I bit my bottom lip and made it bleed at your funeral. It was either that or break down in tears and set others off.
After we met, you became the father I had lost at 16 and I was the son you never had. You did have a daughter, but you never got on.
How we met I cannot recall exactly, but it was almost certainly in the pub near your house. You had lived alone since your wife’s death and managed very well, but your sister, who lived locally, visited frequently.
We had lots in common: you liked your gill of ale, while I preferred my pint; we were both steam-train buffs, you having worked as a signalman while I had spent hours of my childhood taking down the names and numbers of locomotives from my vantage point in the park opposite my house.
We also shared an allotment beyond the pub car park and provided produce for the landlord by virtue of a peppercorn rent.
I recall one Sunday afternoon when I visited you because the Railway Children was on television and I knew I would choke at the scene when Bobbie goes to meet her father at the station. When I got to your house, the television was off and I soon found out that you, too, were resisting the temptation to well up emotionally. We were sensitive souls alike.
One evening when I arrived late at the pub, I was surprised to find you in animated conversation – using your hands! I was amazed to learn that you could sign – not the sort of skill you expect from an ex-signalman.
You did not enjoy the best of health with your diabetes. When it got really bad, you went to live with your sister and her husband. I would visit often and you seemed quite happy within yourself.
One Saturday morning your sister phoned, saying you wanted to know if I could visit you that lunchtime rather than the Sunday as planned. I was not otherwise engaged and came to see you for an hour.
After chatting about this and that, you were visibly tired and said you fancied a nap – and then came the handshake, a quite unexpected gesture that lives for ever in my memory.
We had never shaken hands in our relationship, but you raised yourself slowly from your seat and offered your hand, thanking me for coming. Your right hand had pulled levers and felt huge, while mine was soft and more used to pens and board-markers.
It was half past seven the following morning when your sister phoned. As soon as I heard her voice, I knew it was bad news. After I had left, you had slipped into a coma from which you never regained consciousness and died peacefully in your sleep.
I was 28 when we met. I’m 70 now, but you are as alive in my head and heart. To this very day, I still ask myself the same question – did you know you were about to die and was the handshake your way of saying goodbye to me? I shall never know, nor will I forget the moment our hands were clasped in friendship for the one and only time. Whether the handshake was a spontaneous gesture or a prompted farewell – maybe I’ll find out for myself one day.
Ken
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