There is a old song that tells, into everyone’s life some rain must fall. Some fell on mine.

England was then the land of Chaucer and Shakespeare not the England of today, where local Cockneys rub shoulders with immigrant knife grinders, lamp lighters, rag merchants, Bengal Baboos and Maharatta Brahmins, the latter strutting about in the streets originally built by Dick Wittington the First mayor of London, showing off their insufferable smugness and moral superiority. I was on a postgraduate scholarship learning the magic of interchangeable parts introduced by Joseph Whitworth the celebrated 19th century British Engineer and learning how to manufacture them on lathes, grinders, drills and borers, at General Electric and later at British Leyland.

My brother Cyril was a midshipman at Dartmouth, the prestigious Naval Academy where sons of British nobility vie, often in vain, to enter. He had travelled from the south of England to Preston in the midlands to accompany me to Dumfries a town on the English Scottish border made famous by the film, "The hounds of the Baskervilles" where Vincent Price acted as Sherlock Holmes. We were going there on an invitation extended by Commander Weir World War II submariner who had previously met Cyril whilst on a lecture tour at Dartmouth. Commander Weir and his charming wife were at the station to greet us. As we sped in the Bentley there was nothing to see except the desolate moors and the unending peat bogs.

The home of Mrs. and Commander Weir was fabulous, more a castle than, a home. We were put in a room as large as a dormitory decorated with drawings of World War II. The wall-cupboards that stretched from wall to wall were packed with sports jackets, slacks, shoes and boots a measure of the opulence of the British upper classes. We dressed for dinner Cyril with the Josephian blue blazer with white piping and myself with the University of Ceylon maroon blazer with gold piping. As we entered the dining hall we were greeted by Commander Weir wearing a Kilt the Highland male dress and Mrs. Weir in a tartan in the distinctive pattern of a Highland lass. After supper, dinner is supper for the upper classes Commander Weir in the midst of a spread of exquisite wines entertained us on his theatre organ playing such favourites like "Happy Wanderer", "Pack up your Troubles," It’s a long way to Tipperary "The white cliffs of Dover" and rounded the evening with a tribute to those who did not return during, World War II by playing Mozart’s Requirem in D minor which left a special poignancy since Mozart had died leaving it an unfinished work.

The following morning Commander Weir a gentleman farmer took us in a jeep around part of his sprawling 10,000 acre estate adorned with the finest breeds of sheep and cattle, the tour ending with a visit to the wine cellar where a multitude of bottles and wooden casks simply boggled the mind. The picture that accompanies the panegyric was taken by Mrs. Weir outside the entrance to the cellar. Cyril is standing on my left.

After returning from Dartmouth Cyril served the Navy at various establishments including Jaffna and Trincomalee rising to the rank of Commander. After many years of devoted service he joined the Ministry of Defence and left to become a much sought after security consultant.

Cyril’s final illness was sudden and surreal. He lost his sense of speech and sat gazing without recognising anything or anybody. I have an inkling of what happened but do not wish to write about it for fear of annoying those who spend their time twiddling their thumbs. It is like annoying a lobby attendant of a hotel by asking for Ali, when at least 40 thieves will leap at you. His wife Sylvie, a Bridgeteen, valiantly cared for Cyril to the end her devotion and strength coming from a bottomless well.

Sylvie was like the Greek heroine Danae who was condemned to fill with water a cask with holes. The Chinese philosopher Kung-Tzar known to us as Confucius wrote that the gods have put sweat between us and our misfortunes.

After Cyril died his believed Navy with touching grace took charge of the funeral arrangements taking the coffin from his home in Kotahena to his ancestral home in Negombo for his friends, kith and kin including his cousin Archbishop Nicholas Marcus Fernando, to pay their respects. From their the coffin was taken to St. Mary’s Church where Cyril was Baptised. After the religious ceremonies the coffin was placed on a gun carriage and solemnly taken to the vault where his parents and their parents and generations before them are buried for the final salute and burial.

I take this opportunity on behalf of Sylvie and Cyril’s brothers and sisters to thank Vice Admiral Thisara Samarasinghe, Commander of the navy, Rear Admiral Somatilake Dissanayake, Chief of Staff, Officers and other ranks in the navy for their grace that turned the funeral into a memorable event. A special thanks is due to Commodore Shemal Fernando, a cousin of Cyril for attending to the details required for a service funeral. To SSP Roshan Fernando, another cousin of Cyril for the meticulous traffic flows which permitted the cortege to move with dignity.

What is inscribed in the catacombs is not the familiar Requiescat in Peace (Rest in Peace) but the unfamiliar Dormit in Pace (Sleep in Peace). I say to Cyril with kindliness and in a final farewell sleep in Peace. Cyril hardly new his mother since she died at a tender age. As he leaves to join her, leaving behind a earth of woes, I am reminded of Shakespeare in Hamlet who described that earth with the following lines.