Death in Sheffield
Writing Challenge 2023
Posted by Chris Sissons on May 17, 2023
Writing Challenge ยป Chris Sissons
The only time I can remember crying in public as an adult was at my mother’s funeral. You don’t think those close to you will die until one of them does. And I didn’t really get it, even then. We held the funeral at City Road crematorium. The tears started when I saw the coffin. We’d chosen “Lord of the Dance” as one of the hymns because my mother liked it. I couldn’t sing it, I couldn’t stop the tears. I’m not normally like that.
But there’s something odd about that paragraph, not the tears, the coffin. My mother died in hospital. The body was dealt with by professionals who knew what they were doing. I never saw her body, just the coffin. There’s something terribly clinical about death in Sheffield these days.
Last night at table with some friends I mentioned I was writing about Sheffield. I said it was by turns tragic and hilarious. I thought they would pick up on “hilarious”, they asked what I meant that Sheffield is tragic.
I mentioned the divide along the 88 bus route; statistically, I have 10 years less life expectancy than my friends who live closer to the other end of the bus route. Also, our long history of steel making and shaping. The Sheffield grinders who died so young from dust inhalation. Or the munitions manufacturing in the Lower Don Valley and the consequent destruction of the city centre during the war. Or the barracks in Hillsborough, so the troops were on hand to quell Sheffield troublemakers. (Or indeed you may associate Hillsborough, with the deaths of football spectators in 1989.) And like most cities, we have a cenotaph (in Barkers Pool) and the Cholera Monument on the hill behind the station.
And we have our cemeteries, the photo is of Burngreave Cenmetery, about 260 paces from my house. This is a civic cemetery, there are many church cemeteries too and two crematoria. Last time I wrote about being laid out in the best room but that was in the days when you were buried and people laid flowers on your grave for decades, as they do in this cemetery. My parents’ ashes were scattered and their names are in a book somewhere.
Funerals were conducted by ancient undertakers like Howells, based not far from where I live. We hired them when my father died. They showed us a room full of coffins, you wouldn’t believe the variety, including cardboard and wicker. I saw one of their hearses once, heading up Burngreave Road, pulled by four jet-black horses with bright red plumes. “Isn’t it grand, to be blumin’ well dead?”
You can still buy the frills and furbelows of death, should the fit take you. But for most ordinary mortals it is a production line. Everyone knows what to do, the body must be disposed of and then life goes on.
I found my father’s body. I called 999 and some men came round, placed it in a body bag, and wheeled it to their van. The door clanged shut and that was the last I saw of him. They knew what to do. It’s me next.
This year's writing challenge, fueled by prompts, is about the City of Sheffield. Be surprised by what's included and even more surprised by what's left out. This is Post 6 and there are 21 altogether. Share your thoughts and your love for the City in the comments. The first Post 0 is Context: Sheffield. The last post 5 is Why Sheffield? The next post 7 is Phlegm.
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