jtd@dec.uk.net

As an organist I much prefer funerals to weddings as one only gets a single chance to get it right! Too often I have sat at the organ console listening to lame false promises made in front of the altar between two temporal yet blind lovers who would be better off living together for another year before taking the ultimate plunge. This additional time would allow them to complete their compatibility check effectively and save a lot of pain and anguish later.

You might think me rather subversive and going against the principles of Holy Matrimony but we, as God’s humble creatures, are all entitled to our own, personal view. My particular, yet rather singular viewpoint comes from being single for 43 years: rather biased perhaps?

Funerals, although sombre occasions, do have their funny side as well. One of my earlier short stories entitled ‘The Farewell’ is a fictional account of a funeral based on my own personal experiences as an organist to the wonderful, enigmatic Canon Birt, though I must state, at this juncture, that I have never drunk gin from a silver hip flask or taken aspirin at the organ console! Well with the exception of Midnight Mass 1985, but that’s another story.

However ‘Resurrection Promise’ is different as it is largely true. In the style of many authors I have changed the venue, clergy and time just in case the reader recognises the subject matter and is offended. It is not my intention to offend but to amuse the reader on what may be possibly viewed as a taboo and darkly reverential subject. If you are also easily offended I strongly suggest that you stop reading this story immediately.

If you read beyond this point be it ‘on your own head’ and ‘at your own risk!’

I have played for weekday services at St. Bernard’s Parish Church for many years on a fairly frequent basis. This inner city parish is lively and reflects the cultural diversity of its populous and surroundings. Its religious tradition is ‘middle of the road Anglican’ with vestments, a robed choir, eight bells and a few ‘smells’ during Advent and Epiphany! All in all it is a delightful church managed by Canon Eric Fernando and its congregation adore him almost to blind idolatry. The feeling is reciprocal.

It was on one cold, October morning that I was called to play for a funeral at 10.30am. After a rather pleasant, warm lie in I made my way to the church fighting through the dismal London traffic. Having found the last parking space in the vicinity I rushed into the church to get ready. As I pilled into the doorway clutching my hymnbooks, robes and music I bumped into Yasmine, the popular and effervescent churchwarden.

"Tim, how lovely to see you," she beamed with her rewarding smile of a thousand teeth.

"Yasmine! You’re looking good, you old tart!" I chimed using my usual greeting, often alarming other people who didn’t know me.

"Now Tim we have a rather different funeral this morning. Keep the hymns going nice and loud and concentrate!"

"Why, Jasmine?" I asked.

"I haven’t got time to tell you now as the first inmates are arriving. Must dash!"

Yasmine turned around and shook hands with the first members of the congregation. I gave them a censorial stare and couldn’t see anything unusual about them so I made my way to the organ loft.

Within a few minutes I was playing softly watching the congregation arrive in the mirror. They were very smartly dressed and truly reflected the cultural diversity of the parish, as expected. So far everything was as normal, well as it could ever be in St. Bernard’s.

As the congregation waited and further members arrived I was aware that some of the internees were not seated but wandered around the church being chased by other well dressed folk. Others were speaking in raised voices so I used my usual technique of gradually playing louder. Their voices increased commensurately and then I shut down the organ’s thunder to a merest whisper. For the first time in my musical career my well-used strategy did not work and members of the congregation continued to speak in raised voices from their different positions in the church. It was most strange yet I wanted to discover more, but was inhibited owing to my need to continue playing the ‘wallpaper music.’

Below my right foot the ‘red light’ started to flash signifying the arrival of the coffin. Below in the main body of the church there was a rush to get some wayward congregational members seated using gentle but lovingly firm force. The coffin, carried by six immaculate pallbearers made its way down the aisle with Canon Fernando taking up the rear reading prayers as he went. I continued playing very quietly whilst the coffin was put on the stands and the pallbearers retired to the outside for a cigarette. Canon Fernando started the service and welcomed his flock rather quicker than usual. In moments we were singing the first hymn, but I found it hard to keep track of the verses, as I could not hear the words above the sound of tuneful moaning.

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