While minister of St Michael's Church in Edinburgh I was often called upon to take a parish funeral. This was a service for a person from the parish who had lived there and had died. The service was usually well attended by family and friedns and often some of the family would drift in to church for a ‘taster’, especially around Christmas. Also there was still the pauper’s funeral, a funeral for whom there was no relative who could pay. The undertakers agreed to an annual rota so that nobody went to the ‘crem’ alone. The costs were met by the undertaker concerned. One car and one floral tribute were paid for. The minister was NEVER paid. It was part of the job description!
One day I had a phone call from a Funeral Director. ‘A man has died in your parish. But nobody knows him.’ This particular man was ‘invisible.’ He had lived in a tenement flat in what was described in the 1982 census as one of the 4 areas of poverty in the city. The other 3 areas being the ‘sink’ estates on the outskirts of town. He was unknown by anyone in the stair and had been reported to the police by a concerned shopkeeper, a genial Muslim who knew everyone and cared for them in a pastoral way. The Invisible Man came in daily for a newspaper and twice weekly for food and household supplies. He was shy and would not talk beyond the bare civilities. Nobody knew about autism in those days. Children must have had a rough time at school. After one day when he did not turn up, it was the shopkeeper who asked others about him. But he appeared to be unknown. He was ‘invisible’. After 2 or 3 days the shopkeeper phoned the police.
A forced entry was made and the man who lived there was found to be dead. ‘Was the place a complete tip?’ I asked nervously. ‘No,’ said the undertaker. ‘It was shiningly clean. But it was in a time warp. It looked as it would have looked when he was brought up there as a boy. The taps were brass, as were the door knobs, polished to the soft sheen that comes from weekly if not daily cleaning. There was a hand knitted rag rug in front of the sink. It was immaculate. But in a time warp. It looked as it would have been when his family first moved in, possibly when that block was first built in the 1890s or so.
‘But there must be some clue there. He had money… a pension… a name?’
‘Oh yes, there is a name and we now know that he worked as a demonstrator in the Physics Department at the University. Mrs Forrester, could you bring one or two elders with you? It doesn’t seem right that anyone should be alone like this.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ I said. Privately I knew I had an unexpected card up my sleeve. I had a cousin living in Edinburgh, retired now, who had been Reader in the Physics Department. Dr Alastair Rae. I phoned him up. Immediately he recognised my Invisible Man. ‘He was an amazing demonstrator! If I wanted an intricate experiment set up I always would ask him. He was a perfectionist. Nothing was too difficult for him and he would spend long hours getting it just right. How sad that he died alone.’
‘Alastair… could you come to the funeral? Please?’
But Alastair was far away. ‘I remember now, some of the students behaved badly. Hooligans. They teased him and made fun of him. I used to get there early to stop their silly carry-on…’
‘So you will come? Please?’
‘Leave it with me… I shall come but…. Maybe some others....’
Two of my splendid elders turned up as requested, fine singers both of them. But there were others there; eight former professors of the University of Edinburgh and some present staff, including as I afterwards discovered, Professor Peter Higgs, Nobel Laureate. We gave the Invisible Man a good send off, remembering his efficiency, his hard work, his agonising shyness and the respect in which he was held.