Homan Potterton

Homan’s funeral at Kensal Green Crematorium yesterday was moving.

If you are not familiar with Homan’s life read HP Sauce and The Homan Touch, better still read his books. He was only seventy-four and had plenty more to do but couldn’t conquer cancer. The Service at Kensal Green Crematorium was taken by Penelope Carleton-Smith, a friend from Homan’s student days at Trinity College Dublin. Complying with tier 3 Covid rules (thirty mourners) made it a more intimate farewell for those of us fortunate to attend, heightened by Penelope’s longstanding friendship with Homan and many members of the congregation.

There were apt readings from Scripture, poetry and music; all beautiful and moving most of which you will be familiar with but Sarah Potterton’s reading may be new to you. She is Homan’s niece and read an extract from Rathcormick, A Childhood Recalled. It is a classic.

“On my first day (at the Protestant national school in Trim), Miss Thompson asked me what age I was. ‘I’m four years, three months, and twenty-two days,’ I said. She clutched me to her side while making a noise, familiar like that of a hen on a nest. ‘And whose little boy are you?’ she asked. ‘You’re mine, aren’t you?’

As it was only Mama or Alice who had ever said this to me before, I was nonplussed at Miss Thompson’s impertinence, but in spite of that, as I stood beside her and she hugged me again, I found comfort in her body; it was plump, firm, clean, and, under her woollen dress, snug. I sensed then that Miss Thompson was my new best friend but before that first morning was out I would learn, for the first time in my existence, just how fickle friendship can be.

’Now, we’ll find a desk for you – here’ she said when she came to the second last row, ‘there’s a grand place for you at the back of Infants and Ursula will look after you. Won’t you Ursula?’

Then, noticing Alan and Raymond across the room, she put her hands on her hips. ‘This is the seventh Potterton who has been sent in to me to be taught’.

Everyone turned around and stared at me.

’And I just hope there’s some grey matter in there,’ she said as she poked the crown of my head with her index finger, ‘as none of the others had any. Otherwise, I’ll just have to drum it in, won’t I Ursula?’

‘Yes, Miss Thompson.”

’Now’, said Miss Thompson. She knelt down and with both hands took hold of a little girl in plaits with round, wire-rimmed spectacles, and a metal brace across her front teeth. ‘And who have we here she asked?’

’I’m Patricia Anne Tyrrell, Woodtown Abbott, Kildalkey, County Meath, Ireland, Europe, The World’, said the infant, ‘and I’m going to be five next birthday’.

’Well, Patricia’, said Miss Thompson.

She beamed.

’We have a seat here for you in the front row’.

‘Such brains’, said Miss Thompson for all to hear. ‘All the Tyrrells, every one of them, have such brains.’

Seeing Patricia Tyrrell take her place in the front desk, I realised my status as Miss Thompson’s best friend, and hers as mine, had been short-lived.”