Life goes on

It's been a couple of weeks since Sue and I scattered dad's ashes and she is back in Borneo and I'm still in Lincoln.  I've been gradually emptying out his little bungalow of some of his more idiosyncratic personal touches.  Like the clocks everywhere, in wooden boxes with fake pendulums and cheap quartz movements.  Maybe they were his idea of a joke about time passing.  The oddest things make me tearful, such as the plastic model of the USS Constitution that has stood on the living room window ledge for years.  He made it when his hands still worked properly and it must have taken a lot of time and care.  Now it's all dusty and some of its spars are broken, it has no value and I've moved it into the garage to await its fate, probably the recycling bin.  All that time and effort for nothing.

Hanging up my washing I noticed that the pear tree was in bud.  A few years ago dad tried to "make a feature" of it by painting it in creosote and sticking a bird box in the middle.  I thought it was an angry and destructive gesture, but the tree produced a bumper crop of pears the following year and now, thick with plump buds, it's got the last laugh.  Life goes on.

For his ninetieth birthday last September I bought dad a bird feeder.  It doesn't sound like much, but I thought it would be something for him to look out at from his little front conservatory, imprisoned as he was in the house.  He appreciated the gesture, but was sad that no birds seemed to visit it.  In fact the birdseed inside has been consumed steadily over the winter and both I and Bernie have had to refill it.  A few days ago I was delighted and sad to see the sparrows and tits queuing up to take their turn at it.  Life goes on.

Things are not so easy for Sue at the moment either.  She is mourning the loss of her very good friend Keith a couple of months back, as well as my dad and she has her own worries about family.  But, today she posted this picture of hornbills in the woodland near her apartment.  Such weird and gorgeous birds that bark like dogs and on the wing look like flying orchids.  Life goes on and what can we do but try to squeeze the most out of it?

Scattering Dad's Ashes

Sue and I made our way to South Dock Marina on the morning of Wednesday 19th March to meet our old friend Pedro Lewis, who had laid on a workboat.  It was a good place to start as the marina is on the site of the old Surrey Commercial Docks where dad guarded the gates for much of his PLA police career.

We headed out onto the river at about 10.00am with the tide still making.  The thirty or so minutes down to Greenwich passed quickly as we talked of people and boats we had known, some now dead or sunk.  As we headed downriver the sun began to shine.

I remembered the spot where dad and I had scattered mum ashes twenty two years before and gave Pedro directions: "its just after the entrance to the Greenwich foot tunnel on the Isle of Dogs side, where you can see up through the naval college to the Queen's House and the Royal Observatory.

On reaching the spot Pedro stemmed the tide while I opened the little tin box containing dad's ashes at the stern of the workboat.  I took out the paper bag and slipped the contents gently over the side.  saying "goodbye dad".  It was an oddly satisfying experience.  Sue tried to take some photos of the floating ashes, but they quickly dispersed.

Afterwards we headed back upriver to South Dock and then Pedro drove us to Wapping, where I showed Sue the flat mum, dad and I used to live in before walking up to St Katherine Docks for some lunch in "the Dickens".  A place dad had taken mum and I to in the mid 70s when it first opened.

"Bon voyage" old boy.

Dad's Memorial Service

The period after dad's death passed in a blur of administrative stuff.  After someone dies they have to be killed bureaucratically and this takes a lot of effort.

In contrast the Memorial Service came together quite easily.  Dad's local social club was the obvious choice and booking and organising the catering was straightforward and dad had given me a list of people to invite.  In the end there were about thirty people, including dad's principal carers which I was very pleased about.

One thing I really wanted was a bugler to play the last post and to my surprise the Royal Marines provided one free of charge.  Bugler Gillian Forde, who was very serious and very professional, played beautifully and then ate a vast amount of sandwiches before driving back to Portsmouth.

Rosemary operated the lights and Sue controlled the music.  Which made me feel very supported.  It was lovely too to have our friend Claude there, all the way from Puglia.

The text of my tribute to dad appears in the blog post below.  At the end we were left with the tin box, containing dad's ashes, which had pride of place on his dining room table.  

Douglas Jean Duckworth 1924-2015 - Memorial Service

(Opening music: the “One Fine Day” aria from Madame Butterfly sung by Maria Callas)

Opening Words

Welcome everybody to this memorial service for my dad, Douglas Jean Duckworth. 

Dad died of pneumonia on 8^th February 2015 in Lincoln County Hospital.

We discussed what he wanted in the way of a send off a few months ago.  He decided that he would like to be cremated anonymously, followed by a Humanist memorial service at a venue near his home.  He liked the idea of the cremation being anonymous, because having been to Lincoln Crem. for the funerals of his first wife, my mum, Eva and his second wife Phyllis, he had no affection for the place and it pleased him to think that this would put more money behind the bar for his friends to enjoy.

He also chose the music that was played earlier.  It’s the “One Fine Day” aria from Madame Butterfly.  The “Humanist” bit was mainly to please me, as I’m a Humanist funeral celebrant and he probably thought I needed the business.  But to be fair, dad wasn’t a religious person.  He would go to religious services out of politeness, not devotion and not once in his life can I ever recall him saying he believed in a god.

Humanists believe that humankind is responsible for its own destiny and that there is no after life.  In other words, this is it, we only have this life, it’s the same for all of us and we are all in it together.  Life is amazing and death is awesome and humans have been getting together to celebrate life and death for thousands of years.  These celebrations, in churches, temples, stone circles, caves, pubs and social clubs for that matter, help us understand that life is precious and that we are not alone.  This service will pay tribute to dad, in keeping with these ancient traditions.

Although this is a non-religious ceremony believers are very welcome and will have an opportunity to pray for dad. 

The following people who are unable to be here have sent their best wishes and condolences:

• Karen Underwood.
• Beryl Pestell and her son Graham and daughter-in-law Karen.
• Roy and Jackie Elliot.
• Dave and Dorothy Bambridge.
• Nancy Harling.
• Linda Logan.

I’d like to thank them for their kindness and I know dad would have appreciated it too.

Tribute to Dad

Douglas Jean Duckworth was born on 20th September 1924 in Newcastle.  He believed his mother died of TB and his father killed himself.  Orphaned and with no relatives prepared to look after him, he was transferred to the care of guardians, George and Alice Maltby, who lived in the Derbyshire coal-mining village of Pleasley.

With no desire to spend his life working in Pleasley Colliery, in 1942, aged seventeen, dad cycled the twenty odd miles to the Derby Recruiting Office, where he signed on for twelve years with the Royal Marines.  He had few regrets, except that he left behind his childhood companion Jackie, a frail epileptic who was also looked after by George and Alice.  Jackie died when dad was overseas and in later life he sometimes spoke of the boy, always with a note of sadness and remorse that he had not been able to get back to see him before he died.

The Marines became dad’s family and in the following twelve years he saw the world.  He served on the cruiser HMS London during the Second World War and in various ships during peacetime.  He saw active service again in 1953 aboard the aircraft carrier HMS Ocean during the Korean War.  He was on the “London” when it patrolled the North Atlantic to protect the convoys from German warships, often in freezing conditions and mountainous seas.  On the “Ocean” he manned an anti-aircraft gun, which was destroyed three times by the ships own fighter planes crashing as they attempted to land on the heaving flight deck.

As many of you will know, he was full of stories about his life in the Marines.  The picture he painted was of a wild young man, handy with his fists and up for some mischief after a few drinks.  This impression is supported by his service record: he was promoted twice to the rank of corporal and promptly demoted again.   

Dad got to know my mum Eva years before they actually met.  One of his messmates wrote regularly to a friend of mum’s and it was suggested she might write to this other marine called “Doug”.  Maybe one reason why dad chose the Madam Butterfly aria that opened this service was that the song is about a women waiting for the return of her lover’s ship, something Eva spent a long time doing.  They finally met in the early 1950s and “walked out” together along the banks of the River Thames by the Royal Naval College, not far from Eva’s family home.  This picture (points to picture), painted by Canaletto in the 1750s, which usually hangs in dad’s living room, shows where they strolled arm in arm that day.

At the end of his twelve years dad opted for a life ashore and he and Eva got married in 1954 and I arrived a year later.  Life must have been hard.  Dad had to adjust to life in “civvy street” and mum was recovering from what used to be called a “nervous breakdown” and was probably mental exhaustion, caused by nursing her dying mother.  However, they soon got on their feet: dad got a job as a policeman with the Port of London Authority (the PLA), patrolling and guarding the gates of London’s busy docks.  Then around 1960 he was allocated a PLA police flat in a Georgian block on Wapping Pierhead, with a fantastic view over the river.  In those days the Thames was a busy commercial waterway and we would often see my grandfather’s tug heading up or down river.  If you leaned far enough out of the window you could even see Tower Bridge. 

During that time dad bought his first family vehicle – a motorbike and sidecar and we went on regular outings, sometimes in company with other bikers, to see the Christmas lights in Southend-on-Sea, for example.  When touring on our own, mum would do the map-reading and I well remember her rapping on the sidecar window furiously mouthing “left” or “right” as my dad in goggles and helmet, turned to her and mouthed “what?”, by which time, of course, the turning had long-disappeared behind us.

In 1967 mum and dad decided to buy their own home in the South London suburb of Sidcup, although dad agonised about having a four thousand pound mortgage.  He quickly became an enthusiastic d-i-yer and spent many happy hours making what he would call “practical” improvements to the house.  Something he continued to do in his later homes, building up an impressive collection of tools and carefully labelled tins of nails and screws.

In the late 1960s the docks in London were in terminal decline, so dad was pensioned off.  But, he quickly found a couple of temporary jobs, before joining the London Borough of Bexley as a Clerk of Works managing highway repairs contracts.  Having obtained, as he would describe it, “a position of responsibility” for the first time in his life, he really rose to the challenge, revealing considerable organising and communication skills.  His nickname among the highways contractors was “the sergeant major” on account of his military bearing and uncompromising attitude to quality control.

When they retired in the mid 1980s mum and dad sold their semi in Sidcup and then found it hard to settle down again.  Over the next fifteen years there was one move after another – first around Kent and South East London and then later to Swaffham in Suffolk, Sutton on Sea on the Lincolnshire coast and finally a retirement park in the village of Torksey.  Dad was happiest, I think, in Sutton, where he could go fishing from the beach and they had a good circle of friends, including Beryl Pestell and her late husband Ernie.

In 1992 mum was diagnosed with cancer of the oesophagus and went quickly downhill, dying in Lincoln County Hospital in May that year.  After she was cremated, dad and I decided to scatter her ashes on the Thames at a spot close to where Canaletto painted that picture.  We sailed my little yacht the fifty-odd miles upriver from its moorings in East Kent.  The journey turned into quite an epic as on the way back we were hit by gales and engine failure, before returning bedraggled, hung-over and exhausted to the muddy creek from which we’d set off three days before.

Alone and rudderless after nearly forty years of marriage, dad headed back to Sutton-on-sea and after a few months fell head over heels for Phyllis, another retiree who had moved there.  After the pain and confusion of mum’s illness, passion came back into dad’s life and he and Phyllis moved to Lincoln and they married in 1995.  They had good times together, including a wonderful holiday in Tunisia, but sadly Phyllis died in 1997 of a long-term illness.

Dad stayed on in their bungalow in Lincoln and rebuilt his life as a single man.  He developed a strong friendship with Bernie Logan and his family and had regular visitors including his old friends Sallie and Peter James, Phyllis’ stepdaughter Karen Underwood and his former Bexley colleague Roy Elliot and his wife Jackie.  He also began to travel abroad more.  He went on holiday to Mallorca with Bernie and his family and to Greece with Sue and I, where she was amazed by his ability to sit in the sun all day and drink strong liquor, a skill he had no doubt honed in the Marines.  He also visited Sue and I in Rome, frightening the hell out of us by failing to appear in the arrivals hall with the rest of his flight.  He eventually turned up forty-five minutes later, pounding along determinedly with his walking stick, having mistakenly followed “two very nice, very friendly women,” as he described them, to a different terminal.

During this time he became a regular visitor to the island of Malta, staying there for several weeks at a time, always at the same hotel, where he made many friends.  Two of those friends, Dorothy and Dave Bambridge have written to share their memories:

“We had known Dougie for about twelve years having met at the Hotel Santana in Malta.  We found him to be a very knowledgeable gentleman. (A gentleman he truly was). So fascinating to listen to and very uplifting with his laugh. Every day at 16.00 he would set off, with his walking stick, from the hotel for, I would guess a three-mile walk. He never missed a day, even when his legs were playing him up.

“During the day, weather permitting, he would be 'on the deck' as he called it, in his shorts in the same spot day after day. Nobody would sit in his place on the deck knowing Dougie always sat there. We called it Dougie’s spot. We used to join him but if it was too hot we would leave Dougie to it and return later when it was cooler. We couldn't believe how he could stand it so hot.  He was known by all the regular guests who were very fond of him.”

Physical fitness was always very important to dad and he loved football, jogging and weight training.  But, I think he most enjoyed the simple pleasure of a good country walk.  Most weekends throughout my childhood mum, dad and I would go walking in the Kent countryside and when I was sixteen he and I walked the 120-mile long “Pilgrim’s Way” from Winchester to Canterbury.

In his eighties Dad fought hard against advancing old age.  In 2006 he nearly died of kidney failure following a hip replacement and then had a stroke, which seriously limited his mobility, although he worked tenaciously to recover from it.  In 2011, by sheer persistence, he persuaded the NHS to give him a knee replacement.  Frankly, it was a gamble, which didn’t pay off and resulted in many months in hospital and nursing homes rehabilitating.  When he was finally discharged in May 2012 he was at a real low point in his life, because having always been fit and active he was now stuck in a wheelchair.

To help him cope at home Lincolnshire Social Services organised a homecare package with Allied Healthcare, which transformed his life and made his last two and half years bearable.  At dad’s request I wrote to his carers soon after his death to express his thanks and mine for their hard work, professionalism and above all the companionship they gave him day after day.  A copy of the letter is on the wall over there.  I’m delighted that some of his carers are here today.  Thank you Lesley, Pauline, Natalie and Emma.  You’re the best.

During this time his good friend Bernie visited most days to keep dad company and provide him with practical help cleaning and gardening and Billy Sinclair looked in at least once a week, often with some tasty dishes for dad to heat up in the microwave.   Karen and Sallie and Peter also visited regularly providing a change from his daily routine and something for him to look forward to.  I know he appreciated this very much.

The end came quite suddenly.  Dad became very lethargic for a few days and was admitted to hospital on Tuesday 3^rd February, where he was found to have severe pneumonia.  I was in Borneo at the time, but thanks to a timely email from Bernie, I got to his bedside on Friday 6^th, while he was still conscious and lucid.  Apart from struggling for breath he wasn’t in any real pain and was quite optimistic and in good spirits.  Having established that I was staying in his bungalow he made me laugh by asking, “you do know how to use the washing machine?”  Next morning he slipped into increasingly deep unconsciousness and died as they say “peacefully in his sleep” on the morning of Sunday 8^th February.

Dad’s friend Peter James is now going to say a few words.

“Doug and my wife Sallie were brought up in a small village on the Notts,Derby border, called Pleasley.  When he was seventeen he decided to join the Navy as a Marine, he saw service in many parts of the world including Korea.  Wherever he travelled he always kept in touch.  One of his favourite places was Malta and he continued to visit Malta as long as he was able. We found a photo that he sent of himself on the ship with a puppy they had rescued, and that was in Malta.  (Holds up photo and reads message)

 “In all the years I knew Doug I never heard him moan even in his latter years when he was confined to a wheelchair. He maintained that he had had a wonderful life and wouldn't have changed anything.  He often talked about Douglas and Sue and the happy times spent with them in Italy.  He was so proud of Douglas and told us of his various ventures abroad ,and how he was.  The only time I remember Doug bring miffed was when talking about the 'Rum ration' he was allowed whilst serving in the Marines, apparently the officers when distributing the daily tot inserted their finger in the glass which displaced the contents, there for short measuring them!  Then of course the politicians abolished the rum ration completely! He was quite scathing about the politicians who were responsible for abolishing the rum ration and I remember him saying something to the effect that they were like a bunch of bananas, they start off green quickly turn yellow, and there's not a straight one in the bunch!  

“Other than that Doug believed happiness would never come to those who fail to appreciate what they already have.  Like many here we will miss Doug for his company, cheerfulness and the many stories he told us.  Life will be poorer for his departure.  In conclusion I will say there is no cure for birth and death except to enjoy the interval, and Doug certainly did that and finally remember that although Doug is no longer with us no one is dead  as long as they are remembered by someone, and we will always remember him fondly.

Thank you Peter.  Dad’s friend Bernie has also written something, which he’s asked me to read on his behalf:

“I first met Doug almost twenty years ago, it was in the ‘Black Swan’ where are group of us used to gather after a ‘hard day at the office’ (harder for some than others I might add).  We quickly became good friends and as our friendship grew Doug became part of our family, sharing in our celebrations and weekly get togethers.

“Doug became like a father and a brother to me and we supported each other through some difficult times.  His passing has left a gaping hole in my daily life and I greatly miss him, yet I’m happy to be here to help celebrate his colourful life.  “Goodbye old buddy, you can be sure that we will splice the mainbrace in your honour.”

Now Rosemary would like to say a few words:

“I am his former daughter-in -law from an unbelievably long time ago!  Doug was a lovely well meaning man who did his very best to make me feel welcome and part of the family.  I have some very fond memories of him and am grateful for the energy and care he showed and also for the very long walks we all used to go on into the Kent countryside practically every weekend, which were lovely.  I am sure everyone will miss him, and although we have not been in contact for a long time, I will miss him too.”

Thank you Rosemary.  And now Sue has some thoughts and memories she’d like to share: 

“I’ve known “the Dougs” well for over 20 years now, although I never met Doug’s mum or Doug Snr’s second wife Phyllis. When I first met Doug Snr I was impressed by his interest in the world and especially people in it. He was always chatting about someone he’d met on a plane or in a shop, what they’d talked about and what he’d learned. Doug was interested in everyone, no matter what their background, where they came from in the world or the colour of their skin. If Doug Jnr and I were going on holiday, travelling or about to settle down in some new part of the world, Doug loved to do some research on the places we were going to and enjoy telling us all he’d found out.

“Doug got on exceptionally well with our Italian neighbour, Erminia, who is the same age as Doug was. Although they had not a word of a common  language, they could converse at length.  They managed to get Doug Jnr locked into a storeroom one afternoon. I remember watching them, both well into their eighties, with walking sticks, one with a crow bar and the other with a hammer, talking in their respective languages, giving instructions to each other and trying to get the metal door open to release him. It took some time as I think there was a lot more flirting than tactical talk going on that hot afternoon, had they but known it.

“Rest in peace, Doug, you deserve it.”

Thank you Sue.  Nancy Harling, another friend of dad’s from his Malta days, has written the following tribute:

“It is a pleasure to have met Douglas and I enjoyed his company many times in Malta; always cheerful, a gentleman and a friend.”

When people talk about dad they often used that word “ gentleman” and I know he would have been pleased to hear this.  He did strive to be courteous, polite and sociable.  In his eighties, as he became increasingly deaf, he found it harder and harder to participate in conversations and this was very frustrating for him as his intellect was undimmed.  Nonetheless, I think his carers would attest that he always did his best to be pleasant and polite and tried hard not to take his frustrations out on them.  Even in his last few days in hospital a couple of the nurses commented to me what a “lovely old gentleman” he was. 

Beneath this sociable exterior there was a more complex personality.  I don’t think he knew himself very well and he found it hard to recognise or show his emotions.  As a result, he had difficulty understanding others too and he could appear inflexible and insensitive to those close to him.  To be honest, we clashed a lot and there have been periods in my life when I have been so angry with him we didn’t speak for years.  And yet at times, often when it really mattered, he could give free rein to his emotions and be incredibly sensitive and caring.  When mum died, back at his place after the reception, when everyone else had gone, at the age of sixty seven, he invited me, his thirty seven year old son, to lie down in his arms and he hugged me and patted my back as I sobbed like a baby.  Out walking together, in Kent or the Lake District, when he didn’t feel the need to play the father, nor me to play the son, we could pass hours together in companionable silence.

I like to think that it was at those times that the real Douglas Jean Duckworth shone through.  Not just a gentleman, but a gentle and kind man.  What more can I say?  He was my dad and I’ll miss him very much.

Farewell and Playing of the Last Post

I guess it’s now time to say “goodbye” to the old man.  I can’t think of better way to bid him “farewell” than to hear “the last post” played over his ashes.  The Royal Marines like to pay their respects to their own, especially war veterans like dad and have provided a bugler to play him out.  Afterwards there will be one minute of silence for private reflection or prayer.

Please stand if you can do so comfortably.  (Celebrant nods to Bugler)

(The house lights are dimmed while “the last post” is played while the Celebrant blows out a number of candles illuminating a photo of dad and his medals)

(Sixty seconds of silence)

Goodbye mate.

(The bugler plays “Reveille” and the house lights are turned back up)

Thank you Bugler, I know dad would have been ever so proud.  I think we can sit down again now.

Closing Words

Next week Sue and I will take dad’s ashes to London, where we’ll scatter them from a boat on the Thames, in the same spot where dad and I scattered mum’s ashes twenty-two years ago (indicates Canaletto painting). 

Before we adjourn to the bar we’re going to hear one last piece of music.  Dad didn’t believe in heaven.  But, in his travels around the world he did find his earthly paradise.  It’s called the island of Sebang, on the northern tip of Sumatra and he often talked about it’s peaceful palm-fringed beaches and warm blue water.  He came there on HMS London in 1946 as the British were slowly clearing up the Malay Archipelago after the Japanese occupation.  Perhaps finding this place after the trauma of war added to the sense of peace that he felt when he landed there.  Three years later Dad was on HMS Glasgow when it docked in New York Harbour.  The musical “South Pacific” had just opened on Broadway and dad became familiar with all the popular songs from the show and he impressed my mum with this knowledge when they first met a couple of years later.  One of those songs is called “Bali Hai” and it speaks of a longing for a “special island”.   It’s really about humankind’s search for paradise, be it earthly or heavenly, take your pick.  I’m glad that dad found his “special island” and now that he is gone I like to think of him slinging his hammock there.  As we listen to “Bali Hai” you might like to think about your own “special island” and where on earth, or heaven, it might happen to be.

(Bali Hai sung by Mandy Patinkin is played)

Thank you so much everybody for sharing this memorial service today and thank you especially Lesley, Pauline, Natalie and Emma.  I know it’s usual for the mourners to bring flowers for the deceased, but in this case the deceased is going to give them to the mourners.  (Celebrant gives flowers and chocolates to Lesley, Pauline, Natalie and Emma).   OK everybody!  The bar is now open and the drinks are on dad.