There is something quite shattering, like a life earthquake, to be with one who is told he will die. Not that we all know we will die, but one day, not today, some time in a distant uncertain future. Rob was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer shortly before Monica died, and so when we all gathered for her funeral, the news was still fresh. But let me start with the certain death.
Monica Pindar died in a care home after a fall and hospital stay, at the age of 98. It may well be the case she died prematurely, the hospital were evidently preemptive at discharging her, but 98 is all the same a good innings. She was of sound mind and only increasing falls necessitated her admittance to a care home, giving up her much loved Beverley home. I had not seen her in 9 years. I know this from the last photograph I took of her, when I was visiting Pat Raine, those years ago.
Here’s Monica, imitating her child self praying with the nuns.
…
Alison and Jo informed and gathered us, Edmund accepted to drive up with me. I rocked up in Sheringham in the darkness. Edmund opened the door dressed for arctic conditions with woolly hat on. Actually the home, although falling apart was warm and cosy with a fire in the front room, which reminded me of my childhood home, which also only had one room heated. After delicious venison dinner, I heard news of Edmund and Sarah’s children, Joe (in Spain working in agro, now separated from Marie and sharing their young son); Ione working in the Bodleian library still searching for a relationship and Lydia, in London who had struggled since covid but was emerging back into the world, fully supported by her partner Felix.
Our 5 hour journey up though familiar landscape was full of stories. Edmunds working life, including that of his mother, Margaret, her relationship with Edmund (he came as a lodger to her home in Oxford, she drove the adventure, taking Edmund and her 3 children first to PNG, before their African adventure); the half brothers and sisters (Ann – conservator of wall paintings in churches, Martin a doctor who I met out in Spain and X). At Hull university he had regular contact – Sunday lunch – with Grandma Wright, Claire and Ursula. He too found Grandma Wright unfriendly in particular her treatment of Ursula and children. Never one to to encourage, she called Edmund, ‘Soft in the head’. Through Lincoln, Edmund, who has done much research on ancestry, would remark, ‘our ancestors came from here’, as I looked out on the bleak landscape, no hedges then mean hedges and few trees and thought, I’d never want to live here. He knew the land through potatoes, he said.
The funeral of Monica Wright, aged 98, was attended by a surprising number of people. Monica’s community of catholics was strong and she was known to the priest. A colleague from Paksithan gave a short and odd testament to Monica, (who’d stayed in the car while his wife awaited the birth of her child). The wake, in a local pub, was in a way unsatisfactory, as the space was loud, (Chris and I had to go outside to talk) we did not know anyone, and Jo, who I’d wanted to catch up with, had to leave early. A new life was there, a good thing at a funeral – Chris and Emmas daughters first child.
It was an unusual route getting to our air bnb. Disobeying the road closed signs, we crossed a narrow bridge, into darkness. With luck i found the owner still renovating the Shepherds hut in the garden and he showed us in. The home was recently renovated with great care, and beside us in the darkness the River Hull, which neither of us knew existed.
Friday – Hull and Family
After a brief explore of Hull docks and finding the exit of our River Hull (we were becoming attached to our local river, which we’d gathered that morning was a sad slow thing, as the river had not been dredged for years and was damned further up), we arrived at Green Wickets to have lunch with Alison Rob and Sarah. I’d last seen them those 9 years ago, camping in their garden. Edmund had met Alison and her sister Sarah the night Tony Blaire got elected, in a bar in Madrid, and struck up a friendship and respect with Rob. So concerned with Robs diagnosis, Edmund had come with papers about how to access the UK restricted drug for pancreatic cancer. It was a fine lunch talking family and later with Rob, Spur point, which he had just visited after being told the news.
As the evening dusk settled, we entered Nellys, now the White Horse Inn, one of Beverleys oldest pubs, originated in 1666. It was to here that Edmund drove the charity van allowing the passengers to drink Old Perculiar. Known then as ‘Nellies’ when the pub was owned and run by the Collinsons family. Francis Collinson purchased the pub form the church in 1927 and more notably her daughter Nellie, managed the place. Edmund was there 1975, for the following year Nellie died and the pub was sold to Sam Smiths. It was noticable being in a pub where mobile phones prohibited. People talked to each other.
Marks and Spencers food, a glass or two wine, in our friendly air bnb. We cook as News was relayed of celebrations in the streets of Damascus to the new regime. We set out our facility tree, Edmund checking his data, frustrated with his failing memory. He is aware his mother had dementia, and aware of first names going, then words. I can relate to this, although a little bit behind Edmund.
Edwin Southern Wright = Mary Anne Connyers
Gus / Ted / Hilda / Clarice / Olive / Frank / George Kelsie /
From Gus – Peter, Lucy, Keith
From Ted – Monica Collette Dan
From Olive – Joan
From Frank – Edwin Dennis
From George K – Claire, Usula, Eric, David, Edmund and my mother Barbara
Whatever happened to Rita and Pineau, and their children Anita and Gabriella – gone gone into the dust of an address book long gone.
Saturday
14 Queensway had been sanitized. Gone the beech hedge, the standard roses. Flattened and in place practical concrete and bricks. A new front door. We rang the bell. Looking through the window, what I thought was a workmans belongings turned out to be a zimmer frame and a women in a hospital bed downstairs, where Grandma used to sit watching the news. We skedaddled.
Where Edmund’s hall of residence was, Asda in it’s place.
But we found where the ferry landed. All that remained was a small jetty. Both of us struggling with the height challenge of crossing the lock gates to the other side, the mud of the Humber below. Jeeze I remember being so frightened as my mother drove off the ferry along that jetty, no barrier I recall to stop her driving off into the Humber.
Brig and the Dying Gladiator
A natural stop on the way down, and Edmund informs of the story, of how our grandfather made a pilgrimage to Rome with his friend… and shortly after converted to catholicism and so inspired made this sculpture, a copy of the Dying Gaulle. Inside one of the regulars informed us it had been cleaned recently by some students from a local college. The blood still bright, the head somewhat fuzzy.
The Dying Gladiator pub was one of a dozen in this town, once a thriving market town, now more down at heal. Further down the road south, at a random stop we find an ancient church with a mass of kneelers.
After the long drive back, a dog walk of course, and fish and chips. Edmund with Sarah on the sofa, Edmund describing all the ins and outs of the family, something tender here. It has been an adventure and good to have shared it with my cousin, getting to know him a bit more, and hearing this Wright side of the family story. I realise I had habitually dismissed this side in favour of the more dead and gallant Kelletts. As I left in the morning I heard Edmund practicing his piano in the front room, Chopin’s music. Beautiful.
Here’s a photo I have from Monica, which Edmund has got annotated. My mother, Barbara, in a hat second row from left. Clarrice I recognise far right.
Holkam and Michael
Kalikellett 