It is now a month since we attended the funeral for Lizzie’s Uncle Derek, who was eighty-three when he passed away. And that is where my past crashed into my present in the funniest of ways.
It is just over fifty years ago that I started work having left school at the age of sixteen. This morning I looked into the mirror, expecting it to say, “But you don’t look old enough!” It didn’t. In fact, it said the opposite! I did a five-year apprenticeship at a local printers in Ashford, Kent before moving on. My manager for most of those years was Derek, who spent all his working life at Headley’s. He was a proper gentlemen. At least that is what we were told at his funeral! Two years after I left Headley’s, Lizzie and I met, got engaged and married. It was either at our wedding or at a family gathering after that, that I saw Derek. “Lizzie, what is he doing here?” “Oh, he’s my uncle!” she replied.
Fast forward to a funeral. As we waited in the car park before the service, there was a small gathering of retired Headley’s staff. I recognised a few, who to my shock recognised me. I had no idea that I had left such a mark!
The service was as they usually are these days. It’s like, now “religion” has been removed from the experience, it is just that; an experience rather than an ordeal. Derek’s son, Steve, paid tribute to his dad and, in the middle of his tribute, he told the story of how they had found a small notebook in his dad’s belongings, entitled “Grievances.” Rather than take it out on his colleagues, he would go home and write in this little book. Considering he had worked there for fifty years there were very few entries.
The pub was in the middle of nowhere. The family were there and perhaps about a dozen ex-colleagues. Steve grabbed hold of us, almost as soon as we got there, exclaiming: “Paul, you’ve got to see this.” The first entry in this notebook read as follows:
“Paul Cook… Again! Moaning about the next job!”
The second entry was about Jim, who worked next to me. (It was great to catch up with him.) His entry was for something else. Steve told us there was one entry, which had a swear word in it – not mine I hasten to add! Derek’s kids had never heard their dad swear. Ever!
Lizzie’s reaction to all of this and to my entry was succinct: “And he still is moaning!”
Both family and ex-colleagues at the pub all laughed at my expense. It took the sting out of the sadness of the occasion.
The moral of the story? There is none. Why does there have to be? Why can’t we just enjoy the memories for what they were and still are? And laugh at ourselves?
The Papa Journey 