We can probably all hear mum saying, “Please Nikki don't make a fuss, everyone has come a long way, they will need to get back on the road, it's Friday, the traffic will be terrible. Do though please make sure that everyone has a cup of tea and a sandwich and that they know where the loo is before they set off.”


It’s true that Mum was always thinking of everyone else's needs. At family gatherings she knew instinctively where to help and was often found at the kitchen sink, (we call it Penny’s corner) tidying up, chopping carrots and making herself useful. Or, with focussed attention, she would play with the grandchildren for hours and hours.


When we were young we thought our mother was so incredibly beautiful. I remember evenings when we waited patiently downstairs with the babysitter as she transformed herself in minutes for a Mess dinner party and then would float down the stairs - like a Princess.


Aunty Di recently wrote to me about the time she first met Mum at 17 and how she was bowled over by her natural beauty and her lack of vanity. It was a struggle to get Mum to buy any clothes or make up. Dad tried once by buying her a bright pink woollen trouser suit, that went straight back to the shop. There was nothing extravagant or ostentatious about Mum. She had a white make up bag for years with the same mascara and lipstick that seemed to come from the 1960s!


Mum adored being an army wife. She loved the postings, made many friends, drank sherry with her best friend Heather Kearon, at 2 in the afternoon, as the Kearon and Elkins children put on shows for them.There was never a dull moment. 


I know her only sadness about army life was putting us on planes to go back to boarding school. Sometimes we had to make our way to the Quebec airplane in a blizzard, gripping onto the guide-rope as we struggled forward. Peter recalls one particularly hazardous snow storm when Mum was so concerned that she ran up the steps and took him off the plane.


When we moved to Australia she had three children under four years old. Dad was already in Australia so Mum left on a plane with three of us little ones in tow. Can you imagine being just 24 years old on a 24 hour flight with a baby and two toddlers?


But even when it was overwhelming, family was everything to Mum.


I remember a time when I got myself into one of my many scrapes. I was living in a student house in Exeter that everyone had left except me. The front door was broken, so for security I was sleeping in the bathroom. One morning I heard the Hoover downstairs and I found mum cleaning the house, having driven down from Woolwich in the early hours. She then filled up my fridge, took me out for a burger, told me she would have got herself into a similar pickle my age and that everything would work out. Then she drove five hours home.


Mum never felt comfortable having deep conversations with us, not because she was unemotional, but because she felt things so very deeply.


In the weeks before she died, I said to Mum that I wanted her to know that I thought she had been incredibly brave facing such a shocking diagnosis. She said that she had difficult moments in the early hours, but that she was like her mother - practical - and got on with things.


I will miss the sound of her giggle more than anything. She was strict about manners when we were younger, and toed the line like Dad, but she had a rebellious, cheeky side that would slip out so sweetly in such a deliciously light-hearted way. I remember her joining in as we tried juggling eggs in the kitchen in Koblenz, with the inevitable messy results.


The fact that since she got a mobile phone she always signed off her text messages with ‘LOL’, thinking that it meant ‘lots of love’ not ‘laugh out loud’ is perhaps apt. She always thought that laughter was the best medicine.


It was the simple things that made Mum the most happy. We always felt that being in nature was where she would feel the most peaceful.


I remember one night in Anglesey when she sought that peace with us. Dad was away on exercise and no doubt we were all playing up. She bundled us into the car and took us to Rhosneigr beach. Underneath the stars we played in the sand and the rock pools, never questioning why we were out there in our pyjamas so late. I can picture her now, walking up and down that beach, a young beautiful woman, perhaps feeling freer on the sand, maybe contemplating hopes and dreams that had been put aside as she nurtured and built a family life with Dad.


I often wonder what Mum would have been drawn to, if given the time and opportunity? I was curious that in the last few months she really wanted to paint and play the piano. Last week I found a collection of her paintings which moved me as they are painted with such a delicate touch and joy of colour.


Mum was so very human and was therefore able to understand difficult emotions in us too with great empathy. She would feel every ounce of our pain, from broken boilers to broken relationships. I remember friends saying, ‘I feel I can really be myself with your mum’.


When we were younger there would be the inevitable teenage family clashes, but we always knew the next day Mum would turn the page. She never held grudges, accepted lightly any family turbulence and we’d all move onwards and upwards with a love that held us together more than any discord.


Mum always wanted to be useful. In Dortmund she worked in a special needs school. In Woolwich she had a position in the military library and I once spotted her working behind the counter in Boots. Recently I’ve found letters from the schools and charities she volunteered in all over the world, all saying the same thing - how wonderful Mum was with the children and how they missed her.


Recently mum had been working as a volunteer at Winton House - a charity providing support to those in need - and reading with children in local primary schools. The pandemic has been incredibly hard for Mum as it stopped her from feeling useful.


For many years mum dreamed of being a paediatric nurse. The other day I found her university certificate for her nursing diploma. It took a lot of determination, courage and hard work to qualify later in life. When she did she put her heart and soul into her job and worked for many years at Hemel Hempstead Hospital.


As we were older when Mum qualified, she insisted working every Christmas Day, so the young nurses could be with their little children at home.


Mum’s grand-mothering was extremely dedicated. She committed herself to looking after Immy a day a week whilst Diana worked. A familiar face at the school gates, Mum would pootle up the A3 - rain or shine - pick up Immy, make her tea and chat away with her, or read and play a game. As Immy grew older they settled into peaceful companionship in those hours before Diana got home, returning to a tidy house, a happy child, and a delicious meal. Quietly helping, as always.


After Dad died Mum was determined to keep up her trips to Chicago to see Julia, Pat, Michael, Jimmy and Luke. She would write round robins regularly reflecting on every detail of her grandchildren’s life in Forest Row, Chicago and Twickenham. Recently she said to me when you sell the house I don’t mind what you get rid of, but make sure you keep all the children’s art work.


I remember taking Rosie and her friend Jess down for a weekend at Mum's. She allowed them to take over the living room as they used paper, cardboard, glue, paint - you name it - to create a HUGE model house. We managed to fit most of the rooms in the back of our car to go home, but the garage and stables didn't fit. The girls were so disappointed, so mum said she’d follow us home with the rest of the property - a three hour round trip after a long weekend!


I think Mum’s need to engage and be with family and friends was also because she was so very lonely after dad died. Mum was only in her sixties and they had moved here to Longparish to start a new life together, full of hope for their retirement and family times ahead. 


She had known and loved Dad since she was 16. He was her north star, her safe haven, her home. Losing him turned her world upside down. Her pain was summed up in a poem I found recently that Mum had written out after his death:


Who told me time would ease me of my pain!   
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;   
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,   
There are a hundred places where I fear   
To go,—so with his memory they brim.   
And entering with relief some quiet place   
Where never fell his foot or shone his face   
I say, “There is no memory of him here!”   
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.


The way she picked herself up and carried on showed huge strength and courage. In this she was supported by her dear sister Philippa when they both lived in Winchester.


And then she had the fortune to meet Andy, who had worked with Dad in the REME and got on with him very well. Andy helped Mum find happiness again, and for over 10 years she has built a deep and special relationship with him. We feel so happy and comforted that she had many wonderful times with him, sailing in his boat Lucy, listening to music, watching rugby, fishing, walking, and her favourite Sunday morning ritual of kippers and the papers. 


Andy and Mum shared a love of nature, just as she did with Dad. Only recently Andy said that they had walked along the Beaulieu River and the mist had sat just above the water. He said Mum's face was full of wonder at this beautiful sight. Her favourite thing to do was to go to Thorny Island with Andy and visit the church, where they would light a candle for Dad and say a prayer.


These past couple of weeks we've been so grateful and moved by Andy’s support, despite how sad and shocked he has been. Andy cared for Mum in her last days with such sensitivity, gentleness and kindness, reading The Snow Goose and singing to her - sharing our grief. We will never forget his presence at Mum’s bedside and the comfort it bought us too.


Mum had planned to move up to Twickenham next year, visiting and keeping in touch with Andy, but moving close. Forever practical she felt it was sensible to be nearer us as she got older. She was going to join my choir, volunteer in the schools, and be with the grandchildren. Sadly this was not to be.


In Mum’s last week in hospital, when everything was stripped away, the room felt full of love. When she became so seriously unwell, she was no longer able to brush away our attention. Love came flooding out. It was at once overwhelming, beautiful, and pure – we were in awe of this strong woman who we are proud to call our mother.


Diana and I remarked on it at the time. It was as if Mum was sharing and receiving love in her last week as a culmination of what she was essentially all about, yet sometimes found hard to express.


In the last few months, Mum’s love of us meant that she didn’t tell us about her diagnosis at first and so faced gruelling treatments without our support - determined to protect her family. She wanted to give her treatment a go before telling us. This meant she was alone in the hospital on and off for weeks, facing emotional and physical pain on her own. I think this was Mum’s stubbornness, but was also brave beyond words. 


When Dad died Mum was asked if she wanted to reserve the plot next to his grave. She quickly said “no thank you” with a look that said to us that she wasn’t planning on going anytime soon. But we know now that she was just protecting us, because the next morning she had phoned the funeral directors to quietly reserve the plot - she knew that one day she wanted to return here to be back with Dad.


I think Mum would feel quietly happy, and very grateful, that you have all come here to remember her today, and that these memories - and your precious ones too - will be talked about and treasured. Memories that will ripple down the generations, through her friends and family, with her beauty and kindness at the heart of them all.


So Mum this is all for you. And it’s not fuss - it’s love…