Freddie Mercury (42 page)

Some two weeks previously, when Freddie had made ‘the decision’, I had broached the subject of how we would remove Freddie from the besieged house with my father who, coincidentally, was and is the general manager of the funeral directors John Nodes. We had
therefore already laid plans to replace the usual fibre-glass coffin-shaped container with a proper coffin in case the press somehow managed to get photographs of his leaving. After I’d arranged the midnight departure, I think it was Terry Giddings who informed the local police of what had happened and asked their advice as to how to deal with the press outside the house.

The funeral directors’ van pulled up and reversed into the mews to the front door of the house. Joe was up in the bedroom when I led my father, Leslie, and his four coffin-bearers with their burden up the narrow main staircase to Freddie’s bedroom. It was more than surreal. To feel all that Freddie had achieved in life, which was mirrored in the house, and witnessing the arrival of his coffin surrounded by men dressed in sombre black was unreal. Joe and I stood to one side, our backs against the French windows leading out onto the small front balcony.

We couldn’t take our eyes off Freddie. We watched with tears brimming as the men manoeuvred Freddie’s body into the black protective bag, the use of which being mandatory in the case of every death which has occurred from a communicable disease. It wasn’t a shock as such because I had read about it, seen this type of activity on television and in the cinema but when it is happening to you and one of your loved ones it jars. For me it was the moment of finality. Once he was zipped up inside the bodybag, there was just no way he was ever coming out. And it was the last time I saw him. Although as it was happening, I realised and accepted that this had to happen, I really didn’t want to see it happening and as a last memory of my friend, it was not the most pleasant. What was sweet was seeing the little teddy bear that Jim Hutton had placed with Freddie being put into the bag with him.

“What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over,” is one clichéd situation that I now wish I could have experienced at that point. I really didn’t want to witness all this. Who would? I remember holding Joe’s hand. He was shaking. I was nearest the bed. He was on my left and I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was shaking. I reached out and squeezed his hand to let him know he wasn’t there on his own.

The bag was placed tenderly and carefully in the coffin and when they were ready I led the pallbearers down the stairs. For the first time, one of Freddie’s aims of lining up all the doors in the main house and
the Mews so that you could look in a straight line from one end of the property to another came into good effect. He always used to say, “Take the money and run!” and indeed, with this configuration of rooms, he was able to make his last exit swiftly and unencumbered. Or, in the manner of the announcement which always used to come at the end of every Elvis Presley concert, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Mister Mercury has left the building!”

With the invaluable aid of the police who had arrived in force with barricades to keep the press at bay, the van pulled away from the Mews and into Logan Place. When the van got to the end of the street, due to the one-way traffic system it had to turn right. The police created a road block for five minutes, thus preventing any of the press from following the van and discovering where Freddie’s body was being taken.

One of the strangest calls to the house that evening had been from Freddie’s great friend Barbara Valentin, the German actress with whom he spent many happy hours. She had telephoned to ask how Freddie was although she had no idea that he was dying. She had just felt that it was the time to ring. It came as a terrible shock to her to find that she had called perhaps an hour too late. I sensed the same reaction to the news from all the calls that I had to make including those to his friends Thor Arnold and Lee Nolan in San Diego. Bad news always travels fast and soon we were being inundated with calls from all over the world. The rest of the band were informed by Julie Glover, the Queen Productions secretary and Jim Beach’s trusted right hand.

Because of Freddie’s wish to be cremated and my previous experience when I was very young of having helped my father, I knew that we had to have two doctors’ signatures on the death certificate and so one of the calls was to Doctor Graham Moyle who had looked after Freddie through much of his illness. Even though there were a few people in the house, it felt incredibly empty.

The creator of these surroundings was no longer here.

I don’t think any of us felt particularly tired and I know it was gone four o’ clock Monday morning before I got to bed.

It fell to me to sign the certificate registering his death at Chelsea Registry Office which I did the following day. I then went to the head office of John Nodes and Sons to complete the more formal details of Freddie’s funeral. I knew from the family, whose responsibility the
body of the unmarried Freddie now was, that the funeral according to Parsee tradition had to be as soon after death as possible. After speaking with them, I found out what their requirements were and then it was up to my father Leslie and myself to organise the fine tuning.

We had to find a slot in the schedule of the West London Crematorium where we could reserve an hour for the service. Usually, cremations are only allotted half-an-hour. The earliest available was Wednesday morning. Through talking with Freddie’s mother and father, I found out what time they would need for their religious services to be observed and it was arranged that Freddie’s body would be brought to Ladbroke Grove late on the Tuesday night where only close blood family would be permitted to attend.

While Freddie had been a public figure for the last twenty-five years, for the first twenty of his life he had belonged to his family. I felt it only right that his family be involved as much as possible with the arrangements for his funeral. It was, after all, the last chance they would have of reacquainting themselves.

It was a strange feeling, assuming the mantle of control at this extremely emotional time but someone had to be in control, as dispassionate and cool-headed as possible, considering the mass of press gathered outside in Logan Place who had been there in strength since the previous Friday evening when the spokesperson had issued a statement on Freddie’s behalf that he was suffering from Aids. For two weeks prior to that announcement, the press had been outside twenty-four hours a day. By day, there were about ten and by night, a minimum of three. However, at the time of his death, there must have been between thirty and forty.

The funeral had been arranged for Wednesday. The remainder of the Monday and all of Tuesday of that week, while we all walked around in a dreamlike state, we were kept busy by the non-stop ringing of the gate bell and the enormous amount of floral tributes arriving. Included in my job was the ringing round and arranging of who was to ride in which car to the funeral and every now and then increasing the number of the floral hearses as more and more flowers arrived. All the flowers went to the crematorium although, after the funeral, I arranged for all the suitable bouquets to be sent on to hospitals and hospices where more people could get some joy from them.

The day of the funeral, I felt that my whole world had stopped. For
years Freddie and I had lived in each other’s pockets and so I felt that a part of me had died too.

My job was over. I knew that there was absolutely nothing more that I could physically have done for Freddie. It had been his decision to bring his life to a close by refusing any further medication to keep him alive. He had never let the disease totally dictate his life and when he felt his control slipping, he made a conscious decision to retake it.

Ultimate control.

Quite simply, he got things done and those things were always done the way he wanted.

The day of the funeral, Wednesday, November 27, 1991, dawned. It was a dull damp, late autumn morning and everything in the garden would have looked drab except that the lawns at Garden Lodge were awash with unseasonal colours. The floral tributes to Freddie which had been arriving for the last three days were doubled up in some places. Inside Garden Lodge, a small group of Freddie’s friends had gathered to accompany him on his last outing. We left the house in a cortege of three limousines augmented by a couple of private cars in a procession which was led by five floral hearses. Freddie always liked things done in style.

I was in the car with Joe Fanelli and Jim Hutton. My mind was preoccupied with the course of events which had led up to this moment and for what was to happen over the next hour or so. I remember looking out of the car window and seeing people stop and stare as the cortege passed by and I wondered if they had any idea of whose funeral procession it was that they were witnessing. The column of cars arrived at the crematorium literally moments before the hearse bearing Freddie’s casket, on top of which was a small paper flower, a last gift to Uncle Freddie from his young niece, Natalie.

The timing of the hearse’s arrival at the crematorium chapel for the ten o’clock ceremony was immaculate, just like a military operation or, perhaps more appropriately, one of Freddie’s gigs. His body was carried into the chapel to the strains of Aretha Franklin’s ‘You’ve Got A Friend’ and the ensuing Zoroastrian service was a continuation of one that had begun at eight-thirty that morning by the two white-robed Parsee priests in the chapel of rest at the Funeral Directors John Nodes and Sons in Ladbroke Grove.

Several members of Freddie’s immediate family had attended this earlier ceremony and although Freddie himself had not been an
adherent of any religion in his adult life, his wish to be cremated fitted in very well with the wishes of his family whose Zoroastrian faith he respected. Freddie had been far from being actively opposed to anyone’s religion or faith. The things that offended him were the trappings and hypocrisy involved in the various clerical and institutional aspects of established religion.

Gathered in the funeral chapel of the West London Crematorium were both branches of Freddie’s family, the one bound by ties of blood and the other bound by friendship. At the end of the service, Freddie’s body exited this world with Montserrat Caballe’s voice singing ‘D’amor Sull’ Ali Rosee’ from Verdi’s opera Il
Trovatore.
Freddie was never one to be conventional so I thought this was a fitting
adieu
and that Freddie would have approved.

While funerals are generally quiet, private affairs, the mass of press, photographers and onlookers on the bank opposite the chapel reminded us that the person to whom we had just said our final goodbyes had been no ordinary mortal.

Back at Garden Lodge, a small group of Freddie’s friends – the band, their consorts, Jim Beach, Gordon Atkinson, Graham Moyle, Terry Giddings, Mary, Jim, Joe, Dave Clark and I – who had attended the funeral, had gathered to celebrate his life with champagne. I felt he would have been proud of his send-off and that my discharging my last obligations had been up to his expectations. One of my jobs had been to always make sure he looked presentable whenever he left the house and I don’t think he would have complained this time.

Just for Freddie, there follows an up-dating of the cast featured in this book. To my knowledge, Freddie, this is reasonably accurate. I thought it might amuse you… without abusing too many sensitivities.

A

HRH The Prince Andrew
Married and divorced, now deskbound in a dockyard.

Thor Arnold
Still nursing. Now relocated in San Diego.

James Arthurs
Still a businessman living in Connecticut.

Debbie Ash
Still an actress.

Jane Asher
Now
huge
in cakes, Mc Vitie’s biscuits and most branches of Sainsbury.

Gordon Atkinson
Still generally practising. In Mayfair.

Mary Austin
Single parent, mother of two. Currently still residing in Chaillot… sorry, Garden Lodge.

B

Tony Bastin
Dead.

Jim and Claudia Beach
Queen’s manager and his wife. Still. But also, now, one of Freddie’s two executors. Jim, that is and, therefore now, effectively, the fourth member of Queen. The succession was assured.

Rupert Bevan
Still gilding picture frames and restoring furniture at Putney Bridge.

Stephanie Beacham
Still actressing.

Martin Beisly
Senior director at Christie’s specialising in Victorian pictures.

Debbie Bishop
Acting and singing.

David Bowie
Composer, musician and peformer. Now a public company.

Bryn Bridenthal
Earth calling Bryn.

Dieter Briet
Wind-surfed over the horizon.

Briony Brind
I think she’s retired.

John Brough
Probably a record producer by now.

Kim Brown
Now a widow, working at EMI. Pete sadly died, like Freddie, far too young.

Michael Brown
Still wardrobe master for the currently homeless Royal Ballet.

Jackie Brownell
Sorry. Lost contact.

Bomi and Jer Bulsara
More than ever his parents.

Jo Burt
Jo, are you still strumming?

C

Carlos Caballe
Still managing his expanding stable of talent.

Montserrat Caballe
Still your own diva, Freddie.

Montsy Caballe
Fine.

Piers Cameron
Living happily with a long-time friend of mine.