Leslie Victor "Bill" Heritage (3 March 1922 - 5 August 2013)

My father died this year.  He was not at home with computer technology and I'm sure he never knew what a 'blog' is, but I'd like to create a public memorial.  So I append the script for his funeral, just as I wrote it for delivery in the funeral home on Friday, 9 August in Motueka.

Funeral Script

Thanks

A brief word of explanation is probably required here. My father chose the music to be played at his funeral. Jazz, of course. He neatly labelled the CDs with the chosen tracks and gave me the title of another one, which I had to track down on the Internet. That's the one we just heard:- I Guess I'll Have to Change My Plan by Jack Teagarden and Bobby Hackett.

Dad did not live in NZ for many years and he doesn't have a large family so today's gathering is unexpectedly well attended. Elizabeth, Richard and I are very grateful to the support from our spouses and from so many friends. Thank you all for being here.

Dad's only other descendant, my brother Nigel, is here with us in spirit. He, and the wider Heritage clan, are in the UK. Nigel is organising a memorial gathering there for next month. By the magic of digital recording and the Internet he is also here in audio and will speak later.

Dad was a convinced atheist. A religious ceremony would be quite inappropriate and we are not going to have one. There will be no priest, hymns or other trappings of a church service, but there will be some pauses for more music. You can use these times to remember Dad, submit a prayer to your deity if you wish or just enjoy the jazz.

There is a slot in the programme for anyone who wishes to share a memory or two of Dad to come forward and tell us what is on their mind. There is no written programme, apart from the paper I have in my hand. This is not expected to be a long function. Dad did not want formality and expressly forbade unnecessary expense.

I hope everyone at least has a copy of the directions to the cemetery and to the lunch at Mapua Wharf afterwards.

The only reading I have planned is a very short excerpt from a gardening book.

Nor have I scheduled any organised singing, but if anyone has the impulse to carol an unaccompanied verse or two, please go ahead.

Early Years

Leslie Victor Heritage was born on his parents' farm near Chesterton, Warwickshire on 3 March 1922. The significance of that date is that the 3^rd of the 3^rd '33 was his 11^th birthday.

His early childhood was spent in the country, where a strong interest in nature developed. I remember him teaching me, when I was quite small, how to stamp hard and frighten a sitting bird so that it would fly out of the hedge and you could find its nest. He and his younger brother, Norman, would probably have horrified OSH; cycling without helmets, climbing trees and playing by the canal.

Young Les won a scholarship to Warwick School. What he recalled most often about the school is that it was founded in 914 by Ethelfleda, the daughter of King Alfred the Great, making it the oldest school in England that could prove its date of establishment.

He did well at Warwick academically, particularly in mathematics. He was not an enthusiastic sportsman. Norman tells that he persuaded the doctor to write him a note excusing him from games because of flat feet.

War broke out just about the time he was due to leave school. He witnessed one of the early German air raids on the Midlands; on Coventry. This gave him a desire to get back at the Hun, preferably from the air.

Many young men were volunteering for the RAF in 1940, but Les surprised the selection panel by expressly asking not to be a pilot. With his mathematical ability he was ideally suited to be a navigator and that was what he became.

Most people who met him were treated to the story of how he became re-named “Bill”. On his first day in the RAF he was allocated to room with two other recruits. One was a Les Peacock. The third said, “I can't call you both Les. Tell you what, I'll call you Bill.” And ever afterward he was Bill Heritage.

His flying training was in Canada. He claimed to be responsible for the only WWII attack on New York. He was the senior trainee navigator in a night exercise over Lake Erie. They were supposed to be navigating by the stars, but got lost and flew too far South. As Bill told it, they were spotted as unknown aircraft straying into US airspace, fighters were scrambled at La Guardia Field and the air raid sirens sounded in New York for the first and last time. It must have been hushed up because no account of it has been located in local press records.

By now he was a firm jazz fan. He planned to use some Christmas leave to go to New York where the major jazz clubs were. Then a phone call came, “We're your Canadian relations. Come and spend Christmas with us.” They proved to be very nice relatives, but he never got to the jazz clubs.

He must have been near the top of his class, because he passed out with a commission as Flight Lieutenant and a posting to Coastal Command. “But sir, I wanted a bomber.” Bill never did get his bomber or the chance to repay the Luftwaffe for the Coventry raid. He was shipped to West Africa and ended up more or less hitch-hiking flights to India, where he flew for most of the war.

As a child I was sometimes entertained by his tales of service life, like the night a hedgehog wandered into the officers' mess and was fed cherry brandy by a tipsy CO. This wasn't the kind of heroics I dreamed of in a father and I once asked him if he was ever shot at. “Yes. The landing approach at Imphal Plain was over the Japanese lines. But they didn't have any anti-aircraft guns.” And he did take offensive action at least once. His crew depth charged a whale they mistook for a Japanese submarine. And if they hurt the whale it would have been Bill's fault because the navigator also acted as bomb aimer.

That's not to say he did not contribute positively to the war effort. He was a disc jockey on forces radio. I think it was because he owned the jazz records. A 6ft Sikh sergeant tried to coach him, “Put more feeling in your voice, Flt Lt Heritage.” Bill would later complain, “There was this bloody great wog telling me how to speak my own language.”

The vagaries of war led to a meeting with Norman, now an RAF sergeant. Norman confesses that the brothers painted Delhi a bright crimson.

Marriage and Career

Demob in 1946 led to the start of Bill's career with plants. First it was with the Forestry Commission in Dorset. During this part of his life he met Irene Roblou and they were married in 1948.

From forestry he moved to Stewart's Nursery in Ferndown. In the ensuing years two sons were born, polythene was invented and Bill was invited to write Stewart's catalogue. These were all vital components of his future career:

• Polythene led Bill to experiment with plastics as a means to keep soil waterlogged and grow water plants, especially water lilies;
• Writing the catalogue led to countless magazine articles, many of which he illustrated with his own photographs.
• A chance introduction to Percy Thrower, led on to five or so guest specialist appearances on television gardening shows, dozens of radio broadcasts and lecturing to horticultural societies.

Bill had always been an avid reader and it just came naturally to write his first article, "Come on in - the Water's Fine" in 1955, which was published in the horticultural magazine Amateur Gardening. The demand for articles grew.

The BBC produced a TV gardening programme, hosted by Percy Thrower, from its studio in Birmingham. It was in black and white, live and no recording. Bill was first asked to appear in April 1960. I can't remember which appearance it was when the family was allowed to accompany him. We had to sit well out of the lights in the studio and both boys were suitably cognisant of the imperative of silence.

In 1961 or '62 the family moved from Ferndown and Bill joined a specialist garden centre, Highlands Water Gardens in Rickmansworth.

Growing into my teens I was delightfully unaware that my father was now England's leading expert on garden ponds. A narrow field, I grant you, but it's always nice to be looked up to. I did know that I could earn money by working with him at weekends.

To me, he was 'my Dad'. He didn't get overly involved in child rearing, as was the custom of the day. But he did take me fishing. I remember with great happiness sitting with my Dad by rivers and canals watching for a float to bob. A warm, sunny day at Lacock where, as I recall, we caught nothing and it didn't matter. A bitterly cold, winter day in Norfolk fishing for pike. Catching perch in a Somerset drainage canal while we stayed in a pub, which was then a huge treat.

Best of all was fishing at sea from a boat. This was exciting because it was unpredictable. Off Teignmouth in a dinghy Dad started hauling in the anchor. “Why are we moving?”, I asked. “I'm sick as a dog.” That's when I noticed he had gone a pale green shade. In Ireland we caught BIG fish; a 30lb tope and Dad battled a huge skate for abut 40 minutes before it broke the line. It was in Ireland, too, that a fellow fisherman gaped when I said “Dad.” “Sure, I thought you was fishing buddies.”

Back in Rickmansworth, Highlands Water Gardens was sold. The new owner was difficult to work with. When Dad proudly told him he had written a book about water gardening the instant reaction was, “How much are getting paid for it?” Lawyers were retained in a bitter wrangle, but eventually The Lotus Book of Water Gardening was published in 1973 and sold over 150,000 copies. It was translated into French and Dutch.

The relationship with Highlands Water Gardens did not survive the argument. He was working at Wildwoods when his second book, Ponds and Water Gardens, was published. There has been a second edition and two revised editions after that.

To give you a glimpse of Bill's skill with words, today's reading is from the preface to Ponds and Water Gardens.

Read

And that, I think, is enough of my voice for now.

Dad's second selection is Muggsy Spanier's Ragtime Band playing Relaxin' at the Touro.

Nigel

Here is the recording my brother, Nigel, sent from England. After him, you are all invited to say a few words if you want to.

Play recording.

Invite speakers.

Mike Theilmann

Amongst the many sympathetic words emailed from around the world, the ones I would like to share with you come from Mike Theilmann. The Theilmanns are related through the Roblou side of the family, and have been good friends for a very long time. Mike and his wife, Maren, now live in Ottawa, Canada.

Read

Thank you, Mike.

And now Muggsy Spanier again with Lonesome Road.

Retirement

Charles Thomas of Lilypons Water Gardens formed the International Water Lily Society in 1984. So Bill (always with Irene tagging along) was able to share his love and enthusiasm in person with others from around the world, but particularly the USA. Bill and Irene couldn't make it to the very first IWLS Symposium but after that they were always there until their last visit to Baltimore in 1998.

Bill delivered the keynote address at its 1986 symposium.

At the 1988 symposium, IWLS awarded Bill its highest honour. They inducted him into their Hall of Fame in recognition of his outstanding contributions advancing water gardening.

Visiting the USA rather regularly satisfied a special curiosity of Bill's, the American Civil War. Upon gratifying his water gardening interests in the area he and Irene were visiting, he then reviewed Civil War events of the locality.

It was through an IWLS contact that Bill arranged one of the most romantic gifts ever. American growers had finally rediscovered how to breed new kinds of water lily. For my parents' 40^th wedding anniversary, their 'ruby wedding', he arranged for a new variety of red lily to be named “Irene Heritage”.

My parents were married for 60 years, all but 10 days. After Mum died in 2008 I invited Dad to join me in Nelson for a holiday. He liked it so much he applied for permanent residence.

Nearly all of the credit for Bill's enjoyment of his final years belongs to Eve. She had much the lion's share of the work of caring for Bill as he aged. Thank you, Eve, from the bottom of my heart.

Bill's legs could not carry him so far and his memory became ever more unreliable. But in Mapua and then on the farm in Woodstock he was able to enjoy the Nelson sunshine and the birds and a delightful view.

In March this year, shortly after his 91^st birthday, he moved into Woodlands Rest Home so that he could be provided with round-the-clock professional care. I made sure to take him for a drive and a coffee every weekend. More often than not, Eve came too.

Last Saturday we went to Rabbit Island. Bill stayed in the car while Eve and I had a walk on the beach. Then we all went for a coffee. He tackled a large piece of coffee cake with the enthusiasm of a tiger tucking into its tea-time coolie.

Back at Woodlands he rejected my first farewell hug as not good enough; we had to have a real rib-crushing bear-hug. I count myself very fortunate to have such a positive memory of our last time together.

Dad could not ignore his favourite musician, so, to play us out, it is Benny Goodman with Moonglow.