It is a hard thing for parents to bury one of their children, and harder to find words fit for the occasion.
I think the best thing I can do is to outline briefly Rupert’s life and times, as I saw them, from the time of his birth until the last time I saw him, which was two days before he died.
Although he was born in Australia Rupert spent much of his life in these parts, and I don’t suppose he would object to ending up in Croydon cemetery. He went to school at Wallington Grammar and, later bought his own house in Wallington where, incidentally, he created a magnificent Japanese Garden complete with a splendid pool containing ornamental carp. He was thus quite close to our home and was always a positive presence in the fabric of family life yet at the same time maintaining a sturdy independence.
From quite an early age he made it clear that he was going to live his own life in his own way, and was content to live alone and indulge his passion for motor bikes as soon as he was able. No need for gratuitous advice, thank you very much.
He was trained to design and construct jewellery and did so, amongst other things, in the UK, Australia and Japan but he hankered always for a more active and outdoor life. Accordingly, on his return from foreign parts, he enrolled in a course on arboriculture and tree surgery. He passed out with flying colours and set up in business as a tree surgeon.
In this he was very successful; not only was he technically capable but his friendly disposition, well-informed advice and general helpfulness won him a devoted clientele. Few could watch him working in the high trees he loved without admiring his consummate skill and almost balletic agility . Of course, this sort of activity required tip-top physical fitness and at this time of his life he was a superb physical specimen.
It was thus particularly ironic and tragic that he was struck down in his prime by myalgic encephalomyeliitis, or M.E. as it is usually known which made his sort of physical work impossible. This was a bitter blow but he bore it with commendable fortitude. One the less, the prospect of a life of solitary suffering in suburban Surrey was intolerable and he sought a way out. About five years ago he got together with a group of friends and invested his resources in the Archangel Club in Kensington High Street in London. There he could live on the premises with access to a much more vibrant and variously populated milieu. The environment was therapeutic and although he still suffered some pain and exhaustion his general health and well-being apparently improved a great deal.
Alas, it was not to last. In recent months he seems to have had something of a relapse. This must have been a cruel disappointment, and I believe that this together with the prospect of further years of pain and disordered sleep was too much for him to bear.
A part of Rupert’s independence was a streak of stubbornness. He could be a very stubborn person. At the moment of his birth he stubbornly refused for a short time to start breathing. Rupert would decide when he would start breathing and, now, Rupert decided when he would stop. What exactly drove him to this decision we cannot know; was it a random impulse or a more considered response? For my part, I’m convinced that if it were not for M.E. he would still be alive.
Whatever the truth of the matter may be, nothing will diminish our pride in our son, Rupert, or our gratitude for the many happy memories he has bequeathed us.
That is more or less all I have to say now. Of course, there was much more to Rupert than this short account. I have not touched on the social skills that allowed him to mix freely with all strata of society, or on his impish sense of humour and extraordinary capacity for friendship and the fun and games he provided for his nephews. There are many people here and elsewhere whose spirits have been lifted by the sound of a motorbike heralding his arrival. Such attributes are best recalled by contemporaries of his own generation and to that end I give the floor to Rupert’s sister, my daughter Georgina and to his younger brother, Adam.
I have known Rupert all his life (although looking at his website there is quite a lot I didn’t know, but that’s as it should be.) My angelic little brother was my constant companion in our early years, until Mr Mussolini, the pyromaniac and consummate liar turned up. He wasn’t quite so angelic as a teenager but turned into the most magnificent, beautiful, super cool hunk of a man. He was an artist, motorbike fanatic, jeweller, tree surgeon, connoisseur of Sushi & Dim sum, beloved uncle, cat lover and so many other things. I am so proud of him.
He inherited his love of weaponry, mechanics, gardening, art, working with wood and silver from our parents (along with his stripy jumpers) and was so very similar to our maternal grandfather; wicked, patient, seemingly oblivious to, or unconcerned with, the traumas of life, mischievous and a wry observer of life. He loved life and life loved him. But this hero of a man, withered and gradually withdrawing faded to a pale shadow of his previous glorious self.
He never told of us of his pain & suffering, he never burdened us, moaned or winged, he kept that from us and saved what energy he had to give us those fabulous grins (rather than grimaces) so that we could continue to glimpse the old Roo that we assumed we’d have for ever. But when there was nothing left of that life, nor little of the man, and with only constant pain as a companion, he made his choice, with the same resolute bravery that he approached life. I respect that choice as I do all the choices he made in his life. He could have died in so many different ways, so many times over, racing around on his bikes, scaling & felling some enormous tree but no. No, he was too fastidious and competent to let himself die doing the things he loved.
In the end he chose his route and mode of escape, without bothering or inconveniencing anybody, like a true cat slinking off to a quiet corner, away from it all. How brave he was and how uncompromisingly true, it was his choice and no one could have changed that. We all knew what a stubborn bugger he was.
He discarded his poor, tired, yet still beautiful, body and settled his spirit instead in our hearts where it will rest forever.
Rupert was a rare man; true unto himself, unpretentious, non judgmental, never pompous. He never bothered to ingratiate himself with others he was just spontaneously, irresistibly charming. He never demanded or sought praise, there was no greed or avarice (except perhaps when it came to ‘Cheesy Wotsits’) and each gesture, quiet and kind, was cherished by those who noticed. He was a true gent, like his grandfather, charming and considerate, but equally wicked and impish, life was a laugh and we were usually the butt (of his jokes). He was the only person who could cut me down to size, cut through the bullshit, in one fell, but gentle, swoop.
Looking back, I suppose he was close to spiritual perfection when he was born (and Daddy…. he did breathe when he was born, Mummy told me, he just wouldn’t cry) and I think narrowly missed out on being a cat. That often sly but not unkind, knowing smile betrayed a soul that could watch over the world and snigger at its folly, without condescension, like a Cheshire cat, detached but strangely not aloof, just full of playful love.
The greatest sadness is to know that I’ll never hear his voice again; screeching ‘Georgina’ (same as the opening line of Greenaway’s ‘The cook, the thief, his wife and her lover’) down the phone, which instantly elicits a helpless giggle from me or feel the unadulterated excitement, shared by my boys, on hearing that incredible roar of his distant motor bike coming up the hill and squealing,; ‘Ruppee’s here!!’ And never be able to jump on him and hug him as he tries to take his helmet off as he walks in through the front door.
The boys will no longer have to endure endless hours of torture and craziness from their wicked uncle Roo.
So my darling Roo, you reap what you sow and the love that you’ve planted in so many people’s hearts throughout your life, all over the world, lives on and grows. The out pouring of that love is overwhelming and such comfort for us right now, but it will settle back and rest deep inside those of us who have known and loved you. And whenever we fall silent we will find your restful, charming, impish presence and know that we are not alone.
Rupert was the best brother I could have asked for but he was not only a brother to me and Georgina, he was a brother to many of you here today.
He looked after us, protected us, fought with us, for us and sometimes against us if the situation called for it. He was someone who we looked up to and admired, turned to in times of need and he was always there to help us….but he rarely asked for our help.He was not ashamed or afraid to tell it like it was, even if we did not want to hear, he enjoyed teasing us and we, upon reflection, enjoyed it too. He taught us , yet let us learn, he strengthened us with his presence and our world was comforted by the knowledge that he was not far away. Whatever he did, he did it well, riding bikes, climbing trees, creating wonders, breaking hearts, making us laugh and making us cry.
He was an eccentric, individual, exceptional man with great integrity and honour, above all he was always so stubborn. He did things his way, the difficult, different way, the way he wanted, right to the end. I do not know many people who could sway him from a course of action he had set out on : he nailed, screwed, glued and tied his colours to the mast and kept doggedly to his course, regardless and resolute.
I have spent and will forever spend so much time thinking “Rupert would like this” or “Rupert should see this” or usually “If only Rupert were here, he would love it”.
A man is not judged by his words but by his actions , all of us here will remember his actions and the way they have affected and shaped our lives, I will always be a lesser man than he but I am proud to have even come close to him.
Rupert had been ill, suffering from M.E. for many years but he never complained or really mentioned his pain.
Although Rupert was a handsome, fit and strong man , that was not him , his body was just an instrument for his use, he used it hard and he used it well, now it is gone. Rupert’s mind was quick, keen, naughty and witty, but, that was not him , it was a tool for his use which he kept sharp and used with great skill, now that has also gone. His heart was deep and wide and generous, but, that was not him , it was a vessel from which to pour his love for us all, this too has now gone.
What Rupert was and what remains with us, is his spirit, his essence, his joi de vivre, his verve, his brio, bravado , his daring do, that twinkle behind his eye, that cheek behind his grin. That is what he was, is and will always be and we will never, ever, forget him. Farewell Rupert, we love you. X X X