A eulogy delivered by Keith Wilson Clarke, her son, on the occasion of her funeral on the 14th May, 2014.

Firstly, I want to thank you all for coming here to celebrate the life of my Mother, Joan Clarke.  I realise that we are a select group, but our numbers are swelled by an army of dear old friends who are with us in spirit, but are just too frail to make the journey.  Many of them have written to me, sharing treasured memories and expressing their affection for Mum.  Feel their presence!

Today, I have the honour of reliving with you, the story of Joan Clarke and I think it’s a story that’s worth the telling.

Mum always claimed to be of royal blood, because she was born in the King’s arms -  which was true - the ‘Kings Arms’ pub in Limehouse, now Tower Hamlets.  She was born in an upstairs room there with her twin brother, Les.   She might have grown up a fine East-end barmaid, but her mother had other ideas and went off with a policeman soon afterwards, so instead, she ended up as a relatively unloved step-daughter in an isolated village in Kent.  By all accounts, her step-father was an unpleasant man, who measured out his money by how many pints he could buy, ruled his family with an iron hand and firmly believed that children should be seen and not heard.  He had little time for his step-children.  Mum’s elder sister was sent away to live with relatives and young Joan found herself working as a virtual skivvy in her own home.  Soon, she was also given the task of looking after a new baby brother – the favoured natural son.  She was browbeaten and cowed at home and treated as stupid at school, because she lacked the quick academic flair of her brother in the same class. Although she loved story books, she was forbidden to read in the house, because her step-father considered it a waste of a girl’s time and besides she had work to do.  Not surprisingly, she grew up a shy, withdrawn, sad little girl with low self-esteem and few aspirations.

At 14, she was taken out of school and sent to work in service at a local manor house, to bring more beer money into the home.  She was effectively a full-time skivvy now, both at home and at work and finally, she cracked.  The war had broken out and there was a new spirit of change in the air.  At the age of 16, she plucked up her courage and ran away from home, setting off to live with a friend.  They moved to Scotland (about as far away from Kent as you could get) and Mum was just beginning to experience her first precious taste of freedom, when, out of the blue one morning, she received call-up papers and was drafted into the ATS.

As a shy, introverted, non-smoker and non-drinker, I think army life must have been a bit of a shock for her.  She certainly had many tales to tell of the sights she saw and things she heard in barracks.  It was all quite an eye-opener for a quiet little country girl from a Kentish village.   However, life in uniform was not all bad.  It awakened new horizons for Mum and she grasped them with both hands.  She discovered unknown skills with firearms.  She became a Marksman class shot and won competitions in the shooting team.  Her day job involved firing Bren guns over the heads of raw recruits while they struggled through obstacle courses.  She enjoyed telling the tale that when they found out it was an ATS girl firing, they often dropped their rifles in the mud and ran!

Being stationed in a training camp, late in the war, Mum inevitably found herself surrounded by callow youths, struggling to impress - nothing to spark much interest. But then one day, in a plot twist worthy of Hollywood, her life was changed for ever. The A-team parachuted in, in the form of my Dad and his platoon.  They had fought together as a tight-knit combat group across North Africa and right through Italy and they’d now been sent back from the front, at the end of their tour of duty, to help train the next generation of soldiers.  They were tanned, dashing, self-assured young men of wide experience, who swept the local girls off their feet.  And one of them, Jim, took a shine to our Joan – She couldn’t believe her luck!  For virtually the first time in her life, she felt valued and loved and over the years to come, she never took that good fortune and love for granted and she repaid it a thousand-fold.

From that day forward, my parents were inseparable.  They did everything together.  Their characters complemented each other perfectly.  They were Ying and Yang.  Dad was a forceful, pushy, self-made ideas man and Mum settled in to become his quiet background support – self-effacing, diplomatic and selfless in her devotion.

As Dad’s business grew and prospered, they moved to Brook Road and these were Mum’s happiest days. She had all that she’d ever wanted or dreamed of  -  a settled life, a beautiful home, a good husband, a fine son! and many, many dear friends living close by.  She started to blossom.  She took up amateur drama, played golf and tennis, even won a trophy as best female driver in a local car club and of course, played “hostess with the mostest” to numerous successful parties at number 7.

She was a proud housewife and worked tirelessly to keep her home just right – usually, I remember, singing favourite songs at the top of her voice as she did so.  What’s more, with my father and I both separately commuting to London, she had to fit in four trips to the station and back every day to ferry us around and then cooked two meals every evening - one for herself and me at about 6pm and then, having washed up and tidied from that, she started cooking again for Dad’s dinner when he came home at about 9pm.  She often used that phrase about a woman’s work never being done.

Mum was a great believer in “the quiet life” and rarely put her foot down with Dad, but she did have her limits. I especially remember one occasion, when, in his boyish enthusiasm, Dad had bought me an air rifle for my 11th Birthday.  Apparently, when she saw it, Mum did her pieces and forbad him to give it to me.  So, when my birthday came, I travelled up to Gamages in Holborn, with Dad, to ‘pick a present’ for myself.  Mum was less than pleased when I came home brandishing an archery set, complete with a 6-foot bow and steel-tipped hunting arrows.  I spent the next year destroying an old army kit bag stuffed with straw in the back garden.  And then, for my 12th Birthday, I received a surprise present - a slightly dusty air rifle.

Another abiding memory I have of my mother, was her intense fear of thunderstorms. It all dated back to her early teenage years living in bomb alley in Kent.  Thanks to the radar defences, Messerschmidts and Heinkels, headed for London would be intercepted by fighters over the villages of Kent and they’d jettison their bombs to get away.  Mum spent many evening hours in the blackout, cowering with her whole family under their Morrison shelter - essentially just a reinforced metal dining table.  Apparently, her terrified mother used to go hysterical and then faint as the bombs fell around the house.  It made a deep impression on her and during a big Essex thunderstorm, Mum would quietly disappear and you’d find her in the Kitchen with her eyes shut and the blinds drawn and if she wasn’t there, she’d likely be crouched in the cupboard under the stairs.  

All the time I knew her, Mum showed selfless devotion to her family. She always put herself second to the needs and happiness of others.  For example, she hated boats, couldn’t swim and was scared of water.  Dad, however, loved boats, so he bought boats and she tagged along and pretended to enjoy herself whenever we went speed-boating and water skiing.

She also didn’t much like long journeys in the car and was always a fairly nervous passenger, but Dad’s favourite holiday involved towing a speedboat across the continent and over the Alps to sail it in the Mediterranean - 3 days journey each way (and that was in the days before motorways or Alpine tunnels)!  We had many adventures!  But she came along with a fixed smile, white knuckles and a pocket full of peppermints and breathed audible sighs of relief when we arrived.

And then there were bikes!  I wonder how many wives in their mid sixties would have been quite as willing as Mum to sell her beloved house, her car and her possessions on a whim and go on a year’s cycling tour of Europe with just the clothes she stood up in and what she could stuff into a pannier.  But it was Dad’s dream and she would not stand in his way.  The lady was a saint!

Then, when Dad had his catastrophic strokes and ended up, for many years, unable to speak, or eat, or drink or care for himself, Mum stood by him, did everything for him and willingly became a loving, attentive, full-time carer, in spite of her own advancing age and failing health.  

I well remember the time about 10 years ago when Mum had to go into hospital to have a replacement heart valve fitted.  With much reluctance, she sent Dad into a respite home while she had the operation and in the end, they were separated for about two months.  It was the longest time they had been apart since they’d first met and it hurt them both visibly.  I well remember the day I was able to get Mum into a wheelchair and take her round to visit Dad for the first time.  They fell into each others arms and the love and emotion that flowed between them was palpable, even though they couldn’t exchange a single word with each other.

Looking after my father eventually took its toll on Mum and by the time he died, seven years ago, she had become quite a frail old lady.  She also missed him dreadfully and became quite lonely and introspective without her soul mate.  Then, she broke her hip in a fall and it became obvious that she could no longer lead an independent life at home.  We were very fortunate that a care worker who had become a friend over the years, recommended a very good care home, where Mum spent the next four and a half years of her life, being well looked after and with plenty of people around to chat with and keep her comfortable, occupied and happy.

Finally, after a brief illness, she passed away on the 24th April.  But, it was a good end after a good life.  Forewarned by the care home, I was down here in Essex with her and spent the last couple of days visiting and chatting.  She was very tired, fighting off a chest infection, but she was alert and smiling and the sun was shining.  As a major bonus, my son, Peter and his wife Céline had brought their new daughter Sienna to see her only a week or so before (at less than a fortnight old).  Mum was thrilled at meeting her new great-granddaughter and we spent a lot of time chatting about the visit and looking at the photos taken on the day.

The last time I saw Mum, just a couple of hours before she died, she was smiling and waving and saying "See you tomorrow morning".  There was no pain, or fear, or long debilitating illness.   Just over a month before her 89th Birthday, it was her time and she dozed off and slipped away peacefully in her favourite chair, causing no fuss or trouble to anyone.  Just the way she would have wanted it!

It is rare in life to encounter selfless, unconditional love.  My mother possessed it in abundance and bestowed it liberally.  She was a kind, thoughtful person and I never knew her to commit a selfish act or voice a malicious thought about another person.  She devoted her life to looking after others and was only happy when they were happy.  She was a very special lady and I will miss her dreadfully.  

God Bless You Mum and Thank You.