A new undertaking

THE SPASMS of uncontrolled national grief after the death of Diana Princess of Wales were astonishing. Crowds laid a fragrant carpet of flowers outside Kensington Palace.

They lit candles, wrote cards and sobbed in the streets.

Through the week that followed the 1997 Paris car crash, in which Diana's lover Dodi Al Fayed also perished, there was a crescendo of emotion, culminating in her Westminster Abbey funeral.

By the time Elton John had sung his tribute to England's rose, there barely a dry eye in the country.

Paul Capper went to St James' Palace to pay his respects to the dead princess and present the condolences of the British Institute of Funeral Directors.

From a professional point of view he describes Britain's most famous funeral, which he watched from Whitehall, as "excellent".

Outside Paul's Eastleigh funeral parlour are the limousines used by princes Charles, William and Harry on that momentous day, along with the hearse which carried Earl Spencer - Diana's father - to his final resting place.

Now all this "heart on sleeve" behaviour over Diana was very out of character.

The British are not thought to be in the habit of going overboard on mourning, instead hiding their unease about the subject of death beneath a blanket of black humour.

But of one thing we can be sure, we're all going to ultimately pay a lengthy visit to an undertakers one day.

Paul Capper is a dapper 34-year-old who, perching on the edge of a sofa in his offices, admits with a certain twinkle in his eye to looking "as old as God's knickers".

Colden Common born and bred, while other boys dreamed of trains and planes, he had wreaths and wakes on his mind.

"Coming from a large family, I went to three or four funerals a year as I was growing up, plus I've always been a car enthusiast.

"I realised my dream about 12 years ago when I started as a chauffeur and pallbearer."

Having been operations director for a large Portsmouth firm for three years, he finally got the chance to start his own business last October.

Last weekend Sir Clement Freud was among the guests when he officially opened his Eastleigh company.

Now Paul's proud of his famous connections, quasi-celebrity status and fat book of press cuttings.

There he is in Hello! Magazine as a pallbearer for Leonora Knatchbull.

And, blow me, there he is again, complete with black top hat and cane, poised for the crematorium, staring out from a TV guide promoting BBC2 documentary The Long Goodbye.

Suddenly, the phone goes, and Paul bounds to his feet with amazing turn of speed, answering the call in a caring, almost deferential voice.

"People now have more meaningful funerals about the person themselves," he asserts, dashing back into the room.

"It doesn't have to be all black and mauve and sad.

"All the funerals I choose to do are about the person - if someone wants white horses and white carriages, that's exactly what they get."

Independent funeral directors are a rare commodity in Hampshire today as many are now part of huge companies.

Paul recoils in horror at the mere mention of the multi-national big players.

He takes his profession extremely seriously.

Following the sudden death of his mother at the age of just 49, he is only too aware of how the passing of a loved-one can plunge someone into a maelstrom of misery during which they have to make pressing decisions about funerals, wills and what kind of sherry to serve at the wake.

And he welcomes the growth of grief counselling: "Everyone needs someone to talk to. I found my mother's death to be like a gift of understanding of what people go through.

"It's the worst two weeks of someone's life. They invariably have shock, anguish, guilt, sadness and anger. The funeral director is there to be trusted to look after their loved one.

"Choosing a funeral director should be like choosing a restaurant - you should be offered the chance of seeing what the chapel of rest is like."

Having collected a "guest" and brought them back to his newly-built fridge room at the back of his premises, Paul will spend between three and nine hours, working on the body, preparing it for that final journey.

In most cases he will perform what he refers to as hygienic arterial embalming and dress the body in either a shroud or clothes chosen by relatives.

There is a wide range of coffins to choose from these days, from your oak veneer to your woven environmental number.

And then there's the all singing, all dancin' American casket, with fluffy lining and air-tight seal.

This stops the body from decomposing for up to 75 years.

"Up until my mother died I was going to be cremated, but now we've had a family vault built and I'll go there. For my funeral I'll have to have a Rolls Royce hearse - preferably my own."

There's normally a period of around a week between someone's death and their funeral - though this can become longer in winter when a rise in the number of deaths adds pressure to the system.

"While there are still a lot of traditional taboos, I think there's a lot more openness about death. More people are better prepared for it.

"Whitney Houston seems to be creeping in and other secular music at funerals - mum's favourites, such as Glen Miller."

Nowadays people can also fit family funerals around their work.

Basingstoke crematorium is open on Saturdays, though Southampton has yet to follow suit.

Paul confesses how he finds it hard to remain emotionally detached from the families of his "guests".

"About once every six months a funeral will really upset me. Anyone who doesn't get upset when, say, dealing with the death of a small child, shouldn't be in the job.

"People need to be treated with the utmost respect as if they are still alive. Though I do know some funeral directors who can't touch the deceased."

But being "one of God's dustmen" (his term) doesn't stop Paul from letting his hair down away from work as an antidote to dealing with a relentless stream of grieving customers: "Though I don't want to make us sound like debauched rugby players," he adds, carefully.