Ten Drummers Drumming

(I had lots of ideas for the drummers drumming but, when I starting writing this story of Mr Downing’s life it seemed the only way to use the drums – hope you think so too.)

Nobody really knew him.
He was a quiet man, a regular church goer who kept himself to himself.
A cliché of a widower whose family had all moved away.
He had one son in Australia who had three children but Mr Robert Downham had never seen any of his grandchildren in the flesh. It was a difficult fact for a loving son to have to face that his father was frightened of flying and could not come to visit them. Flying the whole family to England was too great an expense for the son. So, they kept in contact through letters and by telephone. The Australian family did most of the talking and writing.
Robert had not missed the irony in the fact that his sister, who lived in a remote village in France, had married a French airman. They had met and married a long time ago, in the sixties. The Frenchman, a Mr Chassain, had been almost twenty years older than her – and they had settled in France. She was now an odd, old lady living on a widow’s pension in a tiny little cottage overlooking the Creuse river. Apart from Christmas cards, they had enjoyed no contact for years.
His daily routine had seemed unremarkable to say the least. He was an early riser and would be seen walking down to church for early morning Mass, regardless of the weather. On his return, he would buy a paper and no doubt read it with his breakfast. He was of the old school; a Catholic who did not eat before taking Communion. But he had not been one of those people who hankered back to the “old days before Vatican II”, in fact in most ways, he seemed to be someone who liked the modern church. On Sundays he usually attended the liveliest Mass with lots of modern music and loads of families. But he always seemed a little remote.
During the week he would take a stroll to the pub for a pint, say hello to the person behind the bar and sit quietly in a corner reading his book for half an hour or so. He was so regular that the place he tended to sit in was unofficially “Bob’s seat” but he never minded if it was occupied and never realised that if anyone settled in that seat prior to twelve o clock a member of staff would often politely ask them to move.
The people in the local shops, library and doctor’s surgery all knew who he was and said hello. Neighbours were also happy to have him live nearby as he was quiet, polite and friendly without ever being a cause for concern.
Once a week he would travel on the bus to the cemetery where he would have a silent chat at his late wife’s grave side. Quietly, he would tell her all that had happened that week and find comfort in being connected with her in the peace of the moment. He still missed her and often wondered at the way cancer had so rapidly snatched her from him.
If you had been privileged to see the inside of his house you might have been surprised by the wide range of music CD’s he owned. He had been a keen musician for much of his life but arthritis and a deep shyness had combined to ensure that he could not practice anymore and that he would not share this enthusiasm with any other person. But it still gave him enormous pleasure to explore the rich world of music in the privacy of his own home.
Robert had a modest income but he spent carefully and was gradually saving up to pay for his son’s family to come over to visit him. It was one of the things that preoccupied his mind in quieter moments during his day.
Then, one Tuesday, while sitting reading Hemingway’s “Islands in the Stream” by a crackling fire in the pub with still half a pint of Bombardier in the pint glass he let out a loud sigh and never took another breath.
It took the barmaid a couple of minutes to realise what had happened. She was serving a customer and heard Bob sigh. She had even looked over towards him and had noticed a strange, serene look on his face but it was not until after serving another customer that it occurred to her that the same expression was still there and that he had not moved for some time.
When they started to sort out his affairs some interesting things began to emerge.
For a start, Robert had saved up enough for his son’s family to come over and they arrived well in time for the funeral.
The son, whose name was also Robert, but everyone called him Bobby, took over the arrangements and spent some time in conversation with the parish priest.
It turned out that his father had been quietly instrumental in getting all sorts of things done within the parish and, indeed, had been a quiet friend and supporter of many parishioners. The priest was unusually upset at Robert’s death. Bobby had not expected his father to be quite so popular with the priest and was still taking in the details when the funeral took place.
So, the quiet affair that Bobby had travelled across the world to share in turned out to be less quiet than expected.
To be fair, it was not just Bobby and the priest who were surprised.
As the crowd gathered in church to mourn Robert’s death and celebrate his life they discovered that he had not just touched their life in some quiet but significant way. He had touched so many people’s lives they could not get over it. One woman turned to her neighbour in the pew and discovered that Robert had helped both of them financially when their lives had seemed to be spiralling down into disaster. A young man discovered that he had been given the same sort of support and advice from Robert as his neighbour, despite the fact that the other man was almost twenty years his senior. So, Robert had been quietly helping people for a very long time. It just seemed like no one had been around to join the dots. Everyone had believed that they had been the only one; the only person that old Robert had helped.
Another thing that surprised them was the choice of the music and the service Robert had requested for his funeral. He had even put aside money for the occasion. In the choir loft there was a gospel choir who lifted the roof with their jubilant voices and the youth band played some very modern music from the front of the church close to his coffin. They thought it a little bit odd but were glad of the bequest in Robert’s will that was going to pay for a new sound mixer for them.
And then, there was the reception after the funeral which was going to be an international food feast! Who would have thought that he even knew the dishes and the people who had gladly agreed to make them but, of course, that was Robert for you.
But the really amazing thing; the one thing that Robert had stipulated as a must; the only thing that his will said must happen, even if it ended up using all of the money he had left, was his final send off from the church.
At the end of the service, as the pall bearers came to take up the coffin and as they carried it out of the church, Robert had paid for ten African drummers to play a particular piece... as close to the original as possible (he had specified the CD and track from his collection).
The drummers lined up as the pall bearers began to walk towards the coffin then they began to drum. Ten drummers beating out a complex and growing rhythm that caught everyone’s hearts. It was so powerful it lifted them up, gave them a new perspective on his life and a new hope in theirs that they would be able to take away with them. A dance of life beaten out on tight skins. A dance of joy celebrating Robert’s life that would send him off on a new adventure.
The common view had always been that no one knew Robert Downham.
After his death, everyone wished that they had done more to celebrate his life before he died.
“That,” the priest said, “is a feeling that I encounter a lot at funerals.”
Boom Boom