You Have Not a Leg to Stand On

by D. D. Mayers

  It wasn’t financially viable to go home to Kenya more than once a year, so I tagged along with Peter and Carmen most of the time. When I told them how disappointing I seemed to be to the school, instead of taking it seriously and perhaps giving me some advice, they treated it as a huge source of amusement.

  I suppose this is how it’s meant to work, the older generation look after the younger, then, in turn the younger look after the older. So here we were with Peter at ninety. He died suddenly three years later. I can honestly say there wasn’t a single day it wasn’t a pleasure to be with him. One day he drove down the hill from his cottage to the vineyard as usual, not looking very well, sallow. He flopped himself on to the sofa in the kitchen and said, ‘I’m feeling awful, I haven’t slept a wink all night.’ We were naturally concerned. He went on, ‘I’ve got too much money.’ This piece of information was quite a relief, but surprising in its delivery. He and Carmen were renowned for being very careful with their money, to say the least. ‘I could have done so much more for Carmen.’ He’d got that the wrong way round, it was Carmen who did the saving. All her life she’d set herself the task to doing everything for less money than anyone else. Whenever we stopped for the night on one of our many trips, she’d say to Peter and me, ‘How much do you think I can get off the cost of the room?’ She’d win every time. She prided herself the only cheque she’d ever written was when she bought herself a mink coat just before the war.

  Now, Peter was to ‘set-about’ spending as much money he could before he died. He took us on our first ever cruise in the Mediterranean Sea. He bought us a new car so we could drive him for a wonderful trip to his beloved Switzerland, to be on the snow one more time before he died. He enjoyed it so much we did it again. He liked to organise everything to the last detail. He had a phenomenal memory. He loved to find places, the exact place he’d stood with Carmen on any one of hundreds of times he’d been skiing with her over the sixty years they’d been married. They’d always found each other amusing, so when we’d found an exact place, he’d chuckle at the memory of what Carmen had done or said. He’d never spent money so easily before, and he found it a liberating experience. Mind you, if he had spent money in the way he was doing at this point, he wouldn’t have it to spend now, Catch-22. He liked to be with us whenever we drove anywhere. On one occasion, we had to go to the funeral of a relative of my wife. He came along, stayed in the car with his newspaper while we were in the church, then we drove back home.

  Another very successful thing he invested in, which he’d never have dreamt of doing before this new-found liberation was ‘Sky Sport’. I told you earlier, his other abiding interest was tennis. He’d follow all the top players, men and women, all around the world. He knew everything about each player. Not just their game, their lives off court as well. He liked to be alone in his cottage in the evenings. He’d pour himself two large whiskeys and cook himself his supper. Always the same, a fillet of grilled salmon reluctantly accompanied with boiled broccoli because it was good for him. One of the things he did after leaving the army was to be the Secretary of the Ski Club of Great Britain, Eaton Square in London. He was there for twelve years. Of course part of the job then was to go to Switzerland and Austria and France for three months of the year, to represent the Club and help members with whatever problems they might have. The remaining nine months he worked at the club itself. He wrote a book covering and rating every single ski resort in Switzerland, Austria and France by skiing and staying the night in every one.

  I’ve told you how much he liked to organise. The Club suddenly found it started to make money. Not by putting up subscriptions or cutting down on staff, purely organisation. The Club ran an excellent little restaurant for members and one of the items on the menu was steak and kidney pie. Peter had his table reserved for lunch and every day, for nine months of the year, for twelve years he had steak and kidney pie.

  Every Sunday he came to the vineyard for lunch, and of course I cooked him the same thing each time. Crispy streaky bacon with very thin slices of lamb’s liver. He didn’t like vegetables so we let him off as it was Sunday.

  One Sunday he came in holding a large cardboard box under his arm. He said, ‘Read through all the files so you know where everything is, and you can get them to the solicitor quickly after I die.’ We knew he’d left everything to us because he’d brought his solicitor here to draw up his will. He excluded all other members of the family and left us his house and all his money. But we didn’t know how much money or where it was. When I did see how much money was coming our way, my Good little wife insisted he must include my two sisters and my brother. He reluctantly agreed, but wouldn’t write it in the will itself, because he couldn’t work out how much we’d have to pay in death duties. The value of the cottage would be added to the whole estate that would be taxed, and could vary significantly. So he said, ‘Only give away what think you can afford. It was a good thing for the others my wife was the executor. If it was left up to me, it’s unlikely I would have been able to afford to give the others as much as she did.

  If you are a tennis enthusiast, you might remember the 2009 Australian Open. An incredibly exciting five-set final between Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal. It was a Sunday so Peter was due to come to the vineyard for his usual lunch. He rang at about twelve o’clock to say he might be late because he couldn’t tear himself away from the match; if I wasn’t watching, turn it on immediately, it was fantastic tennis! I did, and it truly was beautiful tennis. Two world class players, ranked one and two, at the zenith of their abilities, battling point for point. Federer gliding about the court with perfect, effortless timing, opposite Nadal with his enormous strength, chasing the ball about the court with the speed of a cat and slamming it back at full reach. Each point was exhausting to watch. The games went on and on, tantalizingly close. Finally, Nadal made the break and won by a whisker. A tearful Roger Federer conceded defeat.

  It was a cold, raw February day with snow in the air. Nevertheless, as a ritual, Peter liked to have a cold lager before his liver and bacon. The lager was on ice and the bacon crispy. The liver was waiting to be shown the foaming buttery pan at the last minute. Peter was never late for any event, a Major in the Cameron Highlanders to his fingertips.

  Peter had an aneurysm, a permanent swelling of, in his case, the main artery from the heart. He could have had a huge operation and that part of the artery exchanged with a synthetic tube. But his platelet count was very low so any bleeding would be very difficult to stem. His friends told him at his age, ninety-three by now, and still with a relatively active life, an aneurysm was a merciful thing to have. When it burst, which it would do sooner rather than later there would be no pain and he’d die in thirty seconds.

  He’d been with Carmen in her ‘home’ and my mother in hers. Although all the staff were kind and gentle, the whole idea of being ‘looked-after’ like that horrified him. Nevertheless to be told you’ll suddenly die sometime soon, at whatever age you are, is a strange sensation to take on-board. Early on, soon after his diagnosis, we talked about it quite a lot, and he was issued with a panic button he wore around his neck, and he had a stairlift installed.

  I’ve told you how interested he was in everything so to wallow around being introspective was not his style at all. Doing as much as we did together, his diagnosis receded to the back of our minds.

  However, today he was late, we looked at each other and it sprang to the fore. We rang. No reply. He might be on his way. We waited five minutes. How could five minutes take so long? We quickly climbed into the car. As an afterthought, my wife put my chair in the back of the car. On arrival, all around the garden was still and quiet, his car in the garage. My wife gingerly pressed the front doorbell, nothing. Sensing the stillness of the garden, she carefully crept around the little cottage to the glass garden door. She cupped her hands to her face against the glare and peered in. There, on the floor, between his armchair and the
television, was a little grey head.

  Gently, head bowed, she walked back to the car. Holding my hands, she whispered, ‘He’s dead.’ After a moment of stillness, she quickly hauled my chair out of the back of the car to my open driver’s door. I dragged myself in as fast as possible. It had always been difficult to get me into the cottage, as the front doorstep was much higher than average. Then the lip at the top of the step was difficult for even a man to achieve, let alone my poor little wife.

  Only with my mother, had I been in a room with a dead person, and now Peter. Two people so close, so full of life, so valuable, and now lifeless, completely still, nothing, gone, a shell, an empty shell. I feel sure I had an awareness of an empty space they left within my own body.

  I couldn’t get to the telephone so my wife rang 999 to report his death. The woman, immediately, very forcefully started barking instructions down the line. ‘Get him flat on his back.’ My wife said, ‘I can’t, I can’t, he’s dead.’ ‘How do you know he is dead? You’re not in a position to know he is dead. Pull him flat on his back and pump the area in the middle of his chest until the police arrive.’ ‘I’ll try, I’ll try.’ She couldn’t, his fixed arm, he’d lost his elbow in a car crash while a cadet, was jammed around the end of the arm of his easy chair. The police did arrive incredibly quickly. They immediately summed up the situation and unassertively but firmly, took charge, two excellent policemen.

  It was a freezing, snowing Sunday evening. Our local surgery was not on duty. The death had to be certified before removing the body from the site. The nearest ambulance for the task was Eastbourne, miles away. The two young policemen had to remain there to sign Peter over to the ambulance.

  The snow started to lie heavily on the ground. The ambulance was making slow progress. We might not get safely down our drive and back to the Barn. If we got stuck on the way home, there’d be no assistance. We couldn’t risk the possibility. We asked the two policemen if they could stay without us under these circumstances. ‘Of course, of course, no problem at all, we have to stay anyway. The body can be transferred to any undertaker you wish after it’s been to the morgue in Eastbourne.’ Thank goodness we left then. By the morning, the snow was so thick we couldn’t move anywhere for about a week.

  My wife and the undertaker organised a beautiful funeral. A lot of people from all walks of Peter’s life came to the crematorium. Carmen’s godson gave the eulogy. My little sister’s eldest daughter Kate read out letters Peter had written to his commanding officer during a posting in Belgrade. They epitomised the sharpness of his character, the attention to detail and his wit in social encounters. The army sent him to Cambridge University for six months to learn to write and understand Russian. Only six months. It was with that ability he was sent to the Russian sector in Belgrade. The entertaining of the Russian officers’ wives, equally as important, was left up to Carmen. He and Carmen suited each other as a hand in a glove.

  Peter would never have wanted a funeral exalting him in all the many diverse areas he found himself through the whole of his life. But that’s what he deserved. So it was particularly clever of my wife, to orchestrate a funeral that was understated yet had all the elements that made him such an outstanding individual. We have cause to think of him every day.

  Home Alone

  Peter’s solicitor attended the funeral, so I was able to give her all his files he’d put together for me, on one of the Sunday’s he’d come for lunch. With his efficiency, she was able to complete probate in three months. She surprised even herself.

  After all the organisation of the funeral and the house full of family (we have three spare bedrooms) we were shattered. We needed to be alone. Nevertheless, it was a strange sensation. Peter was the last of his generation for whom we were responsible. Not only the last of mine, my wife had no one left on her side either. All of us, at our age, are just one stage away from being a problem to the generation below us, our children or our nephews and nieces. Somebody is going to have to decide what to do with us. Each of us, one by one, will drop off our perches. I think most of us might be quite relieved not to have the responsibility of running a house or a business, but the expense of keeping us all alive for no effect or use to society, I can’t help thinking is a terrible waste of resources. I realise the industry set up to keep us all alive is worth billions, but who do we benefit? What use are we? We serve no purpose. We have nothing to offer. I realise Peter benefited us hugely, but that’s very unusual, and what use am I? I serve no purpose and haven’t done so for years. Jokingly I say, at the age of eighty, or before if necessary, I’d like the vet to come to my house and put me down. In fact, I’m not really joking at all. I don’t see why I shouldn’t die at a time of my own choosing. My life is my own.

  The next undertaking was Peter’s little cottage. He’d said you must do with it whatever you think is best. We didn’t want to sell it. It was too valuable to sell. But we had to clear it out and bring it up to date. Although he’d maintained the essentials, basically, it was exactly the same as when they first moved in, forty years before.

  He told us what there was of any value, so to go through everything else would have taken forever, and inevitably been very depressing. We asked the auctioneer who came to value the contents for death duty, to recommend a house clearing firm he’d dealt with himself.

  There are times in your life when you have a feeling you’re making the wrong decision, but you can’t quite figure why? This was one of those times. When we first met this man, I thought he was someone we could trust. My wife was hesitant. I should have listened to her and put a stop to him before he started, so simple. Interview someone else.

  He and his team served their purpose in that they cleared out the house completely, over a weekend, with no exchange of money. We told him the deal did not include a set of very treasured china plates Peter had always told us about. He’d kept them hidden in a particular place which we couldn’t reach. We told him where they were and he agreed he’d give them to us when he got there. You’ll probably say I was naive, but I trusted him. My wife didn’t, although she couldn’t put her finger on it exactly, but she didn’t think she liked him. Feminine intuition is a very complicated process for a mere man to follow, however hard you try. If she’d said, ‘I definitely don’t trust him,’ I would, of course, have accepted her verdict. But she wasn’t definite until the beginning of the second day.

  At the end of the first day, he blustered into the room and more or less threw a plate on the table at which we were sitting, saying in an unnecessarily aggressive manner, ‘There’s your valuable china for you.’

  My wife made up her mind overnight to confront him first thing on the Sunday morning. You can imagine the indignation it caused. He stormed out of the room in high dudgeon. It wasn’t only him who’d effectively been accused of theft, it was his whole team two women and a man. The two women burst into tears and threatened to leave the site. No one had ever treated them in such an atrocious manner. I find it very difficult to believe he actually stole a set of china so blatantly and he would have had to have the cooperation of his whole team. It wouldn’t have been worth their while. But why would Uncle Peter always have told us so precisely where the set was hidden, and why would the house clearer have given us just one plate? We also had the photographs Uncle Peter had taken off the whole set in case of theft. In this extraordinary confrontation, somebody had to give way. He couldn’t, because he’d have to admit to theft. It was up to us to either follow it up or to give way. It made sense we should take the course of the latter, to get the job done.

  Apart from that unfortunate start to owning it, the cottage has brought nothing but happiness to all those who have tenanted it. So much so, they all have assumed they had the right to buy it.

  One day it will be sold with our whole estate, but meanwhile it serves us very well as it is. It’s a very strange awareness that in ten years I’ll be eighty-two a
nd my wife will be eighty. All old people look like old people, and we will be just the same. Strangely though, my little wife, looks exactly the same as she did when her friend Camilla brought her to the Kedong valley in nineteen sixty-five. She still has an hourglass figure and her skin is flawless and she hasn’t a grey hair on her head. How is it everyone else looks their age when my wife looks exactly the same as she ever did? It must be because of the quiet, uneventful, trouble free life we’ve led!

  On one occasion when my mother-in-law was still alive we, and my wife’s brother and children, were staying with her for the weekend. Natasha, my brother-in-law’s daughter, who must have about ten years old said, completely un-maliciously, quietly, as her grandmother slowly crept into the room, ‘Here comes Crumple.’ She’d never called her that before and I’m not aware she ever did so again. But that little anecdote only serves to emphasise how all elderly people are regarded by the younger generation. I don’t think my mother-in-law was any older than I am now

  On our ‘round the world’ trip in our beautiful little ship the Saga Ruby, we stopped at the small South Korean island of Jeju. We’re both fascinated by the intricacy of bonsai trees. The work entailed in the tending of the aged trees, however old they may be, will have had to be tended by someone practically every day of their lives. They can’t be left to look after themselves in the way our ordinary everyday trees are. You could have a bonsai oak or beech or any of our English trees, but they can’t be left to look after themselves all the year round. In winter, during their dormancy, they won’t need everyday care, but if you have more than a few, there’ll be a cycle of work that’ll be called for on a regular basis. Every two or three years they need to be taken out of their pots to have their roots pruned. In the summer, they must be watered twice every day.