Goodbye to a friend
Just three weeks ago I was planning all the things we could do this summer. I planted rhubarb, because he always liked the young, sweet stalks that were just ready when he came back each summer. We had started taking the turf off the rock at the top of the garden where we had planned to have the alpine garden, and I wanted to get it planted before he came, so that he could see that I WAS doing some gardening even when he wasn’t here. The woodpile has decreased dramatically over the winter, eaten up by the voraceous stove, but there is plenty more where he had stacked it along the side of the house. All the air bricks carefully left open. So like him.
The phonecall came when I was driving to work. I had dropped Rumer at Ordhill, and the traffic over the Kessock Bridge was settling. I was still later than I wanted to be, and thought about leaving it to voicemail. Had I heard? Was it true?
I got on the phone to India as soon as I got in. It was true. Very sudden, with no sign of a problem. Five hours till he went, sleeping through it, unaware of the void he was leaving in all our lives.
He was a gentle friend, who brought us companionship, sound advice - not just on our gardens, but on life in general - and lots of laughter. He made great soup. His mango bread was something we waited for each summer. He was much better at weeding than any of us ever would be.
I walk past him everywhere. The strings to hold the clematis and the planters for the potentilla at the front door. The roses I see along the fence when I am at the computer. The woodshed. The awning for the logs. David’s boat with its clean keel. And most of all, his wonderful, Grand Designs compost heap. I can’t throw anything out without weighing up whether it can be added. The rich, dark loam is working its way through the plots now, putting some of him all round this little spot he loved.
I am one of many who misses him. We will remember him with love and smiles, but just now I just have to keep reminding myself that I was blessed to know him. And the alpines will be his memorial.