Today I have decided to go to the funeral of Dr. Brian Ewart who I worked with for many years in the university psychology department. He recently died unexpectedly from a heart attack at the age of 56. As far as I am aware he was physically fit and well, being a keen horseman. I wish to make it clear that this will constitute neither an obituary nor an appraisal of his academic work. Rather, I present my stream of consciousness as it has been diverted by the news of his death.
Brian and I had been closer in terms of friendship some decades ago. I remember cooking a particularly spectacular meal for him and his partner, Kate, at one point towards the end of the 1980s. I looked through my records and found the menu. I started with home-made puff pastry vol-au-vents with prawns and anchovies in a bechamel sauce. Then I did a brocoli and cheese souffle with a ginger carot garnish. The main course was a lamb cutlet and peppers on croutons with a veloute sauce (this was a Roux Brothers recipe). Finally, I made pears poached in red wine. As the meal progressed I consumed glass after glass of wine in the style of Keith Floyd. I think this was the best meal I have ever cooked in my entire life. At one point, I remember Brian exclaiming that what was going on in our little kitchen diner was precisely what we were all watching back then in the UK, as the TV chefs took English cuisine by the scruff of its neck and shook it about until the austerity years of the 1950s were banished once and for all from middle class dining tables.
Latterly, Brian and I drifted apart somewhat. For a long time we were simply work colleagues and I had not seen him at all since my retirement from the university several years ago. It was one of my dear friends, Sophie, in the old department at the university who yesterday sent me an email giving me the sad news of Brian’s death.
At first I wondered whether I should go or not. However, a funeral is not exactly an occasion for family and close friends. It is a public event, in this case announced in the local press. One sometimes wonders who will turn up on the day; one can even catch oneself in the act of speculation about who will be the mourners at one’s own funeral. I do believe in the importance of these rites of passage and, although yesterday I didn’t really have the stomach for a funeral, I am now decided to make the journey. Even though we may have drifted apart over the years, I wish to pay my respects to a long-time work colleague. The paying of respect has a slightly old-fashioned ring to it in today’s world but it makes a lot of sense to me.
At the risk of sounding trite, death comes to us all. There is no optimum time. Childhood lukemia or teenage suicide seems far too early. My father died in his 40s shortly after I was born and I have always thought that was a pity. My mother lived to 103 and towards the end, in the last few years, her body gave out biologically and could not adequately sustain her vibrant personality; for her, death came a tad too late. Some of us can tweak probabilities a little by forcing ourselves into a healthy life-style or acting in such a way as to accelerate the likelihood of death (perhaps by chain-smoking cigarettes, drinking a bottle of whisky a day, or whatever). My view is that most of us rub along as best we can and it is the luck of the draw when we go.
Death is the point at which the scope for autobiography vanishes but it defines the final chapter in biography. There can be no definitive biography for a given life. Biography is always told from the perspective of the biographer, even when that person is merely collating the versions furnished by family and friends. That does not mean that biography is a mess of relative values, since value judgements are inevitably made and can be supported by evidence drawn from any point in the individual’s life trajectory. It is at the point of death when people can step back and say “He was a good man, may he rest in peace”. I think that really means that those of us who remain in life may be the ones who can relax and rest in peace, knowing that no bad things live on beyond the grave or crematorium. Of course, for bad or evil men and women, the converse is true.
The dead leave their mark upon the living in various ways. For those who have had children, they pass on their genetic contribution for the generations to come. For those with wealth, the beneficiaries of the Last Will and Testament become better off financially. Possibly the most potent legacy lies with those who have most closely interacted with them in life. For a good person, it is as if they speak to us in times of joy and sorrow for the rest of our lives: “What would he have done in this situation?” or “How would she have handled this?” are questions that can sometimes be answered in wonderfully insightful and creative ways. That is the mark of a life, positively lived. Bad people spill their bile into our minds and it may take a considerable amount of talk in the future to get that purged away, if the psychotherapists are to be believed.
Although death remains a personal tragedy for the bereaved, it seems to be a double-edged sword to me. It is the case that death represents the loss of all the good times we might have enjoyed, were we to have lived. Yet it is also the card that takes us away from World War III, from the nuclear holocaust, from the fierce ravages of climate change, from famine and draught, from a panoply of potentially painful and difficult physical and mental illnesses, from the development of corrupt or totalitarian political systems: in other words, from all the bad things that we might have to live through, were it not for our own death.
… I went to the funeral. The chapel at the crematorium was packed with family, friends, and his work colleagues. The service was conducted quietly and sensitively. Although a general invitation to return to the house afterwards was made, I did not feel up to that. It was a pensive drive home for me.
So, Dr Brian Ewart, may you rest in peace.
John's Quavering Pencil 
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