Carole Buckley Edwards, 29th March 1961 – 7th May 2021

For all old girls of Cleethorpes Girls Grammar School, fans of the Grimsby Guitars, music pupils, staff and students at Grimsby College, and all family and friends unable to attend Carole’s memorial service at Grimsby Central Hall on Tuesday 25th May, here’s a transcript of my eulogy:

We all have our own stories to tell of the unique and indomitable Carole Buckley Edwards; and as we remember and celebrate her life, I’d like to share mine with you. I hope you’ll enjoy hearing it as much as I enjoyed living it with her.

I first met Carole in 1972 at Clee Girls’ Grammar School, sitting on my right across an aisle on the front row of Form 1A (purely due to our surname initials, not academic qualities or naughtiness!). As I got to know her, I was a little awed by her accomplishments: already a competent guitarist, she also played violin in the school orchestra as well as the recorder we all learned. She may have told you the ghastly tale of our school concert, eagerly anticipated by 1A because we thought we had an unbeatable programme to win the first year prize: a silly play I’d written, an hilarious Keystone Cops sketch performed as a film clip in slow-mo, fast-forward and normal speed, and a mandatory song as grand finale. We chose ‘Lemon Tree’ (very pretty), accompanied by Carole on guitar – but when she struck the first chords, it had gone out of tune! Cue faltering voices and sidelong looks of horror. Time and shame have blotted out whether she stopped to re-tune or we just soldiered on. Either way, I’m sure it cost 1A the prize – and what no-one knew until I finally confessed at our school reunion in 2017 was that it was All My Fault for idly toying with one of the tuning knobs while her guitar was propped next to me. (When I realised, I desperately tried to put it back as before – sadly to no avail).

A happier recollection is Carole entertaining 1A on guitar. Like everyone else in class, she had the obligatory pop-star poster, torn out of Jackie magazine, stuck inside her desk lid – but having more sophisticated musical tastes than the average twelve year old, Carole’s was of Marc Bolan (the rest of us being pretty evenly split between Donny and David). I’m sure all our classmates will remember her in her white polo neck, navy gym-slip and purse-belt, performing her rendition of ‘Metal Guru’ – which seems like an apt place to pause for a musical interlude, and one of the songs CB herself chose for today: another T-Rex favourite, ‘Ride a White Swan.’

*Marc Bolan Interlude*

As well as a musician, Carole was always a promising seamstress, keen enough to take dressmaking classes at night-school, and helped by mum Betty, knocked up our uniform wrap-around gym skirt in no time (it took me more than a term).  She was also the first person apart from my parents ever to give me a home-made Christmas present. You may recall early Seventies bath salts came in plastic bags and a choice of pink or green (rose or pine) scent. Carole had carefully layered the two colours into a jam-jar, and decorated the lid with a silver star– simple but effective, an early facet of the immense creativity that would go on to adorn her home with everything from Christmas garlands to Roman blinds and re-upholstered furniture, and enrich her family and friends with lovely hand-made gifts from patchwork quilts and felted baby slippers to jars of bramble jelly and bottles of pontack. And naturally, she also made lots of clothes, including Hallowe’en costumes and prom dresses for the twins, a pair of saggy-bottomed MC Hammer pants for me in the Eighties, and her own spectacular green wedding dress.

Seventies Cleethorpes was a great place to grow up, and as kids we had wide social circles, plenty to do and plenty of freedom to do it. Carole and I loved poking round the old town and spent countless hours shopping on St Peter’s Avenue, or browsing for fabrics in Boyes on Freeman Street, or spending whole Saturdays in the new precinct, trying on clothes and shoes, testing perfumes, and spending our pocket money on records and make-up; I think she even worked up town at some point as a Boots Saturday girl. We went swimming at Scartho Baths or Clee Bathing Pool, together or with groups of mates, and on cycling adventures to Louth or Hubbard’s Hills. The last time we did that was 1976. As we set off from Braemar Road, Grandma Buckley said, ‘Have you got coats in case it rains?’ We rolled our eyes at yet another blazing, cloudless sky. Yeah, yeah, we’d got our kagoules (hers blue, mine orange) – like we were going to need them. Needless to say, that was the day the drought broke. Said kagoules were plastered to us by the time we ate our picnic in the pathetic shelter of a Louth alley. Rain continued to pour as we admitted defeat and rode home. We stopped outside a big pub on the main road and debated begging shelter, but at only fifteen, felt too young and embarrassed because we looked like drowned rats, and too frightened of making a mess inside because we were literally streaming with water. Instead we pushed on through the rest of the miserable, cold, endless 16 miles, and I was glad I wasn’t going home with her to face the inevitable smug grandma ‘told you so’s’.

Meanwhile Carole was becoming a regular fixture at Oliver Street – my parents loved her – as I was at Braemar Road. I recall watching Abba for the first time on Top of the Pops with her and brother Steve, and thinking that skin-tight satin trousers aren’t a good look even for slim Swedish blondes, (though I suspect Agnetha’s shiny sausage thighs made a different impression on Steve). We did our homework, revised for exams, listened to music, drank gallons of coffee – Carole so addicted she used to buy her own private Nescafe stash and eat granules straight from the jar – did each other’s hair and make-up, had sleepovers, and gabbed endlessly in one or other of our purple and white teenage bedrooms, or nattered with our respective mums while stuffing ourselves with their fresh baking… all good clean fun until September ‘74, when we started in Form 3RK at Lindsey Upper School.

The first big change was our morning routine. I started calling for her and we’d walk round the corner to Lindsey together, wheeling my bike – that is, when she’d finally dragged herself out of her pit. I remember fidgeting in the kitchen, making small-talk with Betty while glancing repeatedly at my watch and fretting about being late. No doubt many of you will recall Carole could sleep like the dead, if you’ll pardon the expression, and didn’t take kindly to being disturbed; on one notorious occasion when crashing with friends in Germany, she was offered a bed on condition that if its owner returned during the night, she’d have to vacate it. Needless to say, when that happened, attempts to wake and extract her initially found her unresponsive, then as consciousness returned, abusive and adamantly refusing to budge – whereupon said bed’s rightful occupant ended up kipping on the floor.

The other big change at Lindsey was boys. The five who’d joined us in second year when Clee Girls went comp didn’t count – they were only our age, massively outnumbered by girls, and generally docile and easy to manage. Fifth and sixth-formers were a different matter, and mixing with them opened doors to different things, including a whole new musical world of progressive and hard rock. ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ was a monster hit, played till we knew every note  – which probably represents the start of our divergence from the mainstream. We still wore girly fashions though, and Carole developed her first major crush on a handsome lad from Matthew Humberston, Paul St Pierre. Determined to bag him as a boyfriend, she made another ultra-sexy waistcoat and pencil-skirt suit in black velvet for an upcoming school disco (her first attempt was grey with pin-tucks), to wear with a scarf and an artificial flower on the bodice. On the night, she looked fabulous, all Farrah Fawcett flicked hair, smoky eyes, full glossy lips, seamed tights and stilettos, and figure-hugging black… so she was utterly crushed to discover that velvet set Paul St Pierre’s teeth on edge and he recoiled from its mere touch, rendering any close physical contact out of the question. I don’t think they ever dated properly.

Our friendship was never jealous or exclusive, and as mid-teens we always had our separate interests. For instance, Carole joined the school yachting club and learned to sail at Covenham Reservoir, which never appealed to me despite the opportunity to hang out with older boys. I preferred horse-riding, which never appealed to Carole after a single Saturday morning mucking out with me at Old Clee stables, and sitting on the dung-heap afterwards to eat our sandwich lunch. Then slowly we became ‘besties’, disaffected with politics and pop culture, anti-nuke, anti-Nazi, anti-hunting – Carole went vegetarian around this time, if not entirely for ethical reasons (she didn’t like meat). Increasingly scornful of pop, disco and Northern Soul, by seventeen we’d come out as fully-fledged hippy rock-chicks in cheesecloth tops, Oxfam Jesus sandals, and Mary Quant lipstick, festooned with silver chains and love-beads, and reeking of patchouli. Having seen it all before with my older brother, my folks were relatively sanguine; whereas Carole once had to stash her precious denim collection in my wardrobe because her dad was so sick of seeing his formerly feminine daughter in jeans that he’d threatened to bin the lot.

At the time adults often assumed, to my intense annoyance on Carole’s behalf, that because I was physically bigger, I must be the dominant party leading her astray. On the contrary, we were always equal partners in crime, and if there was any straying to be done or a wild side to walk on, we did it side by side, eyes wide open, and quite deliberately. CB, as she was increasingly known, turned me onto reggae by playing ‘Exodus’ relentlessly at me until I succumbed. We also got heavily into heavy metal – ‘The Wizard’ from Richie Blackmore’s Rainbow Rising album was a particular favourite, which despite its grandiosity still brings me out in goose-bumps. We admired bikes, and bikers in black leather, hung out with Tech students at the Blue Note in Grimsby, and sneaked into licensed gigs at the Winter Gardens to see bands like Thin Lizzy and Manfred Mann’s Earthband – unbeknown to us all at the time, Tim was there too on that night. I can still picture her in a home-made white lacy camisole top, and faded jeans with a red and white stripy belt, singing along to their recent chart-topper ‘Blinded By The Light’ – a classic we’re going to hear now.

*Blinded By The Light*

Inevitably, pubs – the Boat, the Sheaf, the Eccy, the Barge, and others too numerous to mention – played a growing part in our social lives, as did older men. A romantic disappointment for Carole at the traditional Wheatsheaf end-of-term bash in December 1978 led to some serious drowning of sorrows. Highly emotional, she threw up in the taxi on the way back to ours. Only slightly less emotional, I told the driver (with commendable presence of mind, I thought, but I doubt he was fooled), ‘I’m sorry, my friend has gastric ‘flu.’ Settled weepily in my bedroom and plied with strong black coffee, she threw up again in my bit-bin (luckily metal, leak-proof and indestructible – I still use it) – and somehow, all this drama took place with my mum downstairs knitting and watching TV, blissfully unaware. Our biggest stunt in that respect was our summer ‘youth hostelling holiday’ in 1978. We did spend a couple of nights in the hostels at Lincoln and Streatley – vivid memories of preparing and eating our carefully-selected Vesta meals in the communal kitchens – but only en route to the Reading Rock Festival. We blew our ticket money on booze – a distinct advantage of hanging out with over-eighteens – and never made it into the arena, just sunbathed and partied on the campsite and sploshed in the Thames. As far as I’m aware, our parents never knew a thing about that either, or sundry other escapades for which we gave each other alibis.

In 1979, by happy accident rather than design, we both chose to do our degrees at Leicester Uni. Studying German and archaeology, our lectures were on the same campus so we often met up; I remember near the end of our first term we were having coffee in the Charles Wilson when news of John Lennon’s murder came on the radio, stunning us both. We made new sets of friends, and embarked on major relationships, CB’s with John Dyas and me with Garry Phillips; and all socialised together at her place or ours, or went for blow-outs at The Curry Pot on Melton Road. An unforgettable moment from our end of second year party came when CB, JD, Annie Riddock and Alistair Graham made their way past a row of big British bikes and up into our first-floor living room to find it half-full of big British bikers in Leicester Rat-Eye colours. Eyes like green saucers, she pulled me aside and whispered in great consternation, ‘Helen, do you know these people?’ She thought we’d been gate-crashed by Hell’s Angels we didn’t dare evict, bless her, rather than entertaining friends from the uni bike club. Luckily, common ground was soon established, the two groups coalesced, and a rip-roaring time was had by all (Gaz and I knew they’d like each other, given the chance).

CB spent the third year of her four-year degree course in Germany, where she became fluent to the point of calling her camera a ‘foto-apparat’ the first time we saw each other when she came home because she’d forgotten the English. In the meantime we’d kept in touch with letters, and a weekend jolly in Amsterdam; luckily our friendship could withstand separations and pick up immediately where we’d left off, with barely a break in conversation (and barely a cross word, ever, much less a real argument). We confided all our relationship traumas, her break-up with JD and getting together with Riff – facilitated by an illicit night in my parents’ bed while they were away on holiday and I was working a night-shift at Wold Farm. CB and I both worked several summer vacations there, she in the canteen and me on Quality Control. She always hated chicken day, having to ask a succession of Grimsby ex-trawlermen whether they wanted breast or leg. Naturally, all the blokes chatted her up, leading to this memorable exchange: Bloke: I’m lookin’ forward to this weekend. CB: Why, what are you doing? Bloke: I’m off to Brid wi’ me mates, drinkin’ and oarin’.  CB, (a sailor, remember): Oh, do you row? Cue mutual blank looks until it registered that he meant ‘whoring’…

After uni, CB and Tim moved into the ground floor flat at 21 Oxford Street, and she worked in the bar on Cleethorpes railway station while she thought about what to do next. Meanwhile I’d started a 3-year post-grad sandwich course, which allowed us to keep up our student pattern of seeing each other at home during holiday times. A common feature of ‘mornings after the night before’ in Cleethorpes was taking her and Tim coffee in bed, then feeding the cats and making a start on the last night’s debris while they slowly came to – whereupon we’d start all over again. I well recall one day round at Gary and Jo’s, trying to watch Blade Runner while their evil black dog, with its unsettling ability to freak out people in a vulnerable state, walked about on its hind legs, grinning at us. I thought I was hallucinating – but no.

Taking on voluntary work led to CB’s career in local authority social services in Grimsby and Hull, and a private sector stint for a horrible useless boss who literally drove her mad – it was the first and only time I ever saw her depressed. Throughout, we kept in touch by phone and odd notes; I always visited at Christmas and Easter, and for parties and special occasions, just as she or they visited me in various places I lived – gregarious and great company, CB always revelled in entertaining, or being entertained by, her many good friends. However, things were about to change drastically; her phone-call to tell me of a certain unplanned but happy event is a vivid memory – as is a weekend we spent on my boyfriend Steve’s boat when her already ginormous bump threatened to overbalance her at any second. As guests, she and Tim got the luxury of the pointy end, basically one great big triangular bed, while Steve and I slept in the main cabin. It wasn’t long after we’d retired that the rocking began, gentle at first them gradually building to a crescendo with the boat’s rubber buffers squeaking rhythmically against the mooring. A comparatively recent couple, Steve and I were first amazed then deeply envious of their staying power, especially with CB in such a condition. I wasn’t surprised to see them looking smiley and satisfied next morning, which CB attributed to a splendid night’s sleep; she, however, was surprised  when I retorted sourly, ‘I bet’, and accused her of keeping us awake and resentful (albeit impressed) for half the night. We eventually established that it wasn’t rumpy-pumpy that had rocked the boat, but the wake of an enormous barge which took a very long time to subside.

The twins duly arrived, (not to mention several generations of kittens from matriarch Custard – I was particularly fond of Spike and Merlin). I first met Sally and Amy one sunny afternoon in Doncaster when they were just a few weeks old, CB still boggling at having produced two such perfect little beings; and felt selfishly pleased and relieved when she didn’t go baby-gaga, but retained her own life and identity as a woman as well as a mother. She and Riff turned from relatively affluent dual-income-no-kids homeowners to broke, frazzled parents overnight, of course; but the girls were tremendous fun, the first children outside the family I ever loved and regarded as friends in their own right. And it obviously did them good to have such a strong female role model and a male primary carer – look how well they’ve turned out.

Marriage came a lot later, and as a complete surprise to me. CB’s relationship with Tim had always seemed perfect as it was, and despite having known her so well for so long, I didn’t know she was actually yearning to be wed. But I was honoured to be asked to deliver the bride, stunning in her emerald green dress, to Louth registry office in 2004 for a lovely personal ceremony followed by an equally lovely party at the Crow’s Nest – the nicest wedding I ever attended apart from my own three years later!

To me, the crowning glory of CB’s professional career was her exemplary work for Grimsby College, turning an inefficient, moribund department into a huge, profitable success, and I felt very proud of her. Inasmuch as I thought about her future, I assumed she’d carry on in this, her last and best job (after a self-employed interlude teaching music, invigilating exams and marking papers), for a few more years; then retire on a nice fat pension to enjoy her beautiful home, husband and family, playing her posh new guitar with the Grim Gits, doing her handicrafts, walking with her ladies’ group, going to the pub, gym and pool, travelling and taking holidays with Tim, and staying with loved ones at home and abroad; and we’d end up as a pair of daft old biddies doddering along Cleethorpes prom in Afghan hats and baggy jumpers, or cackling over a bottle of wine while Bob shot the sheriff and we put the world to rights.

Prior to September 2019, CB generally enjoyed robust health – I seldom recall her suffering anything much more serious than a cold. So it was shocking to see her that Christmas in severe pain from her hip – and devastating to learn a fortnight later that it wasn’t curable sciatica after all, but incurable cancer with (as I later discovered online) a poor prognosis for long-term survival. Throughout everything that followed, CB amazed me with her philosophical, practical, positive attitude. ‘It is what it is,’ she repeatedly said, always making the absolute best of her good times, and lightening the bad with black humour. ‘I know I shouldn’t,’ she’d say, lighting another fag, ‘but what the hell, I don’t have to worry about cancer.’ I’ll be eternally grateful that, albeit unable to hug, we saw nearly as much of each other in 2020 as in an average year. A good response to initial treatment freed her from pain, restored full mobility and gave hope for a longer remission, enabling her and Tim to squeak in a weekend visit in early March, when for once they could stay in a room we’d refurbished largely for their comfort as our only regular overnight guests, and we went to see the fantastic Damien Hirst exhibition at Yorkshire Sculpture Park; we also managed a summer picnic lunch between lock-downs before the next hammer-blow of bad news fell in the autumn and dashed our hopes – the cancer had escaped to continue its rapid, relentless invasion.

We began talking funerals. I offered to send a draft eulogy so she could read all the nice things I was going to say about her – an offer she didn’t take up, so I hope she’s listening in spirit today. She passed a series of milestones: Evelyn’s birthday, Peach’s birth, Christmas, New Year ‘21 and the anniversary of her diagnosis, Tim and the twins’ birthdays in January, and her own sixtieth on March 29th. We saw her for the last time at home at Easter shortly afterwards, looking frail but in typical good spirits and eating like a horse, trying to regain weight and strength for Sally’s wedding. My heart leapt to see those beautiful photos of the day with CB on her feet, stunning in a pale blue trouser-suit, looking so well that if I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought she was perfectly healthy, if thin; and I was glad to hear that after treatment to restore her in the wake of this supreme effort, she’d be leaving St Andrew’s hospice to spend her final weeks – maybe stretching to months – in her own home.

Then things changed with bewildering speed: no longer home but hospice, no longer weeks but days – make that hours. CB wanted to see me, and unlike too many relations and friends living further afield, I could get there in time. I walked in prepared to find her asleep or unresponsive; but she’d saved a huge amount of her last mortal energy to stay conscious and hold a conversation for three-quarters of an hour. It was intensely emotional with moments of joyous connection, completely unlike any harrowing or heart-rending death-bed scene I’d ever experienced or imagined. The physical shell was too ravaged to stay in, but the quintessential Carole, her spiritual presence, was still there in such full force and beauty she made my eyes boggle; not the remotest sense of her passively fading into non-existence, more actively gathering herself to float free and move on. We agreed to try and give each other a call once she got to wherever; I hope I armed her to go with all my love and blessings, as she armed me to stay and bear her departure twenty-six hours later without the utter, howling devastation I’d been expecting and dreading ever since her diagnosis. On the contrary, CB is, and ever will be to me, simply elsewhere now, differently alive. So I had a little party for her next day, drinking toasts, playing our old favourite albums, and dancing round the house wearing the ring she gave me at Easter. In the middle of ‘Satisfy My Soul’ I erupted in flurries of goose-flesh; I hope that meant she’d torn herself away from jamming with Bob, Bolan and Bowie, and come to dance with me in joy and relief that her earthly ordeal was over at last – a suitable point to break off for the second of her musical choices:

*Love Interlude*

According to the Greek philosopher Socrates, death is either the best night of dreamless sleep you’ll ever enjoy, or a reunion in spirit with your late loved ones – and either way, not so bad. A great sleeper like CB would surely agree – just as, if she could give you a last message apart from her love and farewell, it would surely be, as she cautioned me, ‘Do your poo tests.’ However, having had the extraordinary privilege of witnessing her in a process of transformation rather than cessation, I can only believe in the latter, and trust that she’s embarked upon an eternity of fun with all her beloved souls.

And that’s the end of my tale. But as I said at the start, you all have your own Carole stories to tell – so tell them. Cook up a feast, crank up the sounds, crack a bottle or three, and laugh about all the crazy, wonderful things you did together over the years. I can’t think of a better way to honour the incomparable woman who enriched us all so much, enjoyed life so fully, and engaged in it so wholeheartedly, to her very last day. Party hearty in Heaven, CB.