AN EXTRAORDINARY BOY PART FOUR: Aftermath - and the final award.

'An Extraordinary Boy' - Part Four

Walking out of the hospital was so very difficult. The exact opposite of walking into St Peter's all those years before. We got into the car and looked at each other; there didn't seem to be much to say. All that love and work and commitment, pouring into Michael for fourteen years, and suddenly it was reduced to a few carrier bags of things in the back of an estate car.

His trainers were on the floor of the car, where he had left them the week before. So was his coat. That was so hard, that first time, seeing things where he had left them in life, only to be abandoned in death. The disabled badge was on the dashboard. We wouldn't be needing that again. This was the first journey of the post-Michael era, and we were going straight to the funeral directors.

In the minutes immediately following Michael's death, we had telephoned my father and Graham's mother. We also spoke to Canon Maureen and our own vicar, Nicholas Aiken, before we left the Marsden. I had always wondered what we would do in practical terms after Michael's death; in fact, the whole process took on a life of its own. Our biggest priority was to go and tell Christopher. In the middle of the night, the hospital had asked us if we would like them to make arrangements to have Christopher driven across to be with us, but we felt it was something he shouldn't have to see. I suppose time will tell whether or not we got that one right. We didn't think it appropriate to take him to the undertakers to discuss all of the nitty-gritty, either , so we decided to go there first, and then to drive to Windsor to collect Christopher.

Being in the undertakers' was a surreal experience. We were both very much in control; I suppose we were also very much in shock. We had to arrange for Michael to be collected from the hospital and brought back to the undertakers. We didn't feel that we should have him at home; maybe without Christopher it might have been different, but I don't think so. So many things to decide - what he would wear, whether he would be embalmed, what sort of coffin to choose - and that was beside all the complications of organising the funeral itself. There was never any doubt that it would be in the Cathedral. Nina had rung the undertaker before we arrived, and they had already spoken to the Cathedral a couple of times. It was complicated because there were so many carol services and school concerts already in the diary. To avoid having to wait any longer than absolutely necessary, we decided on a Saturday, December 9^th, although it needed to be early, at 10am.

We gave serious consideration to each question as it was raised. We agreed on a mahogany-coloured coffin and tried to decide on the design of the handles - the handles, for heaven's sake! - and then considered the question of clothing. I knew Michael had been wearing one of his Red Dwarf Tshirts when he died, but thought he should be buried in the clothes he liked to wear on semi-smart occasions. We settled on dark jeans, a tshirt and his dark blue Ben Sherman shirt. It seemed so bizarre even to think about.

Then we found out that we had to go all the way back to the Royal Marsden to collect the death certificate and register the death before Michael's body could be released. Graham agreed to do that, and then to meet the hearse at the hospital, taking Michael's burial clothing with him. After a cursory talk about cars and flowers and newspaper announcements, we fled.

Now for the difficult bit. We drove over to Windsor in near-silence. How do you tell a boy of eleven that his much-adored big brother is dead? Even if he knew it was coming? We arrived at the school and had a talk with the Headmaster, who was both kind and patient in what I feel certain was an equally dreadful situation for him. Choristers are a very close team of boys, and he must have known that the ramifications would be felt by Christopher's friends, too, all of whom knew Michael, even if only as a patchy-headed member of the congregation at Evensong. He told us that he would go and fetch Christopher and bring him to us in his study - and would leave us alone.

We sat and waited for what seemed like forever; in reality probably only a couple of minutes. The door opened suddenly, and Christopher came into the room. He saw us sitting there, and began a smile of recognition, which froze on his face as he began to realise why we were there.

'Christopher', I said, gently, 'Do you know why we are here?'

'It's Michael, isn't it?' he said, 'He isn't… he isn't……..'

'I'm so sorry, darling,' I said, 'Michael died this morning just before 8 o'clock. He was terribly ill and he just couldn't go on any longer…..'

Christopher's face crumpled and he fell onto the sofa between us. We wrapped him in our arms as best we could and tried to say the right things - such as they are. It was heart rending. After about 15 minutes, he said he wanted to go home and we headed out to the car park.

Arriving back home on that morning was another of those experiences that defy description. No one really knew what had happened yet, so the phone was quiet, and everything seemed so……well, normal. The radio was playing the same programmes, the postman and milkman were out as usual on their rounds - there didn't seem to be a code of behaviour to follow. We did what all English people do under those circumstances - we made a cup of tea.

This was the lull before the storm, of course. I had to start telling people and in a way I hoped that by doing that, it might become more real for me.

----- Original Message -----
From: G & B Norton

Sent: Friday, December 01, 2000 3:14 PM
Subject: Michael Norton, Feb 17th 1986 - Dec 1st, 2000


Dearest Friends,

I can't believe I'm having to write this.

Michael died this morning. We thought we were losing him yesterday afternoon but he hung on and on; at 2am he slipped into unconsciousness but Graham and I sat holding his hands and talking to him until, at 7.50am, Michael took his last few breaths and quietly slipped out of the room.

For the record, the brain tumour did NOT kill him. It wasn't near his brain stem. But he was blind, frail - unable even to prop himself up on one elbow - and confused in so many ways. But he KNEW he had had enough and refused totally to accept any fluids after Sunday night. I think he felt the disease had taken everything but he wasn't going to let it take his dignity. And it didn't. This boy was staggering to the bathroom and demanding privacy in his last 24 hours, even though he didn't seem to know who we were or where he was. And I will treasure the hug he gave me, quite spontaneously, on Wednesday night - for ever. So the disease didn't take him, he left the game on his own terms when he had had enough. As we always knew he would.

An extraordinary boy in every way and his courage and dignity were outstanding.

His funeral will be at Guildford Cathedral next Saturday morning, December 9th, at 10am. I would implore those of you who are able, please to come; there will be no memorial service later on; Michael planned his funeral down to the last detail and in a way it is his own memorial to himself. I know he wanted as many of you as possible to be there - you have walked this journey with him and I think Graham, Christopher and I need you to help us walk the last few steps together.

Family flowers only, please, but we would welcome donations to Michael's fund at the
UK Brain Tumour Society,
c/o Fiona Redpath-Potter,
22, Hunter Street,
Rugby,
Warks CV21 3NS

or at the HQ which is:
UKBTS,BAC House, Bonehurst Road,Horley,Surrey, RH6 8QG

I can't thank you all enough for everything which you have done for us and
for Michael-
but you know all that, don't you?

With love and such deep, deep sadness,

Berrie, Graham and Christopher

There wasn't a whole lot else to say.

Canon Maureen arrived later on that evening and we began to work on the funeral service itself. Michael had already chosen two of his hymns - Jerusalem the Golden, his favourite tune, and He Who would Valiant Be. That was the school hymn - but there was no other hymn which summed Michael up so succinctly.

'Who so beset him round with dismal stories

Do but themselves confound - his strength the more is.'

That left one for Christopher to choose - Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer. The readings were similarly straightforward; Michael wanted the extract from Matthew's Gospel, Chapter 6, verse 35 - end, which says there is no point in worrying about things you can't change, and the very end of 'The Little Prince' by Antoine Saint-Exupery.

We discussed where the funeral should be; one suggestion was in the Lady Chapel, but then we thought that there might be over 100 people there, so we settled on the main body of the Cathedral. The one thing that I was very, very definite about was that I knew how much Michael wanted the Cathedral Choir to sing. I also knew that this might prove to be too much for the boys themselves, and we agreed that Stephen Farr, the organist, would approach each family individually and ask them if they would be happy to allow their son to sing. By the time Maureen left, at least a few things were coming together. Graham and I slept deeply for the first time in a long while.

The next day, the letters and the emails started arriving. And they were to come in their hundreds.

Dear Berrie, Graham and Christopher,
I am sitting at my desk in tears. Michael was truly remarkable and we have learned so much from the way he confronted his illness. He could not have had a more loving and encouraging family. Only God will be able to help you cope with the heartbreaking days ahead of you, and we and our friends will earnestly pray for this. We are so, so, sorry.
With our love and deepest sympathy,
Tim

Indeed an extraordinary child with huge courage. You always called him your Pride and undoubtedly he was in every way.

A great tribute too to you, his parents and brother who have so lovingly helped Michael on his last journey to God. You were chosen to cherish him for his short life, now complete.

Our hearts go out to you - we will of course be with you at Michael's funeral and hope our being there can support you in some way.

Our greatest love to you

Linda Roger and Alex

"An extraordinary boy in every way."

Absolutely. I'm still amazed beyond words at the strength of these marvellous children. And angry beyond words at the best that has taken them from us.
All I can say is that I know what your going through, and my deepest sympathies are with you, Graham and Chrissie.

And that young man of yours looked at life and death with a wisdom that escapes some people many times his age. I'm so sorry.

Love,

Paul

Dear Bj,

Michael was an extraordinary boy - was, is, and always will be. He met that final crossing on his own terms, kept his dignity. Beautiful Michael.

I loved Michael. How does that happen in such a short time and with only a dozen or so personal interactions? Because Michael was so outstanding, so unique, so obviously way above the crowd. I am honoured to have known him. Thank you, Michael, for touching my life. For that, I grieve the more now, but I am grateful for being given the great pleasure of intersecting my life with
yours.
Bj, you and Graham have much to be proud of. God knew what he was doing when he chose you for Michael. You have nurtured an incredible soul, given all that was needed, and were instrumental in shaping him into the fine person he was. Nothing can take that away.

I am sorry for all the pain, so incredibly sorry for the shortness of Michael's time here .... don't understand why ..... grieve for him and you over that.

Michael is playing his cello again with the angels ..... he is making music in the heavens and laughing ... he is safe with Jesus. That is my only comfort in all of this ..... for the rest, numbness has set in. And a sort of sense of peace, of finality, of putting down the gauntlet. It is done.

Bj, may God be merciful to you who remain. You are in my prayers unceasingly.

Love

Jan

…………….and, as I say, hundreds more over the next few weeks, all just like these. And what an impression they made! They showed us so very clearly that Michael DID make a difference. Every time someone said to us, 'Why was it Michael? Why wasn't someone else?' we could say, ' -because if it had been someone else, maybe no one would have noticed. Michael made a difference and goes ON making a difference.'

So many of those letters began with that same phrase……'An Extraordinary Boy'.

And he was, he was.

Saturday was a very strange day indeed. There was no food in the house at all, so I had to go to Tesco's and stock up. Everyone else was behaving entirely normally, and I couldn't understand how nobody could tell by looking at me that my son was dead. Meanwhile, Graham and Christopher went out on a bike ride. Somehow, in the midst of everything, normality creeps in from time to time.

After lunch we went to order our flowers for the funeral. It didn't take long since we were fairly clear what we wanted; a huge spray of red roses from us, and lilies from Christopher. We started to write a card to go with them when suddenly poor Christopher was totally overcome. The florist was directly opposite the undertaker, and for me the thought that Michael was so close yet so utterly, utterly out of reach was beyond my ability to deal with rationally. It was only later on that day when I said something about it to Christopher that he said,

'I wondered where Michael was….' I hadn't thought to explain it to him.

Christopher was still very keen to pick up Elwood, but we all agreed that that was a job best left until after the funeral. In fact, by Sunday Christopher was obviously anxious to get back to school for the Advent Service that evening. I rang the school, but the general view was that it would be best left until Monday morning. The other boys had been very distressed to learn of Michael's death - so much so, in fact, that Evensong on Friday had actually been sung by the men only, because the boys were too upset to work properly.

Monday seemed to be a good time to return, as Christopher was actually due to go up to London for a day trip to view an exhibition of Icons, in a very small party being led by Charles, the school chaplain. I was rather anxious about this; I didn't really understand how Christopher was feeling and I was concerned about him . Charles, as ever, was both reassuring to me and a reliable and comforting presence to Christopher so I reluctantly waved him off on the train. Later I heard that a good time had most definitely been had by all; Christopher is not a child who confides in anyone at all, but I was sensible enough to realise that here he had found an adult that he felt sufficiently relaxed with to be able to approach if he needed to. I could see that Graham and I were too close to him, and behaving too unpredictably, for him to be able to unload his grief onto us. I was extremely confident with the way that the school were handling things, and I took Graham's advice that we should let Charles keep an eye on the boy in the Chapel environment and try not to be over-protective.

In any case, we still had more than enough to worry about. We had to go back to the undertakers to finalise arrangements for Saturday. There was still one small thing causing me a lot of anxiety…….. Michael was always so short, but he had seemed to grow in those last few months. But I had never measured him and I didn't know if he had crossed the, to him, 'magical boundary' of being five feet tall. I tentatively asked the undertaker if she could find out. 'Of course!' she smiled…. And thirty seconds later, back came the answer. 'He was between 5'2" and 5'3".' He made it, after all.

The boys at the Royal Grammar School had taken the news very hard. They decided to organise their own tribute to Michael, and on the Tuesday lunchtime, a short service of remembrance was held at the Holy Trinity Church in the High Street. Many of Michael's friends played, and Richard Bartlett read a lesson. We couldn't face everybody at the beginning of the service, but we crept in at the back as one of Michael's closest friends, Colin, was playing a movement from one of the Bach solo cello suites. It was exquisite. I had to swallow hard, but Graham found it too much to bear. There were few dry eyes in the house by the end of the service and I was touched and moved by the numbers of boys and staff who had given up their lunchtime to be there.

We went across to Evensong at Windsor that evening; Charles assured us that Christopher seemed fine, and indeed he did. His prime concern was that we should furnish him with enough tinsel to decorate his dormitory for Christmas! I couldn't quite believe it. Once again, I was gently reassured that this was his way of coping and that I shouldn't push him too hard to behave in a way which I thought was appropriate. In fact, by being at school he was able to sublimate his feelings`completely and behave like a 'normal boy' for a while longer. I remained unconvinced by this argument, but obviously I didn't want Christopher to be sunk in misery all the time so I decided to wait and see what happened over a longer period of time.

He had insisted on going to see his brother's body before the funeral. I did not want to go, but once he said he wanted to I felt that Graham and I would have to go with him. The only time which we could arrange was on Friday lunchtime, straight after his Grade V violin exam, which he had also insisted on taking despite everything. Again, we felt that we should be guided by what Christopher felt able to cope with, but I have to say that I was dreading Friday very much indeed.

Meanwhile, Graham and I were trying to get used to the concept of long, lonely evenings in the house. The new house, to boot, so we had no routine to fall back on. We hadn't realised how much our lives had revolved around Michael, homework, practice, pills, medication, worry and sheer stress. Now it was all gone - and we didn't like it. Not at all. We finalised the arrangements for the funeral. We had asked Charles Cattell, Michael's godfather, to deliver the tribute to him, and he and Jill, his wife, an old University friend of mine, had been round to the house to discuss it. We knew he would do a wonderful job, although I think even we did not realise quite how good he was going to be! We were also frantically trying to keep up with replies to the letters of condolence that were coming in, so we did have a lot to keep us occupied.

Friday morning dawned. I went over to Windsor to play for Christopher's exam. He was on the verge of tears once or twice, but to his eternal credit he got through it and played quite well.

By this stage, we had also been in touch several times with the organist at Windsor, who had very kindly agreed to bring nine of the senior boys across to sing at the funeral on Saturday. Again, I was very concerned about how they would react just before Christmas to doing something like this, and I had bought all the choristers - from Guildford AND Windsor - a small present . I also wrote each of them a hand-written card to explain that, although the funeral itself would be sad, Michael had left strict instructions that after the funeral they should conga and party. Graham and I discussed this with the Headmaster, the Organist and the Chaplain. I knew that the Guildford boys would be going home to their parents, but it was different for the boarders at Windsor. The chaplain told us that he would be coming to the funeral himself and that he and the boarding staff would be keeping a careful eye on the boys for the rest of the day.

Although they were going to sing, there was one part of the service that Maureen thought would be too much for them, but Graham was quite adamant should be included. This was Michael's own recording, made the previous December, of the song 'God is near'. It was finally agreed that it would be played on the Cathedral just as the coffin was carried out to the West Door, after the boys had processed out. It is a beautiful recording and the words were perfect:

In the morning when I rise

When I open up my eyes

Rain or shine or cold and ice

God is near, God is near.

In my work and in my play

He is there to show the way.

Close beside me all the day,

God is near, God is near.

And when I turn out the light,

When I go to sleep at night,

I am always in His sight,

God is near, God is near.'

We knew there wouldn't be anyone left unmoved, and I suppose it was right that Michael's voice should have been heard one last time in the Cathedral he loved so much.

Before that, though, we had to face taking Christopher to see his brother. We walked into the 'Chapel of Rest' - more of a lock-up garage with a cross in it, really, and into the gloom. Michael was lying in his coffin, half-covered by a muslin cloth, dressed immaculately and from a distance appearing to be - well, I would have said asleep, but he was so very lifeless that he looked what he was - dead. But he did look at peace, and it would have been all right except that Christopher suddenly moved around to the side of the coffin before we could stop him. Unprotected by the muslin, Michael looked awful - cold, overly made up and bloated in the face. Christopher shuddered from head to toe, quite literally, and exclaimed loudly before running away. We left quickly and tried to console him as he sobbed.

Christopher remained quiet and upset all afternoon.

Chapter Two

The thought of Michael all on his own in a drawer in the undertakers had upset me from the beginning. I was thrilled and honoured when Canon Maureen suggested that Michael be received into the Lady Chapel of the Cathedral on the night before the funeral and remain in there all night surrounded by candles. She also offered us the chance to go and have a private Eucharist service during the evening.

This seemed so very appropriate, and Graham, Christopher, my sister Anneliese and my stepmother Sheila went down to the Cathedral in driving rain at 6.30 on the evening of the 8^th. Christopher was still very drawn from his experience earlier in the day, and we all found it a great strain as we filed into the Chapel. It is the most beautiful place; above the altar hangs a wonderfully simple yet moving sculpture of the Madonna standing with her arms enveloping her Child. I felt it to be both apt and unbearably poignant.

Michael's coffin was borne in shortly before 7 o'clock, covered in the most startlingly deep red roses and creamy lilies I think I had ever seen. The sight of this small coffin and the thoughts of the precious cargo inside were too much for all of us but for Christopher is was especially hard to bear. Canon Maureen conducted  the short service, and in a way it was the most intimate part of it all. Just Michael, surrounded by the people he loved most. I felt God's presence very strongly in that place on that evening, and I felt even more strongly that Michael was still with us.

Geoffrey went into the Cathedral later that night to practise for the service on the following morning, and even he remarked to me on the feeling in the Cathedral that night. I think he also sensed Michael's presence; I am quite sure that Michael would have been checking up on what was going on!

Given the very public nature of the funeral, I felt very pleased that we had had a chance to say an essentially private goodbye to Michael. The following day had been arranged by him with everyone in mind; but there is no doubt that he was a person of very strong religious beliefs, and that service of Holy Communion was, and will remain, a very personal celebration and eloquent farewell.

The next morning I was up early and in very restless mood. I couldn't settle to anything. I had no idea how many people would be at the service and I hoped and prayed that there would be a reasonable number. Canon Maureen had said she was going to print a few hundred service sheets; I told her that around 200 - 250 would probably be more than ample.

The car arrived for us just before 9.30. It isn’t a long journey, but I was afraid of being late on a Saturday morning in the midst of the Christmas shopping season. We left in the sunshine, but as we turned onto the A3, the skies began to glower and before long we were in the middle of an appalling thunderstorm. I couldn't believe it - the rain was coming down in torrents. 'Oh Michael', I said to myself, 'Even the heavens are crying for you…….'. I couldn't bear the thought of a burial in the rain. We had already been warned that the grave might be too wet to dig, in which case that part of the service would have to postponed until the ground was dry enough. In any case, we knew that there would be a pump sucking out water from the grave itself until the very last minute.

I couldn't worry about that now, however, and I stared out of the window, Christopher next to me, with my fists clenched tight and my nails digging into my palm. I realised after a while that we seemed to know just about every car driving past us - friends of ours, friends of Michael's, familiar faces from Pyrford, Guildford - from everywhere. We arrived at the Cathedral 15 minutes early; it took us a long time to get up to the North Door because of all the 'Christmas shoppers' ,as I supposed , who had parked up there to walk into Guildford. We couldn't face the long walk down the Nave, and had asked that we slip in through the North Door. My father and his wife, and Graham's mother went to sit down. We decided to wait for a while longer. Christopher peeped through the Sanctuary gates.

'Mum!' he whispered, 'It's FULL!'

'Christopher, don't be silly', I said wearily, 'It just looks full because of all the people at the front.' Canon Maureen came round the corner. 'No, Berrie', she said, 'He's quite right. It IS full. There are well over 750 people out there.'

My eyes filled with tears. 750 people? Who had given up their Saturday morning to come and say goodbye to a young lad of fourteen? I could not - still cannot - get my head round that at all. There were friends of his and of ours - and their families, too. There were doctors and surgeons, including Richard Newton and Patrick Chapman, and nurses who had looked after Michael in many hospitals. The secretary and play leader from the Marsden. His home care team. And so very many staff and pupils from the Grammar School and the Hospital School - and from St George's School, too, there for Christopher. There were people from the Friends of Cathedral Music, from the congregations of Cathedrals and from our parish churches. The adjudicator from that music festival back in March, when  Michael had played the cello. People who had met him only once, but had been moved by his courage, and people who known him all his life. There was even - although I didn't know it at the time - a young man from Australia, working over here for a year in London, whose mother back home had a brain tumour and to whom I had been writing on the email list. They were all there to say goodbye to this extraordinary boy.

And in my head I suddenly heard Michael's voice saying,

'I'm making a difference, aren't I, Mum?'

I think it is absolutely honest to say that nobody at that service had ever seen anything like it. It was extraordinary. I was absolutely exhilarated by it and I was so very certain that Michael was sitting up in the organ loft, behind Geoffrey, swinging his legs and loving every moment of it. The order of service is here for you to see. As the choir filed in, I felt it was a bittersweet moment. The boys from the two choirs were interleaved, one from Windsor next to one from Guildford, and I thought how much Michael would have loved to see this moment. He so much had wanted to sing with his brother when he was alive, and here were the two choral foundations united in his death. Next to me, Christopher shut his eyes and sang along with the hymns, finding a power in his voice that I wasn't always able to match. Just in front of us, on a bier, lay Michael's coffin, surrounded by candles and covered in flowers, and I felt so strongly that he was listening to what was going on around him.

The lesson, from St Matthew's Gospel, was read by Andrew Millington. He and his wife had braved the floods and the December traffic to get from Exeter to Guildford Cathedral for 10 o'clock in the morning, and Graham and I were thrilled that he was there. As he started to read, everyone in that place could hear Michael speaking directly to them. And what a message he had!

"Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you shall eat or what you shall drink, nor about your body, what you shall put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?

And which of you by being anxious can add one cubit to his span of life?

And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O men of little faith?

Therefore do not be anxious, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?'

For the Gentiles seek all these things; and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all.

But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things shall be yours as well.

"Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day's own trouble be sufficient for the day.

That was Michael telling us all , quite clearly, how he had felt about his illness, and how he wanted us to think of it, too.

The extract from the 'Little Prince' was read by Michael's Headmaster. And once you knew how upset Christopher had been by viewing Michael's body - well, it was just as if his brother was telling him not to be upset by it. This was a very special moment, and I think that, for Christopher, it might have eased the pain just a little.

The Little Prince (extract)

'What are you trying to say, little prince?'

'All men have stars,' he answered, ' but they are not the same things for different people. For some, who are travellers, the stars are guides. For others they are no more than little lights in the sky. For others, who are scholars, they are problems……..but all these stars are silent. You - you alone- will have the stars as no-one else has them -'

'What are you trying to say?'

He replied, ' In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them, I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night……….. You -only you - will have stars that can laugh!'

And he laughed again.

'And when your sorrow is comforted ( time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend. You will want to laugh with me. And you will sometimes open your window for that pleasure……And your friends will be properly astonished to see you laughing as you look up at the sky! Then you will say to them,' Yes, the stars always make me laugh!' And they will think you are crazy. It will be a very shabby trick that I shall have played on you……..'

And he laughed again.

'It will be as if, in place of the stars, I had given you a great number of little bells that knew how to laugh………'

And he laughed again. Then he quickly became serious:

'Tonight - you know……..Do not come.'

'I shall not leave you,' I said.

'I shall look as if I were suffering. I shall look a little as if I were dying. It is like that. Do not come to see that. It is not worth the trouble………..'

That night I did not see him set out on his way. He got away from me without making a sound. When I succeeded in catching up with him he was walking along with a quick and resolute step. He said to me merely:

'Ah! You are there…'

And he took me by the hand. But he was still worrying.

'It was wrong of you to come. You will suffer. I shall look as if I were dead: and that will not be true…..'

I said nothing.

'But it will be like an old abandoned shell. There is nothing sad about old shells…….'

I said nothing.

He was a little discouraged. But he made one more effort:

'You know, it will be very nice. I, too, shall look at the stars. Al the stars will be wells with a rusty pulley. All the stars will pour out fresh water for me to drink…..'

I said nothing.

'That will be so amusing! You will have five hundred million little bells, and I shall have five hundred million springs of fresh water…

And he too said nothing more, because he was crying…..

'Here it is…let me go on by myself…….'

There was nothing but a flash of yellow close to his ankle. He remained motionless for an instant. He did not cry out. He fell as gently as a tree falls. There was not even any sound, because of the sand.

There was silence as it ended. Every one of those people sitting listening was taking in the undoubted instructions from Michael which it had contained. Then Charles Cattell, Michael's godfather, got up to speak. And how he captured the very essence of my boy!

A TRIBUTE TO MICHAEL

It has been a great privilege to have been one of Michael’s godparents and as his godfather Berrie and Graham have asked me to say a few words about the Michael we have known and loved.

Michael’s interests and activities were widespread yet touched so many people, as witnessed by all of us being here together today.  We all have our own memories and know how Michael has made a unique contribution to each of our lives in our own particular spheres.  So this tribute must be a personal view of a very special godson.

Michael burst upon us almost fifteen years ago and in retrospect what remarkable years those have proved to be.  Michael had an extraordinary range of abilities which enabled him to do so well and contribute so much in so many fields.  His life may have been tragically short, but he fitted into it more than most of us will ever manage.  Whilst I could focus on his academic, instrumental and choral achievements, this would leave so much left unsaid and would ignore that wonderful personality whom we have so loved and who has brought so much to each of us.

We should not be surprised by his personality or his range of talents and abilities, of course.  He was very much the son of his parents and brought together their strengths so magically. His musical talent and sense of performance he inherited from Berrie, whilst that quiet dignity and very special sense of humour proved how much he was Graham’s son.

I first met Michael when, only a few weeks old, he was brought to visit us.  He didn’t contribute much to the conversation on that occasion although his gurgles indicated that even at that age he had definite points of view.  But he did manage to capture our hearts and had no little part in helping us realise the wonders of parenthood. 

From his earliest years Michael enjoyed challenging the adults in his life, in all sorts of ways.  I was put to the test to construct a working car ferry out of Duplo, which I managed to pass only by dint of building the model upside down.

Thus trusted on matters mechanical, I was allowed to explain the workings of the steam engine which took us off to see Father Christmas somewhere in Hampshire.  As we gently chuffed along in our crowded compartment, the little girl opposite announced excitedly to Michael:  “I’m off to see Santa Claus!”.  “So!” replied Michael, not to be outdone,  “My Mummy’s got a baby in her tummy.”

And so she had.  Michael was proud of Christopher even before he was born and there has remained a strong bond and deep affection between them ever since.  Each brother brought something very special to their relationship as they had so much in common and yet were so individual.  Christopher, Michael would not have been so complete without you.  You played a unique part in his life.

Michael always knew his own mind and showed a strong sense of determination.  But this was always tempered with a delightful degree of self-deprecation and a splendid sense of the ridiculous.  I remember during one get together a somewhat heated discussion on the rights and wrongs of the Mutant Ninja Turtle craze which ended on a maternal declaration that such things would never be allowed into the house.  Michael waited until both his parents were out of earshot before confiding that not only had he already acquired a collection, but also that they would never find out where they were hidden in his room!

Now Michael and food were not always the easiest of companions and on another occasion we were together for Sunday lunch when Michael announced that he would like to have five Yorkshire puddings.  This was much to everyone’s surprise and so the parental edict came that one would be quite sufficient, which was duly prepared and eaten.  Yet Michael was so assiduous in helping pile up everyone else’s plates with all sorts of vegetables and trimmings that no-one felt able to manage any second helpings of Yorkshires.  There were just four left, so Michael happily obliged, bang in line with his original estimate.

There can be no doubt that the people around Michael were expected to match up. I will never forget the times I have come to this cathedral to hear Michael sing in the choir as he advanced from being its youngest member to your Head Chorister.  On each occasion, as the procession swung round in front of this lectern there was the same quizzical expression until we were located amongst the congregation, followed by the grin of satisfaction as we were “checked-in”, all present and correct.

That ability to imply so much with that wry grin  coupled to his dry sense of humour endeared him to us and to so many others.

He was so special, yet so normal too.  I have it on the best authority that shortly after his return following an operation and still bandaged, an alarming altercation was heard coming from the undercroft which lies beneath us.  On investigation Michael was discovered having a punch-up with another choir-boy.  When challenged as to whether this was seemly conduct for the Head Chorister, Michael replied disarmingly: “Oops, sorry!  I forgot!”

And so we come to this last year.  A year in which Michael had to face extraordinary challenges.  Yet even then, he kept his remarkable sense of humour.  3 hours before one of the early operations, the surgeon who had a stammer, came to introduce himself.  “H-H-H-Hello M-M-M-Michael,” he said, “I’m S-S-S-Simon”.  After he had gone, Michael remarked dryly: “If he has to say P-P-Pass the S-S-Scalpel, I could be in real trouble.”

It was a mark of Michael that he never complained about his illness.  Indeed, he always found something positive in even the most dire of situations.  As he admitted just a few months ago:  “Being ill has been brilliant.  I’ve had no homework, but time to do the things I’ve wanted to do, to visit the places I’ve wanted to visit, to spend time with Pugwash the cat, and most of all, time to be with my family.”

Michael also kept his sense of dignity and met death on his own terms.  He had a clear understanding of where he thought he was going and his vision of paradise. 

He also had clear expectations of how he wanted this service to be conducted.  It was his particular request that whilst we should commence with great solemnity, this service should end as a celebration; indeed he had hoped that we might manage to conga our way out of the Cathedral, down Stag Hill and back to the refectory.  He said it would be nice if we would all put on Hawaiian shirts for that part of the ceremony.

I fear that the conga may prove to be unmanageable in the circumstances, but we should certainly celebrate Michael and all his achievements.  Thank you Michael, for sharing your life with us, for giving us so much and for brightening our lives in so many ways.  I’m afraid I don’t have a Hawaiian shirt, but Michael, this splash of colour is for you.

This was perfect - and the delightfully phrased tribute to Christopher, which reduced him temporarily to tears, was beautifully judged, and so very important.

Canon Maureen made her own tribute in her sermon, and here, too, the spirit of Michael was perfectly encapsulated.

The choir began the anthem, Durufle's 'Ubi Caritas', that Michael had sung on his first and last days as a chorister. We had heard it sung just one month earlier at the Queen Mother's Birthday Tribute Concert in St George's Chapel. At the end of that, Michael, who had been mouthing the words, had turned to me and said, 'That's the one, Mum. I love that music.' And I had known what he meant.  'Where love and charity are, there is God.' It was so movingly sung and so appropriate, too. After the prayers came the moment which I had been dreading. Geoffrey struck up that wonderful hymn tune 'Cwm Rhondda', and the undertakers arrived to pick up the coffin. As they began the long, slow walk up the Nave, Graham, Christopher and I left our seats and moved in behind it. With 'Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer' ringing in my ears, I put an arm round my younger son and followed my elder son for the very last time. Gradually I was aware that the mood of joyfulness, of celebration of Michael's wonderful life, was over and was being replaced by sheer, unadulterated wretchedness and misery. I saw faces as we walked but I don't think any of them registered, except to notice how many people were in tears. I was also aware that the singing seemed to be getting quieter - I think maybe everyone else felt as we did. Christopher and I were both weeping openly now, and I just wanted to try and protect him from the moment. He had insisted on making this long walk with us; and we felt we had to allow him to make the gesture.

As we reached the West Door, the hymn ended and the Cathedral fell silent. In front of us, the pallbearers turned slowly around until Michael was facing the altar. You could have heard a pin drop. Then, suddenly, out of the silence came the sound of Michael's pure, clear treble voice.

'In the morning when I rise………..'

Michael singing at his own funeral... 

I cannot describe the effect of that sound on the people there. It is such a simple song, so different from the great Church music we had been listening to during the service - and yet Michael sang it with such integrity that it became a straightforward affirmation of his faith. And a final and personal farewell from him to all of us; to his family and to his friends. It was beautiful, yet terrible. Christopher was enfolded in my arms and his head was wet from my tears. I could sense the tears of nearly 750 people around me, too.

Then it was over. Geoffrey launched into the great 'Toccata' from Boellmann's 'Suite Gothique', an epic of a piece which sounds like something out of a Hammer horror movie. Michael had known exactly what he was doing when he chose it. The mood altered again and people could smile wryly at Michael's choice of music for them to leave to! But nobody spoke at all.

As Michael's body was turned around and he was carried out of his beloved Cathedral for the last time, I suddenly realised that the rain had stopped. In fact, not only had it stopped, but the sun was shining and the sky was a brilliant azure blue. Michael had been right again. He said we would enter in misery and leave in joy - and we did. The three of us stood at the West Door for forty five minutes, shaking hands and hugging and thanking those people who had come. I don't think we registered half of them - and we were so very grateful that we had thought to provide paper for people to sign as they left, so that we were able to sit down afterwards and see who had been there. For Christopher this must have been a terrible ordeal. We asked him if he would like to go with his grandparents and have a drink and relax; but he was adamant that he wanted to be with us. Once again, I was aware of quiet support being offered by the chaplain, before he left with the other choristers to return to Windsor.

The hardest bit was still to come.

Only the family and Michael's godparents were at his burial. The sun was still shining brilliantly as we arrived at St Nicholas' Church. I could see and hear the pump sucking water out of the grave, and it was removed discreetly as we crossed the road for the very brief ceremony. I was surprised and then pleased to see that Michael's resting place was to be right next to a Christmas tree in a sunny and open part of the graveyard. The undertaker removed one of my red roses and laid it gently on the top of Michael's coffin with its brass plate bearing his name and the date of his death. I heard the words of the committal.

Then they lowered my baby into that sodden, water-filled hole. And they covered him with clay.

And I wept as I have never wept before.

 

26) Requiescat in pace

December 9^th, 2000

St Nicholas' Church, Pyrford

Chapter 3

And that should have been the end of it. But it wasn't; not quite. On the following Tuesday, we were invited to a service of remembrance given by the hospital school in the Chapel at St Peter's. This was moving beyond belief. All the pupils had written their own stories about Michael and they were extraordinary. The service also included two of Michael's poems; one was written when he was still relatively well, in July 2000; the other, when he knew he wasn't going to get better. Graham and I had never seen either before.

"I walked down the path of life,

The storm clouds closed over head,

The fog was getting denser.

When I reached a fork,

To the left was more road,

To the right a shape emerged,

A figure all in black.

It extended a bony hand

And beckoned for me to accompany it.

I felt my body following

But tore myself away

And continued down the left hand path.

As I walked the sun came out,

And all was right again.'

The Autumn Dragons

In the garden lie the tall dragons,

Standing dormant in the deep earth, waiting,

Waiting for the light to shorten and the dark to roll in.

Then the dragons awake from their long sleep,

Flames of reds and golds are fired to earth in curving paths,

Hurling maces at the hard ground which

Split to leave the dragons of tomorrow.

As the carnival of light and colour draws to a close

The dragons lose their majestic gleam.

They rest through the cold and heat

Until their time has come again.'

The children were all very distressed at losing a friend and they took considerably time and trouble to write their own tributes to him. Part of the service involved everyone there - pupils, staff, nurses, doctors, and Graham and I - lighting a candle for Michael, and that seemed a lovely thing to do. Nonetheless, it proved just as hard as the funeral in many ways.

Christmas was coming and we had to acknowledge that, however much we felt like ignoring it. For Christopher it was important to try and establish some kind of normality, and we did. We went through the motions of a tree and some presents and eating goose and all the other things which we had done the previous year, all in blissful ignorance of what was around the corner. As we approached New Year's Eve, we were of the opinion that the best thing to do was to go to bed and ignore it. After all, celebrating the previous year hadn't got us anywhere at all. We thought we would write off the whole year and try to think of January 1^st as a new start.

But Michael had to have the last word. When the postman arrived on December 30^th, he bought yet more of letters of condolence as well as a few late Christmas cards. There was also a white envelope that I opened without much thought.

Dear Mr and Mrs Norton,

It is with a mixture of pride and great sadness that I write to advise you that Michael has won a Child of Achievement Award, which will be presented posthumously.

Our great sadness is that we can only know Michael through the words of praise and endorsement that supporters of his nomination submitted. However, it is so clear from their words the respect and admiration he generated and the inspirational qualities he had.

We are honoured to number Michael as a Child of Achievement Award winner, and very proud of all that he achieved in a life so short, yet so immensely meaningful.'

With kindest regards,

Julie Fisher

Founder

I cannot describe the feelings that went through my head as I read that letter. Pride and pleasure and frustration and sadness, all mixed in together. There was no question that we would accept the award, but we had to consider who would do it. Graham and I both felt quite certain that Michael would have wanted Christopher to do it, but I wasn't sure that he could put him through such a very public ordeal. We talked it over with Charles, the chaplain. Eventually, we showed Christopher the letter and invited him to make the decision. He cried as he read it and then disappeared for a while. When he returned, he said, 'I'll do it.' And that is when I decided to write this book. I sat down at the computer and wrote the introduction in one go. No edits or rethinks. It had to be how I felt it at the time for it to be valid.

So New Year was a very mixed time. Thinking about the previous year, thinking about what lay ahead…….  We went down to Brighton on New Year's Eve, and onto the pier. The boys used to love doing that, feeding money into the arcade machines and eating fish and chips. Christopher looked very alone without his brother, but we felt we had exorcised a small ghost and we had a nice day. When we got home, the phone was ringing. Friends of ours, chorister parents whose son is a friend of Christopher's, were inviting us to New Year's Eve dinner. I wasn't sure; how could I celebrate anything at all? Caroline was gentle but firm. 'You can't sit in your own and be miserable, it isn’t fair to Chris. There's just you two and us and the chaplain, and one other chorister.'

So we went - and we had a lovely evening. Sad, at odd moments, but good. We took a bottle of champagne to open at midnight and, absolutely true to form for this most terrible of years, it was completely and utterly flat.

Chapter Four

Email from me to all our friends, Friday February 9th:

It is with a mixture of extreme pride and huge sorrow that we can tell you that Michael has been awarded a 'Child of Achievement' Award, posthumously. These are 150 awards made annually from over 5000 nominations to children who have achieved conspicuously in their lives in a variety of ways.

The Awards are extremely prestigious in the UK, and the presentation ceremony is attended by the national and local press and television. Initially we had to decide who was going to accept the award on Michael's behalf; we were certain that Michael would have wanted his brother to do it, and Graham and I were thrilled when Christopher agreed. We are under no illusions as to how hard it is going to be for him.

The Awards Ceremony is this Sunday, February 11th, at the Hilton Hotel in London, following a lunch for the award winners and their immediate families.

At the moment we still do not know what Michael's citation actually says. I will write again on Sunday evening and tell you about the ceremony itself; this is just what I believe my North American friends call a 'heads up' so that you can keep an eye and ear on the press and radio - and so you can think of us all, and particularly Christopher, on Sunday on what is going to be a day of very, very mixed emotions.

And, finally, I attach the last picture of the boys I called 'my Pride and my Joy' together. It was taken on October 27th. Five weeks later, Michael would be dead. He was already very vague and forgetful, but so contented and, in a way, at peace with himself. Christopher seems to have the wary look of someone who knows there won't be another photocall. But a special photo for all that.

With love, sadness and oh, so much pride.

Berrie, Graham and Christopher Norton

remembering

Michael Daniel Robert Norton, 17th February 1986 - 1st December 2000
An extraordinary boy.....

Email from me after the ceremony:

Dear Friends,

We now have a Child of Achievement Award sitting on our mantelpiece. It has been a very strange day. We arrived at the Hilton and Christopher was checked in, given a huge badge with 'representative of Michael' emblazoned upon it and a large goody bag to sift through. We will all become very
familiar with the Pokemon CD Rom as a result of that.

We were given the 'Child of Achievement Yearbook 2001' - a large volume with the pictures and stories of each of the award winners. It makes very sobering reading - all of the children in it have been through so very much. I know Michael's response would have been 'But what on earth am I doing here?'

It was incredibly poignant to see his face smiling out from his page in the book, dressed in his cassock and surplice from his days as Head Chorister. Reading about him like that was hard for all of us...... We were seated at tables in the Grand Ballroom, and after lunch the ceremony began. All the winners were called up to the podium individually and I knew Christopher was apprehensive. He asked me what he should say if anyone asked why his brother had won. We decided he would say 'Because he was such a special person' - which was as much as Christopher could say before he began to cry. He was OK by the time he joined the queue of winners, though. Each child walked onto the stage whilst a few words was said about them and they had their pictures taken with John Major and a variety of other celebrities - most of whom I am ashamed to say were unknown to me.....

But when it got to Michael, the compere said,' I am sorry to have to tell you that Michael Norton lost his battle with cancer and has died.' As the audience sighed, the big screens around the room which had been showing close-ups of the winners receiving their awards suddenly were filled with the photograph of Michael. There he was, in the room with us, gently smiling that half-smile which we all remember. The compere began to read the long description of him in the book - all of it. Christopher, waiting at the top of the ramp, simply started to cry and took out tissues from his pocket to try to stem the tears. One of the assistants put her arm round him and asked if he was all right but the compere said '........ and collecting the award on behalf of Michael is his brother Christopher.' And Christopher
straightened up his shoulders and walked out onto the stage. It must have taken considerable courage to smile and shake hands like that. Michael would have been so proud. His Dad and I were.

 

By the end of the afternoon we were all absolutely shattered. The whole day was very special - there was a constant stream of gifts and treats for all the children and the organisation was fantastic. But we were pleased when it was over, nonetheless. We got back to Christopher's school and were really
quite numb; we needed to draw a line under it somehow, and we took champagne and pizza to a friend's house and sat in front of his fire talking over the day, smiling and even laughing a little and trying to remember all the small details, just in case we missed anything. Champagne may seem extravagant, even inappropriate, but if you can't toast something like this, what else is left?

With my last email I sent you a picture of my Pride and my Joy. Well, today it was Michael who brought us great joy but Christopher who gave us reason to be so very proud. And I think that would have brought a smile of huge satisfaction to Michael's face.

I had wondered how I would finish my book about Michael. Ending with a death seems such a sad and downbeat thing. Now I know that the last chapter - if I ever get that far ! - will be positive and, in a way, life-affirming.

Michael isn't here any more, and at this moment, this evening, sitting at this keyboard, this is the most terrible thing that has ever happened to me. But maybe there is a strange serendipity that the very last thing that should happen to him, the absolutely final full stop, is to be labelled 'Child of Achievement'.

As if there was ever any doubt.

Berendina Norton - mother of

Michael Norton, 1986 - 2000
Child of Achievement