From churches, graveyards to funerals

From churches, graveyards to funerals

I was fourteen when I had the pleasure to start accompanying my father on his various road trips. In my mothers mind school was always a priority whereas father thought missing the occasional term time day to travel with him on his sales rounds was an educational lesson in the real world. Also it had a geographical aspect to commend it.

My father was the senior salesman in a company making hoovers that sold their product range through home demonstrations. It was a young company with limited production facilities. Consequently their sales effort was in a 200 miles radius of the factory. Only very occasionally did my father take me with him on potential customer sales calls. I think he thought that with a young teenage present it lacked a touch of seriousness. He left me sitting in the car. Not a particularly charming place. I soon found an interest in the various towns and villages we visited by visiting the local churches and their graveyards. My father always knew where to find me when he had finished his customers’ calling register.

Today when I look back at this period of my life I greatly enjoyed these outings. They left me with many precious memories. To have the time to examine in detail those churches and the occasional cathedrals was for a young man a daunting and enriching experience. I often found myself looking up into the great domes, feeling a slight damp in the air from the stone work, marvelling at the architecture, the building skills of the many hands that worked with concentration and faith in the creation of such structures dedicated to prayer and worship to God. I marvelled at the pictures and statues that adorned the interiors. The craftsmanship belonged to the artist's commitment to the reverence and love of God. When leaving the church I always lit a candle.

Once outside the church I was always a little disturbed by the surrounding flat lands dominated with tombstones identifying dead citizens. I imagined that late at night the dead rose from their graves for a communal discussion about their lives. I remember spending many happy hours wandering through these graveyards looking at the tombstones trying to imagine the life of the person that was no longer with us. Some of the tombstones had meaningful and beautiful inscriptions.

Beware kind friends as you pass by

As you are now so was I

As I am now you too must be

Prepare therefore to follow me

To live in the hearts of those we leave behind

Is never to die

In memories we find comfort

In love we find peace.

Today I am retired after several years as a partner in the town's predigest law firm. I spend two or three days a week attending local funeral ceremonies….. uninvited. It may seem an odd occupation but since retiring I feel drawn to watching peoples’ behavior at funerals. No doubt, psychiatrists would say this magnetic attraction to funerals is related to my younger days when I spent hours in churches and graveyards. Maybe, but it gives me morbid pleasure.

I start each Monday morning looking through the announcements of the various local funerals for the week ahead. I try to be very discerning about the funerals I attend. I enjoy observing funerals with the coming together of two different family’s groups. It tends to increase the drama of these mourning ceremonies, particularly if the families have had a falling out. It makes for good theatre. I sometimes wonder if it is possible that this sense of theatre is the underlying attraction for me.

From the back row I can observe the participants, how they dressed, and the depth of their sorrow. I listen to their choice of music and the spoken eulogies. I admire the flowers and hear the priest's words. It astonished me to witness how varied people’s approaches are on this day of paying their respect. I soon learnt the choice of funerals was very important to my pleasure. I always dressed appropriately, and generally sat towards the back of the church. I seldom follow the mourner to the graveyards. I enjoyed watching but not integrating myself with the mourners.

This Monday morning I was very surprised to see there would be a cremation ceremony for George Knight on Thursday morning. George Knight was a well known figure in our town. In fact he was the owner of the town’s largest real estate company. There were many ugly rumors swirling around his name to the extent I believe the police had started investigating his affairs. I had also heard he had recently divorced. Some years ago my old law firm was approached to defend him in a real estate conflict. I remember we refused. The announcement seemed extraordinary as I had only seen him about two weeks ago at a town’s reception. He was a man of about sixty years old. His hair was in the process of graying. He looked fit and I admired his trim figure, definitely somebody who regularly visits the gym. He gave the impression as someone enjoying life as he was surrounded by a couple of good looking women. I wonder what caused his death. A sudden heart attack?

I would certainly attend his cremation. There were two other burials this week that interested me. One, I would need to pay my respects to a client of my old firm that I knew well. The other was the President of the town’s theatre club.

Thursday came heralded by a sunny and balmy spring day. I planned to arrive early as I knew there would be a large crowd of mourners. As I approached the crematorium I noticed a number of policemen in uniform. I thought it slightly odd at a funeral. I supposed it might have something to do with the rumor of an investigation into George Knight’s affairs.

On entering I was surprised by the size of the room. I had been in other smaller areas of the building but not in this room. It had been sometime since I last attended a cremation. I prefer the beautiful church settings. The room had been carefully decorated with abundant flower arrangements. There was soft music playing. I had the odd feeling it seemed a staged affair not achieving an ambiance of great sorrow and distress. As I had arrived early I was seated four rows behind where the family were sitting. His children were there but not his wife. It must have been a messy divorce. From my seat I could see the coffin mounted on a platform that at the appropriate time would be projected into the furnace. I had to wait about twenty minutes before the service began. During that time I listened to the sad but very pleasant music being played through loudspeakers. The music was loud enough to dull the noise of the crowd of people taking their places behind me. Just before the service started I turned around to take a quick glance at the mourners.

It was a large motley crowd divided between groups of people. The first group were those associated with or related to a wealthy man. The second were families that belonged to the construction industry, dominated by strong, healthy looking men. In front of me was his family, close relatives and directors of his various enterprises. The first person to give an eulogy was the eldest child. It was short and without the usual passion of sorrow and tears associated with funerals. Then followed two eulogies delivered by his associates. The whole proceedings seemed to lack any depth of love and affection for the man in the coffin. The closing speech was from the presiding priest. For me it was a noble effort to place George Knight on a pedestal that he did not deserve. This was followed by loud music heralding the drawing back of the curtains covering the furness opening. A man standing beside the coffin raised his hand holding the remote control to allow the coffin to move forward towards the opening. He clicked on a button. Slowly the coffin started to disappear. Suddenly without any warning the man holding up the remote let out a blood curdling scream. His hand and the remote had been totally shattered and he was bleeding profusely.The scream was so intense it created a sense of fear sending a shock wave of panic. Added to this three men were trying desperately to get through this paniced crowd attempting to stop the coffin from disappearing.

Within minutes the room was a shambles with people trying to leave. The three men never were able to get to the front of the room where the coffin had been. I stood there amazed at the scene wondering what had happened. Had the remote suddenly exploded? Why were three men so desperate to lay their hands on the coffin? Was in fact George Knight in the coffin? I looked up at the ceiling trying to piece all these thoughts in some kind of believable logic. I noticed for the first time the gallery surrounding the organ loft continued on over half of the two other walls. Could somebody hiding up there have shot at the man’s hand? No doubt, once the police examined the man’s hand they would know if that was the case. All these thoughts rush through my mind. I turned to leave. The crowd that had come to pay their respects had turned into a seething mass of people desperate to leave. The three men that had attempted to reach the coffin before it disappeared were still in the middle of the room.

Fighting had ruptured around the exit doors at the back of the room and an exit door on one side of the room. This was because the police were controlling and searching anybody trying to leave the room and building. I must have waited an hour and half before any semblance of order was established. I was one of the last people to leave. After a questioning from the police at the exit I took one more look at the scene. I saw a medical team attending to the man with the shattered hand. I also listened to a few phrases concerning a heated discussion about the smashed remote that operated the incineration process. In a loud voice a police captain was ordering that the whole incineration plant must be shut down. I knew there were other rooms equipped for cremation services.

I took the bus home wondering if the whole episode was a staged affair with the supposed body of Knight being replaced by someone else. In the confusion and chaos that followed the scream the coffin was well on its way to being completely turned to ashes.

For many days after this chaotic funeral many rumours swept through the town. It was reported the police had found it was a bullet that wounded the man and smashing the remote that controlled this room's incineration process. Apparently when the police investigated the ashes there was no way of identifying the person cremated, the person's teeth had not even survived the ordeal.

As of today we do not know if George Knight is still living.

David Nutt March 2025