But I haven't told you about Uncle Maurice's funeral. He was to be buried in Cleethorpes, his home town on the east coast of northern England. Our Auntie Kitty was always screamingly funny, and always saw the funny side of anything serious. On the train to Cleethorpes, she had us in fits of laughter. We were young children looking at an adult's view of the world around her. My cousin, her elder son, was none too amused, and Auntie Kitty kept saying to me : " Now, Our Michael - don't laugh when we get to Cleethorpes and you see Auntie Gert, Uncle Maurice's sister. She'll be on the platform with the rest of the family, dressed in black and looking disapprovingly at me !"
It was the old coal-stoked steam train which stopped at Crew for passengers to change trains before continueing their journeys. When the train's engine steamed to a slow stop at Cleethorpes, sure enough, there they were. All veiled in black, and wearing black astrakan coats, the men in dark grey coats and hombergs. White handkerchiefs rose to runny eyes and noses, and disappeared, clutched in balck gloves.
The only problem was that Uncle Maurice's coffin got on a different train at Crewe. There was a lot of astrakan wailing, and Auntie Kitty, saying to me provocatively - " Now don't laugh, Our Michael !"
The coffin was to be safely located by British Rail and delivered to Auntie Gert's home.
When we arrived at Auntie Gert's ( she wasn't really our Aunt, as she was Uncle Maurice's sister, and Auntie Kitty's sister-in-law ) there were cats and chickens running all around the house. And Auntie Kitty kept nudging me and saying : " Now, Our Michael, don't you dare laugh!"
By the time of the church service everything was seriously sombre, broken by wailing.
At the graveside, Gert, overcome, lost her footing, and almost fell into the grave and had to be held on to firmly by her brothers, and dragged back out. Auntie Kitty looked at me.
It was just then that it became clear that one of the funeral cars did not carry people attending the funderal. Instead it carried the pet chickens and cats. One of the drivers had opened the door in error and there was chaos ! Cats and chickens running everywhere madly, funeral guests running after them. Gert wailing. The vicar reading from the bible. Auntie Kitty daring me to laugh, her eyes full of grieving tears and tears of laughter !
When it was all over and the herd of animals had been rounded up and were securely in the limosine, feathers flying, paws to the glass, the driver, with funeral home aplomb, drove off, and we followed in other cars.
Along route we stopped.
At a fish and chip shop.
The delicious scent of fish and chips wrapped in greaseproof paper and newspaper followed the procession all the way back to Gert's house, where we all alighted and dug in, traumatically - shaken chickens, pecking at breadcrumbs, and visibly unnerved cats pawing at the grease-dripping batter of the cod and hake, fresh from the northern Atlantic seas.
That's how I remember the funeral. Maybe after all these years it has become somewhat exaggerated in my imagination, but I still smell the salt-sea brine of the fish and chips, and see the feathers flying around the driver of the funeral car................