Alan

A good friend, and sometime retired colleague of mine received a call from a hospital worker at the beginning of January. Her number was one of very few in Alan’s phonebook, Alan had died after a week in hospital did she want to arrange a funeral?

She didn’t.

She befriended Alan as after they’d worked together for a year or two, his wife had suicided and Alan had left the funeral firm to try his hand driving buses.

I’d left the firm before then, so most of this was news to me, or stuff she’d told me before, but my brain had filed as sad, but not really relevant to me.

I liked Alan, he’d had a cheeky smile, and he stuck up for his colleagues if they were criticised, he didn’t join any cliques. He was a gruff old sod, but kind, and harmless.

Ten minutes have been scheduled for Alan’s funeral at a crematorium a long way from where he lived and died, and I’m told by a disinterested undertaker that a chaplain can be requested, but hasn’t been, and that a couple of people had “been advised”. It’s too far for my friend. I phoned the old firm last week, and asked them to pass my number to the only person there whose name I recognised, he hasn’t called. I told the lady I was calling with regard to a colleague there from 25 years ago, she didn’t ask his name, I didn’t share it.

My friend couldn’t tell me much about Alan, except how grumpy he was. This would, I expect, be on account of her being an attractive woman and him being in want of a woman, and her wanting only to be kind. If he’d been anything but grumpy, he would probably have been disingenuous. But she did tell me he liked Maurice Durufle’s “Ubi Caritas et Amor”.

Alan would have led coffins in and out of the large Catholic Church where thousands of pounds would often be spent on music, and latin was in vogue. Even the hardest nose among us would be softened as we carried coffins through doors that were twenty five feet high, with the sound of a choir, secreted in some distant loft, singing Faure or Palestrina.

He also liked Van Morrison.

I have broken into the crematorium’s music system and requested “Into the mystic” and “Brown eyed girl” for in and out and the Durufle to play as his coffin disappears from view. This will allow little time within the 10 minute budget – for words.

I am hoping to meet a neighbour or perhaps a distant relative, but not putting money on it. Think of us perhaps at 9.15am tomorrow, Monday.