Well, almost late. And it wasn’t really a funeral.
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We made the decision long ago, me and the kids. When the end came, there’d be no funeral. That wasn’t Lena’s style. She would want to party — in England, where so many friends now lived, and in Sweden, which always remained her true home no matter where in the world she happened to be. And she’d want to be right there to party with us. At LenaFest — that’s what we agreed we’d call our celebration.
So that’s how it was. After cremation, the ashes were delivered back to us in a garish plastic container — not really Lena’s style, but we’d be able to dress it up to make her feel more comfortable. Importantly though, our latter-day urn was sealed and officially certified so that we could take it with us through Customs and onto our plane to Sweden.
There was a slight hitch. Originally our plan was to scatter the ashes in Sweden. We hadn’t exactly decided where. My preference was to do it offshore from one of the magical islands in the Stockholm archipelago, but the kids argued that Mamma didn’t really like her head to be underwater when she swam. The debate came to an end when we learnt that in Swedish law there’s no scattering without proper permission from the proper authorities. There was no time to arrange that for our 4-day trip, so we had no choice: Lena would have to travel with us both ways, to Sweden and back.
Might we be stopped and accused of ashes smuggling, I wondered?
Just now I wrote that Lena would have to travel with us, but that’s not really how I felt about the ashes. Not at first anyway. I couldn’t think of them as Lena. Lena was alive in my mind and in my imagination, increasingly so as we moved further away from the traumatic memories of her final days, months and years. It was the younger, vibrant, playful Lena who’d returned to me now, the one I called on to keep me strong through these difficult days, to help me make our LenaFests a celebration of love and life, my inner Lena. Nothing in the plastic urn spoke to me like that.
And yet, as we started out on our Stockholm journey I passed the container to Annelie, and said:
— Here we go, Lena. We’re off to lovely Sweden. Enjoy the trip.
Annelie put the sealed ashes into a purple holdall and strapped it in front of her, looking as if she was pregnant with Lena. For the next four days Annelie was our designated ashes bearer.
+ + +
Sunday came, the day of our Swedish LenaFest. Lena’s brother, Bosse and wife Marie-Anne, had made the arrangements for us to host it in a beautiful old building, a traditional community meeting-place. It was in Järfälla, about half-an-hour’s drive away from our apartment in downtown Solna, close to the centre of Stockholm.
There was plenty to do before our guests arrived at 1pm. Bosse and Marie-Anne had ordered food to be delivered to the venue — Swedish specialities, like smörgåstårta and prinsesstårte. Josie and Annelie had the rooms to arrange, hanging up dozens of photographs of Lena on strings, arranging the ashes, reorganising chairs and tables. And I was going to attempt to welcome everyone in Swedish. I’d spent since early morning writing a short speech in Swedish with the help of Google Translate. I needed an hour or so to learn it.
In the car we were not three minutes away from our apartment, coming off a big roundabout, when someone came up fast on the inside behind us.
CRRUMMPP.
The back of his car had taken the front off ours as he passed.
We’re all fine. Alive. Not injured. Both cars come to a halt at the side of the carriageway. The other driver — a man in his late forties, I guess — gets out of his car and strides towards us. There’s pandemonium, both drivers screaming and blaming the other. Sitting in the front seat, I need to do something to calm them down. Especially Stina, who looks like she’s going to explode. So I shout:
— Hej! — HEJ! — Vi är på väg till en begravning. Min frus begravning.
So I told him we were going to my wife’s funeral. It wasn’t true: just that I didn’t know the Swedish for LenaFest. It had the desired effect though. It shut him up for a moment. But then his reaction wasn’t quite what I’d expected. Although I’d spoken in Swedish, he recognised my accent, and said in fluent English:
— Don’t you have big roundabouts in England? Don’t you know how you’re supposed to drive on a big roundabout?
I considered for a moment as he waited. Yes, we do have some big roundabouts, but in England it’s usually the driver who deals with them, not the passengers. But before I could explain I had to attend to another problem. Now Stina was on her mobile to Bosse, still screaming:
— Jag har krocka. Jag har krocka. Jag får panik. Panik.
I’ve had a crash. I’m panicking.
And then over and over, she was saying:
— Du måste komma nu. DU MÅSTE KOMMA NU.
You must come now.
I need to get hold of her phone. Bosse is probably thinking we’re all dead. And besides I know he has to wait for the prinsesstårte to be delivered at 11. Finally Stina runs out of words and passes me the phone.
— Bosse? Bosse, we’re all OK. It’s not a bad accident, but I don’t think Stina’s car will be drivable. I’ll get out and look in a minute. But we’re all OK. Listen, you don’t need to come, not yet. I know you’re waiting for the food to arrive. So Josie, Annelie and Mike will come over to you in a taxi. I’ll stay here with Stina until we’ve got everything sorted. OK?
— So you don’t need me to come?
— No, you stay there and carry on with the preparations.
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I got out of the car and surveyed the damage. Not much to the other car. Just a dent to the panel above the back right wheel, enough to leave it flapping. But the impact had ripped off the front bumper of Stina’s car entirely, leaving it in the road. There was water leaking out too, presumably from the radiator. I was right. This car wasn’t going anywhere.
The others all climbed out too, from the back seat.
— Everyone OK?
— Yes, but just imagine if Benny and Malin had been with us, without proper car-seats. Thank God we sent them on the tunnelbana.
— Well that’s exactly why you sent them on the tunnelbana, isn’t it?
— Yes, but it could have been so different. Everything can change in just a moment.
Stina was still distraught.
— Why did this happen today? Your day. And now it’s ruined for you. Why do these things always happen with me?
— No Stina, it’s not ruined. Everything’ll be fine. We’re all OK and there’s still plenty of time.
And now the other driver was softening too. Maybe he thought Stina was confessing guilt.
— Yes, it’s OK. Everybody makes mistakes. Sometimes I make mistakes too. And we are alive. My wife and children, they are in Ukraine, and everything is too bad for them. This is nothing.
So now he was playing his sympathy cards … but I could trump them. Annelie was standing at the back of our car, with the purple holdall safely on her stomach. It was time to introduce Lena properly. I pointed to the bag.
— That’s my wife. In the bag. Her ashes.
— Your wife? There?
He hastily crossed himself, then pulled out a carved wooden crucifix worn around his neck, from under his shirt.
— I was going to the church now, when this happened. You know I am Assyrian, the first Christians …
— Ah yes, I’ve been to Syria … I used to live in Lebanon …
— No, not Syrian. AS-Syrian, we were the first Christians. And my name is Elias, a special Christian name, you understand?
I didn’t really. Ukranian, Assyrian, it was all the same to me. I didn’t care whether he was the first Christian or the last, whether his name was Elias or Ellie May. What did matter was that we could all be friends and forgive one another, and then exchange details and get the tow-truck and the taxi.
It worked. A few minutes later, Stina and Elias actually gave one another a hug before he drove off. Because he could drive off. To church I guess.
Just before the taxi arrived Annelie, with a broad grin on her face, said:
— Mamma would have laughed at this. She’d have found it so funny.
We all agreed. Almost being late for her own funeral — well, her own LenaFest — Lena would have found it hilarious. And of course we’d have all joined together as a family and laughed in sheer relief and delight that we’d survived unscathed once again, as we always did, no matter what. It called for a celebration.
Which is exactly what we’d planned. Not quite like this, with Stina and I waiting over an hour on a cold windy roundabout waiting for the tow-truck that never arrived. But it gave us the chance to really get to know one another, the first time we’d spent so long together since I gave Stina and her classmates their first-ever English lesson, guesting at their school over 40 years ago.
With all his preparations for the day complete, Bosse arrived to pick us up. We left a note on Stina’s car, with the keys hidden on the wheel as instructed, and made it to Skälby Gård, our venue, just five minutes before LenaFest was scheduled to start.
Twenty minutes later I was starting my welcome speech.
— Välkomna alla …. till vårt … firande av vår vackra Lenas liv … Tack för ni … No, that’s not right … Tack för att ni komma … kom, I mean … this isn’t working … och tack Bosse och Marie-Anne … tack för att … er … för att … gjort … No, I’m going to do the rest of this in English. Sorry …
Applause.
Well at least I tried. Lena would have laughed at my effort — and then told me how proud she was that I tried. And then she’d have whispered to me that most of the Swedes in the room spoke fluent English anyway. Just to tease.
But the rest of that day was … Perfect. Beautiful. Unforgettable.
Like Lena.
POSTSCRIPT
On Tuesday morning we took the ashes back to Manchester without a hitch — during the whole journey the Customs officials scanned our purple bag, glanced briefly at the documentation and waved us straight through. So now we have to plan what next. Maybe another trip to Sweden later?
Edwin and Annelie were hurrying to get back — they’d booked a video recording session later that afternoon for a song they’re releasing next month (I can’t wait!), so the three of us took off in an Uber from the airport. Annelie was still on ashes duty.
Heading into the centre of Manchester, a large unmarked van suddenly shifted across into our lane, and but for our driver’s speed of reaction, we’d have been forced off the road.
And I find myself talking to Lena again. Having a word.
— OK, so a joke’s a joke. But now it’s time to stop, älskling. This isn’t funny any more.
(Thanks to Jesper Bergman, Michael Walters, Josie & Martin O’Neill for the photos used in this story.)
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2 responses
Another wonderful episode. I felt I was there seeing events unfold. Thank you Alan.
Thanks Tina … and for that, you get a little mention in today’s newsletter 🥳