The Second Albert Southwell

I am a writer. I am meant to be good with words, but sometimes I struggle to fit them together. Some things are hard to write about and any attempt ends up like trying to capture the wind in your hands.

I did not manage to write the eulogy for my grandfather until an hour or so before the funeral. There had been some family debate the night before over whether or not I could call him a “scoundrel” in an oration and whether if I did, whether it would be the only word my predominantly deaf Nanna would actually hear. However, the real problem with trying to write it was that my emotion was too raw and rushing to be shaped by words.

In the end I hit deadline, scratching a few notes in the morning ahead of getting into the hearse for the short trip to Saint Mary’s Prittlewell. Blurred by tears, a little shaky and finding it somewhat difficult to play the role of strong man, I pushed my Nanna’s wheelchair into church whilst Surreal Girl supported me. With the blonde wood of the coffin ahead of me, the hymns and preliminaries of the service just ended up becoming the background noise to help hide my sobbing. When it was my turn to go to the lectern, I felt hollow, exhausted. I was sick with grief and the knowledge my pale words were going to fail me, my grandfather and the 70 or more people waiting in the pews.

Below is roughly what I told them through veil of water and a voice that kept betraying my sense of loss. I think all that you need to know about my grandfather to understand what follows is that he had been a scoundrel (a word actually used in the end by Father Frank to cover his years of gambling, drinking and hustling) who had a profound spiritual experience after my father died 12 years ago. After that he really was in many senses reborn. He was certainly a different, easier to love man.

'This should be very easy because I know Father Frank will come up after me and tell you how wonderful my grandfather was. And he was wonderful. However, it is incredibly hard. I do not think I can begin to do my grandfather justice today.

There is no doubt about it that my grandfather would be terribly embarrassed by me or anyone else standing here and you about him. For a man so many regarded as special, he was incredibly modest.

If he was here and you could actually persuade him to talk about himself he would probably tell you how proud he was to come from Stoke Newington. How proud he was of his own father – a trade unionist who stood up for Jewish refugees and those in worse conditions than his own. Most of all, my grandfather would have told you about his flaw and the mistakes he made in his life.

I was with him when he died. In the last few weeks of his life his body and even his mind had been ravaged, but beyond the moment of death he looked fulfilled. Even the stretched parchment dryness of his skin and utter, wasted tiredness were invisible. He truly looked fulfilled. Part of this was his total faith, his absolute belief in a return to heaven. Part of it I am convinced comes from him having lived an incredible 95 years.

As a teenager my grandfather put himself through college to learn a trade as a printer. He volunteered for service in the war because he felt it was the best way to protect him family. He joined the air force, which saw him moonlighting and running scams in Iceland to much harsher episodes during the liberation of Belgium and other parts of the Low Countries. He worked hard all of his life for little reward or recognition. When he retired he began to work to help others. By taking up running in his seventies he not only broke records – he once held the British veteran record for the fastest half marathon – he raised thousands of pounds for charity.

However, my grandfather took no real pride in of this. If you asked him, he would say his biggest accomplishment was 73 years of marriage and the great love he shared with my Nanna. After that, the only thing he would mention with pride was being a father to my father Bert.

The saddest thing my grandfather suffered was the loss of my father. However, it was through such devastation and the vision he enjoyed in its wake that he believed he came into the presence of his God. After this, he was a changed, renewed man. His response to sadness was a total love for the world. From that moment on his heart was full of love, forgiveness and light.

I will treasure my grandfather and all the things I was lucky enough to see after his sea change. I will treasure his questioning mind, his avid reading, interest in politics and the him being one of the few men who could talk about LSD, Islamic history, his worries over the environment and the woes of Southend United all in the space of 10 minutes. I will treasure his ability to break into song – usually Ella Fitzgerald or Charles Aznavour. I will treasure his advice on everything from the best place to drink Dubonnet Rouge in Paris (outside Opéra de Paris) or how to find a love that would last like that between him and my Nanna (only marry someone who embodies your favourite song by the Beatles).

I have lost not just a wonderful grandfather, but also a great friend and an example of someone who was able to live without judgement, someone who walked every step with hope and love. My grandfather’s total faith meant he had no fear about his spirit dying and nor have I any fear that he will fail to live on in the hearts and minds of those who knew him.’

Right now, as I am getting close to hitting the publish button before any trace of a tear comes, I raise a glass of brandy to the Gros Bon Ange of the second Albert Southwell. My grandfather deserved better words than I could muster, but I can at least honour him in the best way the living ever can, through a remembrance of love.