Priest's funeral, written in 1989, for anyone not bored or annoyed by my historical mumbling. An extract from a much longer piece:
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My suit had moth-holes in it but I made do with shirt, shoes, socks and tie in the correct colours. Jamaicans don't fuss unduly about such things although their dress sense is strong. They were chatting on the pavement outside the church on the corner of Talbot Road, mostly old-timers of whom I only knew one or two, long-time friends, people who knew what Priest was really like. A scattering of young Rastas, no dreadlocks or hardly any, cool severe-looking young guys in robes or plain anorak-and-trainers mufti, tidy, shaved, clean, the way Priest would dress if he was thirty again. A little stern, a little political and disapproving in Rasta mode adapted to 1980s pessimism: it may not be a battlefield but it's certainly a minefield: watch out. Fifty or sixty people, a dozen cars at the cemetery.
The coffin arrived, the undertaker's crew with their shifty secret-police air. The church ceremony was brief, pared-down, high-church Anglican conducted by a young English vicar. The vicar spoke; a tall schoolmasterly greybeard who had been at school with Priest spoke very briefly, saying Priest had kept up his work for youth to the end. For family there was his God-daughter, child of a fellow old-time Rasta, a plump young woman whom I had last noticed as one of several children. She said the last time she saw Priest, months ago, she met him in the street and told him about some problems she was having. Despite his condition he had been supportive, reassured her, cheered her up. She had kissed him and said: "Goddie, I love you." I thought of his modest kindness, the way he never put himself first. To my surprise I knew the tunes of the Anglican hymns and sang them straight, leaning against the crazed descant sounds coming from three old-timers in the bench behind me. "I never hear you sing so well," Ezzreco murmured in my ear. I was surprised too. "Out of respect," I whispered back. "Priest was a religious man. I'm not. I'm doing it out of respect."
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Ashes to ashes. A voice shouted "Balderdash!" and a hand shot skyward from the congregation rapidly clicking the action of a toy revolver. The vicar's eyes flickered but he carried on reading. The coffin went down the hole. Presently the vicar left. Some people threw symbolic handfuls of mud but Ezzreco grappled left-handed with a shovel. A very drunk light-skinned old-timer in a cloth cap teetered on the edge of the grave shaking an admonitory forefinger down at the coffin. "Didn't I told you so?" he shouted indignantly to Priest.
"If Chingu not drunk," an old-timer murmured to me, "then you know something wrong." Two English gravediggers took over and filled the hole. The pile of raw clay was deemed distasteful and they went off with the dumper to get some proper earth from the other end of the cemetery. Priest's God-daughter, her mother and some other Rasta ladies took the flowers from their wrappings and tenderly planted them one by one in the earth. Splashes of brandy, pinches of cannabis-containing pocket dust, were dropped for Priest. More bottles appeared; people cried and laughed; twenty-four choruses of The Red Flag were sung, very blue, near enough out of tune in fact, by three big women whose gold-splashed smiles spoke of broad experience.
The young Rastas stayed at attention. Half the mourners were holding a meeting off to the side but others were prolonging their goodbyes. "Before we go to Paradise ... " Chesterton's doggerel twittered annoyingly in my brain. I looked into the brilliant sky where three birds whirled. One magpie for sorrow, two for joy, wheeled and headed for the other end of the cemetery, the overgrown bushes, the generals and Victorian Catholic grandees. Another bird, a pigeon, not a London sky-rat but a large woodpigeon, a wild dove, pivoted alone where the magpies had been. There was something lame about its flight, as if its wings were entangled. It spiralled fluttering for a moment and then instantly, without a pause for recovery or any kind of glide, it was flying very fast, arrow-straight, to the north-west.
His first name was Leopold. He was fifty-nine. See you man. Rastafari!
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Last edited by: smokie on Mon 28 Dec 15 at 20:10
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