15th April 2015 is a date that has a very special place in my heart. It was the day that Stoke Gifford laid to rest one of it’s finest sons, Ben Hiscox, and it’s a date that none of us in our village will ever forget. And I was accorded the greatest honour of my life by being asked to carry out a reading of my essay ‘Slate Grey Skies’ at the funeral.
The day itself was what I now know to be a typical Hiscox day, which is sunny and warm, with barely a cloud in the sky. We drove to Westerleigh Crematorium only to be confronted by a sea of blue and white. Ben’s family, avid Gasheads, as was the man himself, asked for mourners to wear Bristol Rovers colours and many people had obliged.
I stood to the side as the readings took place, quietly awaiting my turn, hoping my legs wouldn’t turn to jelly and my throat go so dry I wouldn’t be able to speak. I needn’t have worried. As I went to speak, I saw nothing but friendly faces and, my God, so many of them. I had found myself writing about Ben and his family when he had passed away and this was something else. That day, I had to give a bit of performance, worthy of the man, worthy of everyone who loved him.
I had never been to anything like this. I had been to many funerals, some with barely anyone in attendance, like my mother’s and stepfather’s, but this one was standing room only for as far as the eye could see. This was no coincidence. I knew Ben well from Stoke Gifford Football Club and, of course, the Beaufort Arms and I was, as I said at the time, his best friend. Well, that’s how it always seemed when I met him. I had learned very quickly that Ben had many other best friends, scores of them. I later grew to understand that this was no ordinary villager. In fact, he was sprinkled with stardust, blessed with a unique ability to communicate with anyone and everyone, young and old and he always left you feeling better once you had seen him, unless you had been out drinking with him in which case you would often feel much worse. But only physically.
I can understand that for many the day of the funeral would have been seen through a tearful blur but, for reasons I don’t properly understand, time almost stood still for me. My shoulder had never been cried on so much by people who now have become close friends. That is one of the strangest things that happened following Ben’s passing. People I knew as acquaintances and people I didn’t previously know at all were suddenly friends. I now know that this happened to very many people, not least Ben’s incredible family. I know that nothing can make up for the tragedy of losing Ben, but his legacy is and will always be one of love and friendship. It is an incredible legacy, but then he was an incredible man.
The Beaufort Arms that afternoon and evening was rammed like I have never seen it and there were twice as many people outside where Ben’s sun still shone.
I said at the beginning that being asked to do a reading at Ben’s funeral was the greatest honour of my life and I mean every word. I love that family to bits and I hope the love from our village and beyond has in some small way helped them cope with unimaginable sadness and loss. Getting to know them has greatly improved my quality of life, that’s for sure. Someday and somehow, I aim to repay them for that honour. I have no idea how, which is probably not a good place to start, but I’ll do it.
We raised a glass to Ben that day and we shall raise a glass to him for as long as the sun shines over the village.
