"Just a minute," I said, "come into the bedroom with me". I sat on the bed and drew her down beside me. "I have some bad news dear," I began, feeling my other self taking over again and forming the words for the woman on the bed. "Daddy was so ill that he died."
There was a long pause and I hardly dared look at her.
Then slowly there registered a look of realisation and horror and she let out a wail of anguish, frightening to hear, and threw herself across the bed. Deep sobs, which one would hope never to hear from a child, racked her frame.
"Darling," I said, drawing her to me, "you know how much we love him and how much he loved us but, he was so ill and in such pain, we couldn't ask God to spare him to live like that, could we? And, do you know, I think he must have been all right when it was time for him to go, because he had a little smile on his face."
She sat with tears pouring down her face as she searched mine, trying to accept what I was telling her. We sat together a little longer and then she went quietly into her room, closed the door, and wrote a letter to her father:
Dear Daddy, me and mummy have mercy on you. We are so sad. I cried when I heard where you are now. How are all the people up in Heaven, I am glad you are happy with Jesus. You are very popular at the moment because there are cables coming through. Mummy said there was a little smile on your face when was the moment for you to go up to Jesus. Kerry cried when she heard that you went up to Jesus. Her face is getting better. We must not be sad because one day Jesus will open the gate to paradise. I know you will be waiting for us. Up up up in the sky you must be. Millions of miles up. No pain or hunger can reach you again. we must not be sad else we will make you unhappy. We love you a lot don't we, and I love you real special. Love from Rima.
The numbness that creeps over one is, I suppose, Nature's buffer. The bereaved person feels all she wants is to be left alone with her grief but is immediately confronted with decisions and problems which must be dealt with immediately. The certificate of death must be signed, funeral arrangements attended to, a suitable date for a memorial service to follow the funeral decided upon. Tax and legal matters dealt with, and so on, In addition, I was receiving urgent requests from Happy's tribe in Otaki to return his body so they could arrange their own official tangi. But this proved impossible, and even arrangement for Happy's remains to be flown back after his body had been cremated was fraught with difficulties. These were duly solved, but as I didn't know at that time if or when I would ever return to New Zealand, not having his remains in England was hard for me to take.
As the day for the funeral approached I waited for a suitable opportunity to tell Rima that I felt she was too young to attend. When I did, I found her reaction daunting and mature far beyond her eight years: "I must be there-I want to be there," she said, quietly but very firmly.
In the event, I was deeply pleased that she had taken her stand, and realise now that such a decision depends on the makeup of the individual child. Rima not only coped with and understood the funeral and memorial services, but learned from them the affection and regard so many people had for her father. It was conveyed very clearly by all who participated or were present and I was proud that she had been so determined to be a part of it herself.
She didn't break down but held her head high and her back straight as she listened carefully to all that was said. Because she had insisted on being present, I felt I must be a good example and I, too, was dry-eyed and erect through both services, Indeed, I have been told many times that Rima and I were the only people present who didn't show their emotion.
When the funeral service at our local church, St Michael's in Hyde park Square, was being arranged, I was extremely firm on one point, Instead of the Lord's Prayer being spoken, I wanted to hear Happy's recording of the West Indian version. When he was alive I wanted to hear his singing above all else-now, on this occasion, his occasion, I wanted to hear him sing more than I had ever wanted to before.
When his voice poured out during the service, I sat very still, drinking in every glorious note and feeling-as I had done every time I had ever heard him-full of love and very, very proud.
After a funeral you are given the fortitude to cope with the Western convention of displaying a stiff upper lip while indulging in small talk with friends as they sip sherry and eat sandwiches. Instead of your mind and body having the relief of allowing great waves of grief to swell up and take over, you talk instead of a friend's new baby, or the weather-anything but that which is uppermost in you mind. Every now and again the cocoon which is acting as a buffer between yourself and reality crumbles away and panic and despair consume you: "Dear God, help me. This isn't real: the real thing is that I've lost my husband."
However, you then pull yourself together. Such thoughts cannot be allowed to overflow and intrude on, or embarrass, a civilised gathering. "Won't you," you say instead, "have another cup of tea-or a glass of sherry?"
Eventually they all left and I wearily noted that a couple of good fiends had stayed behind to clear up and, I imagined, to satisfy themselves that the taut figure with the expressionless face would soon go to bed.
At 9pm I was dutifully struggling out of my clothes when the doorbell made me jump. I was so tired my eyes felt like two burning coals as I struggled into a dressing-gown and opened the door. Standing silently in the hallway outside were about a dozen men and women, all Maoris. A couple of faces I recognised, the rest were strangers. Some of them were in naval uniform and I recognised them as the boys who had taken part in singing the Maori hymn "Piko nei te matenga" at the funeral service. A New Zealand Frigate was in port and the Maori ratings had come along and lined up outside the church to pay their respects to me before going in to take their place with the other singers. I motioned them inside and they silently trooped into the lounge. My friends bustled around putting on the kettle and getting out the remaining biscuits and cake, but such conventions were not the purpose of this visit.
Two of the women led me gently to a stool and sat on the floor, one on either side of me. They put their arms around me and everyone started to sing. They sang in Maori and the harmonising was beautiful. As the singing swelled, the women gently rocked me in time with the music. Up to then I had been sitting as though a steel brace was holding me erect but now, suddenly and unashamedly, I let out a cry of despair, followed by incontrollable sobbing which seemed to come from the pit of my stomach. The singing and the rocking continued, and after the song they said the Lord's Prayer in Maori. They then left, each person giving me a long hug as they filed out.
My body which, up to that time, had been so stiff, was now like jelly. My head, which had been full of unexpressed thoughts, now felt as though it was full of cotton wool, no longer able to function. I made my way to the bedroom, flopped across the bed and fell asleep instantly.
My emotions had been released by that visit and, presumably, that was exactly what had been intended. I had unashamedly sobbed my heart out, which I would never have allowed to happen during the earlier gathering. Having experienced in one day the two different ways in which the bereaved is expected to behave, I had no doubt in my mind which was the more natural and "civilised". The dictionary states that to be civilised is to be in "an advanced stage of social development", but the "civilised" Western attitude to bereavement is not, in my opinion, worthy of such a definition.
NALAG thanks Beryl for her kind permission to reprint the above article. Another of Beryl's books 'Widowed' A Personal Account is also well worth a read, written with honesty, compassion and hope, it is available from the Public Library.
