Going out with a bang

Phillip Pullman had to work quite hard to achieve the firework display that he wanted for his stepfather and he succeeded thanks to a favour from a friend. After I received Phillip's account,I rang around a number of fireworks companies and couldn't find anyone that would agree to do it. But today, there is a UK company which does nothing but funeral ashes as fireworks so if Phillip does choose to do it for himself, he will probably find it easier to arrange. The company is Heaven Above Fireworks (www.heavensabovefireworks.com) and Fergus Jamieson set it up after hearing an item on John Peel's Home Front on Radio 4. He heard a contributor saying how much they would like to be turned into a firework and he thought, why not? Thus was born a business opportunity.

I asked Fergus why he thought fireworks were a good idea for ashes. "It's important to grieve" he says, "but it's important to look back and to celebrate all the wonderful things in people's lives. No one leaves a firework display without a smile on their face."

Interestingly, Fergus says that over a half of the calls he receives are from people planning their own funeral. I guess if you don't tell people what you want, people naturally go back to default mode and give you a traditional send off, so if you want something different, you need to plan it yourself.

But now the shopping begins. Costs start at about £900. The only thing you can't do is go up in a single rocket...that's too risky. You can choose what size and style of display you would prefer. You can have a green and white display if you're Irish or a red, white and blue one if you're a Brit. Some people want a small display that they can set off themselves in the back garden. Some want a giant display with all bells ringing. You can choose between a mixed display, perhaps even with your name written in lights. Or you can choose a noisy, rocket based one so that you really go out with a bang.

This time, my mum is really enthusiastic. "Do it anywhere you like, anywhere that suits you." She like the idea that everyone would have to smile. They could chomp on their baked potatoes and knock back their wine and lift their heads up to the night sky and wave goodbye.

A blaze of fireworks

I have been fascinated with the idea of going off as a firework for a while now. A couple of years ago I read somewhere that children's author Philip Pullman had rocketed his stepfather up to the stars in a firework display. Could it be the case, or was it part of his fiction? I wrote him a note and this was his reply.

The fireworks idea came to me when my sister and I were wondering what to do with the ashes. My stepfather died at the New Year, and his various children were scattered all over the world: one in Australia, another in America, one in Scotland, tow in England, and although those of us here in Britain could make it to the cremation, it was going to be vary difficult for my half-brother in Australia and my stepbrother in the USA to make it in time.

So I suggested that we regard the actual service as a formality, and set up a real farewell later in the year, when everyone could get there without difficulty. Then the question arose: what form should the farewell take? Obviously we’d have to scatter the ashes, but there wasn’t really anywhere in Edinburgh, where he spent the last couple of years of his life, that was special to him; there was no reason to go to sea and scatter them there; but we felt we ought to do something special.

“Let’s send him up in a rocket,” I said, half-seriously.

But my sister jumped at it, and so did the others. My stepbrother, when I suggested it to him over the phone, roared with laughter. It was such a zany idea that we couldn’t resist it. I only wish we’d thought of it before he died – he would have loved it.

So then the problem became – one rocket? Two? How many would we need? And should we do it ourselves? I had visions of buying a couple of big rockets from Woolworth’s or somewhere, and spooning the old boy in, and sealing him up with duct tape. But then they might be too heavy and make it un-aerodynamic, or something, and he might whizz up and turn round and come straight down again.

Anyway, my sister, who knows everyone, found a firework specialist in Edinburgh, where she lives, and handed the job over to him. He was a part-time firework man – in his day job, he’s an anaesthetist at one of the Edinburgh hospitals. He said we’d need thirty-five rockets, and named a price, and we said “Go ahead.”

So on the appointed day we all gathered in Edinburgh and had a boozy supper and drove out to the headland where the firework man did his displays, looking south across the Firth of Forth. As the daylight was fading we walked a mile or so along the shore till we came to the spot where the rockets were being set up, all along a big long rack, with the firework man just setting the fuses. It had been raining all day, but it was just clearing, although the clouds were still low. We could see the lights of Edinburgh across the water, and there were naval ships manoeuvring in the Firth. My sister’s children were very excited, and we were all a little drunk, I think, and when it was all finally ready my stepbrother – his oldest child – said a few words, brilliantly, actually; and then my sister set off the first fuse.

What a display! It was wonderful. Each rocket was bigger and more beautiful than the one before. It went on for minutes, and the sky was full of stars, and with each star there was a bit of the old man.

And my little niece, who was nine, looked up and said very decidedly “That’s the way I want to go.”

As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind going like that myself. The thing was, it was funny and happy and beautiful as well as being sad. So I think it’s rockets for me too when the time comes.

I hope that helps.

Yours, Philip Pullman