Joe and Mrs Jones

of his daughters.

So, what’s the story?

My dad’s three brothers lived together in the centre of Redcar. The two eldest, Joe and Reg, had never married. Ernie, the youngest, was a widower. Joe, as well as being my uncle, was also my godfather. My earliest memories of Joe were of him pushing around a little old lady in a wheelchair, his friend Mrs Elizabeth Jones (1884 -1973).

Mam and dad told me that the Joneses and dad’s family, the Herringtons, lived a few doors away from each other in Scott Street, Redcar, when the families were growing up. When he was a young man Joe used to take Mrs Jones out dancing, encouraged by her husband, Morgan. My parents were not entirely sure about the relationship, what exactly it was, although my dad said his mother did not approve.

Mrs Jones outlived Morgan, but died aged 88, six years before Joe, now retired from his job as an overhead crane driver at the steelworks. He had taken on the role of housekeeper and looked after his two brothers who had also retired, Ernie from his labouring job with the electricity board, and Reg from his employment as a grave digger for Redcar Council. (My dad often remarked, ‘when Reg puts them down, they stay down’.)

By the late 70s Reg had died, survived by Joe and Ernie. My parents had moved to Northallerton so I was the only local relative the brothers had. In 1979 Joe developed cancer. Ernie wasn’t well either, so I helped them as best I could. I remember going round on one particular day. Joe was propped up in a downstairs bed and was quite poorly. I made him some scrambled egg, having ignored his request for cow heel.

While he ate, he told me he wanted me to fetch him the documents that related to his burial. Like most of my family’s important papers these were crammed into an old handbag that once belonged to my mother. I went upstairs, found what he wanted, came back down and gave them to him. Pushing the remainder of his scrambled eggs to one side, Joe said very

Seriously: ‘I want to be buried on top of Mrs Jones. It’s all in here’ pointing to the papers I had just given him. I was temporarily speechless, but recovered sufficiently to assure him it would be done.

Joe died a few weeks later. I passed the paperwork on to the undertaker thinking he would sort out the legalities. But then the cemetery staff phoned me. As next of kin I’d given permission for Joe’s coffin to be buried in Mrs Jones’ grave, but they needed the consent of her next of kin in order to open up the grave. This was Evelyn, married to a preacher named Walter and living on the Shetland Isles. Joe had thankfully kept in touch with all the family, so Evelyn, at home in Lerwick, was phoned by the cemetery supervisor or whoever needed the authority to open up Mrs Jones‘ plot. “Yes, that’s fine’ said Evelyn, ‘Joey is to be buried on top of our mam.”

And so, the deed was done. I wonder at what point Mrs Jones decided she wanted a separate grave and headstone from her husband. Money had been paid for Joe’s name to go on her headstone. By her? By Joe? Or both? And what, exactly, was the relationship between Joe and Mrs Jones? We’ll never know. I like to think of them as the sort of pals who watch telly together, a Gogglebox couple. Actually, the clue is on the headstone. Joe was, above all, a ‘dear friend’.