She took a deep breath. ‘Shall we do it, then?’

I walked beside them into the chapel as Paul encouraged the other mourners to follow. Judy Garland was singing about wishing on a star as we reached the catafalque. I fell behind a little to let Nick and Jo do whatever felt right for them, but Nick looked round for me, his eyes pleading.

‘Zinnia,’ he said, ‘it’s so hard to let her go.’

‘Take your time. There’s no rush. But I think you’ll find she’s already gone.’

Jo was in tears beside him. He turned to her. ‘I wish I’d known her like you knew her,’ he said.

‘I never knew her at all,’ sobbed Jo.

Nick put Lottie’s coffin gently on the catafalque, took his wife in his arms, stroked her hair and murmured reassurance. After a few moments she pulled away and blew her nose. She looked at him and tried to smile, but it didn’t work. He held her hand and Paul led them into the front pew.

It was a relief to get behind the lectern and into my usual professional script-delivering mode. The script worked well; I noticed people responding to the words I was using, particularly when I spoke of the way we value the fleeting, poignant beauty of a real flower which blooms and fades in a few days much more highly than unnatural plastic flowers, even though they last for years.

Then I came to the point where Nick was to speak. He came up to the front looking composed.

‘I won’t speak for long,’ he said. ‘There’s not much to say about our little Lottie. But there’s a hell of a lot to feel. Jo and I love her very, very, very much. Some people might disagree with the choices we made for her and for our family. There are always people who are ready to judge parents for giving their children the wrong kind of food, or spoiling them, or letting them stay up too late. But those people don’t have to live with those children, and maybe don’t know what it’s like trying to get them to eat their greens, or having to fight to get them into bed at night. And nobody except Jo and I know what it’s like being Lottie’s parents. But there’s one thing I want you all to understand. The choices we made for Lottie were given a great deal of thought. We talked right through the night, more than once, and a lot of tears were cried. The doctors at the hospital, and our midwife, gave us all the information and support that they could. We needed that, and we’re grateful for it, but it didn’t make it easy. We made the best choice we could, out of a range of bad jobs.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Right now it feels as if we’ll spend the rest of our lives saying goodbye to Lottie, one way or another. But first we have to say it in front of all of you.’

He looked at Jo, sitting in the front pew. She picked up a small white blanket and a spray of baby’s breath, and held them out to him, tears streaming down her face. He walked down the steps and took them from her, then came back up again.

‘We’re not going to close the curtains and leave Lottie alone behind them. I’m going to cover her with this blanket, and Zinnia is going to put these flowers on top for Jo.’

We walked over to the catafalque and did just that. Nick stood beside me, next to the coffin, while I spoke the words of committal, projecting my voice so that it would reach around the chapel even without the help of the lectern microphone. As I finished speaking, the music began, and I felt Nick’s hand reach for mine. I took it and turned to see that he too was in floods of tears, so I led him back to Jo in the front pew. They held each other and wept as the music played, and the words that had always seemed trite to me before were suddenly so poignant and powerful – ‘can you feel the love tonight, how it’s laid to rest’ – that I had to swallow hard, dig my nails into my fingers and chant my Dr Seuss mantra in my mind.

After the committal, I talked about how Lottie’s life wasn’t a wasted life, because she gave us opportunities to learn new things about ourselves and each other. I’m usually careful not to say ‘us’ when I’m conducting a ceremony for people I don’t know personally, because I think it’s rather fulsome, but in this case I felt as if I was learning a lot myself, so I made an exception.

And quickly it was over and Elton John was singing again. I led the way out and Paul brought Jo and Nick, both still very tearful but calmer. They hugged me in turn and I gave them a copy of the script, shook hands with everyone else and then went home, feeling completely shattered.

In the early evening, just as I had taken the first swig from my glass of wine, the phone rang. It was Jo.

‘Hello, Zinnia, I hope you don’t mind me ringing, I just wanted to say thank you for today. It was perfect.’

‘Thank you, of course I don’t mind, it’s very kind of you to ring.’

‘And I’ve been reading over the script you gave me. I’m so glad we’ve got it, I couldn’t take it all in at the time, but it’s really helping me to read it over.’

‘That’s good, I’m glad. Nick’s part isn’t in it, of course.’

‘He’s going to write it down tonight, as best as he can remember, and we’ll keep it in the folder with your script.’

‘That’s a good idea.’

‘So I just wanted to let you know. Anyway, I won’t keep you, I’m sure you’re busy, and it’s nearly Gail’s bedtime.’

A short, thoughtful phone call. Which left me feeling pole-axed.

In fact I did very little all weekend. I didn’t even read or comment on any blogs. But I’m back on form this morning. Which is just as well, as I have a script to write for a funeral tomorrow. Death goes on!