The Story for Monday - 'Amazing Grace'

Our last prompt for Pudsey Writers was a memory sparked by a piece of music. After discarding many because the memories were too rude, too vague, too personal and too unbelievable, I finally wrote something.

And then something else...

Amazing Grace

It’s funny how easy it can be to get used to things.

My mother had emphysema and always seemed to have a chest infection. She’d been in and out of hospital a few times the previous autumn, and although she’d seemed very poorly each time, still, none of us had any sense of how ill she actually was.  Nobody said.  Perhaps nobody knew.

The thought of death didn’t worry her in the slightest; she was a Spiritualist, and firmly believed death was just the start of it.  And so, in a misguided attempt to prepare me for her future demise, I’d heard all my life about what happened when you died and how you didn’t need to worry about it, but, somehow, I just found these talks traumatising and began to dread the ‘after I’ve gone…’ speeches. It’s a lot to take in, when you’re four, or six, or ten.

She talked about her funeral a lot, too, cheerful soul that she was. She didn’t care what we did with her body – death was just going to be like taking off your coat, apparently – and yet she wanted to be cremated and her ashes scattered at a village where she lived once.

‘Not bloody likely,’ said my Dad.

I grew to adulthood, married and moved away to Leeds, and visited rarely. We didn’t drive and it was too far, too expensive. The list went on, though.  She wanted this hymn, and she wanted that hymn, and she wanted a Spiritualist to take the service.  No tears, no black, lots of bright colours. And if anyone tried to explain to her that this was a bit, well, controlling, she’d glare at them over her folded and point out that it would be her funeral and she would be watching.

And then she heard my husband singing to himself when we were visiting one weekend. She’d never heard such a beautiful voice, and she added him to her list of requirements: Terry was to sing Amazing Grace at her funeral.

The last stage of her illness came one December.  She had a chest infection, and I’d been intending to visit on her birthday on the 15^th, but I had a heavy cold and didn’t want to risk her catching it. Terry went instead, in my place, which delighted her, but I never got to see her.

She died on Christmas day at 4pm.

There were some difficult conversations.  She would be cremated, but my Dad didn’t want her ashes carrying halfway across the country; my mother hadn’t realised, with her long list of wishes, that those of us left behind might have wishes of our own.  My brothers did manage to arrange a Spiritualist for the funeral, but there wouldn’t be time to sing the many hymns she wanted, so they were cut and only Terry’s song would stay.

‘She was joking!’ Dad said.  ‘You can’t make the poor lad get up and sing at a time like that!’

‘She wasn’t joking!’ my sister-in-law said.  ‘She meant it.’

Terry kept quiet until everyone else had finished arguing about it.

‘She did ask me,’ he said.  ‘And I promised.’ 

It wasn’t quite the joyful occasion my mother had so naively expected. We did wear bright colours, and we did cry, because it was a hard thing to do, to let go of this woman who had never, ever let us go, no matter how far away we might be, no matter what we’d done.

And Terry sang Amazing Graze.

At the first note, a quiet fell over the little chapel. His rich, clear tenor filled the space, swept around us, soared and rose to Heaven.  The words of the hymn cradled us and comforted us and gave us space to weep and find solace.  Every word was clear, every phrase was heartfelt, every note was perfect, and by the end of the song there wasn’t a dry eye in the house except for Terry’s.

My husband.  My hero.

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