Dear Jum,
Your hair is whiter than I remember: whiter than Gandalf’s beard.
I see that you have, at last, written a book. I didn’t expect one from the grave but you were never the conventional type.
I was a bit miffed that no-one told me of its publication. Anyway, i bought a copy.
It contains many older columns that I have never read.
The foreword by Eric Idle and Brian Cox (I met him at your memorial service- nice fella!) will add gravitas, no doubt.
Catriona has done a better job with the portrait on the front cover, than the monstrosity that hung in Mum’s snug and made you look like a tortoise. It always gave me a laugh whenever I clapped eyes on it: like something The Dominican friar, Fray Tomás de Berlanga, might have seen lurking about the galapogos islands. I think it was Darwin who later discovered the Galápagos tortoise but I’m amazed he didn’t name it after himself- the embossed carbuncle.
Idle and Cox were very flattering: ‘The bastard could write’, and ‘I told him last week on our final call that my son will grow up a better man for having known him. ‘
I know that you’ve always shunned praise but I think both compliments should be received with good grace.
I think that many who knew you- and no-one knew you better than me- could say the same as Brian on behalf of his son.
We did have a laugh though , didn’t we?
I am confident that we shall meet again soon.
Has mum forgiven you for some of your more lacivious pieces?
Especially p.20 ‘Football in front,infibulation behind.
I had to look it up!
I can just imagine mum’s face: her pained expression and her reproachful and heavy-hearted sighing- “oh dear!” – at the thought that some acquaintance might read it and bring it up in general conversation;
A thought that terrified her.
The Spectator always arrived in a plastic wrapper and I was never permitted to undo it and peruse your writings. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy reading it- I never had the chance and might otherwise have been more ready with praise and encouragement.
I was assured that you were “touchy” about it. I should have liked to have read them then but a walk with the dogs around Little Dartmouth was better food for the soul. Oh! that view!
I expect that heaven is better by far. I don’t know how, but i’ll have to wait a little longer to find out.
I can’t wait to catch up! With mum and dad too.
I expect that you and dad have made-up by now: Best of friends, probably.
I hope you are not disappointed in me , as you look on. I’m doing my best.
I recall the last book you gave me to read: The camp of the Saints.
It seems, like Orwell and Huxley that it reflects real life nowadays.
I suppose that I should leave all that business to God. He’s in charge-not me.
I recently came across an email exchange between us, in which you greatly encouraged me to write:
‘Excellent Jim! Thanks Jim! Another one in the family who can write! Mum can too. Keep it up. Every day at least one thought or observation. Keep a handy little notebook. I’ll bring one. Continue to write without self- consciousness.’
I’m grateful for your advice.
I always knew that mum could write- I still have her letters.
You left this Earth last May.
I probably don’t need to tell you that I very nearly died on the anniversary of your death, having suffered a severe stroke and then, a week later, the agony of spinal compression due to a large tumour in my spinal column, between my shoulder blades. Nothing touched the pain, including copious amounts of morphine: enough to bring down a medium -sized buffalo.
They’re huge, muscular beasts up close and I have been lucky enough to witness one see-off a fully grown lion who was preoccupied in the act of copulation. You’d have got a column out of that.
Due to the ineffective pain relief, I spent 16 hours vomiting in the back of an ambulance and finally , due to the death of another patient, i got a bed where a catheter was promptly inserted into my penis and I instantly lost weight, when a litre of urine was drawn off into a bag.
Relief was instant. Excuse the expression , Mum- but come on
NHS- are you taking the piss?
I was already under palliative care at the local ‘Rowcroft’ hospice, but I thought that the good Lord had decided not to call me home quite yet.
In many ways , I look forward to that day. I can’t imagine what an atheist like Eric Idle would feel in the same circumstances. What a pity- he seems like he was a good friend to you. I’d love to talk it all through with him.
Two miracles had occurred in my case:
Firstly, there were no cognitive or physical effects from the stroke and the Doctor at Rowcroft agreed that i was considered to be an anomaly, by walking out of hospital after suffering spinal compression.
That’s what you had, wasn’t it? Painful and very unpleasant.
In the days following my release from hospital, I thought about you a lot.
You were unable to move due to spinal compression.
Funny that we both had/ have prostate cancer and shared the same oncologist for many years.
When you moved to France i used to spend half of my allotted appointment talking about you. I know that she was kind enough to write to you with good advice and that you were able to enjoy that wonderful view from the cave house to the end.
I’m sorry that i was not able to visit- especially at the end.
I’m not saying my own demise is imminent but i’ve stopped buying unripened bananas and avocados just in case.
One day at a time is my motto and i seem to keep waking up & getting on with life.
I spend each morning on my knees thanking God. Put in a word, will you?
I had one wish in hospital when i thought i was dying: it was to walk on the moors among the bluebells once more in May.
I have been able to walk for an hour at a time on Dartmoor including a very special picnic with my Josh, Emily, Michelle and the dogs to see the magnificent display of bluebells at Holwell Lawn near Houndtor which lasts maybe 2 weeks every year. We heard the cuckoo as i stuffed my cheese and pickle sandwiches. It was like heaven- I thought.
That i was able to walk there and sit in the shade of a hawthorn tree with my lovely family- I call that a miracle. Would Eric believe it, even then?
I hate to think of those poor souls who will never know heaven. I
Like the old CS Lewis quote:
‘ There are only two kinds of people in the end: those who say to God, “Thy will be done,” and those to whom God says, in the end, “Thy will be done.” All that are in Hell, choose it. Without that self-choice there could be no Hell. No soul that seriously and constantly desires joy will ever miss it. Those who seek find. Those who knock it is opened.’
I hope Eric finds the courage to knock at the door. Brian too! They were good friends to you indeed.
In our email exchange that i mentioned earlier, you said this:
‘‘There are so many unexpected positives to take from this experience. Love for a start, as you have so quickly discovered . Many irrelevancies can be disowned. It might be a trite thing to say- but I believe it~ apart from when was a child I didn’t start living in the sense of feeling fully alive until I got a cancer diagnosis. I was asleep at the wheel. I hope you feel the surprising , unexpected joy that I have.
He ended, ‘God bless you Jim.’
I’m happy to report that I do feel that same unexpected joy.
And God bless you too, Jum!
Having written a blog , including insights to my own cancer ‘Journey‘ ( an expression i despise)
I was particularly taken by a witty phrase in your column, ‘Still here’ and echo its sentiments:
‘Even if bloody Chaucer wrote a cancer column every week for the Sunday papers , it would quickly pall, …..’
Anyway, this is becoming a long and boring letter.
But you made me laugh again!
I imagined you in your writing room at Strete Lodge and chuckling as the sentence occurred to you. I considered taking you up a cup of tea for a chat and to see if you fancied a walk with the dogs. But I can’t anymore.
Though the book was a surprise, I take comfort from the fact that no-one, dead or living , knew you
better than me.
I still laugh at some of our conversations.
See you again soon!
Your loving brother,
Jim.
Add
I also liked the part when you discussed with young Oscar that we were lucky to be born now – having no concerns about where tho next meal is coming from . (P.17)
I love Oscar’s response:
“I’m not bothered about having enough to eat… I’m just glad I was born with you”.
Quite charming and very perspicacious for his age, then.
I love the picture of you with my Jack Russell, ‘Tip!’(page eight).
You weren’t at home at the time (psychiatric nursing then) but she was born in a makeshift pen in the garage at Malborough, and was out of Mr Allen’s best stud dog and ratter.
That is the same, Mr Allen, of the Southwest Terrier, Lurcher and Ferret Club. I still have the enamel membership badge. What memories!
I never liked your ferrets- malodorous and cantankerous beasts, they were.i can’t say that l liked handling them.
The picture of you (p7) in your bin-man days, reminded me of your comment that, in summer, as you hoisted the Salcombe bins onto your shoulder that the maggots fell into your mouth. Good protein, i suppose though our elite masters are now suggesting they should be on the menu to save the planet. They’re quite mad, you, know.