Bob and his wife Patricia (in their late 70s) lived next door to my family home for around six years, and although we didn't exactly live in each others pockets - they were characters of the highest order... coming from very privileged backgrounds and with a touch of opulence and authority that was quite alien to us. Bob is an ex-Sergeant Major, and Patricia worked as a secretary for the Queen. They married and then divorced and married again recently, when they realised they couldn't quite live without each other in old age.
Patricia had a stroke a year or two before they moved to Sussex, which left her fairly immobile and greatly hindered her as she used to love painting. Bob reminds me of a tank: he's tall, robust, strong without being completely bionic and agile: all traits he no doubt picked up from being in the forces. He also makes the BEST G&T ever (a hefty glug of Bombay with ample lime and ice), and is a true gentleman with a glint in his eye that makes me think that he would have been rather ravishing 50 years ago and no wonder Patricia took him back.
I miss them both dearly, but the resonant memory that I referred to earlier is one days that will always sick in my mind - a gloriously idle day where nothing and everything was perfect in the day's unplanned beauty. Let me set the scene:
Lilli (my sister) and I were pottering around at home. It's a lovely sunny day in July or August and we agree that pea-picking is the order of the day. The fields that surround our house are full of pea plants and they will disappear soon, so we head out with a few bags and containers between us. As we leave the house, we hear Bob in his front garden tending to his new terrier puppy, Dolly. We discuss our pea-picking plan and he expresses an interest, so runs inside the house to find his own bags. We play with Dolly as we wait.
Next, we are striding up the track, Dolly on a lead, getting under everyone's feet. The field opens out into a much bigger one and we decide this is where to begin. It's harder than we first expect: the pods are firm to the pull and many of them feel dry - as if the contents might be shriveled already. I am selective, but I do not have the patience to concentrate on the selective process. So, instead we let the conversation take over and I think Bob relaxes into story-telling role, though I don't remember anything in particular. It's just lovely to be around someone who is so confident and natural. Dolly is eating the peas that we throw for her, and I wonder why Bob has not let her off the lead.
I suppose we stayed out in the field for an hour or so, but collectively decide that enough is enough when we find more dry pods than succulent ones on our patches.
Bob suggests a refreshing cider in the garden, to which Lilli and I gladly agree. So we stride back with our supplies, leaving them in the shade under Bob's porch, sitting at the patio table whilst awaiting Bob's return with cold drinks. He gives us a choice of a few Sheppy's ciders in bottles and we drink down the cold, bubbly liquid. Bob and Patricia are more than partial to an afternoon aperitif, but it's only usually a special occasion for us girls, so we melt into our seats and soak up the sun as Bob prattles on in his warm yet authoritative voice. He'd make an excellent Pixar hero. I think we have another cider, Dolly bounding around - how can something so little have so much energy?
The cider has zapped our energy, and we think about the prospect of making something of those wilting peas. So ends our day of cider with Bob. I wish there could have been more, but that one day will always be remembered, so it will remain special and treasured.
Thanks Bob.
