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Authors: Sarah Caudwell
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over her face from chewing on the ballpoint, and showed me what she’d written. It ran to about a dozen foolscap pages—at a guess, roughly twice what the
Times
would allow for a senior statesman or Nobel Prize winner. There wasn’t much in the way of factual detail—when Isabella was born, or where she’d lived, or what she’d actually done that was at all remarkable—but a great deal about what a wonderful, caring person she’d been, and a wide selection of her views on life, death, and the nature of the universe.
I felt I had to say that it was on the long side.
Tears of indignation. Daphne said that Aunt Isabella had been a wonderful person, and she ought to have a proper obituary—meaning, I gather, a fullpage in the
Times
. Aunt Isabella would have
wanted
a proper obituary, not a stupid little two-line notice, as if she were just anybody, and if she couldn’t have one it wasn’t fair.
At this stage, luckily, Maurice came back. I must say, he coped splendidly. Truly gifted and remarkable people, he said, very seldom get the recognition they deserve in their own time. Some of the greatest thinkers and prophets, including Socrates and the founder of the Christian Church, would quite possibly not have been given a full-page obituary in the
Times
. The
Times
—and all the other newspapers, even the
Guardian
—were essentially Establishment minded and conservative in their thinking, and couldn’t be expected to appreciate someone whose ideas leapt over the traditional boundaries. After about an hour of this, Daphne agreed to cut down what she’d written to a length which could be inserted at reasonable cost in the deaths column.
She stayed here all day and Griselda joined us for supper and to offer condolences. I’m afraid that by the time we’d finished I was rather longing to have the house to myself again, but it seemed wretched for Daphne to have to go back and spend the night on her own at the Rectory. The undertakers had removed the body, of course, but even so—I felt I had to ask if she’d like to sleep in the spare bedroom.
“Oh no,” she said, “I have to stay at the Rectory. If Aunt Isabella’s dead, I’m the Custodian.”
“You could go and put out food for the birds,” I said, “and then come back here.”
“Not of the birds,” she said, looking very anxious and solemn. “Of the Book. I’m the Custodian of the Book.”
So I didn’t feel I had to argue any more about it. Griselda very kindly walked back to the Rectory with her, and I went off to bed expecting to go straight to sleep.
But as you know I didn’t, and instead sat up writing you a ridiculous letter all about dirty glasses—please take no notice, it was simply because I was tired.
I woke up next morning worrying about something completely different—who was going to give the eulogy at Isabella’s funeral? You know the kind of thing I mean—a little speech about nice things she’d done and how everyone would miss her.
What really worried me was that if there was no one else Daphne might expect me to do it, and I’d have to say no. It’s all very well for Maurice—clergymen have to get used to saying things they don’t mean, just like lawyers—but I simply didn’t think I could do it.
And then I thought of Ricky. It seemed like rather a brain wave, because he’d known her longer than anyone else in Haver and was actually a friend of hers. So I rang Maurice and asked him to sound out Ricky to make sure he’d say yes if Daphne asked him to do it. Maurice said it would be better if I did the sounding out—he’d already talked to Ricky and felt that he’d like it if I got in touch.
So I rang Ricky and explained that I was helping Daphne with the funeral arrangements and there were one or two things it would be nice todiscuss with him. I was really rather glad to have a reason for ringing him—I thought he might be feeling upset about Isabella and want someone to talk to, and I wouldn’t have liked
Times
would allow for a senior statesman or Nobel Prize winner. There wasn’t much in the way of factual detail—when Isabella was born, or where she’d lived, or what she’d actually done that was at all remarkable—but a great deal about what a wonderful, caring person she’d been, and a wide selection of her views on life, death, and the nature of the universe.
I felt I had to say that it was on the long side.
Tears of indignation. Daphne said that Aunt Isabella had been a wonderful person, and she ought to have a proper obituary—meaning, I gather, a fullpage in the
Times
. Aunt Isabella would have
wanted
a proper obituary, not a stupid little two-line notice, as if she were just anybody, and if she couldn’t have one it wasn’t fair.
At this stage, luckily, Maurice came back. I must say, he coped splendidly. Truly gifted and remarkable people, he said, very seldom get the recognition they deserve in their own time. Some of the greatest thinkers and prophets, including Socrates and the founder of the Christian Church, would quite possibly not have been given a full-page obituary in the
Times
. The
Times
—and all the other newspapers, even the
Guardian
—were essentially Establishment minded and conservative in their thinking, and couldn’t be expected to appreciate someone whose ideas leapt over the traditional boundaries. After about an hour of this, Daphne agreed to cut down what she’d written to a length which could be inserted at reasonable cost in the deaths column.
She stayed here all day and Griselda joined us for supper and to offer condolences. I’m afraid that by the time we’d finished I was rather longing to have the house to myself again, but it seemed wretched for Daphne to have to go back and spend the night on her own at the Rectory. The undertakers had removed the body, of course, but even so—I felt I had to ask if she’d like to sleep in the spare bedroom.
“Oh no,” she said, “I have to stay at the Rectory. If Aunt Isabella’s dead, I’m the Custodian.”
“You could go and put out food for the birds,” I said, “and then come back here.”
“Not of the birds,” she said, looking very anxious and solemn. “Of the Book. I’m the Custodian of the Book.”
So I didn’t feel I had to argue any more about it. Griselda very kindly walked back to the Rectory with her, and I went off to bed expecting to go straight to sleep.
But as you know I didn’t, and instead sat up writing you a ridiculous letter all about dirty glasses—please take no notice, it was simply because I was tired.
I woke up next morning worrying about something completely different—who was going to give the eulogy at Isabella’s funeral? You know the kind of thing I mean—a little speech about nice things she’d done and how everyone would miss her.
What really worried me was that if there was no one else Daphne might expect me to do it, and I’d have to say no. It’s all very well for Maurice—clergymen have to get used to saying things they don’t mean, just like lawyers—but I simply didn’t think I could do it.
And then I thought of Ricky. It seemed like rather a brain wave, because he’d known her longer than anyone else in Haver and was actually a friend of hers. So I rang Maurice and asked him to sound out Ricky to make sure he’d say yes if Daphne asked him to do it. Maurice said it would be better if I did the sounding out—he’d already talked to Ricky and felt that he’d like it if I got in touch.
So I rang Ricky and explained that I was helping Daphne with the funeral arrangements and there were one or two things it would be nice todiscuss with him. I was really rather glad to have a reason for ringing him—I thought he might be feeling upset about Isabella and want someone to talk to, and I wouldn’t have liked
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