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Liverpool Street to Audley End

The photocopied map that the ticket lady slid under her plexi screen for me when I asked for directions to the heritage market town of Saffron Walden now indicated that we had walked less than a quarter of the way in twenty-five minutes. It was 11:30am and the funeral began at noon. Ben and I were going to be late.

St. Mary’s Church, Saffron Walden

As the outskirts of London were slowly washed away by the gorgeous day, Ben played tetris on his new phone and I slept most of the hour’s train ride from Liverpool Street before I broke out the home-made oatmeal raison cookies for our mid-morning snack.

The train was, for the most part, empty and our standard class tickets didn’t seem to mind sitting with us in the first class carriage. I secretly hoped that the ticket man would be too sorrily intimidated by Ben’s fantastic pink tie, our natty top coats and our stern demeanour to ask us to move. Who knows what goes on in the poker-faced boredom of the ‘one’ rail ticket man’s mind, perhaps the lack of over-crowding, our short journey and poor Ben’s coughing and spluttering were all factors in his decision to clip our tickets and walk on without a word of admonishment.

In any case, with the clear sky, stunning early sunshine and green country side posing very persuasive arguments upon our arrival at the Audley End rail station, Ben and I decided to walk to the church that holds so much or our family history. The smell of bonfires graced the country air and now we were on track to miss the beginning of our great aunt’s funeral.

So, Ben and I began to keep a look out for aimlessly meandering taxis and kindly well-dressed church going relatives. Unfortunately, there was a dearth of both between the speeding lorries and muddy country cars on the way into Saffron Walden.

It was with great relief that either our pace increased five fold without our noticing or the map’s scale was not totally consistent. We arrived ten minutes early at St. Mary’s church, rosy cheeked and out of breath after a very brisk 40 minute walk. St. Mary’s church is an impressive site as it overlooks the town and once in view, it’s tall spire guided us without the aid of the dubious map.

The Service

Elgar’s Nimrod and Bach’s Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring filled the hallowed waiting space as I made sure to sign the register this time. Under the ‘address representing’ column, I proudly wrote the single word ‘Canada’…Yes, Ben being a Craster and a resident of London for the better part of a decade, today, I was representing the entire contingent of the Canadian Greenwoods. No small feet, here.

Just as we were met at the entrance by Tom Case, Nicki Hall rushed over to us to give us an enthusiastic hello. As I filed into the pew next to Ben and behind the unaccompanied Malim girls, Lydia, Delia, Falvia and Julia, I remember marvelling at the grand beauty of the church. I tried to imagine what it was like when my grandparents were married there and how wonderful it would be to be able to jump through history as easily as we might imagine doing so. I was struck at how the function of the sacred space gave it purpose. I confirmed silently that it’s good that we have places like this, which are solely dedicated to such significant events. It gives them a strong sense of authenticity.

The first hymn, ‘Lord of all Hopefulness’, was the only one I knew of the three that we sang that day. All three were not quite in my range forcing me to jump down an octave at some of the higher notes.

Philip Case gave a stoic reading of Ecclesiastes 111, v 1-8, “To every thing there is a season” which seemed to immediately place all of today’s events in proper context. He spoke well and formally.

The address was given by one of the clergy, although it was written and prepared by Philip. I thought it was a shame the Philip didn’t give the tribute himself as it was clear at times that they were not the clergy’s words even if they were his sentiments.

Nicki’s reading of Ruydard Kipling’s “The Glory of the Garden” was well delivered but less subdued in tone than Philip’s. As the large Malim family can be challenging to keep track of, Nicki did an excellent job of introducing her connection to the family with more of a personal touch.

Tom Case read the well known “Footprints” story about a man who dreamed he was walking with the Lord down the beach as scenes of his life passed before them. I can’t decide why I like this story. On the one hand, it demonstrates to me how more powerful narrative can be in distributing meaning than standard prayerful supplications. On the other hand, perhaps it’s as simple as liking the warm fuzzy psychological response I get when I hear the reaffirmation of protection and support that is at the heart of the message.

The service was unburdened by any heavy sense of sadness that can weigh such events down. I observed no outward show of tears and heard no-one but Ben blowing his nose. I couldn’t tell which was the more influential factor, the reticent English comportment or the sensible feeling so well described by Philip’s reading from Ecclesiastes. I sensed more of the latter, but having only met Betts once in 1999, perhaps I was predisposed for such a conclusion.

I note with amusement that if you took the last two digits of my birth year, 1981, and reversed them, 1918, you get Betty’s birth year.

The Eight Bells

Refreshments were held at the Eight Bells, a pub like restaurant just north of the church. I was surprised and honoured to be recognized as “one of Kemble’s” as I mingled with whoever happened to be near. Although I didn’t get a chance to chat with Anthea, I did briefly talk with her husband Brian, as well as the Malim girls, Nicki Hall and her half sister Joe and obviously Philip, Camilla and Tom among others. Mike and Bill Craster were unfortunately absent – I think Bill is in India.

I met Robin Craster near the end of the afternoon as we were being shuffled out of the establishment. A few of us had a brief walk around Bridge End Gardens in the low orange afternoon light of which Robin should have photos. I would have liked to have seen Myddylton house, but no opportunity arose before Flavia kindly drove Ben and me back to London.

The weather remained as clear and beautiful as the morning had foretold – the sunset couldn’t have been painted better and the nearly full moon enjoyed a clearer view than us.

Tags: next of kin