On the train ride back to London, I realised that I neglected to sign the attendance book. The flow of traffic exiting St. Margaret’s church in quiet Topsham after a briefer than expected send off for my Great Uncle Pip and my assumption that another chance would arise to mark my name and presence down on this day in our family history, both contributed to my oversight. For only having met him once in 1999, I had an extremely privileged seat in the second pew between Ben and Bill Craster.
My arrival the night before had been a strange mixture of the felicitation of getting out of London on a group off-peak discount return ticket with Nicki Hall and Ben and the strangely distant sadness of the realisation that the main reason for walking the charming streets and remarking on the Dutch roofs of Topsham was no longer around.
With the late hour, a brief welcome by Veronica and Felipe at 36 the Strand was all that we could reasonably afford before heading up the road to be kindly welcomed by Annette and Richard van Oppen for the night at Drakes Cottage. With each small room on a different level than the others, their house has the marvellous history and architectural feel of a well-travelled sailing ship. Indeed, during the excavation of their foundation for a dining room expansion, they found the remains of Roman street drains.
Hanging in the guest room allotted to Ben and me, oblivious to the coming tide of Ben’s snoring, was an impressionistic painting of a green overgrown forest scene. As Annette turned its illuminating spotlight on and off for us, she mentioned, before her evening farewell, that its painter was an artist who tragically died of eye cancer. Beethoven would have been proud.
As I unzipped the bottom of my sleeping bag to let my feet hang out off my cot, Ben remarked how my apparently conscious appreciation of cooler feet at night was in truth the result years of unconscious conditioning. Speaking from shared experience, Ben reminded me that as our feet usually hang off the ends of our beds, they have become accustomed through a process of complex evolution to more air circulation than the mortals of average stature.
The next morning saw me dressed in Ben’s extra dark blue suit and thankful that I didn’t have to appear less formal than the rest of the family. Standing outside the grey church in the cool windy sunlight, we shook hands and made our brief introductions to arriving relatives. Pip’s step grandchildren Charlie and Andy (although his wife Francis and daughter Nancy were in Topsham, I don’t remember seeing them at the church), lead and organized everyone. I didn’t really get a chance to chat with them, or (Frizzy) Lizzie. With a brief hello from Lavina and Martin Norse and a small handshake from Mike Stottard, we were ushered inside.
I am admittedly ignorant of my great uncle’s life and despite Richard van Oppen’s fantastic tribute speech, I found his considered biography of Pip not completely satisfying though totally appropriate. From his maternity work in the East End to his role as chief psychiatric MA for theatres in the Mediterranean, Uncle Pip was painted as a devout and giving Christian.
I have no means of understanding the horrors of war, let alone how to restart a life after living through them but my admiration is easily won for those who have braved both.
My hope that some of his relatives would offer their thoughts during the service, as during Kemble’s funeral, was unfortunately left unattended. The tribute, some of Uncle Pip’s favoured prayers and best-liked songs and Gibran’s quotation on death from The Prohpet were all that we were treated to. Once the mayor of Topsham, Richard’s tribute was praiseworthy and well delivered – with a voice that was accustomed to giving speeches with conviction and heart – perhaps the simplicity was all that was needed or appropriate. At the following lunch, I complimented Richard on his speech, to which he most impressively did not reply, “Thank you.” but rather offered a sincere and humble, “I hope it helped.” He was the right man for the tribute…even if he was the only person I’ve heard pronounce Topsham ‘top-sum’.
A short service at the crematorium was more emblematic of the lingering family split than of a proper farewell. On one side of the aisle stood Veronica, Felipe and all her nephews while the other pew supported a lonely Mike Stottard. Nicki Hall stood between them, bridging the gap. Unfamiliar with the specifics of the quarrel, it’s easy for me to remark how unfortunate it is that even a funeral cannot wash away the undercurrents of family feuds.
Lunch at the Globe was more representative of strong family ties. I spent most of my time chatting with Lydia, Flavia, Julia and Dedia and David. I asked David what his favourite memory of Philip was and he replied without hesitating that Pip gave Delia to him at their wedding. I couldn’t imagine a better answer!
Our walk back to 36 the Strand for tea was tempered by the repetitive hollow clunk of Julia’s heels on the soft small streets of Topsham. Just as I remarked silently to myself how cosmopolitan that hollow clunk is, especially in contrast to the quaint English town, they stopped. It took a few breaths of our gate before we stopped and turned around to see that Julia had finally succumbed to a welling outpouring of tears. Julia’s favourite memory of Pip was of their walks together. How many times had she walked those same soft small streets with him?
At tea, I felt guilty about continually frustrating Felipe’s enthusiastic Spanish hospitality. The previous evening, I had to decline his many attempts at offering chicken soup. This afternoon, David kindly swapped cups of tea with me after Felipe poured whisky into mine. Apparently my many refusals were not as adamant as hand over my cup would have been. Still, with his business card and an invitation to Mailorca in hand, he obviously hasn’t given up hope for me yet.
Our train departed for London after a rushed goodbye and the usual promises to stay better in touch. David kindly drove us to the Topsham train station. After swapping trains at Exeter and speeding away from the setting sun, the beautiful countryside grew darker and more populated as we munched for the second night in a row on chilled sandwiches made miles away in some giant mechanical sandwich factory and ‘cheese and onion’ crisps probably made in the factory next to it.
It was easy to marvel, on such an occasion, at how Nicki, Ben and my one night trip was a condensed version of life: We arrived and were welcomed lovingly as expected, we learned a little of those who have lived before us, we noticed the silent history of unresolved tension, and we shared stories and laughter with others in an attempt to resolve it. And as our evening drew to an end, at the necessary time, we collected our ticket and travelled the line back to where we came from. Wherever is that?
On the train ride back to London, I realised that I neglected to sign the attendance book. I’m certain that Uncle Pip made no such oversight.
Tags: next of kin