Old Friends
A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.
Elbert Hubbard
This week’s Reflection is of a friend. The closest friend I made in my early days in London. And one that remained so for some decades.
Kelvin and I met in 1975 when he joined the Forensic Chemistry Lab in which I worked. We were both eighteen. He some 3 months older than I.
On the face of it, we should not have grown to be such close friends. Born west of the Medway and a proud ‘Kentish man’, Kelvin stood in stark contrast to me.
By the time Kelvin and I met, I lived with the girl who was to become my first wife. His view on sex before marriage was more old-fashioned. Not surprisingly, given he was a committed Roman Catholic. I, while baptised a Presbyterian, was of little faith. Even in his youthful years, he was calm, thoughtful, and caring — a gentleman in the true meaning of the word. I, on the other hand, was restless, boisterous, and carefree. His politics were of the Daily Telegraph. Mine of the Guardian. He enjoyed a pint, or on occasion two. I liked a pint a little too much. Yet, our differences brought us together. Each other’s alter egos.
We worked together. Travelled on business together. Played and watched football together. I married, divorced, and remarried. Kelvin married. I divorced and remarried again. Kelvin didn’t judge. He just looked to understand.
For a few years, we lived not far from each other. Socialised together, with and without our wives. We watched our children grow.
It was Kelvin who took me to the hospital after I damaged my knee for the first time. It was he who waited some hours while examination followed. It was his overcoat (he was some 6 inches taller than me) that saved my blushes after my knee was bandaged so thickly to prevent movement, I couldn’t put on my trousers. Now, that’s a story for another Reflection.
Our paths diverged as work took us in different directions. Our moving to different areas also distanced us physically. Never spiritually, though. We stayed in touch and, on occasion, met.
On such an occasion, when the two of us were out with other close friends, it was noticeable that Kelvin was not 100%. He seemed confused, off the pace. He knew it too. Yet visits with doctors had brought no answer.
A short while after that came the news that my dear friend was dead. His death sudden and tragic at aged only fifty-one. An inexplicable collapse whose cause never identified.
Kelvin always comes to mind when I’m on my annual night walk in London to support the Big Issue. To offer brief respite along the way, there are a couple of rest stops where a biscuit and cup of tea are on offer. One of these stops is inside St John’s church near Waterloo station. The church is a walk of a few minutes from the Lab in which Kelvin and I worked in the 1970s. St John’s is not a Catholic church, but Kelvin would occasionally go there to pray. As I nibble my biscuit and sip my tea, he is very much in my mind.
Kelvin and I both enjoyed Simon and Garfunkel’s music, and this song, ‘Old Friends’, seems very apt this week.
I may yet have that “terribly strange” feeling of being 70, denied to Kelvin. How I wish I could have shared that park bench with him.
