The Funeral of Harriet Barber

On Thursday 31 July we went to Harriet's funeral. This is my personal account. 

The day began as it should in the home of Harriet Barber and her family - Danny, Dorelia and Maeve. Many people, maybe hundreds, will be coming from near and far to this funeral, each with his or her particular reasons for being there.

My story opens with the paintings that fill the family home and our thoughts. I wandered through the rooms, up the stairs, along the corridor, everywhere I saw Harriet's work in oils, pen or pencil.

 The village is still traditional anglo-saxon. The green, the church and village hall are surrounded by cottages, villas of the gentry, some farms and a pub. That is the way it has been since time-out-of-mind. The church stands on a southern hill, whilst to the north there is a ridge called The Five Marys. That is the place of the ancient religions long before Christianity. In this countryside the business of the place is the land. Here, they grow food; they buy and sell beasts and land, with an economy that supports all of those things.

The church is orientated traditionally east-west. Harriet was to be brought to the church at noon. Our party made its way in good time so we could be readied for the funeral.

Inside the dark and ancient church a mixture of wild flowers of the meadows and hedgerows with some garden blooms had been wrought into fine displays in a manner Harriet would approve.

All these displays were discrete and understated, the more to make one think upon simple beauty, calmly.

Upon the altar was her name, spelt-out in curiously crafted pieces from flower designs.

Maeve darted around, sometimes in the church, sometimes in the graveyard. Smiling, thoughtful open -hearted Maeve who thinks even I can sit on the pews 'reserved for the family' - "You are family, John". I will try to remember every word she ever says.

The time before noon was one for greeting the first mourners.

There was to be no code or formality of dress. Each mourner dressed as their custom, taste and respect moved them. I wore a white linen suit, black shirt and purple tie, which I later regretted. My dark, heavy suit would have been less conspicuous, although a great deal hotter.

As more and more people arrived Danny did little else than welcome them. As this is the story of the funeral day, everyone should be named who I show here, but I know the names of very few.

Then an unlooked for thing set awry our plans and composure. Brendan, Christine's younger brother and hence Danny's uncle, bent down to photograph flowers when his back went into a crippling spasm of pain. He was brought into the village hall and placed on a sofa, immobile. Drugs were administered. He was taken back to the Red Lion by a neighbour helping in the village hall. Brendan would miss the funeral. He and Marsha were on holiday from his home in The Bahamas and had no thoughts of attending a funeral when they left for Europe.

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The hour came when Harriet was borne into the church led by the priest with all rites and customs.

We stand respectfully, to honour the dead Harriet and thus began the funeral.

The church bell tolled so that all might know the hour was approaching when the reverend Nicola Coleman would begin the funeral. Pausing for composure, she raised her voice to speak clearly to us words of welcome and comfort. She gave her own account of knowing Harriet through this last year and explained what it was like to have her portrait painted by Harriet. How different and welcome it was to hear a member of the clergy speak so personally and directly about their relationship with the deceased person.

We sang two stanzas of Blake's Jerusalem. 

Harriet's dear friend Lizzie Reale read to us from Harriet's painting diaries. I was deeply moved at the hardness of Harriet's working day with its close concentration on craft skills and artistic judgement.

The congregation sang Bunyan's He who would valiant be. These were the songs or hymns of radicals who faced persecution in a very different England.

Danny walked to the lectern and speaking in an unfaltering voice full of joyful admiration for his dear wife, he told the story of their life together. There was humour and insight as he shared some intimacies of the last days of Harriet Barber. We heard the inspiring, honestly forthright words of her darling children Dorelia and Maeve, whom I will always love until I too die.

We sang the hymn Thine be the glory to a tune by Handel.
Rev. Coleman led the cortège to the church door at which we paused as Rosie Baker, Harriet's twin, spoke in a bold voice comforting words of dismissal.

Into the freedom of wind and sunshine

We let you go

Into the dance of the stars and the planets

We let you go

Into the wind's breath and hands of the star maker

We let you go

We love you, we miss you, we want you to be happy

Go safely, go dancing, go running home.

The priest concluded as is proper with the words of committal, blessed the congregation and the cortège processed on its final journey towards the crematorium.
A great host of the congregation lined the path on either side down to the road and stood in respectful silence as the cortège passed.

Some stood and watched whilst Dan and the girls, Dory barefoot, with others walked a little way, following the hearse.  And Harriet Barber was finally gone away from us, but always to be remembered and ever recalled in our hearts and minds, each according to his or her custom and manner.

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In the churchyard there was a book of condolence, at which formed a long queue for most of the rest of that afternoon. There were coloured pens so one could draw. The jugs are Hinchcliffe and Barber studio pottery. 

Danny had set myself and, with Brendan hors de combat, Marsha the task of photographing the funeral. We began in earnest our contradictory task of being inclusive but not intrusive.

At such a gathering everyone should be named, but I know only few of the 300 people who were estimated to have attended the funeral. The churchwarden stated that there were 179 alone in the church, with the graveyard seemingly filled also.

Here is Wendy Barber, Harriet's mother. It seemed to me she had a kind word for everyone.

The women, I presume, of the village had prepared afternoon tea - scones, cream, jam, meringues, strawberries, finest elderflower cordial, tea. I believe all this was actually home-made. Above, Emily offers her brother, Fran, a meringue.

Finn carries Tolly to see Dory and her close friends Bella and Lucia.

Inside the village hall, amongst a further display of beautifully arranged garden flowers stand amongst Harriet's paintings. This place was her studio for several years where she worked on canvases and sometimes models sat for her here. On that day we honoured her work. Above is Mike Geary, who was head of art at Clayesmore before Harriet.

Gaby talks with Georgia, another of Harriet's sisters.

Sophie-Anna and Sarah await their turn to write in the book of condolences.

Christine, below, talks with Amanda and Mandy, school friends of Danny, and Stephen, Mandy's husband.

The gentleman in the centre below is Jamie, Harriet's brother.

The photographers, Marsha and myself in this instance, repaired to the pub, comme d'habitude.

The girls had a table to themselves.

The 'golden hour' of super-saturated colour arrived in the early evening, enjoyed here by Noah.

Jez is below with Noah whilst above his brothers Phil and Fran, next to Danny, plan further drinking.

I looked south across the valley in which the village sits towards the church and village hall. Behind me to the north were The Three Marys.

Adieu.