Rhys Jones: It was a day for bright colours in recognition of Rhys Jones's vivid life

Sep 7 2007 by David Charters, Liverpool Daily Post

In the majesty of a grand cathedral, a city said farewell to a little boy. David Charters reports

THEY carried his coffin into the great, Gothic nave of the big house, where kings and queens, prime ministers, tramps and paupers, footballers, lords and ladies, even a Pope, have clasped their fingers in prayer.

There waiting for him, heads turned towards his approach from the West Gates, were thousands of men and women.

And they came to be with him, wearing shirts of the many colours God has given us to brighten the day.

In their hearts was the need to say goodbye to the little boy, whose stay here was too short.

And then his name filled the whole cathedral.

Say it loud, Rhys Jones. For in death, this boy with brown hair has come to symbolise the hope of decent, loving people.

And when his little coffin was carried down the aisle, beneath the splendour of the arches, everyone clapped and the clapping grew in rhythmic insistence until the walls seemed to tremble and the eyes of strangers were filled with tears.

For almost two minutes, they clapped because Rhys was a little boy for whom the sun had risen in promise every day.

Then there was that shot in the dark and everything changed.

Liverpool’s Anglican Cathedral has held many funeral services, some for glorious men and women, whose names are inscribed in history.

Rhys wasn’t down here long enough for that. But his 11 years had brought joy to his family and friends. Of course, he could scrape his knees and bruise his hopes like all little boys because that is what he was – a good boy, loved profoundly by his parents, Stephen and Melanie, and his big brother, Owen.

A mighty organ thundered in his memory. But they wanted to hear him laugh again.

And Stephen and Owen, along with Rhys’s uncles, Neil and David Jones, carried the coffin on their shoulders. It was painted blue in praise of Everton, the football team which he had supported with such enthusiasm.

And as he was borne towards the four pillars on which the coffin would be rested, Daniel Bishop, the organist, gradually slowed the processional march into a plaintive interpretation of the Z Cars theme, adapted from the old Liverpool folk song, Johnny Todd.

To the left of his coffin sat the schoolboy’s family, dad in his Everton shirt and mum in her blue scarf. At the front of the other row were the dignitaries – Professor Philip Love, High Sheriff of Merseyside; Cllr Paul Clark, Lord Mayor of Liverpool; Bernard Hogan-Howe, Merseyside Chief Constable, and Sir Terry Leahy, chief executive of Tesco and an avid Everton supporter.

Some rows behind them were members of the Everton team not on international duty and former Liverpool players, including Brian Hall, John Aldridge and David Fairclough.

For this was one of those occasions when the clubs united in remembrance of something more important than football.

This little boy in the blue box had drawn Liverpudlians to the cathedral from the clattering, frightening lifts of high-rise flats to the plush lawns of privilege. First to arrive that morning had been Bernard Marshall, 70, a retired gardener from Wavertree in a Number 9 Everton shirt.

“I’m here to see the lad off on his journey, wherever it is,” he said. “That is all I can say; I am not very good at this sort of thing.”

By then, Diane Harrison and Ellie Murphy, from the Church of England Flower Arrangers, were working on the gladioli among the other flowers in the porch. They had done two other displays, and some flowers had been sprayed blue for the occasion.

The candles being lit in memory of Rhys were also blue.

Outside, a gaggle of football fans decorated a lamp-post in the red of Liverpool, a cap perched on its round head.

This was a day for bright colours, not only for the football, but in recognition of the little boy’s life being vivid and full.

Inside, mourners took their places. But life goes on, even at a time of sacred thought: “I think we will beat Manchester United on Saturday,” said one Evertonian, as he looked around.

“For Rhys?” asked his friend. But the question wasn’t answered.

Instead, he said: “Hey, look, there’s the main man.”

Indeed, it was. The Right Reverend James Jones, Bishop of Liverpool, had just walked in, carrying a brown case. The Right Reverend Tom Williams, auxiliary Catholic bishop of Liverpool, was also there.

In Rhys’s going, something extraordinary had happened. His name was on the tongues of bishops. His memory was being revered in a high place of God, the biggest Anglican cathedral in Europe – the length of two football fields, as some publicity- conscious PR man had noted.

But Rhys should have been running free on a field with pullovers acting as goal-posts, his short legs pumping for the moment – because he was really just a little boy, who preferred lollipops to grandeur.

And then everybody began singing his favourite hymn: “All things bright and beautiful . . . each little bird that sings . . . the ripe fruit in the garden . . . the meadows where we play”.

It was a hymn for a little boy, who should have just started his first term in secondary school.

Hymns stirred our souls – the Lord Is My Shepherd and Abide With Me.

So did the sentiments of Rhys’s Uncle Neil, who read a poem written by the boy’s father.

“You to me are my whole world wrapped up special in one word . . . many hours of joy and fun, you really are a wonderful son.” So the little boy left the cathedral to the clapping of hands, like a great fluttering of wings. And Rhys’s mother kissed his little coffin in the hearse. It was just a sunny afternoon in Liverpool. Decent, loving people held hands and sang in praise of a little boy, a son and a brother, a friend, a scholar and a footballer, who left our world too soon.OPINION: PAGE 10davidcharters. . . many hours of joy and fun, you really are a wonderful son.”

So the little boy left the cathedral to the clapping of hands, like a great fluttering of wings.

And Rhys’s mother kissed his little coffin in the hearse.

It was just a sunny afternoon in Liverpool. Decent, loving people held hands and sang in praise of a little boy, a son and a brother, a friend, a scholar and a footballer, who left our world too soon.

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