A Remembrance Service for Richard took place in March 2008 at St John's Church in Rownhams
Close family and friends gathered to hear Julian the vicar and Lyn remember Ricky, to enjoy one of his favourite pieces of music The Lark Ascending and to listen to this poem:
If I be the first of us to die,
Let grief not blacken long your sky.
Be bold yet modest in your grieving. There is a change but not a leaving.
For just as death is part of life,
The dead live on forever in the living.
And all the gathered riches of our journey,
The moments shared, the mysteries explored,
The steady layering of intimacy stored,
The things that made us laugh or weep or sing,
The joy of sunlit snow or first unfurling of the spring,
The wordless language of look and touch,
The knowing, Each giving and each taking,
These are not flowers that fade,
Nor trees that fall and crumble,
Nor are they stone,
For even stone cannot the wind and rain withstand
And mighty mountain peaks in time reduce to sand.
What we were, we are. What we had, we have.
A conjoined past imperishably present.
So when you walk the wood where once we walked together
And scan in vain the dappled bank beside you for my shadow,
Or pause where we always did upon the hill to gaze across the land,
And spotting something, reach by habit for my hand,
And finding none, feel sorrow start to steal upon you,
Be still.
Close your eyes. Breathe.
Listen for my footfall in your heart.
I am not gone but merely walk within you.
Afterwards his ashes were buried in the churchyard in a beautiful spot under a tree.
Richard's funeral and a celebration of his life took place on Thursday 21st December at Southampton Crematorium.
From Lyn, read at the service:
My Ricky
In January 1976, when I was studying for my O levels at St Anne’s, I went to a party with my friend Ruth. I looked across a crowded room and the first time ever I saw his face, I fell in love with Ricky. I thought he was the most handsome boy I had ever seen, with his collar length hair and beautiful profile. I turned to Ruth, pointed to Ricky and said, with the arrogance of youth “I’m having him” … Ruth said … “good choice.”
Ricky and I talked and danced to Albatross by Fleetwood Mac; we talked about our lives and families and by the end of the evening he asked me out and we were a couple. He offered to take me home in his Morris Minor and, at 16, I was deeply impressed to have a boyfriend with a car! … I was so proud to write his name on my rough book.
My family thought “what a lovely young man”, when they met him, and I believe his family thought he had made a good choice too.
During the hot summer of 76, as we fell more and more in love, he taught me to drive, he helped me with my maths homework, and even listened to all my Bob Dylan albums (although there were times he fell asleep).
Then the motorbike era started. He swapped his Morris Minor for a Suzuki and that became the first in a long succession of powerful motorbikes. Bikes became our life- we were constantly planning our next trip abroad and which bike we would like to get next.
We travelled thousands of miles together over the years, through France and Switzerland, over mountains, down hairpin bends, screaming all the way … just us and our bike. I loved watching our shadow on the tarmac as we rode, seeing the tassels on my leather jacket fly in the wind and my hair stream out from under the helmet. It was the most exhilarating feeling in the world to lean into him and just ‘go’ with the bike.
I have always been endlessly impressed with his skill and craftsmanship on two wheels and the fact that he knew how and why an engine worked. In 30 years of biking, he bought me home safe every time, my trust in him was total.
One of the best things he ever said to me was “Lynny, you are such a brilliant pillion that I hardly know you’re there.” I assure you this was a compliment.
I remember once opening the garage door and seeing him sat thoughtfully beside the bike. I said, a bit nervously, “I’ll see you later then Ricky” and I went out. When I returned, I opened the garage door and the bike had disappeared! There was a frame, an engine, an exhaust system etc and lots of trays full of interesting bits lined up in rows. I looked at him in horror and said ‘Ricky what have you done … where is our bike?’ He looked up, gave me the famous blue eyed twinkly grin and said “Don’t worry Lynny, I know what I’m doing”… and of course he did.
A few days later he rolled the reassembled bike out of the garage, switched on the ignition and told me to press the starter button… Needless to say, it fired up first time and he just looked at me and grinned… I smiled back and said… “You think you’re ‘it’, don’t you?”… And as far as I’m concerned, he was…
We fitted together perfectly on a bike as we did most of the time in life. Ricky and I, like all long married couples, knew the very best and the very worst of each other. That was our privilege. Next October would have been our silver anniversary. We knew each other so well, words weren’t always necessary, which was lucky really because he was not a man of many words… but when he did say them, especially the things he told me in the last weeks of his life, they meant more than I can say and I will treasure them always.
I have wonderful memories of all the biking trips we enjoyed together, the fun we had out walking in the New Forest that he loved, listening carefully while he told me about ox bow lakes until I got bored and said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, come on Ricky let’s look for deer”… racing each other along gravel tracks, walking by the sea, skimming stones, looking in rock pools, watching waves and sunsets. Strolling by the river at Mottisfont. Sharing the excitement of indoor karting and rifle shooting. Our wonderful anniversary trips to Venice, including a night-time gondola ride, and Rome where we marvelled at the sights together. All these memories and more are stored in my heart forever.
Of all the things we did together, though, by far the best was to produce our beautiful daughters, Laura, Megan and Elly. We have always done our best to be the most devoted, loving, demonstrative parents we could possibly be, and I think we did a good job. Our girls have been the greatest joy of our lives, watching them grow and become confident young women has been such a joy and blessing. Richard was a totally wonderful father from the moment each of these girls was born and placed in his loving arms.
I promised Richard that I would continue to do my best for the girls, as his illness progressed, and I also promised him that whenever a decision needed to be made, we would always use the criteria “What would Dad have done?”… and we will.
Through our beautiful daughters, and our precious memories, including family holidays, family cuddles and happy family times, Ricky lives on- and it is that knowledge which will give me the strength to carry on too. He is all around me. We promised each other, in sickness and in health and till death us do part- and that’s how it was.
I loved him at first sight and I will love Ricky till the day I die.
Read by Mike Streatfeild at the service:
Not, how did he die, but how did he live?
Not, what did he gain, but what did he give?
These are the units to measure the worth
Of a man as a man, regardless of birth.
Not, what was his church, nor what was his creed?
But had he befriended those really in need?
Was he ever ready, with word of good cheer?
To bring back a smile, to banish a tear?
Not, what did the sketch in the newspaper say,
But how many were sorry when he passed away?
Poem by W H Auden read at the service:
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
A tribute from Pam & Brian Batchelor, read at the service:
A dearly loved son-in-law
But first our thanks to Carole and Don for bringing Richard into our world, we can never thank them enough.
Richard was an open, loving, honest person who was admired by everyone. In the last days of his life he was so brave and dignified and we wept as we watched him struggling to stay with us all.
We have so many happy memories of him. We must think of these and enjoy them.
Richard’s passion for motorcycles, cars and planes and his great knowledge of them was phenomenal, but never mention the dreaded idea of sending a car to a ‘garage’ to him – it was like a red rag to a bull.
He was also a lover of nature. There were not many questions he couldn’t answer. Mind you whenever he saw a squirrel sitting on the fence he would have loved to take a pot-shot at it, but sorry Ricky, no gun!
He loved a good bonfire, in fact we called him a pyromaniac. We remember him throwing logs onto Paul’s chimenea and great flames coming out of the top. How he laughed when Paul looked on in an anxious way.
Richard’s enthusiasm for life, was just like him, amazing.
It has been such a privilege to have known and loved him.
We all miss you so much Richard.
Good night, God Bless.