Myrtle Amina Champion
12th December 1933 – 27th June 2009
My Mum slept away peacefully in the early hours of Saturday, 27th June at Dunoon General Hospital, Argyll, Scotland.
She was not a ringer. My Dad, Colin Champion, was – but any hopes of recruiting her were dashed by a narrow-minded rector in his home village of Buckland, Surrey, after their engagement in the mid-1950s, who told her bluntly that non-Anglicans (Mum was a lifelong member of the Church of Scotland) were not welcome. Nevertheless, ringing played a big part in Mum’s life, first through Dad, later through me, and later still through my wife, Julie, whom she encouraged to take up the art.
The best guide to Mum’s early life is her sister, my aunt, Anne Honeyman. In her tribute at Mum’s funeral, Anne recalled:
"Job-seekers are told today, as indeed are we all, that flexibility is the name of the game. Myrtle learned that lesson first with my arrival 18 months after her own, and then at school in Campbeltown, Tobermory, Dunoon, Islay, Tobermory again, from where Myrtle in 4th year went to Oban High School, and then back to Campbeltown Grammar … With a Scottish Higher Leaving Certificate, and next to no money, she headed off to a Civil Service appointment in London. There she had a happy time working in the Victoria and Albert Museum, and a horrendous time living in hostel accommodation… Eventually, in London, she met her wonderful husband, Colin."
This is where the ringing story starts. From an early stage, Mum could be under no illusions about what she was letting herself in for. An early postcard from a tour to Shropshire in August 1954 informs her: "This has been quite a busy week. The sum total to date is 24 churches, half a dozen blisters and a cold." (No wonder: he rang five peals in four days.)
After their wedding in Dunoon in April 1956, they lived in bedsits in south London before buying their first home in Ash Vale, near Aldershot, in 1960. Six years later, Dad’s work required a move to Worthing, on the Sussex coast, where they lived for the rest of his life.
Mum grew to enjoy life in Sussex and developed a keen interest in local history. She was in her element exploring churches while Dad was "at the end of a rope – hands, not neck" (another of those postcards). She also applied this interest professionally: for her teacher-training qualification she wrote a dissertation on the history of the village of Findon, which is now available at Worthing Library. Fittingly, the peal in which Dad and I rang for their Silver Wedding in 1981 took place at Findon.
Mum retained her love and knowledge of Sussex to the end. Only this year, her dozy son failed to buy a genuine Mother’s Day card and sent her instead a notelet from a set of Sussex scenes, showing the church at Bosham. As soon as it arrived, she telephoned: "Bosham – that’s where King Canute’s daughter is buried. You do know the true meaning of the story of King Canute, don’t you?"
But Mum’s happiness was cut short. In Anne’s words, "Colin’s death in the first year of his retirement was a grievous loss, which she felt to the very end." The heart attack that killed Dad at the end of a quarter at Heene in 1991 put her off the subject of ringing for some years. It also contributed to her decision to move back to Dunoon ten years later.
The interest did return, however. In 2001, Mum’s final year in Worthing, I arranged an outing to Sussex for my current home tower. Would she like to help me "test drive" the route beforehand? No second invitation was required!
One of the happiest memories of her last years came on the Saturday of the open weekend for the Scottish Association’s 75th anniversary, when we drove to Dunblane and Stirling for the afternoon. For Mum, the trip clearly recalled happy times with Dad. It was also no surprise that, after my ring at Stirling, I found her – ever the historian - deep in conversation with the man on duty at the Castle, long after its closing time.
In her last year, Mum pursued two ringing projects. The first was a memorial to Dad in Sussex. We decided on a bench for the ringing chamber at Heene, with an inscription that we worked out together. It was installed last autumn. The second was the restoration of Dad’s handbells, which had lain unused for 40 years. Mum’s enthusiasm made sure the job was done by Easter, and she was delighted to see the results when I brought them to her in May. She was even happier to know that the bells were in regular use and that the work had prompted me to return to handbell ringing after a gap of more than 20 years.
Finally, heart failure took its toll, and even this doughty fighter – as one of Mum’s Dunoon friends dubbed her – ran out of energy. It is a comfort to those dearest to her that she died loving and loved, and that she is reunited with my Dad and her own beloved parents.
Many who knew Mum will remember her as a Scottish patriot. True, but she was no narrow nationalist. At her funeral – which she had planned herself – the German husband of one of Mum’s cousins sang "Die Lorelei", a poem that she knew by heart from her schooldays, and I was privileged to read Rudyard Kipling’s affirmation of religious broadmindedness, "The Prayer":
My brother kneels, so saith Kabir,
To stone and brass in heathen wise,
But in my brother’s voice I hear
My own unanswered agonies.
His God is as his fates assign,
His prayer is all the world’s – and mine.
JAMES CHAMPION
Peal at Heene
Tilehurst, Berks. (15 Lytham End) 6 Aug, 1264 PB Major: James M Champion 1-2, June D Wells 3-4, Jenny Page 5-6, E John Wells (C) 7-8. First quarter on the bells since their restoration earlier this year. Rung in memory of Myrtle Amina Champion, whose constant encouragement ensured that this work was completed in her lifetime.
