Four Weddings and a Funeral

We managed to make it to his last show yesterday, but not to any of his weddings. That’s him on the left when he came to ours. We didn’t know him well but his acts of kindness were unforgettable. Often it’s the way of things that you don’t find out what a person is till he’s gone. I’m glad we didn’t miss this return match.

It was held at the North East Surrey Crematorium, where amongst others we met his three brothers, two sisters and son. The short service was interspersed with songs: Fire and Rain by James Taylor; Forever Autumn by Justin Hayward; On the Cover of the Rolling Stone by Dr Hook. They helped set the scene, connected you somehow with the man. (I fell to wondering what music I’d choose for mine; decided to leave Bach out of it. Perhaps Farewell, by Fairport Convention with Sandy Denny. Certainly not her cover of Knocking on Heaven’s Door. And something upbeat. African?)

In between, an address was delivered, interspersing the outline of his life with anecdotes and memories, all skilfully combined into a flowing eulogy by a gentleman well-practised in this art. The details were consistent with what we knew of him from a few meetings and more recently, when he became ill, with Karleen’s ongoing contact through Facebook. Thus was fleshed out something of the real person, while the bodily flesh was consumed into ash. Now I can understand how for some people it becomes a pastime. For till yesterday I could never quite make out what kind of a person he was; even afterwards I was still trying to piece things together into a coherent whole.

Maybe this is the reason I write, to help make sense of things, to ruminate on feelings and events. In literal terms, a cow ruminates. It’s a phase in its metabolism, along with the four stomachs. I absorbed the eulogy, saw echoes of Stu in his close relatives, the way they looked and spoke. Now I want to describe him in my own words. They kept saying how he lived his life to the full, did things in his own way. To me, what defines Stu, his marriages, his wanderings in foreign climes, the way he was to us whom he hardly knew, is his grand gestures. He was no swashbuckler, cultivated no pretensions. Fun was the driving force, picking from the fruit of the garden, offering it round. Had he been present yesterday, he’d have turned it into more of a party than it actually was, though his brothers and sisters did their best.

Karleen met him in the first place online, found he was interested in dating a Jamaican woman. She played matchmaker, linked him up with a professional colleague of hers. He came over, but it didn’t work out too well. By this time Karleen & I had each finished sorting out our affairs, so that she could rejoin me in England and get married. Stu generously offered to synchronize his return flight with hers. Perceptively he saw that it she wouldn’t find it an easy trip, having never yet left Jamaica and only once been on a ’plane. It was when they reached immigration at Heathrow that she realized what a guiding angel she’d been given. He smoothed the path so she didn’t have to worry. He knew the right things to tell the officials on her behalf. He said he was my friend, assured them she and I were soon to be married. And so we met at Arrivals, where he handed her over safe and sound, like a practised courier. Of course we invited him to the wedding. He didn’t have to buy us that fancy cut-glass vase, make a video of the occasion, take the photos on his old non-digital camera—and help make our quiet day into the lovely party it turned out to be.

It was just one of his grand gestures.