The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1617 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I hate going to undertakers or funeral directors or whatever they like to call themselves. I do however appreciate that we need someone to organise digging holes and dumping bodies or burning them, otherwise we’d be knee deep in corpses and the place would smell somewhat.

I remember being on the Isles of Scilly, St Margaret’s to be precise, the biggest one and smelling the sickly sweet odour of death. It was a hundred yards away and the breeze was blowing straight at me. It was seal but the stink was unimaginable. I suppose it would provide food for all sorts of things from bacteria to fishes, but the smell–phew!.

The woman I spoke to who was the local manager showed me the arrangement that Great Aunt Una had made, it seemed pretty comprehensive. It asked for donations rather than flowers and I made one there and then to the hospice in which she’d died.

The service would be led by a humanist chap who’d call me to make an appointment to come and see me. The funeral director could tell me nothing else except the date and time of the slot they’d booked at the crematorium. It was late morning and a wake would be arranged at a nearby pub–there’s plenty of those in Portsmouth. This one happened to be the Jolly Roger. ‘Captain, Jack Sparrow,’ went through my mind. I doubt GA Una would have understood or appreciated my thought.

The funeral was to be the following Friday at eleven thirty, so the wake would be just in time for lunch. I’d never been in that pub so I had no idea of what the food was like, it might be good or dreadful. It was all out of my hands and part of me felt relieved. I went home.

Amongst other bits of post, most of which were circulars or advertising flyers, was a letter in a plain white envelope. I took it into the kitchen passing Stella en route who said something which I missed initially but worked out to mean, she was going upstairs.

Julie appeared with the baby who was squealing at me and who clung to me as soon as I sat down. Jules made some tea while I opened the letter.

Dear Catherine,

(pp. John Thorneton)’

I read and re read the letter while I sipped my tea. I’m really glad I met her not for the money she left my dormouse studies or to Trish’s university fund, but because she was such a character.

Who’d believe that my rather staid middleclass family would have such a black sheep amongst it? I suppose I’ll be seen as one as well by future generations–except that there won’t be a future generation after me. Genetically, the line ends with me.

I hadn’t thought of that before in those terms. Okay, before I transitioned or had surgery, I was aware I’d be unable to have children of my own but my life was so troubled that I’d not have been able to cope with them had I been able to reproduce. So it’s only now, recognising that my parents would never have been grandparents except to my adopted children, whom they’d have loved, I’m sure–but there’d always have been something missing–they weren’t of their own flesh and blood.

I’d had the privilege and joy to be involved in seven children’s lives, sadly now only six. I couldn’t have had any for whom I’d felt any more love nor received it more than I had from these little lost souls. They’ve added something to my life and I hope I have to theirs. They may not continue my genetic line but they carry my spirit and I know, at least one of them also carries the spirit of Great Aunt Una, and I knew she’d approve.