Black Rock Secrets

Among the neatly manicured lawns and freshly painted trellising at the municipal park sits a large black rock. It's about as big as a Ford Sierra, give or take a bumper or two, and gleams in the sunlight like an outsize patent leather shoe. The reason for its highly polished appearance is plain to see, if you hang around the park until lunch time, when the children from the local Primary School are let out.

        ''Last one to the rock’s a wally''! Is the usual war cry, as fifty or so pocket delinquent’s race past the dozing lollipop lady. To the third year smokers at the front it's a make-do screen against prying park officials. To the slower second years, weighted down with Nintendo’s and lunch bags it becomes the fin of a giant Somethin-asaurus breaching the green slimy sea, or even the tip of a dragon's claw probing for wholesome tit bits. For the naive first years it's simply a slide that craves attention.

        Not all its attendants regard the rock with the same degree of awe and affection. Vagrants and wino's curse the fact that it lies smack in the middle of their nocturnal stagger from the off licence on Queens Street to the park toilets. White flannelled bowls players call it the blot on their pristine landscape and campaign tirelessly for its removal, so that yet another perfect green rectangle can be installed.

       

        On one particular cold day, in February, when all colour had drained from the park, and the school kids were condemned to indoor playtime, the black rock became just another shade of grey. An old lady shuffled through the massive iron gates, carrying an easel under one arm and a bum-weary shooting stick under another. It was deserted and quiet, save for the plaintive cry of a land-locked seagull, poking its orange bill into the tired grass

        "Storm at sea, eh''? Said the woman, as she pursed her lips and blew softly.

        ''No fish down there I’m afraid. I'd try the lake if I were you. That's if the Parkie don't shoot you first'' With that last comment she let out a short squeaky laugh that swapped coats with a bout of chronic bronchitis. Muffling the wheeze with her coat sleeve she continued walking, while the itinerant bird flew away.

It’s funny how public spaces change with the seasons. The people that frequent them also change, like new actors in some long running West End play. Summertime brings with it a whole pot pourri of visitors for immediate as well as more nostalgic reasons. Winter throws open it's doors to a more rattle-bag crowd. The tramps still come, as do the joggers and dog walkers, but along with these hardy perennials are more solitary souls. Perhaps the season draws them out.

        The old lady stopped a few feet in front of the stone, unfolded her shooting stick, and jammed the spike into the grass. She took out a few twisted tubes of paint from one deep pocket and withdrew a stunted horsehair brush from another.

         ''Wot yer paintin, lady?'' said a loud voice from behind her. She spun round clutching her chest and screamed at the onlooker

        ''Don't you ever do that again. You almost gave me a heart attack!''

        The object of her wrath furrowed his grimy brow and dropped the bottle of cheap Sherry from a gaping mouth.

        ''Shorry lady, I wosh only curious,'' said the old man, as he bent to retrieve the bottle, now glug-glugging its contents into the soil. He raised it to his lips again, took a final swig, and spat out a small pebble.

        ''Shit! Now I'll ave ter scrounge another one fer tonight''.

        As the tramp went through an alternative hand-grenade drill, Lilly studied him closely.  His appearance bore all the usual hallmarks of living rough and acquired alcoholism. Dried vomit epaulettes on the shoulders of a thick army greatcoat instantly elevated him to the rank of alcoholic first-class. He had large bloodshot eyes, a broad weather-scoured face, and grey wisps of hair that peeped out from under a shrunken woollen cap. She thought he'd probably spent some time in the forces, as the screeched orders seemed word perfect, if a little slurred and disjointed, plus the occasional stagger was more regimented than freeform.

        ''Prepare to pull the pin, sho, enshuring that a good grip is maintained at all times, hic''

        ''There's a litter bin not ten feet away, said Lilly pointing to a green receptacle emblazoned with gold lettering. Why don't you just drop it in there?''

        The man paused momentarily, his arms held straight out, like a fast bowler in freeze frame. Lilly gulped, audibly, and just had time to duck before the spinning missile shot through the space where her head had been, exploding on impact with the large rock.

        ''I name this ship H.M.S. ROBBY. God blesh her and all who shail in her.'' He saluted, with an exaggerated flourish and promptly fell to the ground.

Lilly stood up and gingerly walked over to the tramp to see if he had injured himself in the fall. She felt the oddest feeling as she crouched over him, watching the slow rhythm of his chest, rise and fall. It wasn't pity or repugnance, but a sense of overwhelming sadness, as though this sleeping giant were some dotty Uncle who'd fallen from   favour. The type of relative who's spoken of in whispers or unflattering generalisations when curious children are nearby. A vague memory had left some sort of impression. - Once vivid, now dormant and diluted by time, like a blind tasting; the flavour recognised but not the food. The more she concentrated the less she remembered. She gnawed at her thumbnail, but nothing surfaced, only blood and frustration. A thin film of spittle ballooned on his cracked lower lip. She had the urge to wipe it off with her handkerchief

        ''No!'' she yelled, and kicked at his muddy boots. There was no response, not even a groan.

        ''What am I doing?'' she cried, clasping both hands to her mouth. ''I don't know this man. He's a stranger, a complete stranger. Just some drunk sleeping off Wednesday's hangover. Just paint the stupid stone and go home.'' With that she turned, glancing round to see if anyone was watching, before setting up the easel. From around her waist she unbuckled an old ammunition belt, sliding out the remaining tubes of paint from each stiff canvass loop. Her hands trembled as fingers numbed by the cold tried to cope with unscrewing tiny tops. Impatience made her stuff them back into the pockets.

        ''Ok, sketch today, paint tomorrow. Pencils.... where did I put those bloody pencils?'' A frantic search ensued. Frisking herself for the elusive HB's, a coat lining surrendered two small splinters of charcoal. The large canvass was unclipped from the easel, to be replaced by an A4 sketch pad littered with numerous doodles and half finished drawings. That's the trouble these days, she thought. I never manage to complete anything. She swivelled round on the shooting stick to check on sleeping beauty.

        ''Perhaps I should paint you instead. I could do with brushing up on my still-life subjects.'' This was followed by a light chuckle, not prolonged enough to incite another coughing fit, just one of those ticklish ‘nut-in-the throat’ affairs. The tramp grunted and, opening both eyes performed what can only be described as a kind of slow motion sit up. He thrust both his arms straight out and reached the half way position before collapsing back onto the grass, with a loud thunk.

         Eat your heart out Jane Fonda. Thought Lilly, wincing at the sound of scalp hitting turf. The snoring resumed, bringing with it a noisy bout of digestive gurgling’s and anal fanfares.

        ''Jee-sus!'' exclaimed the old woman. ''All you need is a backing track, and you'd make a bloody fortune.'' She resisted the urge to start conducting, turning her attention to the drawing, and began scratching a rough outline of the black boulder. As she etched and smudged, a weak finger of sunlight caressed the surface of the wet rock, giving it more depth and outline. The veiny striations of quartz and mica sparkled like fools gold, before a passing cloud snuffed out their momentary brilliance.

        ''Killjoy!'' said Lilly sarcastically, squinting at the monochrome sky. ''I knew I should have taken that photo in June. I wouldn't have had to sit here in the teaming rain, hatching haemorrhoids, as well as having to contend with other distractions.”

        Strange, she thought, staring at the stone. In all the time I've been coming here, I've never touched it. I've had the opportunity, that's for sure, but it never seemed important till today. Can't figure out why it should be now.  With that she stood up and stretched, rubbing the blood back into her numb posterior. Around the base of the boulder she saw a shallow moat, only a gutters width, containing submerged fag ends and faded sweet wrappers. Any emerging childhood reminiscences were quickly quashed though, by the sight of a knotted condom and a syringe crossed together like some druggy coat of arms.

This stone witnesses everything. Every pimply arse. Every hurried coupling. Each Torniquet’ed forearm, bloody nose, whispered lie. It sees it all. Year after year it sits and waits for some new sensation to sustain it. Better than any great  oak tree or dark alley. You can scratch your name on it, and a few years later, if you’re suffering an identity crisis, you can return to see who you are. By then the memory's done its usual glossing -over-the -truth- bit and everyone’s happy.

True enough, jagged initials began appearing. Some were sanded smooth by elemental fingers. Other, fresher ones, hastily chipped out or painstakingly carved by the narrow blade of a knife or tooth-edged key were plain to see - F.K. WOZ ERE. And a date. In some places the autographs had been overwritten two or three times, maybe by jilted girlfriends or supplanted lovers? Lilly stroked her hands over the cool scorings, jamming fingers into older, deeper engravings, while skipping over the more superficial ones

        This tactile exploration was becoming vaguely erotic. Like petting the glossy coat of some fat lap-cat and feeling the dormant power beneath its thick fur. For one split second she had the urge to taste it, as though it would reveal some fragment of itself to her. She suddenly remembered licking pebbles on a school trip to Llandudno. On the way home in the coach, Mrs Bradshaw, a frosty old dame had slapped the back of her hand saying firmly, ''Don't do that child, didn't you see the dogs on the beach?'' When the old fart had gone she'd popped the whole thing into her mouth and sucked it like a gob stopper.

        Lilly smiled wistfully; completely unaware that someone was behind her, watching her every movement.

        ''Find anythi'n intresti'n amongst the graffiti?

        She screamed again, clutching her chest in an action replay.

        ''Twice! Have you ever thought of...of clearing your throat or doing anything to forewarn me of your imminent arrival? I swear you do it on purpose. She took a couple of deep breaths to steady her nerves before continuing. ''Well, what do you want now? I haven't any money you know.''

        The man flinched as the rush of words came pouring out.

        ''I...I didn't mean to startle yer. I'm sorry lady. I have this habit of creepi'n 'bout the place. You never know when the warden’s nearby. He hates me, see. I'm the fly in his ointment. Most of the other blokes doss down under the Band stand. Don't want any trouble. Me, well I kinda like the old park, reminds me of when I was a child.'' he paused, and Lilly thought she saw his eyes redden slightly. ''Anyways, me and this stone go way back'' As he spoke, he moved alongside the rock and patted it affectionately. ''I see them you know, the artists who make there marks on my stone. I remember their faces. It might be a few years but they all come back, to look and linger a few minutes. Some of 'em go right to the spot. Others circle it a few times to get their bearings. There was this one guy...

        ''Is this leading anywhere, interrupted Lilly. Only I'm very busy.''

The old man lowered his eyes and rubbed his hands together, silently. Lilly felt a twinge of regret at having snapped at him. His script's probably the same every day. It's just the audience that changes.

        ''I made my own mark you know, down there, where the water laps the side'' said Robby, almost resentfully.'' He crouched down on his haunches and scooped away the water. ''Here it is RN. NINETEEN FORTY SEVEN. Robert Newton, Nineteen Forty Seven.''  He gave the explanation slowly, his voice steady and distinct.   ''Nineteen Forty Seven. I was twenty years old then. Full of myself. God, I was full of myself. At that age you think you're indestructible. Capable of anything, don't yer?''

        He looked up at Lilly for a moment, and then sprang up and stumbled through the bushes on the edge of the grass. She followed his gaze and realised the warden was advancing towards her in a curious half run half walk, as if running would  somehow affect a loss of dignity. She smiled, ruefully and looked back to see the leaves of a large Rhododendron quivering gently.

        ‘‘Let’s see what all the fuss was about, eh?'' She stooped down and swished away at the pool of water that had quickly reformed. Lowering her head she squinted at the rock face.

        ''Here we are. RN. 1947.'' Just as she was about to stand up she caught sight of the top portion of some other lettering below, half buried in the alluvium. Pawing at the soft mud, with anxious fingers, she stopped to read the inscription.

        ''Damn! I can't make it out. It's obscured by all the filth.''  She cupped both hands and scooped up some water from a nearby puddle. Throwing it at the rock loosened the filled-in-grime. She pecked off the remainder with the end of her paintbrush.

        ''Has he been bothering you Madam'' said a rather officious voice from over her left shoulder.

        ''LOVES LILLY MAKEPEACE?'' she said, incredulously. ''Loves Lilly Makepeace!''

        She repeated it over and over to herself, quietly at first and then louder and louder, until the whole park could hear her shouting. The warden removed his cap, and scratched his bald head before speaking.

        ''Another bloody drunk,'' he said, under his breath, shaking his head and tutting. ''Come on now, enough's enough, move along will you?

        The figure hunched over the stone, ignored the first few requests, and it wasn't until the Parkie cleared his throat and tapped her on the shoulder that she turned to look up at him.

        ''Loves Lilly Makepeace, she said, softer now, her face streaked with fresh tears.

        
        ''That's me, she said again. Lilly Makepeace, that's me!''  


(c) Simon Daniels

Last Orders

 

I remember seeing her on the first cold evening of October, with her head hunched over both knees, as if she was desperately trying to hide some valuable item or personal possession from us. She was ninety three years old, but passed for at least a hundred on a good day. Her age was no excuse for her appearance. The ambulance man carried her up the front steps with all the care and gentleness of a farmer with a new steaming calf. He elbowed the doors apart with consummate ease, while his assistant followed behind, holding two black bin bags.

I was not instantly aware what this frail thing was, male or female, animal, or otherwise. The dark and gloomy reception area made immediate recognition almost impossible; it was not until the visitors were virtually on top of me that my squint changed into a forced smile

"Can I help you ", I enquired nervously, failing to disguise my disbelief.

"Elsie Hughes, the relatives will be here shortly," replied the large man as he scanned the room for a vacant wheelchair.

"I'll just fetch one, won't be a minute". I returned pushing a rather floor-weary model, complete with flat tyres and sticking brake.

"Look Ron, you'd think we were back in the hospital" said the big man, half laughing. Ron answered with a sarcastic ''yeah'' as he placed the bags down near the door.

By this time, a few of my colleagues had appeared, passing through on their way to the dining room, as it was nearly tea-time. One of the care assistants gestured to the ambulance man carrying the lady to follow her, while I inwardly notched up another breakdown in communication, an all too common occurrence amongst the trained staff. I followed on behind the entourage, annoyed at the fact that I had not been informed of this woman's imminent arrival. I hoped and prayed a room had been allocated and prepared

"Number 18, here we are", announced Mary the Senior Care Assistant as she peered at the miniature name card on the door. On entering the room, I was relieved to see the bed had been made, and a clean towel and face cloth draped neatly over the washbasin.

"Where do you want these mate?" said Ron breathlessly, as he struggled in carrying the bulging bags, like a burly refugee fleeing from some disaster zone. Mary pointed at the wardrobe with one hand while her other quickly folded the bedcovers back. The other man lowered Elsie onto the bed, removing the blankets she was wrapped in and pulled up the bed clothes in well-practised synchronicity, to cover her bony frame.

"Thanks very much. Would you like a cup of tea"? I said, secretly hoping they would refuse on the grounds they were far too busy, as were we.

"It’s OK mate, we’ve another three old dears to drop off before we finish. Thanks anyway."

Why were ambulance staff so bloody cheerful all the time? Perhaps it was because they never had to get involved, and somehow managed to distance themselves from their cargo. A correct mixture of platitudes and detachment was all that was required before they ejected their hapless passengers. Their script was short and sweet, ours was improvised and ad-libbed.

Whilst all the kerfuffle had been taking place, Elsie had remained silent, probably unaware of her new surroundings, or too busy channelling her thoughts and actions into staying alive. Disorientation manifests itself in many different guises. Some people chatter away like discontented simians, while others choose to clam up, most likely as a result of sensory overload, or a defective hearing aid battery. As she lay there, foetal-like I was reminded of the time I found a wounded animal at the side of the road. It had obviously suffered multiple injuries under the wheels of some car or lorry and was evidently not long for this world. Even though its injuries were terrible and its appearance disfigured, the one thing that remained defiant and unaltered was the innocence locked into those deep brown eyes.

A rare quality of innocence shouted at me from inside this shell of a woman, a childlike quality reborn out of necessity or maybe finality. To say that she was thin was an understatement. When I drew back the sheets to examine her I couldn’t believe the extent of her emaciation. She looked more x-ray than human. The bones in her spine were like the teeth of an immense cog, turning under a translucent drum of skin. There was the odd stain of muscle here and there, strung together by cords of veins and arteries.

I picked up the sheaf of papers that passed for her medical file, flicking through all the ancient history until I found the most recent entry. "Profound muscle wasting and weight loss continues. I suggest this lady who has suffered from Pagets Disease for a number of years is transferred to a nursing home for intensive dietary supplements coupled with T.L.C. (tender loving care)."Then, with such a startling intensity that caused me to drop the file, there came a loud rasping cry from beneath the bedcovers.

"Get me a black treacle sandwich, Nora!" It was a totally unexpected outburst delivered with an all too apparent note of urgency, and would not be ignored. Who Nora was I don't know - it didn’t matter. I hastily glanced over the file to make sure that she was not a diabetic, and discovered she wasn't, so I closed the pages and left the room. On my return, complete with a very speedily fashioned sandwich, I noticed that Elsie's breathing was laboured and noisier than before. I attempted to sit her up, but her body resisted. It was curled up like a tensioned watch spring and every time I straightened her legs the torso wound ever tighter forcing the head into her chest. When I attempted the same manoeuvre with her upper body the legs doubled up in retaliation. The only way I could get near her mouth was to crouch on my knees and feed her from the side, which caused me excruciating neck pain, but it worked. She gnawed noisily at the glutinous offering pointed in the direction of her mouth, only stopping to suckle the air or swallow with her eyes screwed tight. Finishing the sandwich, she let out a deep sigh of contentment. By now, her whole body was tinged pale blue and her skin was cooling quickly. Her breathing, now reduced to tiny puffs of air was hardly noticeable in the stillness of the room

"Thank you Nora", she whispered as I craned my neck to hear. Wiping a few crumbs from her mouth, she turned up the brightness in those lambent eyes, before sighing deeply, and then died. I gathered the scattered papers together and my eyes were drawn to something written in red felt-tip under the heading "Dietary Preferences.'' In block capitals it read -

"ELSIE LOVES BLACK TREACLE SANDWICHES"...


(c) Simon Daniels

Lost in Shropshire

Agency work is useful for nurses in between jobs, or carers who need to supplement their meagre incomes. A few years ago I decided to try it for a few weeks while I waited to hear about an upcoming position at my local hospital. Sadly, the job never materialised and I ended up staying with the Agency for five years.

Agencies don’t suit everyone. To survive for any length of time, you need the hide of a Rhino, the resourcefulness of MacGyver and the communication skills of a hostage negotiator. Sure, you can earn a lot of money, if you’re prepared to go anywhere and work any shift with very little notice. Many’s the time I was out shopping when I received ‘the call’ from some harried office worker pleading me to drive forty or fifty miles to fill a last minute shift at some care home. I always carried a spare uniform in the car and performed many quick changes in public toilets and car parks. My ex-wife gave me the nickname Super Nurse and used to whistle the theme tune from Superman while I struggled into black trousers and a white tunic.

As a verdant recruit I used to refuse nothing and operate on the principle that the work could dry up at any moment. Consequently, I quickly became known as the ‘go to nurse’, for assignments that no one else would take. I endured this brutal baptism for the first few months, until a friend gave me the lowdown on how to beat the system. She would bypass the office and book her shifts directly with the care home or nursing client. This meant she developed a good rapport with five or six of her favourite homes who in turn placed her at the top of their emergency contact list. She also advised me to check with her before accepting a new job. The office staff were masters of understatement and spin, accentuating the positive aspects of a position, but leaving out crucial information. I soon learnt to decipher their coded language.

“He’s occasionally a bit naughty” – He may bite or throw furniture around if you don’t give him his special medicine bang on time.

“He can get a bit jealous if his wife’s around” – If I were you I’d go disguised as a woman, because if you don’t he may chase you around the garden brandishing his navy cutlass.

“The care staff are a bit thin on the ground’’ – If there aren’t any cars in the car park, when you arrive, turn round and drive off.

I quite liked been given home care assignments.  One-to-one nursing seemed purer somehow. It also gave me the chance to scratch beneath the veneer of ill-health and disability.

            “D’you fancy a bit of a road trip?” said Alison, as she sucked on a fresh cigarette.

            “Depends.”

            “Well, it’s in Shropshire. Now I know it’s a bit of a drive, but the client says you can do a long weekend if you like?” Pound sign butterflies hovered in front of my eyes, and I said yes.

The drive over was relatively straightforward.  I guided my old canary yellow Mark 1 Ford Capri through Shrewsbury town centre and past the majestic Long Mynde, laid out like a sleeping dragon. Back then, Sat Nav’s were only available as expensive options in  luxury cars, so every few minutes I glanced at the scribbled directions on my pink Post it.  The milometer said 67 miles and there was still no sign of my destination – Bishops Castle.

Convinced I’d overshot Boswell Hall, I got directions from a wild-eyed farmer who insisted on tapping his nether regions every few seconds like a dodgy pocket watch. I was also pretty sure vocal chords were located in the throat and not the scrotum.  Anyway, after a great deal of poking and gesticulating I wound up the window and drove away, completely befuddled.

I almost missed the turning. The cream coloured Georgian edifice was all but hidden by a stranglehold of knicker- pink azaleas and crimson rhododendrons. As I picked my way around deep potholes in the overgrown shingle driveway there were signs of neglect everywhere. A huge rust-encrusted sun dial minus its Gnomon teetered precariously on the large oval field that used to be a lawn. The remnants of a tennis court net hung in tatters as small shrubs vied for growing space along the faded tramlines. I picked up the scrap of paper from the passenger seat and half expected to see the name Mrs Haversham in big bold letters at the top.

The client’s ancient wife, Mrs Deborah Boswell was waiting for me under the crumbling front portico.  She gave me a well-practised smile as I backed my car underneath a large oak tree.

            “Simon isn’t it? “ she enquired in a deep Thatcherite voice, leaning heavily on a black scuffed walking stick.

            “Hello. Please to meet you Mrs Boswell.” I fought the urge to bow, proffering a soggy palm instead.

            “Deborah, please.” She shook my hand so lightly it almost floated away. Mrs Boswell bade me follow her inside where her husband, Colonel Boswell was waiting in the study. The place was dimly lit and smelled like an old shed.  Two enormous Grandfather clocks batted ticks and tocks between them like veteran table tennis players.  Threadbare Persian rugs barely muffled the sound of our footsteps as we walked - the tap-tap of Deborah's silver-tipped stick echoed throughout the house.

The Colonel was sitting in a faded green chesterfield, swathed in enough blankets to induce a fever. As I approached him he produced the broadest grin I’ve ever seen. The sort of grin used by someone who’s about to tell the best joke in the world.

             adding that her husband’s body language was much easier to understand. While she did her best to condense the last three years into half an hour, Colonel Boswell yes’d and nodded like a high court judge.

Before suffering a massive stroke he loved to go for long walks, was passionate about trees and couldn’t abide bad drivers. Well, at least we had one thing in common. I too loved to walk and suggested we explore the walled garden. Deborah promptly fetched some rickety old bath chair with solid rubber tyres and no brakes. She said it was a family heirloom, and I believed her. The problems began when I tried transferring him from comfy chair to wheelchair. He stood six feet eight inches in his cashmere socks, and weighed as much as a small car. It was no use asking his wife for assistance, as she could hardly support her own weight. Eventually, after six failed attempts I hauled him up like a recently felled tree and let him topple into the wheelchair. I half expected him to crash straight through the canvas seat, but he didn’t, and we were off. The going was slow to very slow inside the house, but deteriorated into ‘nigh on impossible’ as soon as tyres hit gravel.

            “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Shouted Mr Boswell, like someone beating out the stroke in a slave ship. The only way I could move him at all was backwards. He didn’t like this one bit and beat his huge fists on the arms of the wheelchair. I managed to drag him across the width of the drive producing two deep furrows as though a train had just been derailed at the front door.

Once on the slabbed footpath leading to the garden it was a lot easier. I asked him if we were going the right way and he pointed to a small opening in the high wall. Even though we’d only travelled about fifty feet I sweated and gasped like an overweight asthmatic. I wasn’t sure I’d make it back to the house and wondered if Deborah would object if we both slept in the greenhouse.

The walled garden followed the contours of a very steep hill, leading to a small copse at the top, so, in the absence of any ski lift or escalator, I made some feeble excuse about imminent rain and wheeled him back inside. After lunch, his wife said he always went for a drive in the countryside – to put him in a good mood.  Apparently he loved to show off his various pine forests that still provided pit props for the welsh mines. She explained his pit props were the only wooden ones left in the country.

I backed the Ford Sierra, complete with personalised number plate - AM 12 out of the semi-collapsed garage and repeated the effective but risky ‘felled tree manoeuvre’ to get him into the front seat. While I questioned my sanity for accepting this weekend treat the Colonel began pointing the way. Turn left was a loud bang on his window and turn right, almost knocked me out. A tap on the windscreen meant straight on. I could see by the greasy hand prints all over the windows that the Colonel liked to navigate a lot.

Once I explained I had no local knowledge of the roads whatsoever his face began to flush and tears welled up in his big blue eyes. Then the laughter started. Little coughs and splutters at first accompanied with much head shaking and gleeful yes’s. After a few minutes he dropped several octaves and did the best Booming Brian Blessed impression I’ve ever heard. The noise was deafening. Only when I screamed “Which bloody way!” at a T-Junction did he stop for a few seconds to catch his breath.

An hour later, after negotiating impossibly narrow lanes and countless sudden changes in direction we arrived at a roughly hewn three bar gate at the entrance to a large forest. The Colonel looked at me with an expression that said “Well, get out and open the gate then!” I soon discovered the gate in question was chained and padlocked so I did my best ‘unlocking a door’ mime from about twenty feet away. The colonel shrugged his shoulders at me and started laughing again.  My own sense of humour had gone AWOL about three hours ago, so I got back into the car and watched as the volume increased.

            “Where are we? I shouted. Don’t you have a key?” He answered with yet more shrugs and a few high pitched yes’s. I repeated the question.

            “Where are we?” After another intense bout of belly laughing he turned to me with tears streaming down his cheeks and said very slowly and clearly…

            “I have no idea.”

In 1995 I received a letter from Deborah Boswell saying that the Colonel had died peacefully in his sleep, aged 93. She was now aged 98yrs and wanted to see me again. Unfortunately she passed away before I could visit. Almost five years had elapsed since my last long weekend at Boswell Hall and yet she said I had made quite an impression on her husband. She also said many carers came and went, but no-one made him laugh or talk quite as much as me. 




(c) Simon Daniels