He is gone, my brother

 

Chris and Richard with Annie and me at Ed's Wedding. 2024

We have always been three brothers: myself, Richard in the middle, and the youngest, Peter. One episode of Still Game, the Glasgow sitcom centred round a group of old men, sees them in their local pub in the depths of a viciously cold winter, running a book on which of the group will die first. I do not know how common such thoughts are, but Annie and I too would sometimes run through the ever-shortening list of friends and relatives wondering which of us would be next. Richard was always placed last in the running order; he was rarely ill, had no major disease, never smoked, drank little, ate healthily, and took good, regular exercise. When Chis phoned early on Monday, 21st October, with her voice and tone conveying bad news, my immediate thought was one of her family was ill and she was phoning to excuse them from next day's planned visit; how very wrong was my assumption. 

Richard had complained of a slight headache in the evening so they'd retired at 10pm. In the night, he'd woken then lay still; Chris tried to rouse him, but he was already dead. The ambulance was called and resuscitation attempted, but finally abandoned. Chris was left alone to contact her daughters and then myself and Peter. The shock and the loss are immeasurable. They were in Barnstable celebrating his eightieth birthday only a few days ago, and he has been part of my life for the full eighty years. As children close in age, we did so much together and had such shared memories. Our meetings always tended to centre round those childhood memories, now silenced for ever. 

Clare Priory, In Memory of Richard

It is said that people only speak well of people at their death, saying all the things that should have been said while the person might have benefited from knowing how much they were loved and missed. This is especially true of Richard. Looking back now, I see a good man, a man who always placed himself unselfishly at the centre of his family, with total love for his children, grandchildren, and of course Chris herself. He was quiet; self-contained; a man I never heard shout or swear; a man who never spoke viciously or gave gossip; a man with a love of life and simple pleasure. Even under my tongue, which may have teased or sometimes even been cutting, he took no offence and was always ready to forgive. He lived as he always wanted, a man of peace, and there are few of whom we can say such. Goodnight my brother, and 'God Bless'. We miss you deeply.