Gerald and Deanna

Today, I went to visit my mother’s grave.

But – here’s the twist – I am really very lucky, because my mother came too.

You see, Mum is eminently sensible. She is thinking ahead. And as much as I have wanted to cover my ears like a kid and go la la la* every time she’s brought it up, including during the fun evening where we had fish and chips, wine and a great big planned discussion about death, I can see how this makes sense.

Yes, Mum has bought her plot. She owns the deeds to a coffin-sized parcel of land on the outskirts of Brighton, in a sloping wild flower meadow overlooking the sea. It’s really very lovely.

Our mission there today was two-fold; firstly we wanted to see Mum’s “bit”, but we also wanted to locate Nanny and Grandad’s grave which, on two previous visits, has eluded us. This time, we were determined to find theirs, not least so that Mum can see how near (or far) from her parents she will be when the time comes.

Today, unlike last week, we had a map. Last week, I swung in with Boy Seymour en-route  back from a hospital appointment, determined to find Nanny and Grandad. We phoned Mum as we drove in, Boy declaring in his un-dulcet tones that we were “visiting your burial site, Grandma”.

“Ooh lovely. Seven down from the fawcett,” came Mum’s enthusiastic yet slightly vague instruction, and our search began.

I parked badly – I blame the situation, but in reality, you can always find my Polo three feet from any curb. (Or up it.) Without a map, we had no clue what was where and where who was. It was a search mission, wandering up and down, trying (and failing) not to be sidetracked by the beautiful words people leave for their loved ones when they die. Words that have no comeback, and ones you can’t argue with. For example:

My Gerald

I will love you forever.

Deanna.

How simple, how succinct, yet so heartfelt. From this, I know that Gerald was Deanna’s. According to her, anyway. And that she will love him always. Because she said so. Whatever their actual story, this lasting memorial tells a tale of immortal love in the moment when the tribute was made, and thence left to speak its abridged version of the truth for as long as there are people around to read it.

Boy and I failed to find Nanny and Grandad last week, but it made me ever more determined to try again. And so today, Mum and I struck while the iron of enthusiasm was hot and headed out to the Brighton hills. We had gardening gear, a small posy of seasonal blooms and our map, complete with grave reference numbers. And, after a bit of fruitless wandering and a few telephone calls to a helpful young chap in the city’s burial department (called Will, of all things!), there he was! Walter Charles Luke Gorton, and Edna Mary, his wife, my Nanny.

We’d found them at last.

Happily, Mum’s spot is just down the hill from her parents, under a little may tree, complete with sea view and handy bench.

We had a look around, admired the view and nodded our approval, whilst trying not to be too enthusiastic about it. After all, what is the protocol for admiring your Mum’s grave when she’s standing alive by your side..? And what, indeed, is the right way for Mum to feel? Can she see herself there? Does she like it? Is it… right?

Whatever the accepted protocol, all I know is that we found the spot to be quite agreeable, then turned for the car together, and went off to spend her birthday voucher for lunch in a nearby cafe, with our own mortality very much in our minds, and grateful for the chance to postpone it for a while longer.

As we got back into the particularly poorly parked Polo, Mum pointed out that we, as a family, place great importance on remembering our dead, and speaking about them openly. She’s studied the graves of family members as far afield as Vermont in Virginia, and so, I think, has found a great deal of comfort in knowing that her place is secured.

Frankly, I find it all a bit hard to grasp, but if things go the way Mum plans, then I know I shall always remember the day I visited my mum’s grave, and then took her home with me.

Today, therefore, was a gift.

*If Sam Smith thinks he owns these words, he has another think coming.