One Hundred Days.
1st March 2018 might have been the so-called first
day of spring (leading many to complain about how snowy and bitterly cold it
was), but for me it marked one hundred days since we lost Cherry. It was also
leap-year baby Simon's 46th birthday (or was it his 11th or 12th, we all like
to keep the options on that one open !). Strangely it was also the date that
Simon and Ruth got together. Even more strangely, it was the day that Cherry
and I did too. The end of February/start of March, with a rolling Leap Year 29th February in the middle, seems a period of significance.
We called February 28th/29th 'Anarchist Day' and for many years
celebrated it on a level with birthdays and wedding anniversaries. The name
derived from an assignment I had as what the Americans call a 'cub reporter'
for London University's Sennet which
was then the student newspaper with the biggest circulation in the UK. I had
aspirations of being a journalist when I left college ( and was promoted to
News Editor at the end of my first year - a fact that helps explain a very
chequered university career). That day, I was despatched to report on Anarchist
activity in West London. Somehow, I managed to wangle myself into an Anarchist
meeting and took Cherry along as cover. Since the notion of organisation and
committee procedures seem antithetical to being an anarchist it was a very
curious occasion with much non-confrontational debate and nodding of heads,
leading to the slow emergence of the general will and the reluctant assumption
of the tasks that emerged. We both thought it all very idealistic and
charmingly harmless so combined to write a balanced and non-sensational
article. Despite that it was very well received.
But the real point of all this was that on the tube
going back we agreed that our 'friendship' had advanced to something quite a
lot more than that. I have to say though, that neither of closed off all other
options completely. To a limited and diminishing extent we both continued to
play the field. Cherry, in particular, had a swathe of admirers many of whom
were disturbingly rich and well connected; they included a future President of
Botswana, a charming Armenian from an oil-rich dynasty in Baghdad (Heaven only
knows what happened to him), the protégé of a well known publishing house, the
son of the Manager of the London Hilton (the real one) all too ready to exploit
the advantages that offered, and a glamorous Army officer in the Green Jackets
(we heard some years later that the poor fellow was blinded by an IRA letter
bomb). All I had in that way was a flickering interest in the daughter of the
Governor of the Tower of London. By the early Summer of '64, and well before in
my case, all these alternative options had fallen by the wayside. I was
sufficiently confident of my status in Cherry's eyes to turn up one day in
August, unannounced, penniless and dishevelled, at her house in Paris on my way
back from a two month hitch-hiking tour around Greece and Turkey. I blush now
to think of the insouciance of it all.
So, one way and another, there was a lot to think
about on that one hundredth day. Looking back, I'm not sure if that time has
passed quickly or slowly. It was certainly busy. This was partly because the administrative
consequences of losing someone (probate, taking over jobs never done before,
explaining things to other people, finding out the details of how Cherry did
things like insuring the cars) eats away at the hours; moreover my very
supportive family and friends are still doing their best to keep me occupied. On
top of that, even a relatively low-level of academic re-engagement, after nearly
a year of abstinence, takes time especially in my (naval) field of interest where
change is the only constant, and keeping up a real challenge. The result of all
this is that I don't have much time to sit around and twiddle my thumbs. I'm
quite sure this is a good thing since not being busy would lead me to brood
over my loss even more than I do.
The oddest and most unexpected things can set it off,
even so. Such as taking our ancient Burmese cat, Minnie, to the vet for her
regular six-monthly medical check up. I was curious as to why she was going
round the house yowling so much. The vet poked and prodded her and concluded
that there was no physical reason for this. Perhaps, he suggested, she was
missing my wife. That hadn't occurred to me, and for the first time, as I
explained to Philippa that evening, I nearly 'lost it' for the first time in
public. It conjured up painful memories of the cat cuddling up to Cherry for
the first couple of hours after she died. I've been even nicer to Minnie since
- lighting the fire for instance when it's not really cold enough to warrant it.
Now she's taken to sleeping in front of it even when it's not lit. I'm
convinced that she thinks if she stares at it long enough it will spontaneously
burst into flame. Weirdly, that sometimes happens - but usually only when I've
inadvertently laid it over embers that are grey but still hot. But she of
course doesn't know that !
Otherwise, things progress. There is something
inexorable about the advance of time, measured out by the stately tick-tocking
of our Grandfather clock. This is a country clock, somewhat agricultural in its mechanics, that
was made in Chichester in the early 1780s. I like to think that it came into
the family as new when John Till one of our antecedents married a widow in 1785 leaving him later rich enough to
leave a will. With some interruptions ( it ground to a long halt,
begrimed and ignored, sometime after the First World War, but was restored
after the Second by my father) it's been plodding on, generally 
impervious to
the change all around it. Grandfather's ticking and striking is a continual
reminder that you can't make time go backward, or even stay still, much as you
might like to. Slowly, very slowly, I'm beginning to accept that I will never
see Cherry again, painful though that is. There's a dreadful finality about
that word 'never.' Jonathan, a long
time friend from Greenwich days, warned me on the basis of his own
experience, that once the initial flurry
of activity dies down, things were likely to get worse before they get better -
and I can see what he meant. In a way,
every time I alter something, even the arrangement of things in a kitchen
cupboard, I'm slipping something that moored Cherry to Wansdyke Cottage and to
me - and it stings, even seems faintly
disloyal. I make up for it by talking to the many pictures of her scattered
around the house.
Another thing I've learned is that my situation is a
good deal more common than I had realised. It's happened to at least six of my
friends and colleagues. I suppose I had never really hoisted this possibility
in, because having prostate cancer for the past decade or so, I always assumed
I would go first. And the sad and untimely death through the consequences of a
road accident of the Rev Beth Brown who officiated over Cherry's commemorative
service at All Cannings church reinforces
Cherry's philosophy about seizing the day and making the most of it, rather
than wasting time through wallowing around in over-caution and self-pity, because
we never really know what's coming. It takes a bit of an effort though. Coincidentally again, Beth died on February 28th
Time seems to have been a theme of this blog. Some
interesting aspects of it have surfaced in the garden recently. I took them
along to the local museum at a member's
day a little while ago. A weird
collection of things ranging from some Romano-British pottery to a cap-badge of
the Royal Welch Fusiliers, and including Civil War era clay pipes and a pistol
ball (from some skirmish between the Parliamentarians of Marlborough and the
Royalists in Devizes ?) and a fossil of a sea urchin. Strangest of all perhaps,
this - probably an 18th Century wig curler. Now that the snows have cleared
away and the sunshine lures me into the garden , I shall need to keep a sharp
eye out for other evidence, should it be needed, of the passing of time.
One last thing, I was buying some matches in
Morrisons when a coin was apologetically returned to me. It was a US 'quarter'
probably inadvertently mixed in with UK coins on my return from Boston. And yes, California,
a new one for Cherry's collection. Now there's only Alabama, Idaho, Illinois,
Iowa, Maine, Mississippi and Missouri to go !
