Eleanor Rigby: An Obituary

ST. JOSEPH’S REST HOME NEWSLETTER

ELEANOR RIGBY:  AN OBITUARY

Father Michael McKenzie

  Eleanor Rigby (Lennon & McCartney)

Eleanor Rigby, picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been. Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for?
All the lonely people where do they all come from?
All the lonely people where do they all belong?

Father McKenzie, writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear, No one comes near

Look at him working, darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there. What does he care? All the lonely people.......

Eleanor Rigby, died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came
Father McKenzie, wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave, No one was saved, all the lonely people......

My friend and former housekeeper, Eleanor Rigby (b. January 28^th 1944 – d. January 26^th 2016), who has died two days before her 72^nd birthday was a quietly inspiring woman who spent her life working in the background serving others. Unassuming, but with a gentle and infectious sense of humour, she was little noticed by those she served but her quiet determination and kindness ensured that she touched and enriched the lives of many. Asking little of life, she never sought recognition or fortune but simply made the world a better place.

I first met Eleanor in 1949 whilst training for the priesthood here at St Joseph’s. Eleanor was, at the time, five years old and living with her mother who was housekeeper at the presbytery. Their home had been bombed in 1944 when Eleanor was only a few weeks old and the church had provided emergency accommodation in the presbytery for the mother and baby. When her father, John Rigby, who Eleanor never met, died in the Normandy landings in June 1944 the family were left homeless. Eleanor’s mother (also Eleanor) was offered the post of housekeeper – cleaning, cooking and washing for the Priest in charge and the three young priests who lived in the presbytery. Little did I know when I left St Joseph’s at the end of my training that our paths would cross again, but in 1959, on the death of Father O’Connell, I was appointed Priest in charge at St Joseph’s.

When I took up my post Eleanor had just left school and spent much of her time nursing her ailing mother until she finally passed away in 1965. While other teenage girls enjoyed the swinging 60s she was caring for her mother or attending to us priests and I have often reflected on life’s cruelties; Liverpool in those days seemed capital of the world but the swinging 60s passed Eleanor by. We priests had chosen a life of service; she had no such choice, it was her lot in life – although she never viewed it that way. On her mother’s death Eleanor, with no family, asked if she could take over her mother’s work. I had no hesitation in agreeing. It was the best decision that I ever made.

Like her mother Eleanor took a huge pride in her work. Nothing was too much trouble; cleaning, mending, washing, ironing and cooking were all done with gusto and love. She believed profoundly in the maxim “cleanliness is next to godliness” – many’s the time she would gently chide me for some small misdemeanour in my dress or shake her head, in resignation and say “No, no, no  Father, you can’t go out like that – let me sort you out”. Gradually she spread her efforts into the church, although the church itself was not part of her remit – nothing gave her greater pleasure than to polish the altar table, dust the pews or ensure that the notice board was up to date and looking cared for. She would spring clean the vestry at the drop of a hat and nothing missed her eye. Hymn books were always repaired, stored neatly, candlesticks brightly polished, the Communion wine always topped up, cassocks cleaned and repaired and faded flowers quickly removed and replaced. I was proud of my Church – and increasingly grateful for, and dependent upon, Eleanor.

In her personal life Eleanor was the same; always smart and well turned out, even when cleaning, polishing or cooking. It was an essential part of her being.“You never know when you are going to meet your maker” was a favourite saying – and one she had inherited from her mother. Never once, in all the years I knew her, did she leave her little flat under the presbytery eaves without first checking her appearance in the mirror by the door and, most important for her, making sure that her make-up was intact. “After all” she would mischievously smile “I don’t want to give the good St Peter a fright when I arrive at the Pearly Gates do I? That would never do, now would it Father!”

Eleanor was a quiet stalwart of our church – indeed, in many ways its heartbeat and its strength. Every Mass, wedding, christening or funeral bore her mark – the church gleamed and she was an unseen, unknown yet vital ever present. At every wedding she would be there before the ceremony checking that all was well, and as it should be but as the guests arrived she would quietly disappear. Often, after the ceremony, I would catch her face gazing wistfully from her bedroom window onto the presbytery lawn as the guests gathered for photographs. At christenings, as the proud parents showed off their new baby I would see her face smiling benignly, almost longingly, at the family group. But when everyone had departed, as if by magic, the confetti and rice would disappear, the font emptied of Holy Water and all would be as before. When trainee priests lived at the presbytery she was a second mother; variously spoiling and chiding them as her mother had done to me all those years before - and as any good mother would do.  I once asked if she missed not having a family of her own but with typical stoicism she replied “Lord, Father, what a question! I suppose once I hoped that I’d meet someone, I’d have loved children of my own you know but it wasn’t to be. No point dwelling on what we can’t change now is there Father? And anyway, look at me, I’m so lucky with all the weddings and brides and grooms and then their children I’ve got my own big family haven’t I.” And it was true; they might not have realised it but Eleanor had indeed been a part of their lives – she made the important days of their family life successful and special. Weddings, christenings, funerals – all made days to remember and cherish. With these and with the motherly care she lavished upon me and my young priests St Joseph’s was indeed her family.

But by 1990s the area  was being cleared as part of the city’s slum clearance programme. Families were moved away and re-housed on new estates and our congregation dwindled. It was not uncommon for me to lead a Mass where only a very few were present so it came as no surprise, when I learned that St Joseph’s would close and re-open, refurbished as a multi-faith community centre serving the 21^st century needs of a regenerated multi-ethnic district. It was time for me to go so in 1999 I took retirement and was offered a flat here in St Joseph’s Rest Home For Retired Clergy. I requested a place for Eleanor, too, and this was granted – her flat being just along the corridor from mine – until, that is, she passed away two days before her birthday.

Our retirement years were good years. Eleanor, ever busy, cleaned, shopped and increasingly cared for me as my arthritis worsened. These weeks since her passing have been lonely. I miss the evenings when we listened to the radio – me reading my newspaper or re-reading old sermons, Eleanor busying herself with some little job before making us both a drink. Then at 9 o’clock on the dot she would announce “I’m away to my bed Father – my beauty sleep you know!” So now, I’m learning to attend to my own needs – but I often feel her presence as I iron a shirt or darn a sock: “No, no, Father that won’t do” she whispers “You can’t go out looking like that”- and I smile and perhaps shed a tear; like the good shepherd, she is still watching and caring for me.

It was perhaps not inappropriate that Eleanor passed away suddenly whilst doing what she loved best - helping with the cleaning in the little chapel here at the rest home. She had volunteered for this on becoming a resident. I took charge of her funeral and it was indeed a privilege to lead her service. It was sad that after a life of quietly serving the community and the church that the congregation comprised of just a few officials from the home and the undertakers but perhaps that is how she would have wanted it – no pomp or ceremony, just a quiet and dignified. That was, I think, what Eleanor would have wished – to be remembered as  quiet, and dignified.

Just before her funeral I made a last visit to her flat. By the door was her little tray with her jars of make- up, comb, brush and so on. I bundled them up to take to the undertaker – “After all, Father” I seemed to hear her whisper, “you can’t have me arriving in heaven frightening the angels or not looking my best when I meet my maker. That would never do, now would it?” From the day I first met her as a child Eleanor always called me ‘Father’ – never once did she call me Michael. Perhaps that was her natural reserve but, standing by her grave reflecting upon this woman who had been so much part of my life, I did wonder if, to Eleanor, I had indeed become the father that she never knew. I’d like to think so. I would have been proud to call her my daughter.

Tony Beale: 2016