Before I had ever been to a funeral, I imagined what it would be like: a grim, depressing affair. The sky would be leaden and there would be rain. There would be deeply sorrowful music – Adagio in G minor by Albinoni, a verbose elegy, stiff hymns, muffled sobbing, regulatory prayers and afterwards egg sandwiches, polite chatter and weak cups of tea. But this version of a funeral has changed in recent years and has become more relaxed and celebratory, perhaps in line with declining church attendance. A recent Co-op Funeralcare study found that 68 per cent of people agreed that funerals should be more of a celebration of life, up from 58 per cent in 2019. The report also notes that black is no longer the required colour to wear to a funeral and location requests have become increasingly outlandish, including a London bus and – improbably – an angling pavilion.
In the past eight months, I have been to three funerals and a memorial – thankfully not one in an angling pavilion or a bus. They have been edifying, beautiful, majestic and, woven through the tears and sadness, there has been laughter and humour and dizzying fun. Not fun in the sense of frolicking on the dance floor or flirting by the bar but in seeing old friends and meeting new ones – a Celtic singer in Dublin at my aunt’s funeral, a literary editor who was next to me recently in the pew in London. I like the rarity of being in the hallowed environment of a church, listening to soulful music, well-chosen poems, extracts from letters, loving tributes and recollections and interesting readings.
I feel a little guilty for having enjoyed these celebrations (the well-worn expectation of having to be stiff and sad, well ingrained) –for being in awe of the surroundings, the beautiful flower displays and the choir. I loved hearing a harp player at one of the funerals, a David Bowie song at another. The dead person would have been swept away by the outpouring of love, and the glorious, moving, often humorous eulogies. In every tribute, I have learnt something more about friends and family who have died recently. Who knew that the stepfather of one of my friends was a genius mathematician, spoke Arabic and Turkish and had travelled with Freya Stark in his youth.
The first funeral I ever went to was for my Grandpa George, and it was not so glorious, more in keeping with my expectation of grimness. I was in my early twenties and dressed inappropriately in a black mini-skirt and black fishnet tights. I sat next to my sister, and as the priest stumbled over what to say about our grandpa, we collapsed in giggles, which morphed into silent hysteria, which we could not quell, no matter how hard we tried. The more we tried to stop, the worse it became. We bent over the pew, shaking for the rest of the service, hoping that people would think we were crying from sadness, not mirth. We stopped only when our tiny granny waved goodbye to the coffin as it slid into the incinerator, which was heart-breaking.
Of course, it’s sad knowing that you are never going to see the person who has died again, and funerals for young or youngish people are without doubt wretched, stark reminders of a life cruelly snatched away. A long time ago, in my early twenties, two male friends died – one in a car crash, the other disappeared in West Africa, never to be seen again. The funeral of the man who died in a car crash was bleak, more so, because we had loved each other. I cried without stopping and was too distraught to go to the gathering in the house for tea afterwards. But I do remember a glimmer of joy at the funeral for the man who had disappeared – a gospel choir whose voices soared and lifted our spirits.
I loved hearing a harp player at one of the funerals, a David Bowie song at another
I am now in my early sixties. Funerals are proliferating but there is a paucity of weddings. I have cried, of course, particularly at the last funeral I went to, particularly when the coffin, covered in spring flowers, was walked up the aisle. But I also laughed, as did everyone, when my friend’s daughter talked about her father with such eloquent insight and humour.
I like to experience the soaring of emotions that a funeral can induce, from grief to laughter and back again; it is a welcome break from the mundanity of everyday life. At the memorial, it was humbling to sit in the beautiful St Margaret’s Church, in the grounds of Westminster Abbey, and after the service, fun to walk through the Houses of Parliament, with six friends, through the famous hall, up the grandiose stairs, along corridors reminiscent of school, with the stale smell of over-cooked food, and on to the reception, where we drank champagne, as has been the custom at all the funerals, along with party food.
At the funeral last week, the sun shone, and there were so many people that the wardens had to bring in more and more chairs to add at the back of the church. As my son said, it’s a shame these extraordinary, thoughtful tributes to those who have died could not have taken place when the people were alive.
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