The Grave of Ants Heenan
Big Mags looked at her son and shook her head,
‘naw, son. I know yer da loved the Celtic but I’m not having a flag oan his
coffin and I’m not having any fitbaw songs in the church. Ye know my side of
the family kick wi the other foot. I’m no having a repeat of Charlene’s wedding
at a bloody funeral.’ Tony Heenan
cringed at the thought of what occurred at the wedding of his cousin Charlene.
It took place on the same day as a Celtic-Rangers match and the hall was pretty
much split between the two families who shared opposing views on who was the
best team in Glasgow. Folk held their peace until the drink kicked in and Tony
had started singing, ‘Jota on the wing.’ The ensuing brawl saw the bride in
tears, the groom arrested and the cake flattened by two obese men who seemed to
think they were sumo wrestlers. It was not a pleasant memory.
Tony Heenan looked at his mother imploringly, ‘but
ma, ye heard him in the hospital. He wants you’ll never walk along played in
the church.’ The family matriarch shook her head, ‘son, he wis aff his head on
morphine and havering. Nae fitbaw stuff and that’s that!’ Tony shook his head, ‘can I not just stick a
wee mention on the front of his gravestone saying he was a big Celtic man?’ She
gave him a stern look, ‘son, yer uncle Hector is a high heed yin in the ludge,
I don’t want any feathers ruffled at this funeral. Yer da left a few quid and
you’ve got a good whack coming if ye behave. Ye understand me?’ Tony sighed, ‘aye,
okay ma.’ She looked into his eyes, ‘Tony! Promise me you won’t put anything
about Celtic oan the front of ye da’s gravestone. If ye dae ye won’t get a
penny.’ Tony exhaled, ‘right ye are, maw.’
Two days later, Tony Heenan shook hands with
various relatives as they entered St Margaret’s for the funeral. His uncle
Hector, wearing a dark suit that made him look like an unemployed undertaker,
offered him a limp, cold handshake. ‘Me and my boys will wait outside. You know
our beliefs about the Catholic church.’ Tony shook his hand, ‘aye, nae bother,
Hector.’ As he climbed the steps into the church, he muttered to himself, ‘Ye
knew my da for fifty years and you won’t come intae his funeral service? Prick!’
He sat beside his mother who whispered to him, ‘nae problems wi Hector?’ Tony
shook his head, ‘naw, he’ll see us outside when it’s over.’ As the service
began, Tony looked at the picture of his smiling father which had been placed
on his coffin. He was suntanned, smiling and younger. ‘Seville,’ he smiled to
himself. ‘We had some party there.’
The service had all the elements his old man would
have wanted. The old hymns were belted out; Hail Queen of Heaven, on eagle’s
wings and his old fella’s favourite, do not be afraid.’ Tony was holding it
together until the end of the service when the cantor started to sing the final
psalm.
‘May Christ who called you take you to himself,
May angels lead you to Abraham’s side.’
It seemed so final, like the last farewell. It
really hit him then that his old man was gone and he’d never see him again.
Never go to Celtic Park with him again and hear him shouting encouragement to
his team. Tears cascaded down his face as he sang the response…
Receive his soul, receive his soul
and present him to God the most high.
Receive his soul, receive his soul
and present him to God the most high.
The cemetery was surprisingly bright and
springlike as they laid Anthony Heenan to rest. A good crowd of mourners
gathered around the graveside to support the family. The priest spoke of ‘Ants’
Heenan as a well-known character in the community who loved his family and his
football. There would be time to share stories of him when they got back to the
church hall for the funeral lunch. For now, it was formal and Tony thought,
quite fitting. A good send off for a good guy.
It was a month after the funeral, when the
ground had settled, that the gravestone was finally put in place. Tony had
spoken to the sculptor, who had known his dad from the local Celtic supporters’
bus. He gave him all the details required for the face of the gravestone and
joked, ‘my ma has banned any mention of fitbaw on the front of the gravestone.
A pity but I guess we need to honour her wishes.’ The grey-haired sculptor had
nodded, ‘aye, yer old man loved the Celtic alright but I guess we need to do
what yer mother wants.’ Tony met his gaze, ‘aye, we’ll do what she wants.’ The
older man looked at him, the puzzled look on his face.
Tony had told his mother that the gravestone
was in place and her wishes had been respected. She looked at him through narrowed
eyes, ‘he never left a will but he told me what he wanted you tae get. Anything
daft on that gravestone and you can whistle for it till I pop ma clogs!’ Tony
nodded, ‘I telt ye ma, nothing fitbaw related will be oan the face of the
gravestone. Just the basic details of my da, like ye asked.’ She looked at him
suspiciously, ‘I’m coming wi ye tae the graveyard. I want tae see for myself.’
Tony and Mags Heenan stood by the grave of
Ants Heenan as a slow drizzle dripped from a leaden sky. She nodded as she read
the gold embossed letters on the front of the gravestone. ‘Anthony John Heenan
1957-2024. Beloved Husband, Father and Grandfather.’ ‘Aye, that’s good, son. Ye were as good as
your word.’ A robin landed on top of the gravestone as they watched. Tony
smiled slightly, remembering stories from his childhood linking robins to
angels. His mother broke into his thoughts, ‘I’ll head back tae the car son, if
you want to say a wee prayer. I’ll see you there.’
Tony stood by his father’s grave and spoke quietly to him. ‘I thought it best not to annoy her, da. So, I put the words on your stone she wanted. I’m going tae miss going tae Celtic Park wi you, but wee Aidan is showing an interest now so I’ll bring him up the right way.’ He walked a few steps behind his father’s gravestone and looked at the reverse side of it. On it were carved four words which seemed very fitting. ‘I told her, nothing on the front, but I never promised there’d be nothing on the back. Hopefully she won’t notice.’
He smiled a bitter-sweet smile, a tear forming in
his eye, ‘see ye in better place da. Hail Hail.’
