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| And then one sunny day... Image courtesy of HancockMcDonald at eltpics |
August 2016. Twelve years since I lost two
close friends. I wasn’t actually careless enough to lose them, but language
works that way. They went, were taken, shuffled off, kicked the proverbial, passed. Their numbers came up. They expired. I can wander from the
poetic-romantic end of the linguistic spectrum to the brutal but it is what it
is. Their life ended. They died.
And twelve years later, in a year when
Death has edged closer to me but (touch wood) had second thoughts, both these
friends suddenly came to mind. While cooking curry. I’d rather not ponder the
reasons for the thought-association, while
stirring two versions of ‘leftover curry’ – meat and meat-free - but yeah, Thomas Hardy was wrong. Death doesn’t creep up dressed in a cowl, bearing a
scythe. Death doesn’t slide in through cracks in the door, in the middle of a
cold grey, winter’s day, while branches are weighed down and crack under the
burden of icicles and melancholy. It doesn’t cause you to consider, as you
stand solemnly, the ashen colourlessness of frosty leaves lying by a pond that
cold winter’s day. It comes to you – and to your thoughts - as you add spinach to
your Pataks-and-cauliflower in the middle of August when it’s 35ºC out, and you
still have to water the bougainvillea, which is looking a bit peaky but ‘grey’
is hardly the right word. And Death can come in ways as different as my two
friends. But like my two friends, at the end of the day, it’s the same.
Anthony was the first to go. He went on St
John’s Day, the Midsummer Night of Shakespeare’s dream. It was 2004. If we’d thought
about it, we knew it was coming, but of course we didn’t think about it; he was
36, so why should we? He’d had a tumour removed, one that was benign in some
senses but had caused his heart to race for so long it had used up a large
number of its quota of beats. It was the heart of an eighty-year-old man, he’d
been told. Somehow that had only meant ‘take care and don’t eat doughnuts’, ‘calm
down and stop working like a thing possessed’ to us. The fact that eighty-year-old
men don’t tend to live that long hadn’t really sunk in. He’d carried on
laughing and working madly and drinking pints down-in-one and being Anthony but
less stressfully. He was a wonderfully colourful person who could down
those pints with rugby player pals, while comparing not-yet-fashionable-except-amongst-
generally-sea-faring-folk tattoos on his upper arms one minute (Woah the lads,
you should’ve seen their faces…..), and the next minute stand on the table
singing Liza Minelli (what good is sitting alone...?), cooing ‘oo’er
missus’ and discussing friends’ silicone implant after-care. Some days and
with some people, he was all pink and frosting, while others he was D-I-Y
and stainless steel. He played the piano and keyboards and counted Marc Almond
and Andy Bell amongst those who had benefitted from that particular talent, was his marvellous mother’s best friend, could probably tackle an
All Black during a friendly, taught (and was loved by) many a happy
English language student, was my fellow fan of friend Leslie’s soups (we made a merry-but-odd, all singing, all dancing trio) and
despite seeming as English as Elton John and Bakewell tart, was half Spanish (his
surname a popular brand of toasted sunflower seeds) but born in what is
now part of Morocco. He could be mean to mean people, mad, wonderful,
theatrical, very nervy, generous, hilarious, obsessive (particularly in
love or lust), and fantastic company. He could make you feel like he was your duvet
when you felt down, enveloping you in caring, affection and unexpected warmth,
he could drive you crazy, he was a natural. I remember him coming to visit me
in Seville (in the 10 months I was there before he died, he visited twice) and coming with me to visit a close friend of mine. It transpired that they had worked
in the same place at the same time and had friends in common; they spent
hours and hours reminiscing. They hadn’t met before, and I confess I felt
jealous, envious and happy all at once. I had nothing to contribute
to the conversation and felt invisible, and, hey, who likes to feel like
that? – but I was also over the moon that two people I loved could just spontaneously
ignite that depth of conversation. I still smile remembering it.
Anthony was a king and queen, and went way
too soon. He felt ill at work, went home for a siesta, never woke up. A heart
attack at 36. When our soup-friend Leslie, our third musketeer, phoned me at
work to tell me, I didn’t understand at first. And then I did. My colleagues
thought I was having an epileptic fit. The water they brought me flew out of
the glass and down my front, rather than down my throat. I have never felt like
that before or since, not even when my mother went. It wasn’t worse with
Anthony, no, but it was so unexpected. And he was such a character. And so, so
dearly missed. My pink-sequined lager lout on adrenalin.
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| Here comes the sun.... Image by James Taylor at eltpics |
A month after Anthony went, it was Enrique’s
turn. They couldn’t have been more dissimilar, yet they were alike in various
ways. At first sight, Enrique was the antithesis of Anthony and his effusion.
Enrique spoke quietly, if at all, and was not an immediate lover of people.
Before answering a question, he’d lower his head, consider whether you were
worth his words, then raise an eyebrow and squint at you from under it. Not
everyone got the words. He was small, and somehow grey, blue and white, sharp-edged
sodalite to Anthony’s marshmallow. He loved photography, framing and family,
and was discreet at all times. He took time to warm to you and kept his circle
close – though ultimately not small. He was slow but sharp, thorough,
efficient, respected by everyone who worked with him, and, as a great
connoisseur of local eateries and drinkeries way beyond the level of ‘which bar
sells the best two-pint mugs of beer’, was a great person to include in your
social life. Along with three other friends – Silvia, Cristóbal and Ricardo –
he was the perfect ‘conversation and dinner’ companion. Although it took a
while to be allowed into his confidence, once there, he proved to be – like Anthony
– a perpetual supply of unexpected generosity. Not unexpected because it was
him, but because most people wouldn’t do the things he did. Small but important
things. I remember I was due to give one of my first conference sessions, and was
going to risk using pre-prepared transparencies – I’d only ever used an OHP
and hand-written transparencies before. This was around 2001, so I’m not THAT
much of a Luddite. For some reason Enrique found out – maybe we’d been talking
about it at breakfast in the factory canteen where the five of us often had our
coffee – and he colour-photocopied all my slides onto transparencies for me,
giving advice on colour, layout, font-size and so on. That sounds like nothing
nowadays, but then, and in the Canaries, it was huge. As cutting edge as a
high-tech machete. He helped me with photography, he got hold of a stack of
boxes when I moved, he even helped me choose my car. There was something about
Enrique – like Anthony – that when you knew him, you loved him, you were
genuinely happy that he had such a happy family life and marriage, because it
was what you wanted for a friend like that.
At the end of August 2004, while fishing
with his son-in-law, Enrique was swallowed by the Atlantic. The waves smacked into
his son-in-law first and carried him away and Enrique tried to save him.
Neither of them survived. The grandchild that he'd just met at the time will have recently turned twelve. Enrique was in his forties, and it was no way
to go. Too early and no way to go. But death is what it is. No cowls or
faceless skulls. Either your sell-by date comes into effect or somehow you’re
in the wrong place at the wrong time. There’s no romance, no poetry. If you get
some kind of warning, you start to clear up, you write a will, make sure your
debts are paid (if you’re that kind of person), you ensure that everyone you
love will have what they need (and a bit more), you may even prepare a ‘nice
surprise’ for them for afterwards. But no, Mr Hardy, you don’t go around
writing ‘oh woe is me’ poetry or trying to leave your mark. Your Blackstar isn’t just a legacy for your
fans, a donation to Art and History, a symbol of your perpetual capacity for creation
and creativity, your V-sign to death – it’s a financial plan for your loved ones,
insurance, inheritance, the mortgage paid, the school fees. It’s about them,
not about you.
Death comes when it comes, when randomness
or past excesses demand. It isn’t romantic or poetic or even vaguely
melancholic, Thomas Hardy was wrong. It isn’t the end either – it lasts, oh, at
least twelve years. It comes when you’re at work, during your siesta, when you’re
washing your face in the morning, when you’re enjoying the last days of your
summer holiday fishing with family. It comes when it’s 35ºC outside, when the
sun is shining, while the ice cream melts. It comes when you’re making curry.
And sometimes, just sometimes, it comes – and it pisses off again.
