On the 18th November 2022, my oft-mentioned Aunt
Marion died. She was ninety-four years old, and had been in declining health
for a while. At the funeral, we met countless other family who, like myself and
Cat, had been raised by our Aunt from an early age.
She is also the only person I’ve ever met, who left strict
sealed instructions to her local parish priest in advance of her own death.
Those instructions were that her funeral was not to be all about her.
You see, if there’s one thing in life Aunt Marion couldn’t
abide, it was eulogy. A mawkish focus on what had been lost only took your eye
off what could be in the future, she said.
And so, while all of these words are written with sadness, I
aim to keep that in mind, and so, if you’ll allow me, here we have:
A CELEBRATION OF MARION COLLINS (1928-2022)
You know, I was surprised when I saw her funeral card, and
it claimed she was ninety-four! Not just because she seemed to have more energy
than all of us, even when chasing Sarah around a garden in her late 80s for an
hour. But also, because she’d told me for decades that wasn’t her age. “You’re
only twenty-one once a year!”
There was a near sixty-year age gap between us. Some of my
earliest memories are of Aunt Marion, trying to reassure me that the Honey
Monster was fictional and not about to escape from the TV to get me. I was
three years old or thereabouts, and the Honey Monster was bloody terrifying. I
remember this even as it became one of Marion’s go to anecdotes of my
childhood. “We were sitting down watching Countdown when you appeared, white as
a ghost, and I thought something terrible had happened, only for you to exclaim
in horror “The Honey Monster!””
Soon after this, I did a drawing for her, signed “I am
three”. Years later, I got it back, signed “I am 80!” It’s in storage.
I was just the latest in an extensive line of people that
Marion looked after though. She looked after her own mum, and then her brother,
and her brothers’ children, and their children. All in the same house since the
1950s.
Aunt Marion was born in 1928. Her father was disabled, the
after-effects of the World War One injuries that shortened his life. She was
the fourth of six children, one of whom died shortly after birth. From an early
age she adored her big brother Richard and was involved in Labour politics from
an early age, following her brother and her dad down the road to meet their
neighbour, the firebrand socialist Jimmy Maxton!
When the Second World War happened, Richard was conscripted,
and, a humanist, refused to join up. So they came to take him away to jail,
this eighteen year old. And as they arrested him, Uncle Richard later told me,
with a joyous grin, of how Aunt Marion railed on the men with fury. “I’m a
conscientious objector too!” said 14-year-old Marion. “You’ll have to take me
too!”
Richard did go to Greenock Jail for six months, until he was
released by way of Maxton writing to folk on his behalf. Marion was so proud of her brother. “We all
were, but the priest spat at him in the street!” She would beam with pride
telling us how Richard had fought to get his mum, and other widowed mums, the
war pensions owed to them, as a result of her dad’s war wounds related death.
She had to tell us, because Richard never thought this was a
big deal, and that anyone would have done it!
And by that time, her wee brother was on the scene. George
Collins, who needs no introduction to some, and to those who do, my
grandfather! Marion looked after him
when he was a baby, and then she was his go to confidante, protector and help
for the rest of his life.
She lived in Barrhead for over ninety years, making friends
as a teenager that she kept for life, some of whom she even helped care for in
their own dementia battles. I remember her on the phone for five minutes to a
confused friend one time, before the call ended and she turned back to me and
Mandy. “She was fiercely independent once, you have to let her keep that
dignity.” I never met that friend of Marion’s, but I knew that, even in the
twilight of their life, they knew that whatever trouble or despair they
suffered, Marion was a phone call away. Just as she was for all of us.
When Sarah was born, I had planned to keep the news quiet
for a day or two to let Mandy recover but had phoned Aunt Marion to let her
know. Within twenty minutes I was getting congratulation texts from cousins, as
my excited Aunt had phoned half her family to let them know!
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(Aunt Marion keeping an eye on some wean, 1986!)
Mandy chose the name Sarah, which is a tribute to so many
ancestors on both our family trees. She had, as a middle name, originally
suggested Jane, until I pointed out the Doctor Who connection. As an option I
suggested Murren, and it fit quickly.
We told Aunt Marion about the name.
Eighteen months later, mid-conversation, Aunt Marion pointed
out that Anne Collins had told her that our Sarah Murren was named after Aunt
Marion. Was this the case?
Of course it was, I told her.
Aunt Marion grew a bit bashful, and said it was very kind of
us, she’d not noticed it before, and she “didn’t think she’d done anything to
deserve the honour”.
Apart from help raise me. Be a surrogate gran to me and Cat
(and also to our cousins Fran, Anne and Patrick, who lost their gran before
they were born too). Help look after my Dad when he lost his mum and keep an
eye on him for 40 years, and the preceding 23 of course. Looking after George, no
matter what foolish thing he did next. (And Marion was the one person George
never wanted to disappoint.) House
various members of her family in her spare room when they needed it. Be the
consistent never-ceasing support to Matthew throughout his addictions and be
cited by him as one of the people who would help him recover.
And that’s just the family. To say nothing of her charity
work in Barrhead and beyond. Or that she rose to be manager of her own Co-op.
She spent her whole life looking after everyone in the
nearest vicinity, well and beyond the call of nature or duty, and never once
thought this unusual or worthy of praise.
She was the best of us. I don’t mean the Collins extended
family. I mean humanity.
Sorry, bit of eulogy crept in there.
When Aunt Marion was a teenager, she worked in Galbraiths,
in Paisley. There, she quickly made friends with another teenager, Georgina
(known to all as Ina) Tonner. They became inseparable friends and introduced
their families.
They even introduced Ina’s baby sister to Marion’s baby
brother.
And that is how my Granny Ella and Granda George met.
A few years ago, Aunt Ina was in her nursing home, fretting
over family and friends she’d lost, only to be corrected on a detail. Marion
Collins wasn’t dead. Ina was delighted, phone calls were made, and soon, these
old friends were reunited ninety-year-olds, chatting away.
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Now if you knew Marion at all, you knew she had two defining
interests. Sports, and her sense of humour.
She was winning trophies for her bowling well into her 70s.
Her living room had a few on display. I remember the one time she took me down
to Cowan Park to play bowls with her. Readers, I didn’t stand a chance, she won
at a canter. She loved her sports. Even with her dementia, the family got her
an indoor bowling set, and she would play her carers at it. She thrashed every
single one of them. And remembered!
She also loved tennis, though by the time I was around she
preferred to watch that on the TV. (Older family remember trying to win a
single game off her on the courts!) She was naturally sympathetic to any
British player, and was especially fond of Andy Murray and Elena Baltacha.
But it was the football she loved. Her knowledge of
football, and specifically Celtic, put the rest of us to shame. “Marion’s one
of the lads” said my godfather Len approvingly. A cousin told us of the day he
took Marion to Parkhead to see Celtic play Manchester United, only for them to
be next to a fan who was, shall we say, distinctly Glaswegian with his insults.
But the main thing, Marion said, was that Celtic won 4-1!
On her ninetieth birthday, she quipped that “Rangers are
second in the league now, sadly, but that’s nothing a few goes on the rosaries
wont fix!”
However, alongside her Celtic fandom, she retained for life
a strong dislike of sectarianism. She had been traumatised by the Ibrox
Disaster, where a family friend had died. And I remember well her sympathies
over former Rangers player Ray Wilkins struggles with personal demons. For her,
humanity came before the rivalry.
But once you had the humanity noted, you could still take
the pish of course!
When Germany went out in the group stages of the 2018 World
Cup, an event they are currently trying to turn into a tradition, I phoned Aunt
Marion, who had been keeping a close eye on the World Cup as usual.
“You’re the only football fan I know who can remember
Germany going out in the first round in 1938!” I told her.
“Yes”, she replied, “but I mostly remember our dog killing
all the rats in the slums that year, not the football!”
Another sadly departed friend, Larry Stewart, once typo’d a
comment and wrote that England should have no problem facing San Marion in a
World Cup qualifier. Of course, I told Aunt Marion about this. “I’m 80 now so I
might only be able to beat them by two!”
Or, again on her sense of humour, how she summed up a nasty
fall she took a decade ago which she bounced back from quickly. “The pavement
gave me a funny look, so I tried to give it a Glasgow kiss!”
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But I want to give you one splendid example of her comic timing. It’s on the day of yet another family funeral. I can’t help it, my family took the “go forth and multiply” bit at the Catholic wedding very seriously.
Granda Bob’s funeral, and me and Dad went to pick up George
and Marion. We’re driving up to Knightswood, the mood is sombre as you’d
expect.
“Any plans for the new year?” asked Dad, as it was the Third
of January.
“At my age?” said Marion. “Resting and no doing much,
probably!”
(Please note that Aunt Marion lived nearly two decades after
that “at my age” remark.)
We were stuck at the traffic lights, and then, a middle-aged
chap in what I can only call the most unflattering tight jogging costume
crossed the road.
And then, with expert timing, Marion quipped: “Might take up
jogging, actually.”
There was a momentary pause, broken by my laughter.
Aunt Marion shot me a quick grin. She’d lightened the mood.
Again.
She’d probably not want me to mention that, when Bob died,
she was the very first person to phone up to check I was OK because “I knew you
were close to your Granda”. Or the time she defended my lack of employment to
other members of the family by citing unemployment figures and comparing available
work to when she was a teen! Or the time she told off Dad, George and Matthew
for monopolising the train set I’d got for Christmas. “Let the wean have his
train!”
Or if you want a tale that combines her sense of humour and
her character, whenever we visited her, even as she approached 90, there would
be a table made up of enough sandwiches for the visiting 5000. I’d have two,
trying not to look like a glutton. And no sooner had I finished those, then I’d
hear the booming voice of my Aunt: “Michael, son, there’s enough martyrs in the
world without you adding to them, go eat!”
I rarely needed dinner after visiting Aunt Marion!
Or the time my daughter… needed me to Dettol Aunt Marion’s
carpet. “Not the first wean to do that in here” said Marion, looking at me.
She must have been thinking of Dad.
She voted in nineteen general elections, and in 2017, she
phoned up, to double check I had voted. She had already been in a taxi and
voted by 8am, you see! Long before she knew of me, she’d known future Scottish
Labour leader Jim Murphy as a wean. We might have teased her about that one a
fair bit.
She was the most pro civil liberties person for her age
group I’d ever met. Massively pro-gay rights. Hated Brexit and those who
focused on a golden earlier age instead of modern problems and victims. “I don’t
think people my age have the right to make political decisions which will effect
younger people for twenty years.” She said. “All those people on the TV banging
on about the good old days never saw their own dad die slowly from something
EASILY treated nowadays.” (Her stress)
And also: “It’s better now. Central heating. Medicine.
Celtic winning. Girls getting themselves nice girlfriends without anyone
batting an eyelid!”
Yes, that comment actually happened. Yes, me and Mandy both
double-taked, and tried to hide it. No, it wasn’t an outlier, as me and Cat
could tell you!
She also had her fan club. Friends, family, and assorted
extras, many of whom only knew her nephew or another family member, who always
asked after her. It got to the point where I’d announce online we were going to
see Aunt Marion, and get messages far and wide to say hello to her. Which I’d
take at face value and pass on all their well wishes. She was bemused but
heartened by it, and always passed on her best to them. Many of her fans came
from a Liverpool in Crisis community, so one day, years ago, on the
Hillsborough Anniversary, she delayed me rushing down to my taxi home so she
could dictate a message of support to my Liverpool supporting fans and make
sure it was sent to them!
And it was in this way that, not content merely with helping
everyone around her, she also managed to touch the lives of people she’d never
even met. To the point where I’ve had condolences from many of them, who had
grown to deeply love the wit and wisdom of Marion Collins over the many years.
And you can see why. It was frankly impossible to know Aunt
Marion and not adore her.
Even as her own health failed, she was still trying to
protect family. Ordering us to stay at home and be safe from covid, for
example.
I said earlier that all of us knew that no matter the
troubles, Marion was a phone call away. In the last two years of her life, that
was no longer possible. None of us wanted to upset her, she was struggling with
the phone by that point, so the twice weekly calls ceased in 2020 during the
first lockdown. Not as far as Marion was concerned though, telling folk a few
months ago that “Michael phones me all the time” and being very happy about it.
And it’s that lack of this pillar of support, which is the
most difficult part. Sorry, Aunt Marion, there had to be a touch of eulogy, you
know, we all miss you so very much. You were the steadfast rock at the heart of
all of your nephews and nieces lives, we can’t help that the loss feels so raw.
And yet, I know someone who always had the right words to
say when we suffered a loss.
When Aunt Sadie died, after a long battle with dementia
which so upset you. “It’s sad when people die, but if they suffered, then it’s
a comfort they’re a peace now.”
And when Uncle Richard died, you focused on his sense of
humour and how his last actions in life were to send you a dirty limerick
birthday card, and complain that they wanted to take his drivers licence away,
solely because his eyesight was fading!
And when we lost Matthew, that wonderful man, yes, we all
suffered, but none of us more than you, because Matthew was your golden boy.
“He’s at peace now. Nothing can hurt him anymore.”
Aunt Marion always knew the best way to sum up things. To be
comforting but also to acknowledge the sadness. The sadness she didn’t expect
anyone to feel for her, because she never once in her life put herself first.
So if I can end in the spirit of Marion Collins, quoting
from her over the years.
It’s always sad when people die. You think you’re going to
be OK, then they come to you when you least expect it and that starts the
sadness all over. People suffer a lot of pain in their lives. They’re at peace
now. No more pain, no more sadness, no more heartbreak. I lived a long healthy life,
and I was very grateful for it. So many nieces and nephews! What a family! Just
try to be the best person you can be, that’s all anyone can ever ask. I always
knew you’d grow up to be special, all of you of course.
Thank you, Aunt Marion, for everything. We love you dearly
and will never forget you. Not if we all live as long and as important a life
as you did.
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