The Funeral

“The sky was grey, and wept with a soft rain, I remember that much. People hurried through with black umbrellas, barely speaking a word to each other lest they disturb the quiet calm worn by the whole entire city. All across the countless streets and houses a great swell of emotion waited to break at the drop of a hat, and the people waited on baited breath to see what might finally break the stillness. It was almost as if the whole damn city itself knew what today was and responded accordingly. Children had hanged their heads and cats meowed a dirge at all hours and late into the night before. Now it was the morning and the storm of emotion threatened to break now more than ever. There was no telling the depth and extent of all that this city felt at the loss of such a woman. To say they’d lost a great lady didn’t do justice. To say she had done great justice for the city wasn’t even accurate. To say the woman cared deeply for her fellow men-- of all shapes and sizes-- wasn’t enough either. For a long time people had painfully anticipated her passing, gathering in clusters on the street corners by her stately house and whispering, wondering if today could be the day. The revolving staff of nurses and doctors passing in and out gave no answers, avoiding questions from journalists and bystanders, putting a hand up and refusing to comment. Such was the way the city had carried on for weeks, then months, then years, waiting for the old woman to die.

And so it was, on October the 25th, Lady Madeira Tebspit passed into the realm of the dead, whichever realm that proved to be, of heaven or of hell or of somewhere else altogether which the pagans have posited. On November 1st the quiet procession passed through the streets, under shuttered windows and grey clouds, past bystanders who turned away and tried not to show their faces. The deep emotion of the previous week seemed for a morning to breathe out easily as the people watched the procession pass them by and head for the cemetery behind the old church, to a grave reserved forMadeira Tebspit. The entire city held its breath as the small party of the very few relations Madeira had left, the minister, and the pallbearers carried on their service in the graveyard. A pair of gravediggers stood to the side and talked quietly to each other commenting on who they thought the deceased might be. They must’ve been the only people in the whole city who didn’t know the name Madeira Tebspit. The men guessed wrongly that she was some pauper, gone to a pauper’s rest with only a few friends and family to call her own. The one man said to his friend as he puffed on a lit cigarette that it must be a sad way to end up. They could not in fact have been more wrong.

The small service ended and the gravediggers set to work covering the coffin which held the body of Madeira Tebspit. The minister returned to his chapel, and the small group of family went to their own homes. There would be no wake for the Tebspit family. Almost as one person the city let out a collective sigh of relief that it was over. No sooner had the breath let out than people began to speak again, and to laugh, and to sing. People were drinking, and breaking out the pastries and cakes they’d been stockpiling all week. The threatening clouds of emotion and anticipation burst over the rainy city in a torrential downpour of celebration and uproar. You see, Madeira Tebspit had done no great justice for the city. She had not loved her fellow man and neither was she beloved by them. It wasn’t enough to say she cared for her fellow man because she did not care for them. Madeira Tebspit was a grizzled old mizer long before she reached old age, and she had kept even her own relations in debt and poverty over some small amount of money borrowed many years ago. She was the widow of a successful businessman who had died much before his natural time, suspiciously leaving everything to his young wife. Madeira never gave so much as a kernel of wheat to a starving church mouse without some contract and interest rate determined. There were jokes made that she’d been so cheap she hadn’t even kept her late husband’s name, changing it back to her own family name of Tebspit. Some of the gentle hearted ladies from our church may say how sad it is, that any person could be so hurt in their life to end up so bent and broken as Madeira Tebspit, but their compassion would be misplaced. All the city knew she was a grizzled old crone, as cunning as she was cruel, and gave no more thought to mankind than the state of her affairs or the people who owed her money. Today the people did think of Madeira Tebspit. Today wine, beer, and ale all flowed freely. Laughter and song rang out into the grey morning from young and old dressed all in black, and I have no words to accurately describe the dissonance of the day’s celebration. The city itself was still mourning, and all those remaining of the Tebspit family and any other relatives of the unhappy woman at least made a great show of sadness. They shut themselves up in their homes and likely waited for the distribution of wealth.

Few saw even a cent. Madeira Tebspit was as meager and grasping in death as she was in life. To her nephew Topher, the son of Madeira’s late brother, she left the bulk of her fortunes, having always taken a strange joy in Topher’s company. Topher kept most of it to care for his aging mother, and some he divided up amongst other relations, and the rest he gave away to the poor and the needy at frequent intervals. Topher took a small portion allocated for himself and used it to buy his late aunt’s businesses, and from building those up he had launched several other businesses of his own. All the while Topher Tebspit kept the kindly nature and generous coin purse he had entered his wealth with, and amongst all the people of the great city and much of the countryside he was regarded at least kindly, and by many to be a truly great man. In time the Tebspit name had come to have very little to do with Madeira the meiser, and everything to do Topher, the last great man of London.

Now as for the words of the gravediggers. Madeira Tebspit had died no pauper, and I doubt highly she’d actually gone to rest. It’s true she had family, though she hadn’t treated any of them well enough for them to be considered friends. Even her favorite nephew Topher she had more respected than loved. If she had died a pauper it wouldn’t have been sad, for maybe at least then she would have had friends around her instead of piles of wealth. Poor friends to be sure, but so often the poor are inclined to share and to care for each other, though they have little to go around. I think that’s what made Topher such a good man, growing up with just enough to have compassion on the truly destitute, and rich enough to be able show them compassion. With the death of his aunt Topher found himself in possession of more money than he knew what to do with, but God be praised Topher was a wise and humble man. He didn’t think of himself. He devoted his wealth to caring for those who could not care for themselves and somehow it made him all the richer, richer than his aunt Madeira had ever been. When at last Topher was old and passed away the presence of the police was needed to give his family some privacy. All the city turned out in mourning, wanting to give their condolences to Topher’s widow and children and grandchildren. The constable politely yet sternly ordered everyone away except for those who were close to Topher. He was buried in a simple grave with a headstone marked with his name and a small missive about the kind of man he had been. Not far off there was another marker with only the traces of a name on it, unusually worn down with weather and wind for how long it had been there. The stone was seventy years old and simply had the words ‘Madeira Tebspit’ written on it, with a pair of dates detailing when she had lived and when she had died. Grass and vines were the only thing that visited the grave. For years Topher had come with his children, but as they’d gotten older the visits slowed and stopped. Only the foliage still regarded the woman as anything more than a weathered headstone and a plot in a church yard.

The former richest woman in London passed away, utterly forgotten. Topher Tebspit lived on, the last great man in London.”

With those words the old man belched quietly and took a draught off his tankard. He was quiet for some time. He soon began to make small talk with a few of the other patrons of the tavern and I began to realize the interview was over. I thanked him for his time and attempted to pay for his meal and his drinks but he wouldn’t have it. The tavern door closed behind me and I stood in the street, wondering what I should do next. Francis Tebspit, the grandson of old Topher, had unfortunately given me no good ending to my account, except that ‘Old Topher had lived out the remainder of his days happily and without occurrences.’ I mused about the peculiar fairytale-like ending that would make as my feet carried me away.