(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 8th 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 3rd 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 6th, 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 8th 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.
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