My Dear Cliff

I have no idea what made me search your names on Google on a cold and blowing Sunday afternoon, just an impulse from heaven-knows-where, but I did it just a few minutes ago and immediately found the funeral notice for Christine. We are deeply saddened.

I cannot tell you how many memories are flooding my mind, how many laughs and how many bottles of wine! The boys growing up, Emma’s arrival, the trip to France to see the Beacham’s, Wonderful Christmas Dinners (cooked by Chris of course) dogs, cats, a pony, a hamster and a rabbit!  Parties, expensive dinners in wonderful restaurants  (we first met in one in Castle Combe), listening to Andre Previn in the Colston Hall while dressed to the nines, and Salad Days in the Old Vic then dancing along the cobbled street afterwards. A Christmas Party where we met Frank Shipsides’ son and a year later you came out to Singapore bringing the painting of the Lady Moyra with you – it is hanging on the wall beside me right this minute.  Your visit to NZ.  Sailing in the Solent and chugging up the Thames (until the launch broke down!)  So many memories.

She will not be forgotten.

Vera and Errol

What is dying?
I am standing on the sea shore,
a ship sails to the morning breeze
and starts for the ocean.
She is an object of beauty
and I stand watching her
till at last she fades
on the horizon.
And someone at my side says,
‘She is gone’.
Gone! Where?
Gone from my sight – that is all.
She is just as large in the masts, hull and spars
as she was when I saw her,
and just as able to bear her load of living
freight to its destination.
The diminished size and total loss of sight is in me,
not in her;
and just at the moment when someone at my side says,
‘She is gone’
there are others who are watching her coming,
and other voices take up a glad shout –
‘There she comes!’
-          And that is dying.