PARTHURBLOG

Let’s start with the brief life of Amelia Maggs. Born 1885, she is the daughter of Ephriam Maggs – a plater – and his second wife, Sarah.

In the 1891 census, Amelia is listed as living at home in Southampton, the youngest of eleven children. We know very little about her circumstances, but can assume it is a life of poverty. At least she’s with siblings and parents; a decade later, it’s a very different picture.

The 1901 census lists her as an inmate at the Stoneham Union Workhouse. She is 16 years old and a domestic servant. We know that she marries three years later, and having survived the Great War, she dies on 22 February 1919 – aged 34 – a victim of the Great Flu Epidemic.

And we know one more fact about her; on 28 November 1918, she gave birth to a daughter. Gwendoline.

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As we sit, well-clothed, well-fed and with loved ones both here and at home, it’s easy to forget the severity of the world into which Gwen / Mum / Nana / Great Grandma was born. It was not the most auspicious of starts. She was a link to a very different world.

For me, as an outsider to the gene pool now gathered in this room, it was learning about Amelia Maggs that set everything in context, and helped me truly value so many of Gwen’s qualities:

Her pragmatism. Her directness. Her belief that everything should be just so. Her generosity. And her appreciation of all the blessings that eventually came her way.

For, despite the difficulties of her early life, the second half was filled with happiness which she really savoured:

- Her love and friendship from Jan, her granddaughter – one of the most constant figures in her life;

- At 72, finding late love with John Day, her husband for the next 14 years;

- Reuniting and reconciling with sons Peter (living virtually around the corner) and Chris (with a life on the other side of the world), and seeing that they had found love, stability and companionship with their wives, Christine and Mary, and had thriving families of their own;

- Her good fortune at the care, comfort and shelter provided by her loving daughter Sue and Trevor here in Cornwall;

- And – what she considered her greatest good fortune – getting to know her six great grandchildren.

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Of course, all of this is a two-way street – for every blessing she counted, so ought we for having known her. Over the past 10 days, you will have had opportunity to reflect, as you will continue to do over the coming weeks and months.

Here are some of the memories she has bequeathed me – for even the smallest actions can cause profound ripples across the pond of time.

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Thanks to Gwen, I am a vegetarian.

More years ago than I care to remember, I was invited to lunch by my new girlfriend, Janice. We were teenage sweethearts, and desperately trying to make a good impression. I was introduced to Nana, who was busy in the kitchen, preparing the traditional Sunday roast.

Now, you need to know one piece of information about me to make this story work. At the time, my appetite for vegetables ran from potatoes to peas, via carrots. That was it. A limited basket indeed.

We sat to eat, and Nana started to serve. Chicken (that‘s OK), roast potatoes (check) , peas (check), carrots (check), swede (oh dear). The mashed orange turnip. I ate the rest of the meal with gusto, as teenage boys are wont to do, but left the swede to one side. At which point Gwen took deep offence, and adopting her best Lady Bracknell voice, said

“I hope you’re not going to waste that. Come on, eat up young man.”

I forced myself to comply, gagging on every mouthful. Meanwhile Jan prayed for the ground to open up and swallow her too.

Yet without that moment, my diet would be very different today, and life wouldn’t be quite as interesting.

For that alone, I owe Gwen a considerable thanks.

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Of course, food wasn’t the only platform from which Gwen could launch a major embarrassment offensive. Stealing from the National Trust and Municipal Councils was also a regular habit. As families tend to do, Sue and Jan created a friendly-sounding euphemism for this petty larceny: Wombling.

Picture the scene; an afternoon spent at a country house or park and gardens; then back to the car to go home. But where’s Nana? Back through said garden, looking high and low, to eventually find her “Wombling” amongst the bushes, taking cuttings for future propagation.

So, as we leave today, keep an eye on Jan. If she gets too near any flowers, and starts to open her handbag, please restrain her. We don’t want a scene.

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It’s not just outdoor pursuits that Gwen has left me. Thanks to her, I am also a puzzleholic.

When Jan and I used to visit her in Shirley, there was very little for me to say or do. Frankly, it wasn’t easy to get a word in edgeways. So, like the patient in a waiting room, I looked for something to read. And in the absence of What Car or Digital Photography, I found myself flicking through The People’s Friend. Not perhaps a publication aim at 20-something males, but at least  it was reading material.

And there I learned the valuable lesson that you can find gold in the most unexpected places – because I discovered Gwen’s almost-finished crossword.

“Nana – I think I have 9 across. Do you want to know the answer?”

Thereafter, every visit to Gwen included a crossword completion test for me, and I got the bug. Most mornings now Jan and I compete to get the answers on The Guardian Quick Crossword.

Gwen would be proud: Jan usually wins.

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So thank you Gwen, for the impact you had on me. While you may never have directly interfered – that wasn’t your style – your influence has been wide and long-lasting.

And it’s rather fitting that someone who spent their working life as a cook should leave behind such a rich recipe for a happy life:

· count your blessings

· eat good food

· do a crossword everyday

· and never, ever miss an opportunity to go Wombling.

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CODA: I was due to give this at Gwen’s funeral, scheduled for 10:30 this morning, but the elements (and Cornish hills) conspired against us: when the hearse can’t get to the Chapel of Rest, you know you have a problem.

With her two sons in situ but with tight travel plans (the one from Australia happened to be in the UK for a wedding), the Minister conducted an improvised commemoration in my in-laws’ home, when Gwen had lived for the past 5 years.

It was one of the most intimate, meaningful services it has ever been my privilege to be part of. And three siblings – who had spent most of their adult lives not knowing the others even existed – shared a moment that, in some way, makes them more complete people.

How about that for a legacy?

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