Farewell Joyce

My comrade Joyce Sharp passed away over a week ago and I attended her funeral on Sunday.

Joyce was a old style Woodcraft Folk member. Socialist, vegetarian, a peace activist. She had met Peter, her husband, at the 1946 Woodcraft Folk International camp on Ovingdean Hill near Brighton, a stones throw from my home. They married shortly after and settled in Kingston, just a short walk across the downs from me.

When I was first a Woodcraft leader, we only had 3 groups in our district and Joyce and Peter, who owned a fruit farm, used to let us camp in their orchard... I think most of the Sussex folk did at one time or another. There was never any feeling of property from them. They genuinely welcomed us to share their space. Socialism was a part of their daily lives, I wonder if they even thought about it, it seemed so ingrained.

I didn't know her really well but I always felt I knew her more than I actually did, if that makes any kind of sense? And Peter too. A marvelous couple. But Joyce always talked to you as if she'd only been chatting with you a few days before. It could be a little disconcerting. I remember she told me she'd been "given the all clear" at one point... I hadn't even been aware she was unwell.

Joyce's coffin was made of green cardboard, and decked with Woodcraft Folk stickers and words like "Pax" and "Peace", to which origami peace cranes had been glued. Her coffin was laid out in the summer house, amid photo's, folk shirts and other memories of her life. The final photo was a large black and white image, blown up. Joyce's face showed the lines that younger women try to hide. But her jaw was set and determined and yet her eyes twickled with that sense of fun I often witnessed in her.

At the appointed time we made our way up the slightly climbing path to her place of rest. She was being buried on the land. There were so many people there. Young and old. WI, peace activists, Woodcraft Folk, Labour Party, family and friends. I was at the back of the crowd and it was hard to hear the orations. Some had voices that carried, others voices thin and reedy, I couldn't make out. The rain drizzled down occasionally.

Eventually I climbed the bank so that I could hear the speakers. All spoke of Joyce's warmth, stubborness, creativity and love. It was hard to believe she'd departed and I would never see her again. She was lowered into the ground, and I felt the lump in my throat. I quickly looked away. I didn't feel I had the right to weep when her family were being so stoic. I looked up to the horizon and saw the downs folding across my vision. And I thought how Joyce would have loved this spot. I mean who wouldn't?

A fire was lit and more songs were sung. A group of us said our goodbyes and offered our condolences to Peter. He introduced me to Brian Morris- an academic who has just published a book on Ernest Thompson Seton. I thought how typical of Joyce and Peter that I should meet him at their home, on this day. We walked together to the Jugs for a drink and for half an hour I was absorbed in discussions on the early woodcraft movement. Maybe it makes me shallow, but I grasped the opportunity to avoid feeling my heavy heart and the dread that one day it might be me saying farewell to Kaz.

That evening before I feel asleep, I made Kaz promise me she wouldn't pass away before me. Kaz as ever had the answer and said rather romantically and unrealistically, that we'd die together...