A Life in the Day

by Hunter Davies

  As I left, I met one of the young doctors. She said she did think M was going. She thought it would only be a matter of days. They would ring me, night or day. It clearly appeared imminent.

  8 FEBRUARY 2016

  I went to bed with both the mobile phone and the landline portable near me in the bedroom, which is something I never do.

  At 7.30 in the morning, one of the phones did ring, but it took me a while to work out what the noise was, which phone it might be, and where it was. By the time I had located it, the call had ended. I immediately listened to a voicemail. A female foreign voice said that Margaret had died ten minutes ago.

  I rushed out of the house, without washing or eating, and drove as fast as I could. Waiting at traffic lights crossing from Pond Street I looked out at people in their cars, slumped, expressionless, going off as usual to their daily work, automatons, unaware of themselves, far less of me. They don’t know that my wife of fifty-five years has just died. Should I open my window and tell them?

  There was a new notice on Margaret’s bedroom door when I arrived which had not been there the previous evening. It warned people not to enter this room without contacting a nurse. I went straight in.

  Margaret was lying flat out in her bed, looking peaceful, tidy, neat, well wrapped. But undeniably dead.

  Her catheter had been removed from her; all the medication and stuff taken away. She had not long been dead, for it was still hardly eight o’clock, but while I was driving over, the nurses must have tidied her up.

  Her arms were clasped on her chest, a little cushion placed carefully below her neck, presumably to prop up her head, in case it fell, or if she dribbled. I felt her hands. They were still warm. I kissed both her hands. Then I kissed her on her cheek.

  The room was dark and depressing, as they had pulled the curtains. I assumed they must do this, when someone has died. Some stupid mark of respect. I flung open the curtains, let the early morning light flood in, such as it was for early February, and then switched all the electric lights on.

  I gazed out at the gardens and the houses opposite, wondering which local residents had complained about having to watch dying bodies. I wondered if Margaret had seen the light coming up on that brand-new day. If she had died at 7.20, as they had said, there must have been a hint of dawn. I like to think she might have been aware of it, going out on a new dawn, for the world and for those being left behind, if not for her. Which was a silly thought. She probably just drifted off hours earlier in the night.

  I sat silently, looking at her, holding her hands. Slowly I could feel her hands getting colder. As I watched her, the colour draining from her face, becoming yellowish and parched, and yet looking at her, so peaceful, it was easy to imagine she was not dead. ‘I am only sleeping,’ as John Lennon sang.

  The hospice was so quiet, as it was so early in the morning. The night shift was giving way to the day. I had seen no sign of any nurses or cleaners.

  I was not sure what to do next. They had told me she had died, so I had vaguely expected someone would be there. I suppose in a hospice death is so common, there is no sense of drama. I had just walked in, nobody had seen me, nobody had spoken to me. Now I was sitting alone with my dead wife.

  I got out my mobile and sent a text message to each of the children. I told them M had died at 7.30. I had just arrived at the hospice. I did not ask them to come. Caitlin, who always replies to all messages at once, as I do, said she would come at once.

  I was still sitting on my own, beside her, observing further minute changes to her dead body, when a middle-aged man walked in. I assumed he was a doctor. I asked if he could do the death certificate as soon as possible. Sorry, he said, in very plummy tones, I am the chaplain.

  Oh God, last thing I need. What sort? He said any sort, he looks after all faiths, but he is an Anglican cleric and works at a well-known church in central London.

  He spoke nicely, sincerely to me, but as if I was a total idiot, asking me to lean on him. He asked if I would like a prayer. I said no, too late for prayers, but I would like a coffee. And he toddled off to get me one. Which was nice.

  I felt sorry for him. He was only trying to do his job among unbelievers, but his timing was so awful, so wrong. He probably didn’t know, nobody had been around on duty to tell him. He had just arrived, went to the first room, going on his rounds, and there was me, with my dead wife.

  Caitlin came in just as he brought me my coffee. She wondered who he was. I introduced her to the chaplain, then managed to usher him out, explaining that now I had my daughter with me, I was fine, thanks, how kind.

  Flora and Jake then arrived. We all sat by Margaret’s bed, not knowing what to say. Flora was clearly very upset, but she was the only one who managed to kiss M, as I had done. The other two could not bear to do so.

  All of them were obviously uneasy, sitting beside their dead mother, which so far had not really unsettled me. I suppose I had seen it coming for days, if not weeks, if not years. I just liked to be near her, even though she was dead, which they clearly found too distressing. So after fifteen minutes or so we all moved next door into the family room.

  I asked Caitlin to go and find a doctor, any doctor. I said tell them we want the death certificate signed. I was desperate to get quickly on with the next stage.

  We discussed what to do about a funeral. I wanted Margaret cremated as soon as possible, but no wake, I couldn’t bear a wake.

  We sat for some time in the family room, on our own, just the four of us, talking, discussing what to do. It was good that we were being left in peace and quiet, but on the other hand, we seemed to have been forgotten. I wanted someone to tell us what the next procedure would be. In a hospice, they are all used to death. We are not.

  It was two hours after I had first arrived that a doctor eventually appeared. I pleaded with her to provide us with a death certificate. I knew one was needed before you can contact an undertaker and get on to the next stage.

  The doctor went to check her notes. She returned to say she could not sign the certificate. According to her notes, she had not physically seen Margaret in the last twenty-one days. Only a doctor who had seen the patient in that time could sign a death certificate. Oh God.

  So, there was now another delay as we waited for any doctor to come on duty who had seen Margaret recently. I was now becoming distressed. Not simply because Margaret had died but because of all the palaver. But finally a doctor did appear who had treated her recently and was able to do the paperwork.

  In the visitors’ room I got a telephone directory, found the number for Levertons, our local undertaker in Kentish Town, and rang them. No one was on duty yet, so I left a voicemail, with details, asking them if they could arrange a funeral as quickly as possible.

  Flora offered to go back into Margaret’s room and clear her clothes and personal stuff, which was thoughtful. Over the last four weeks, a large amount of books and papers and stuff had gathered around her on her bedside table.

  Levertons rang back and asked me to come to the funeral parlour at four that afternoon. Jake said he would come with me. I said no thanks, it will just be boring paperwork; it will go on for ages, no need for you to come as well. I can do it, I can cope.

  They went off in their cars, Flora carrying bin liners with Margaret’s meagre possessions.

  I went back into her bedroom for my last look, my last communion.

  Two nurses were there, with plastic aprons firmly and fiercely fixed. I knew one of them, the sister who had checked me in four weeks ago, taken the family details. The one who had caused me to cry.

  They were laying out Margaret’s body, making her neat and tidy.

  ‘Would you like her wedding ring?’ asked the nurse.

  I nodded. She then got out a can which she appeared to have in her pocket and sprayed Margaret’s wedding ring finger with some solution, like a football referee spraying the pitch with white foam for a free kick. She eased the ring off Margaret’s finger. The proc
ess was done as quickly and automatically as if she was swiping bananas on the Marks and Spencer till at Camden Town. She must do it all the time, every day probably, hence the handy can of finger softener. I wondered how many dead fingers she had done, how many dead fingers to a can.

  26

  THE FUNERAL

  Next day, having booked the funeral for the Friday, four days ahead, I then changed my mind. I decided we would have a wake. Margaret would not have wanted anything, but she is gone, we are the living, we can decide what suits us, what we want to do and how we choose to remember her.

  One of the first people, outside the family, that I told about Margaret’s death was our old friend Valerie Grove, whom we have known for well on forty years. These days she writes a lot of obituaries for The Times, so she said she would contact them. She has kept all Margaret’s letters for years and I suspect had been making notes for several weeks about a Margaret obituary.

  I put a short obituary announcement in the Times Deaths column and got rung by the Press Association. They asked me a few questions, saying they would send out a brief statement, which would save me being bothered again. Before they rang off, I said don’t forget to send a copy to the Cumberland News. It would save me telling all our Loweswater friends and neighbours.

  Over the next two days, I was surprised and amazed by the coverage. Every newspaper, including the tabloids, did a piece about Margaret. The Times obit – by Valerie – ran to two pages. The Daily Mail did a whole page. Even the New York Times did a page.

  Then the letters of condolence came in, hundreds of them, and hundreds of e-mails. I was unable to answer them all for weeks, what with trying to organise the funeral. The Sunday Times, where I have written my Money column for almost twenty years, asked for an appreciation of Margaret. I said I would try to do 800 words but in the end it got to 3,000.

  This brought in even more letters, from friends of Margaret and mine we had not seen or spoken to for fifty years. Mike Thornhill, who had been best man at our wedding in 1960, and with whom we had lost touch in recent years, contacted me and arranged to meet.

  A Danish friend called Karin, who used to be one of our neighbours, till she and her family moved to California, wrote and told me about the death of her husband, a few years ago.

  ‘One of the things that really bothered me, when Bill died,’ she wrote, ‘was the friends and neighbors who would grab me and cry and look deep into my eyes, saying what a wonderful man Bill was, making me cry even more. I knew how wonderful he was, but I was really angry with him for dying before me. No doubt you will get plenty of that too. Oh and don’t worry about answering all those letters. I don’t think people would expect it. I still haven’t opened a lot of the letters I got.’

  Almost all the letters I got were handwritten, kind and thoughtful, and posted in nice envelopes. Not with black borders, as in the olden days, but on quality paper. The art of handwriting is not dead, or perhaps people only turn to handwriting these days when someone is dead.

  I wanted to answer every one, which is what Margaret always did, making me scream, in her perfect handwriting. I would say she could have written a new book, instead of all these letters to fans. She would send readers a reply on one of our house postcards, which were not cheap, thus giving away our home address, which I said would lead to further correspondence. She also put a first-class stamp on her replies, which made me scream at the expense, when there was no urgency.

  In the end, when the volume got too much, and I wanted to reply to everyone before the month was out and everyone had forgotten, I created a round robin which I then sent out.

  Thank you so much for your kind sentiments about Margaret.

  The response and the coverage have been remarkable – whole page obits all over the shop, from D Mail to NY Times, plus BBC radio.

  My theory at first was not many dead – must have been a quiet day in the Obits office. Then I thought perhaps it was some sort of reaction to all the Big Male Beasts who died in last few weeks, D Bowie and T Wogan. They cleared the decks for days, and were criticised for overdoing it.

  Then along comes this quiet literary lady, whom the general public does not know, so they think, let’s give her a nice show.

  I put these theories to Caitlin, our oldest and tallest, and she said I was being patronising. The reaction on Twitter – whatever that is – to her death had been enormous, with people eager to tell us about their favourite Margaret Forster book. This was picked up by the newspapers and in fact they lifted some of the remarks on Twitter, so Caitlin says.

  Any road, the extensive, wide spreading of the sad news has resulted in hundreds of cards and letters and messages. Handwriting is not dead, pretty headed note paper is alive; people still do want to share their feelings.

  But, it means I am having to do a round robin reply, otherwise I will be writing cards till Easter. Sorry about that. (Round robins? Surely owls are rounder?)

  Thanks ever so. Much appreciated

  Hunter

  We booked the funeral for first thing on the Friday morning, 12 February, a rather awkward time for people not living in London, and even for those who do, but it was the only time Levertons – they tend not to add an apostrophe – could book it for us. I was desperate not to have to wait till the following week.

  I had been quite surprised by the inside of the Leverton and Sons funeral parlour in Kentish Town, the first time I had ever been in it, though I had passed it for decades. Rather functional and modest, compared with their plush limos, their registration numbers beginning with LEV, which have been easing their way up Highgate West Hill for as long as we have lived here, driving me mad when I get stuck behind them.

  I never knew Levertons were so venerable, dating back to 1789. They have six offices in the London area and have helped the departures of some very famous folks over the centuries, including Princess Diana (and are in line to help bury the Queen).

  You can’t really escape hiring an undertaker, wherever you live. Someone has to look after the body, get it buried or cremated, arrange lots of things which the ordinary person doesn’t realise have to be done.

  I was determined to have the cheapest, simplest package, so I sat in Levertons looking at the price lists. There was a huge variety of coffins, ranging from £1,825 for something called American Metal down to £395 for a plain veneered coffin.

  I could have had a horse-drawn hearse with a team of four plumed horses that would impress the neighbours. A snip at £1,800, if you happen to be an East End gangster.

  In the end, I opted for what they describe as their Direct Cremation Option at £1,900, payable in advance. Good job I had my Visa card on me. This covers all basic costs and disbursements – i.e. fees to doctors and the crematorium. It does not include limos for the mourners or a cleric to officiate.

  I have always hated it at funerals when the cleric in charge has clearly never met the deceased and is working from notes shoved in their hands at the last minute. They do give the service a suitable, solemn setting, but as neither of us had been churchgoers since we were teenagers, it did not seem necessary.

  I know Margaret would have preferred the humblest funeral, as we managed to get married with only two others present, but I had decided, despite my first reactions, that I wanted all the family and relations to be invited, plus neighbourhood friends, and also Margaret’s publishing friends, including Carmen Callil who, while at Chatto, had published many of her books, and her present publisher, Becky.

  We created and home-printed the programme for the service ourselves, my daughter-in-law Rosa laying it out. I even included a few jokes, well what I considered were amusing remarks, and some stories about Margaret.

  Altogether forty people turned up on Friday 12 February 2016 at Golders Green crematorium in north London for Margaret’s funeral. It was cold and wintery, pretty miserable for everyone having to get there so early – and then stand around waiting for the previous funeral to finish. My brother Johnny and his w
ife had come down from Carlisle the day before.

  While I waited, I stood and read the plaques to people who have been cremated at Golders Green – Sigmund Freud, Marc Bolan, Kathleen Ferrier, Joyce Grenfell, Ivor Novello, Tommy Handley, Keith Moon, Anna Pavlova, George Bernard Shaw. You wouldn’t see such names in Loweswater churchyard.

  I had decided to lead the service myself – with the help of my children. Two of them spoke, Jake and Flora. Caitlin, who has the nicest voice, and is used to public speaking, decided she could not face it. But her daughter Ruby, aged sixteen, gave an excellent speech. I went round afterwards saying that all that money on her education had not been wasted. I like to think that Margaret would have been proud of them all.

  Afterwards, all the forty mourners went back to our house for Tea and Buns. That was the wording in the programme. We did of course have loads of food and drinks, wine and whisky, in the Scottish fashion, which my children paid for and arranged beautifully.

  Only one thing went wrong in our homemade service. I had given the undertaker three songs I wanted played and he said, no problem, he would get them on a CD.

  Margaret was totally non-musical, so this was my own self-indulgence. When she went on Desert Island Discs, it was explained she had to pick eight records. ‘On a desert island, I wouldn’t want any records – just silence, and a book.’ So when she went on the programme, I picked some nice Beatles songs for her, including ‘And I Love Her’.

  For the funeral service, the music I chose was ‘The Holly and the Ivy’, as Christmas carols were the only sort of music she liked and it was still the depths of winter, and ‘And I Love Her’ by the Beatles. At the end of the service, as we trooped out, I wanted ‘Georgy Girl’ to be played. A pretty naff tune, which Margaret would have hated, but quick and jaunty and it makes people smile.