Читать книгу Sun On The Water - The Brilliant Life And Tragic Death Of My Daughter Kirsty Maccoll - Jean MacColl - Страница 10

It was necessary to make preparations for the funeral, and Hamish and I decided to leave most of the details to James, who would know Kirsty’s closest friends, particularly those in the music world. We were able to help with relations and family friends who had been in constant touch over the years. It was during this time that I was informed that Kirsty’s body had been brought back to a funeral parlour in Croydon. With Kirsty’s co-executors Kieran and Annie, who were also the boys’ godmothers, I made the journey from my home in Ealing to Croydon on a cold, wet, dreary January day.

I went in alone. There lay my beautiful daughter, with her red hair surrounding her unmarked face. I felt the tears stream down my cheeks. As I gazed at the still figure, so unnaturally silent, I begged for a miracle, hoping for those lovely eyes to open and for her smile to return to me. But her spirit had flown elsewhere. I talked quietly to her, as I had done so many years before and in the silence of the room I promised to look after her boys and to do my best to take care of things. I told her how much she was loved. Touching her hands gently, and kissing her for the last time, I left the room.

On the journey back I vowed to find out the truth about this accident ‘that should never have happened’. Stupidity and recklessness had cheated my daughter of a full life. She would never see the sons she loved so much grow into manhood. I had no idea then that my quest for the truth would come to involve both the British and Mexican governments and thousands of people from around the world.

Kirsty’s funeral took place on Friday, 5 January 2001 at Mortlake Crematorium. The cars arrived, we took our places, and as the drivers moved off, I remembered my visit two days earlier to the funeral parlour and realised that this was the last farewell.

The queue outside the chapel stretched down the path and out of sight. These silent figures seemed momentarily motionless to me, as if in a Lowry painting. And I felt for them, as their grief-stricken faces turned towards us. A friend of Kirsty’s – not a musician, just a good friend who had always been a treasured guest at her parties – was sobbing uncontrollably inside the chapel and I tried to comfort him and put my arms around him, but I was somehow unable to cry myself. I just gave what help I could.

The chapel was full, as expected, and outside its open doors stood many more. I remember seeing Sasha, an old playmate of Kirsty’s, who had come with her new baby. The coffin area was decorated with fairy lights and Kim and Lesley, Ealing florists, had been there very early, arranging exotic blooms from warmer climes. In the centre, by contrast, was placed a bunch of sweet-smelling freesias. I had asked for them specially. Years before, when Kirsty and I were living in Selsdon, I had attempted to make a small rockery with alpine plants. Each year the freesias would grow among them, and I would weed them out and put them somewhere else, only to be surprised to find them springing up again. Kirsty told me, much later, that she had always put the freesias back – they were her favourites.

The first piece of music was Fauré’s ‘Requiem’. Kirsty had loved this piece, and at the age of about 12 had put a note on the record sleeve that she wanted it played at her funeral. We wanted someone who could talk about Kirsty with some understanding and, after speaking to her friends, Glen Colson recommended a humanist officiant to take the part played by religious figures in traditional ceremonies.

Kirsty’s friend Ronnie Harris also spoke. He said that Kirsty had always given a percentage of her earnings to charity and always checked the annual accounts. He had a collection of toy frogs and wherever she travelled, she always managed to return with a new one for him. I had recorded my own contribution on tape, a memory of Kirsty’s childhood, when she had insisted on feeding foxes and badgers, and this recording was played. Hamish, much more bravely than me, spoke live but couldn’t finish his tribute. The Beach Boys’ ‘Good Vibrations’ was played.

In a moving address, James spoke of their love, quoting Tennyson’s lines:

‘’Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.’

‘All I have are photos, records, memories,’ wrote James:

but mine are so strong that they’re burning a hole through my head and my heart. We promised each other we would be together until the very end, that we would never break each other’s hearts. Well, my heart is broken, Kirsty: the only promise of yours that somebody else broke for you. And I know how angry you are because I can still feel you inside me, but I know you died safe in my love for you – knowing you were cherished and admired and most of all loved completely by me and the boys.

I want to be anecdotal, but there are too many and this is too hard. I’ll just read what I wrote in my Valentine’s card to you last year. ‘Kirsty, I love waking up with you (like now). I love going to bed with you. I love holding you, touching you, being fiercely protective of you, being proud of you, being part of your life. I love you with everything I am and everything I hope to be. Yours always, James.’

I’ll leave Kirsty to tell you how she felt about me. This song was the last she wrote, and the only one we ever wrote together. I’ll end by saying that no matter how many years go by, I’ll always love you, Kirsty. You were the one for me, and I the one for you.

Kirsty’s recording of ‘Good For Me’, with James on the saxophone, was then played, reinforcing in music our sense of that loving relationship as words alone could not. The ceremony ended with ‘Remember Me’ by the Blue Boy Band.

After the service, as I looked at the flowers outside, a line of people formed, wishing to shake my hand and offer words of comfort. Among the many faces in the line, I seemed to recognise one elderly gentleman in particular, but could not put a name to him. When he came up to greet me, however, I realised with a shock that it was my own brother Pip. Then 84 years old, he was wearing a thin summer’s suit, having just disembarked from a Saga cruise ship a few hours before. I think Hamish, James and I were all operating on autopilot.

Back at home, we had arranged for a marquee to cover the back of the house and part of the garden. There were many guests I didn’t know – mostly people working in the music industry – and there were also many guests that James didn’t know, such as old family friends, and so on. There was such a strong sense of belonging, however, that many introductions and a good number of friendships were forged that day. I was surprised to see the actress June Brown among the crowd. When we shook hands, she told me she and Kirsty had once worked together.

The long and difficult day came to an end. We had done our best, but I knew we had also been sustained by the love and generosity of so many of Kirsty’s friends. Meeting and talking with them, sharing stories and even a few jokes, was a very healing experience. I think we must all have slept a little better that night.