The Gorge House: Granny’s Funeral

I don’t remember my grandfather at all, except as a rather large presence with a big laugh and an enormous silver mustache.

Granny on the other hand was very small, almost birdlike, and fragile-seeming. She didn’t have much time for young children, only occasionally deigning to get Danny to do some tricks for us, or, even more rarely, performing a fascinating trick of her own, in which she wiggled her front teeth with her tongue, and caused delighted laughter. By the time I was 12, she had become more and more frail, and that autumn she had caught a chill, which developed into pneumonia, and she was very ill indeed. She had rallied, but would never regain her health.

That Christmas, the Woodward clan gathered on Boxing Day as usual, but it was a much more subdued party than formerly. For one thing, the war news was grave. Our cousin Derek, Gerald’s son, had been reported missing, presumed dead, from the RAF. Since he lived in England, I did not know him. But Edmund’s son, Vernon, was also flying for the RAF. He eventually brought down 21 German fighters, so he must have been flying many missions, in constant danger. And Auntie Dolly had three sons in the Navy.

These worries alone would put a damper on Christmas, but Granny was also lying upstairs in her bedroom, too ill to join the family. The grandchildren were taken one by one to visit Granny in bed. We realized we were saying goodbye to her. When my turn came, Mum escorted me into the room, where Granny lay on lace-edged pillows under her flowery lavender comforter, looking smaller than ever. I was tongued-tied, could think of nothing to say. Finally, Mum pointed out the embroidery I had done myself to trim my new dress, a dress already becoming uncomfortably tight in the chest. Granny nodded, then her eyes closed. Gladly I escaped, stepping over Danny, who was keeping guard by her door.

By the middle of January, she was dead.

Dad wanted all of us to view her in her coffin, at the funeral parlour the day before the funeral. He felt this was a necessary stage in the mourning process. I had not experienced death before, at least not of someone I knew, and my mind was full of questions and morbid imaginings. Granny was wrapped in a lacy woolen shawl, with the first snowdrops from Clovelly in her hands. She seemed to have shrunk to doll-size, and her slightly curved nose stood out like a predatory bird’s beak.

No one had anything to say. Finally Mum murmured, “She looks so peaceful. She could be asleep.” “What if she should suddenly wake up?” Faith burst out. I began to laugh in hysterical horror. Everyone stared at me. Dad’s eyes anguished in grief and disapproval. Mum hurried me out of the room, disgraced.

Because of this performance, it was decided that I was too highly-strung to attend the actual funeral. Instead, I would babysit 4-year-old Debbie at Clovelly. Dad dropped me off. The Aunts were all ready to go.

“Whatever you do,” said Auntie Gwladys, “Don’t let the kitchen fire go out. We’ll need to make tea when we come back.” That seemed easy enough to do, the stove was just purring along, the hopper was full of sawdust, everything would be fine. I was playing happily with Debbie when, surprisingly, Rachel turned up. She had been to Cloverdale School nearby, and came to help me look after Debbie. “Let’s take her for a walk.” She suggested. “I have to look after the fire,” I said. Rachel lifted the lid and looked in. “Looks all right to me,” she said, “Let’s go.”

Rachel was older than me, and supposedly wiser in the ways of stoves, so we bundled Debbie up and took her into the garden. Soon enough, we heard Danny bark his welcome, so we hurried back.

The driveway was full of cars, and the house crowded with people. A group of uncles and other assorted men was standing around in the kitchen. Auntie Gwladys was weeping and wringing her hands: the fire was completely out!

Auntie Gwladys glared at me through her tears. I knew I had committed the unforgivable sin. To make matters worse, not only was the fire out, it balked at being re-lit, possibly because the men were stuffing it with kindling and balled-up newspapers; each had his own idea of how to solve the problem. People were standing around in the drawing room, waiting thirstily for their cup of tea. Finally, Mr. Sheppard came to the rescue, poured coal oil into the stove and got it going at last with a great whoosh of flame. It was all my fault. I was consumed by shame. Auntie Gwladys later claimed that the stove never worked properly after that day, not neglecting to cast a baleful glance my way. She never forgave me, and I didn’t blame her; I never forgave myself.

Within a year Clovelly had been sold, all the magical things inside scattered or destroyed. The centre of our lives as a family had disappeared. Everything was different.

And by then we had moved away from the Gorge House, and childhood was over.

See Also:

Whole Interview with Felicity about the Gorge House