BEREAVEMENT, AND THERAPY

WHEN A LOVED ONE DIES

It's nearly two months since I wrote in this blog. During that time my dear husband of 42 years died, and anyone who's loved and lived closely with another person for even a fraction of that time will know how devastating that can be. My family has been wonderful but inevitably they have to return to their own responsibilities, their homes, their children, their jobs.

So what is left?

I consider myself most fortunate that I have two major interests that bring purpose and pleasure to my life.

As a painter I've been able to lose myself in creating my latest 'masterpiece', slipping away even during my husband's last illness for brief moments at the easel, and already I'm planning my annual exhibition of paintings (in early December).

And as a writer I am never ever alone! The characters of whatever novel I'm currently working on buzz around in my head - a second family, some loveable, some not so much, but all interesting. Just yesterday I made a start on another project, a novel for children 10 to 13.  It will be called 'THE BOY WHO COULD FLY'.

I believe everyone's life is enhanced by having a creative outlet, and if it's one that involves other people - real or imaginary! - all the better. Art and writing are mine. Sport - active participation, not just watching a match on TV, garden design, cooking for others, tapestry or embroidery, breeding dogs, renovating houses - the list is endless. What is yours?

FREDDIE THE CROSS-DRESSER

THE DEATH OF FREDDIE KNIGHT

Another excerpt from ME, DINGO AND SIBELIUS - this concerns the death of Freddie, one of the residents at Russets Retirement Home.  If you enjoy it buy the book - all the royalties are donated to our local Radiotherapy Unit Appeal and the Prospect Hospice.

In the afternoon I visit the funeral parlour where Freddie's body has been taken. Over the years this has been the temporary resting place for several of our residents. Most recently, of course, Dingo.

I come to a halt in the doorway, overcome by memories and regrets.

'Miss Churchill? May I help you?' It's Mr Harris, who runs things here with his younger brother and his twenty year old son, Simon. I often wonder if Simon really wanted to be here, surrounded by dead bodies, or if he chose the easiest path and might one day rebel and run off to join the Army or run a bar in Thailand or even to drive coaches for Saga Holidays.

'I've brought clothes for Mr Knight,' I tell Mr Harris. I open the small suitcase and lift out one of Freddie's silky floral dresses. The turquoise and cream, his favourite, has been burnt. None of us at Russets could bear to see it again.

Mr Harris's eyes widen but he makes no comment.

'And these are the shoes he liked. Underwear, of course. Silk stockings, he preferred them to tights.' Last, I unwrapped Freddie's best wig, long, curly and blonde.

'Er - you don't think a nice suit would be more appropriate? Perhaps a white shirt? Striped tie?'

'This is what Freddie was, and his instructions, before he died, were very specific. I hope you don't have any objections, Mr Harris.'

'Of course not, Miss Churchill, we're always happy to follow our clients' wishes.'

'In that case - do you have anyone who's skilled with make-up - or would I have to arrange that myself?'

'No, no, we can do it. My brother deals with that aspect.'

I have a sudden mental picture of Edgar Harris, a heavy balding man in his fifties, bending over Freddie's corpse and daubing his face with thick white foundation, over bright rouge and lipstick, making him look like a clown.

'Freddie had excellent taste, Mr Harris. His make-up was always low key, discreet. Perhaps I should find someone -'

'It's entirely up to you, Miss Churchill, but I think you'll find most people would find the task a little - disturbing.'

I'd been thinking of Georgie, with a restraining hand from myself, but perhaps that might not be a good idea.

'Leave it with me for today, Mr Harris. I'll come back to you tomorrow.'

Back at Russets, Georgie was taking a break before starting the evening meal. Four large balls of pastry, wrapped in clingfilm, stood on one of the worktops, dusted with flour.

She got up and poured me a coffee.

'How did it go?'

'All right. Mr Harris was a bit startled when I showed him Freddie's clothes.'

She laughed. 'He would be - especially if he knew Freddie used to be a bank manager!'

'The thing is - I'm not happy to let them do his make-up. I - well, I was wondering if you'd be willing to - to -'

Georgie choked, spraying coffee over the table. 'Me! You're joking, of course. Freddie's dead, Charlie. He's a corpse!'

'I know,' I said unhappily. 'But he wanted to look just as he did in life. I can't bear to have him buried looking like the guy from the Rocky Horror Picture Show!'

'Who's going to see? I suppose the odd maggot might consider it a bit OTT, but really, Charlie -'

'Stop it!'

The stress of this day, Freddie's solicitor, his ex-wife, the funeral parlour - and now Georgie talking about maggots - it's all too much. I'm blubbing like a baby, letting out a long howl, and then Georgie's up and clasping me to her apron.

'All right, all right! I'll do it. But I warn you, I'll probably have nightmares afterwards!'

I rush to the phone and make the appointment before she can change her mind.