“What a difference a day made”, went the song. “24 little hours brought the sun and the flowers where there used to be rain.” Well, not quite, but Wednesday 15th April was one incredible day.
In the middle of the afternoon, we were walking to our local pub, the Beaufort Arms, when we were stopped by a young man who asked why there were so many Bristol Rovers supporters outside the pub. I explained that it was a wake for, or rather a celebration of the life of, Ben Hiscox. “I’m sorry I asked,” said the man, quietly, but I told him she shouldn’t be. He had nothing to be sorry about. Bristol Rovers were noted for their incredible supporters, even when the team was not playing. They were out in huge numbers yesterday, too, as were supporters of Bristol City and supporters of no one at all.
But before the celebration of Ben’s life, there was the funeral at Westerleigh Crematorium. I had expected large numbers of people to attend, but nothing like these numbers. Arriving a good half hour before the start time, we were already being directed to ad hoc parking areas, as the car parks themselves were full. Looking round, there were literally hundreds of mourners and you knew that they were all there for Ben, wearing Bristol Rovers shirts from throughout the decades.
We crowded into the room for the service – well, at least some of us did: there were many, many more who listened in the corridors and even outside – and heard some wonderful contributions from his close friend James Stephens, a powerful reading from Dean Jenkins, reading Zoe Mathews’ beautiful, evocative words, and from the Rev Steven Hawkins, who read out a piece written by Ben’s dad Clive.
I realise that this was not about me, but I would like to dwell briefly on my own modest contribution to the celebration. In the early stages of the planning, I was asked by the family if I would do a reading of a piece called ‘Slate Grey Skies’ which I wrote for this website two days after Ben’s passing and what’s more they did not want me to change a word. It was only when I was called to the lectern that I realised the sheer size of the gathering. I paused briefly and looked around the room. In the front row, the family, to the right his great friends from the village, many wearing shirts with ‘Hiscox’ written on the back, and at all points around the room faces I knew well. I took a deep breath and tried to speak clearly and not too quickly. I am not one of life’s great public speakers. I cannot speak without notes, although I use them mainly as a comfort blanket to remember where I am in the speech. I had not rehearsed and rehearsed the reading but I had timed it to about four minutes. And crucially, I had prepared for what the moment would feel like. I had thought through how the ceremony would go and I made sure that all the events of the last few weeks did not suddenly creep up on me and change me into a mumbling buffoon. Anyway, it seemed to go all right and soon we were back to the formalities and, at the end, a raucous ‘Goodnight Irene’, led by mum and dad. I saw Gloria looking around the room, as if to say, “Why aren’t you singing?” and quickly decided to add my tuneless monotone to the song!
I hadn’t prepared for how I would feel upon leaving the building and it was then it all hit me. A few deep breaths later, reminding myself this was NOT about me, and equilibrium was restored. It must have been some grit that somehow worked its way into my eyes.
Later, having abandoned the car, we reached the bend and the Beaufort came into sight and I really could not believe what I was seeing. I have been to many, too many, funerals in my life, but nothing could have prepared me for what we saw. In 22 years of village life, I am not sure I have ever seen the pub so packed inside and out. I wondered if, perhaps, a celebrity had arrived and then I remembered he had: it was Ben Hiscox. He was the reason we were all there.
My Gifford boys were all there, the rock solid supporters of the Hiscox family throughout the whole tragedy. And so was just about everyone I knew from the village. I was proud and privileged to meet so many people from Ben and Zoe’s incredible families and it was humbling to say the least when they thanked me for what I had done with my essays on this website. I am not good at receiving praise. Not that I don’t welcome it, of course, but always there is this thought of, “Do I really deserve this? There are so many more people who deserve the praise for the difference they made to people’s lives since Ben’s accident.” All I could think of to say was that we all do what we can. Nick Day, from bcFM radio and Bristol Rovers produced his marvellous tributes, my Gifford boys were at the hospital with Ben when he needed his friends more than ever, Gloria and Clive never fail to inspire me in everything they do and say. There will be a void in everyone’s lives today because a funeral and a celebration (I prefer the latter and I think the family was 100% right in calling it a celebration for Ben’s life) represents a type of closure. Not closure for ever – that’s just not possible, nor should it be – but another phase has begun today.
If the family had not honoured me enough by asking me to do a reading at the celebration, they now asked me to light the fuse for a spectacular fireworks display in Ben’s honour on the village green.
As darkness descended on the village, with more than a few ciders on board (unsurprisingly, the Beaufort Arms ran out of cider in the evening and, I hope coincidentally, the gents toilets became completely blocked!), lanterns were lit and set off into the dark skies. There was barely a breath of wind and you could stand and watch them fly high into the distance.
How can I describe the atmosphere from last night? It was certainly not a wake in the traditional sense. There was laughter and there were tears. Inside the pub, there were scores of photographs of Ben in various poses and I was guided through them by Ben’s friends. I would say that the main feeling I got was one of respect. Yes, we were there to celebrate the life of a much-loved man but there was an imaginary line which we all knew could not and would not be crossed. The spirit of kindness and consideration of others was overwhelming. In short, it felt just right.
I slept terribly last night, absolutely abysmally. It may have been something to do with the industrial quantities of apple-based alcoholic products I consumed or it may have been the sheer emotions of the day and the preceding weeks. More likely, it was both.
I promised the family that I would take a copy of the celebration booklet and copies of the tributes to Ben to Bristol Rovers Football Club as a token of thanks at the acts of kindness they have afforded the family, not least the Good Friday minute’s applause. I took it in to the club offices this morning, personally addressed to club chairman Nick Higgs, and it is hoped that he will be able to read it and share it with others at the club when he returns next week from Italy where he is currently away on business.
My friend Mike Airs said to me just this morning that he “still cannot believe what’s happened.” That’s exactly how the rest of us feel, I believe, and it’s more vital than ever that we bottle the unity, the spirit, the love, the support, the compassion and the common decency that exists in the community. We support each other through thick and thin and in so doing we sustain the memory of Ben Hiscox. We must not let him down.
