The Man Who Didn't Go to Newcastle

by Alison Clink

  In the summer of 2007 John called and said he had seen Adrian who was not well, but I did not realise how seriously ill he was. Later that summer Alison mailed to say that Adrian had died.

  Adrian, John, Martin myself and other Wickham Common Primary School pupils survived the teaching and discipline provided by the likes of Mrs Osbourne, Mr Woolard and Mr Nielson. We played after-school football, cricket and tennis on Coney Hall Rec, sometimes coached by Adrian’s dad. We competed in mad speed biking time trials down Nash Lane on sunny holiday days. Spent hot summer days at the Bromley Lido followed by tennis at the Pickhurst Club in the evenings. This is where Adrian taught us all how to play snooker and billiards, which, of course, he played at school. He entertained us with stories of nut cutlets (St Christopher’s School was vegetarian), Sunday escapades to a Wimpy Bar (it was the mid-sixties) in Letchworth and other events that were way beyond our experiences in West Wickham.

  Why Adrian, at the age of 12, suddenly left Bromley Grammar School for St Christopher’s we never knew. Adrian’s father had tried to persuade Martin, John and I not to go to Beckenham Grammar. He came to talk to my parents one evening but we were determined even though, as Adrian’s dad pointed out, they did not play football but played rugby at our preferred secondary school. We three went to a different school; maybe Adrian should have come with us. Adrian’s father often gave us lifts, played sports with us, indulged in late night card games or charades. He was usually hilarious but occasionally rather scary and I never knew quite how to read him.

  Adrian played football like his hero Stan Bowles. Stan was one of the game’s greatest mavericks. He played with delicate skills rather than strength in a style not favoured by our primary school football coach, Mr Cole. He regarded this as too much ‘fancy Italian’ football. I remember at the age of 11 we went for a trial for the Borough of Bromley Primary Schools XI. I played as a tough stopper at center-half with little skill and was chosen to represent the borough and Adrian with all his silky skills on the wing was not. I knew that really he should have been selected instead of me but his style did not quite conform sufficiently to expectations. Adrian would appreciate what Stan Bowles said when asked if he had spent all of his money on gambling, booze and birds. Stan responded: ‘Well, at least I didn’t waste it!’

  School holidays in our teens were not complete without Adrian’s return from St Christopher’s: with new music, new styles, more stories … He was confident and funny. One summer in Crystal Palace Park in the mid-sixties he shouted at Dick Footner, who was dressed in felt jacket and Bob Dylan cap: ‘Hey, Donovan. Sing us a song.’ We were chased out of the park by these older boys in stitches of laughter. Adrian was probably, as usual, similarly fashionably dressed but he got his quip in first!

  In our late teens and into our twenties we were typical of the kids and young adults from middle-class suburban backgrounds, born to be mild and not caring much for what we thought was expected of us. We moved in a pack, listened to lots of music, went to the free concerts, drank barley wine and bitter in Bromley and Beckenham pubs, rolled joints on the album sleeves of Ten Years After, Quicksilver Messenger Service, Traffic, or other of Adrian’s favourite bands. Until we all found ourselves gradually involved in our own separated lives in separated places.

  These things and many others are what I thought about when I heard Adrian had died. These are real times and places that still exist somewhere in the past.

  Written by Sandra Ings – July 2014

  Adrian was always very special; he was like a breath of fresh air in an ordinary day. Exciting, interesting and motivated, he was a dynamic part before he fell down.

  Written by Phil Davies – September 2014

  On the morning that I received the sad phone call advising me of Adrian’s death my immediate reaction was one of shock and also a curious feeling of surprise that it had actually happened as expected after all. It was as if I had held on to a forlorn thought that Adrian would somehow defy medical opinion and still come through his illness. This feeling lasted a very short time but it did take me back to when, a few weeks earlier, Adrian was actually discussing his very poor medical prognosis with me. I had suggested by way of comfort that the ‘doctors might be wrong’. But Adrian dismissed this as ‘ridiculous’ and insisted matters had to be faced head on. This stoic and matter of fact attitude seemed to persist with Adrian, certainly in my presence, to the very end. He never seemed to openly give in to any panic or despair that he might have felt. This attitude greatly impressed me because I remembered wondering how I would have behaved under the same circumstances. However, despite Adrian’s fortitude and acceptance of things I did, when he died, feel an irrational resentment towards the doctors for being right all the time in their prognosis.

  Adrian’s death was traumatic and untimely and greatly saddened all his family and friends. For my part, not only did I lose a very good friend, but someone whose company I enjoyed very often. For me he was also an excellent drinking pal. He had a wide range of conversation and an excellent general knowledge of many things with, I may add, some strong opinions to match. It was always a great pleasure putting the world to rights with him over a pint or two. I missed his company very much and still do.

  For a while after his death I used to often think of Adrian in terms of the sadness of his passing. Nowadays, with the passage of time, I never do. After all, in life, he was not at all a sad man. I remember him now with pleasure as a good companion and friend. He was well travelled and had a full and interesting, if too short a life. He is also being missed by a loving family and many friends.

  Written by Mac – September 2014

  Adrian was best man at my wedding, the obvious choice, since we’d spent a lot of time together and shared flats in Muswell Hill and Brighton.

  Hearing the news of his death was clearly very sad but it also brought back memories of all the good, fun times we had as friends, the things we did. Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon in quadrophonic sound at Earls Court, David Bowie’s last gig at Hammersmith as Ziggy, the trip around the Tate Gallery and its vibrant Rothko, the great escape from that Italian campsite, the endless games of darts, trying to do the Guardian cryptic crossword sipping a beer … the list could go on and on.

  How different and boring those earlier years would have been without that friendship with Adrian!

  Having escaped London for Bristol we didn’t meet up as often as we should have done, but when we did the friendship was still there, his intelligence and humour still fully operational. Of course we miss the guy but at least we still have the memories of all those good times.

  Written by Carol Tigrine – October 2014

  It was so very sad and final when Jack’s partner Willow called to say Adrian had passed away. It was a moment that I had been unable to contemplate happening, even though subconsciously I knew it was coming but I just kept pushing the thought out of my head. When I got the call I was dreading, it was in quite strange circumstances. That weekend I was in Cheltenham visiting my mum and in an upmarket clothes shop, empty except for two middle-aged women running the shop. It was hard not to eavesdrop and their conversation was intriguing. One said: ‘Oh, I’d definitely have to leave him if he asked me to do that, I can’t imagine anything worse!’ and the other woman was agreeing with her. It later became clear the discussion was about the prospect of having to cut someone else’s toenails. That immediately took me back to the previous weekend which I’d spent with Adrian at Ali’s house when he’d moved in with the family. We’d had a great weekend as he was much happier and feeling stronger than in the previous few weeks. He even insisted on us going to the supermarket to get some shopping for Ali, saying: ‘She’s been so good to me, I’d like to get her a few things to show her my appreciation.’ Before I left him for what turned out to be the final time, I’d given him a foot massage, and then cut his toenails, which seemed like the right thing to do as they needed doing and he was in no fit state to do it himself. And while this
memory of Adrian was in my head and the women were still wittering on about toenails, the phone rang and I heard the sad news.

  I couldn’t describe Adrian better than Ali has already done. He really was a kind and gentle man, charming, funny, clever, an individual, a one-off (and generous). We shared a love of Greece, and holidays are when I seem to miss him the most. I’ve lots of happy memories of time spent with him abroad as he was a great travelling companion. My favourite memory is when we chanced upon a tiny restaurant on a Greek island with such an eccentric owner that he even had his own write-up in The Guardian, which was pinned on the wall. He never spoke and there were no menus. He just led us to the kitchen and pointed at various dishes in the oven. Then a few incidents started us off giggling, and a chain of events during the evening culminated in our uncontrollable hysterical laughter, which we unsuccessfully tried to stifle. I can still see Adrian sitting opposite me, crying with laughter, shoulders bobbing up and down, almost stuffing a serviette in his mouth to try and stop. We’d both totally lost control. Adrian later said that he couldn’t remember having laughed so much and for so long in at least 30 years. That still makes me smile and it’s how I like to remember him.

  I miss being able to turn to Adrian for advice, and I recently realised that although I’d known my father for 30 years, I’d known Adrian a few years more, so he has been such a significant male presence in my life. I loved him and I’ll always miss him as will anyone who knew him well. But there’s comfort in knowing he had a great life – he did exactly what he wanted and enjoyed it to the full. Not many folk have the courage to do just that.

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks go to Crysse Morrison, Frances Liardet and Rosie Jackson – my Friday morning writing buddies. Also thanks to the Marston Mill Bootcampers of 2013 for their help and input. And to Carol Tigrine who edited with her heart and soul.

  About the Author

  Alison Clink was born in South London. She went to Bullers Wood School in Chislehurst and read English and European Literature at Essex University. She has a master’s degree in Creative Writing from Bath Spa University. More than fifty of her short stories have been published both in the UK and abroad. Her stories have also won prizes and been broadcast on Radio 4. She’s had articles published in The Sunday Telegraph’s Stella Magazine and the Family section of the Guardian. In 2003 she founded the Frome Festival Short Story Competition. Her short plays have been performed in Frome and Bristol.

  Alison has been a creative writing tutor for over ten years and currently runs a weekly writing group at Babington House, near Frome.

  She has four grown-up children and lives in Somerset with her husband.