Jill Chapman- Jill Bartlett- Mrs Chapman. Force of nature, a doer, my mum. Here are few memories, nothing comprehensive, just a few thoughts. We had a good talk about this a day or two after Christmas. I have promised her not to be silly. December 1941. Jill Bartlett was a War baby. She said she remembered doodle bugs’ droning buzzing, a cut out, a pause and then a bang. She considered herself as quiet and reserved as a child- and her sister Ann corroborated that. But that’s not what Dad thought when he met her. He thought she had something about her… and spin turns.. and the ability to make her own dresses. Mum meeting dad is one of our family legends 1961. Dad and his best mate Richard were on their way back to what had been a fairly dull dance at St John’s church hall in Buckhurst Hill, Essex. Mum and her sister Ann didn’t even want to go to it. They arrived late. Their parents wanted the two bored teenagers out of the house. Mum said she did not want to go but was persuaded to take Ann along. The result was two enduring marriages. Richard and Ann. Mum and Dad. When he took her home to meet the parents, Grandma Chapman turned to Grandad and said, ‘Don’t you realise this is the one. You’ve just met your future daughter in law’ There followed walks in Epping Forest and a train back to Durham to break the news to the boyfriend (who had a car!) to say it was all over. How history could’ve been different. Mid-sixties: Jane and I were born. Mum asked me about my earliest memories of her and I don’t know why this one came into my head. Outside of playgroup in Potters Bar, Mum pushing a pram with Jane in it- which must have made me three years old. Dingy weather and a wet road busy with cars. I remember holding her hand, looking up at her as we were about to cross the road and the feeling of being safe and loved. That love was just something I knew and never questioned. Until I grew up, I thought everyone’s childhood was like that. 1972. Moving to Houghton on the Hill is a time I remember vividly. This is when I get the impression things really took off. My parents made fantastic long-lasting friendships; I see many of you here today. There were fancy dress parties. Jane and I were onlookers as Mum appeared as Robin Hood with Dad in whatever costume she had knocked up on the sewing machine; busty Maid Marian, a teddy boy, a genie; costumes which her grandchildren would later delight in dressing up in. Houghton School: Mum asked me about my memories. I said many had her with one of those long junior school-type paintbrushes, creating some wall-wide display for all the class to stick their own pictures on. Australia, Egypt, China- later these projects these would be inspired by her own world travels. We all painted characters from the Hobbit. Friday afternoons, she would read the Hobbit, Stig of the Dump, the Wind in the Willows or whatever this term’s book was. Picture thirty or so entranced children while she did the voices of the trolls-- eer Bert – what’s a burra—hobbit, or Gollum: What Baggins got it his pocketses? Best of being in the top juniors’ class was the Christmas pantomime- which become a tradition - the highlight of school and a truly life affirming experience. I’ve read the Facebook comments. Everyone who took part remembers the pantomime with such affection. This was not some studio production with bare stage and normal clothes. This was epic and Mum was director, producer, costume designer, singing coach, everything. Our house would become a production line. Jane was a ‘wild wooder’ in Toad of Toad Hall. Fifteen weasel outfits; cut-out, laid-out and passed-on to willing parents to sew up. Munchkins and winged monkeys another year- or huge playing cards for Alice in wonderland. Stacked up in the classroom or in the village hall would be stage sets, painted usually by the kids, directed by Mum; the emerald city, a toadstool for a hookah-smoking caterpillar to sit on, the towers and spires of this year’s enchanted castle. There was obviously a lot more to Mum’s time at the school that just the pantomime. She was a great teacher who inspired many of her former pupils (including Jane and me) to join the profession. One of mum’s happiest memories was of managing the nature area. Thirty… maybe forty years ago, there were just a few saplings. Now this is a full-grown wood. One day when it had snowed overnight, the then-head teacher issued the diktat of ‘no snowball fighting.’ Indoor playtime. ‘Boring!’ thought Mum. This was the time for the nature area; all those fresh badger and fox tracks in the snow. The kids and Mum knew there be trouble if they were caught. Nature studies done; they all had a snowball fight. A silent one. Very quiet mayhem. Then at a silent hand up, the kids dusted themselves down and trotted back to class. That is teaching excellence- and utter respect from your pupils. I don’t think she ever would have become jaded with teaching but she took voluntary early retirement at 53. She was ready for a change. Like with everything else, Mum threw herself into activity. There was voluntary work with Leicester University botanical gardens, painting fine detail watercolours of plants and so much world travel. Countries like Myanmar and Ethiopia are off limits now but her and dad got there. There were trips to the alps and to Corsica often with the whole family. On these travels they made even more life-affirming friendships. Just three days ago Dad said there was something of the adrenalin junkie in her. He reminded me of the glider flight she too about four years ago. A birthday present. She did not want to go. This wasn’t a sedate towed-up glider launch but the sort that catapults the plane into the air. When she did it, she absolutely loved it. Throughout her life here, Mum has always been involved with the church and village life. She cared deeply about community and was always helping whether with the village fete, Houghton Help Line, raising money for St Catharine’s; there are too many to list. She was always in the thick of it. Always a good cook, some of the dinner parties and the scone production in later years made it look to us that she had gone into catering! And with all of this boundless energy- her lust for life- there was caring and love. My wife Carolyn remembers the fantastic hug and support where her father died. It was Mum she broke the news to. Dad, Jane and I have been loved all our lives. A friend wrote to me and said that I had been parented all my life and, thinking on it, I think that’s the case. Even towards the end, I valued her advice. Just a week or so before her death, I was asking how to take cutting from dahlias and how to cook lemon meringue pie. Reading the cards people have sent- all of you- I pick up repeated phrases like ‘friendship’, ‘caring’, ‘force of nature’ and ‘a doer’. My mum motivated and encouraged those around her from her pupils to the grandchildren inspired on their travels and their love of history and the arts. I think the love and friendship she has shared is a testament to a full and well-lived life. We will all miss her.

For Grandma Let’s set the table by the river and sit under the golden spots of light no need, this time, to paint- we’ve got a backdrop of deep undergrowth behind us and yellow cornfields in the distance. These billowing beeches will do to drape the wings, and our chorus- purple loosestrife, willow-herb, meadow-sweet and dog-rose, can improvise their parts. Listen! our orchestra below the heaving bank runs on without us - chasing it’s notes, shaking free the gurgled symphonies of it’s last act. Let’s invite our company- our family, and friends, and the family of their friends.. The stage is set! The scene is writ! We’ll have a light lunch, we don’t need much, just soup and bread, pickled shallots, cold ham from Sunday mango chutney boiled eggs, salad bits (lettuce, rocket) the tomatoes are our own, you know a quiche, and new potatoes hot with butter, salt and pepper, some greens we need to eat up and of course for pudding, chocolate cake pass me your plate, blackcurrant pie with custard, stewed up fruit, chocolate crispie (for the children) there’s custard tarts as well and over the clatter of plates and tangled arms and chairs scraped, something poured and photos fetched to illustrate a story we’ve all heard before - you can slip out. We’ll carry on eating. We know our parts. I never saw the first white curtain rise at dawn, clinging to the grass til light came. When it dims, and dusk falls, you won’t hear the applause. But I am living. I remember you. Billie Davis

A much loved teacher at Houghton- all of the pupils were keen to get to the top class (I'm sure it was called class 6 in those days?) to be taught by her and take part in her infamous pantomimes!! It was so lovely to see Jill powering around the village when we moved back 10 years ago. A face that we shall all miss very much indeed. XX