Vintage

“Turn out the lights, and close the door.”

I was once asked – can’t remember by who now – what exactly is a vintage fair, as opposed to an antiques one? And to be honest, I struggled to form an answer. Vintage seems to be one of those things that’s morphed into including all pre-owned items, household, decorative, clothing, garden etc, plus re or up-cycled stuff and home craft-ware too, regardless of age, although I believe items are supposed to be at least fifty years old (though just how you prove that…)

Before her first marriage, Elaine had dabbled in antique dealing and second-hand clothing, and at one time early on, she shared a shop with her friend, the greatly loved and missed Jimmy Hardy. She later gave this up after going into business with her first husband. When the marriage failed, she did a number of small jobs to bring funds in, but always felt the ‘pull’ to go back to buying and selling. So after moving-in with me in ’93, she started going to auctions and boot sales, buying whatever she could, to sell-on at local antique fairs and markets.


By now, Jimmy had another shop where he let out space to other dealers, and he offered Elaine an area of her own, which she gladly accepted. Trouble was, sales here and at the local venues, seemed to hit a ceiling (and not a very high one at that!) and it soon became obvious that for her business to grow, travelling further afield was the only answer.


Jimmy, and some others from the shop, used to do the antique fairs, held several times a year, at Alexandria Palace in London. A spare ticket became available and was offered to Elaine. She asked me what I thought about our going. I will admit, driving into London on a Sunday morning and having to get out again late afternoon, did not really appeal very much, but we both knew the chance was too good to turn down; there would be hundreds of stalls there, and thousands of people through the doors.


To be honest, it was a real eye-opener for us both; you didn’t get much space, but the throngs of buyers ensured we had a good day, and the die was cast.


(I ought to point out here, that Elaine worked hard at setting-up stall and selling. I became involved with it all from the start, as she could not manage the donkey work nor the driving also. Early cancer treatment had left a legacy of fatigue, which only got worse as time progressed, although she still pushed herself hard in everything she did; often too hard.)

I don’t remember how we heard about Sunbury Antique Fairs, held twice a month at Kempton racecourse, ninety-odd miles from home, but early one Tuesday morning we arrived to have a look around to see if it might be a venue to suit us. And my goodness did it ever prove to be!


“I feel as if I’ve come home” were Elaine’s exact words, as we stood and surveyed the outside stalls, where it seemed as though an example of every object ever made by man, was up for sale.


We bought a ticket for the next fair that morning.


This place proved to be an absolute money spinner for us. We did it regularly through the coming years, but believe me though the returns were good, it was bloody HARD work. The loading, the travelling up overnight, unloading at the 6am whistle, in all weathers, it was full-on from the start. But they came ready to buy and keep buying, and my wife was in her element.


Elaine didn’t really specialise in any one field of items at this time, she just bought things she felt sure of being able to make money on. In later years she did concentrate more on costume and fabrics, but our stalls always did cover a very broad spectrum.

We applied for a permanent pitch at Alexandria Palace and soon enough got one; also we became regulars at the fairs held at Kempton and Sandown racecourse’s throughout the year. Salisbury racecourse was much closer to home, fairs were held at the weekend, so we started there too. In fact we were soon travelling all over the south of England, to regular venues and the odd pop-up ones.


Of course, you have to have the items (the ‘gear’) to sell in the first place, and Elaine would be up early several mornings a week, and weekends, to attend the local, and sometimes not so local, boot-sales and auctions. She also became familiar with the all the best charity shops in the area, eventually acting as advisor to our local hospital shop, on items gifted that they believed to be more than of just everyday value.
I had my own work to contend with, but helped her as much as I could. Except for the most local of fairs, I was always with her all day; it was fun working together but they were long hours and we drove ourselves hard too. Anyone thinking this is/was an easy way to earn a living is in a dream world.


But the rewards weren’t just monetary, there was a certain freedom to it all. It was not a regular way of making a living, but that suited us both, and every time out was a new adventure to be shared together. I realise now that not so many couples are blessed with the opportunity, to spend so much time, with the one they love.


A chance connection through friends brought about our first ever house clearance, and we were chucked-in at the deep end. It took two and a half hours to look around the house and out buildings. There was a vast amount of gear, good, indifferent, and outright rubbish. A deal was agreed, and over the next few weeks we filled our home – and I mean filled it – for the first time, with the material remains of other peoples’ lives. This trend continued for some years to come, once again something we did together. We established a routine between us, each knowing without words our different roles, and though hard work we had great fun, and many a great find too, along the way.


Somewhere in amongst all this the phrase Vintage began to emerge; perhaps it was just a new way of presenting the old. ‘Antiques Fair’ is a term which does seem to hint at a certain conservative stuffiness. Vintage feels warmer and more familiar somehow, anyway, Elaine soon picked up on the title, and eventually made it her own.

For many years, we were like a small factory here. You name it, and I repaired it! Furniture, pictures all sorts of tools, metal, wood or otherwise. Items were painted, rubbed back, waxed, polished etc all eventually finding new homes, their journeys carrying-on instead of ending in landfill. Elaine became a dab hand at repairing and re-using all types of costume and material, and we both felt very proud of our achievements together.


All the more remarkable is the fact that this all went on despite the ever-lengthening shadow of cancer darkening our lives. Even when the ‘all clear’ was given, treatments to try and block the return of the disease were nigh-on constant, as were the continuous scans and check-ups. There eventually became times when Elaine just could not manage travelling to fairs, and it was around now she latched-on to the idea of selling from home, on-line.


She invested a thousand pounds in a computer, plus printer etc. She registered for eBay, and we were both childishly excited when she bought a book for me, it being her first ever on-line transaction.


Elaine built the business solidly over the coming years. She sold and bought on eBay, Etsy, and others and obtained a huge following of loyal customers, and new on-line friends. I had my role to play here too. The more she sold, the more boxes, cardboard and packaging materials we needed. I would raid the skips at garden centres for much of this stuff, plus call-in at local shops who were only too glad to be rid of it, and not have to pay for disposal. We had many a laugh trying to package-up some of the awkward, larger pieces between us – (think vintage mannequins) – especially when the cat joined in, and my role also extended to the post office run, often several times a week; the Parcelforce depot was a familiar destination too. Though the situation had altered, we were still working together, and it was still fun.

Somewhere around the year 2010, Elaine hatched the idea of running her own fairs.

By now we had eased off of the London venues as they were proving too tiring for her. Cancer kept returning, and treatment to keep it at bay was always debilitating and a real trial to get through. She had made many contacts in the growing Vintage world through her on-line work, and we were doing some Vintage fairs over in the West Country, and closer to home, when Elaine felt up to it.


We would drive past the local village hall most days, and somehow the idea of ‘Vintage at the Village Hall’ got into Elaine’s mind and stayed there. It took her some months to get together everything necessary to put on her first ever fair, and all credit to her, it was a huge success. She aimed for two a year, spring and autumn, but the local roads and parking just couldn’t cope with all the visitors, so a new venue was needed.

The Corn Exchange building, in the centre of Blandford, a few miles away, proved ideal, and hundreds of people would pass through its doors on the selected dates twice yearly.


(She later did use the village hall again, when the Corn Exchange was not available; thankfully the crowds still came).

With Elaine there were no half measures. Venues were decorated with bunting and flags, if the tea rooms were utilised, fresh flowers were on each table, and she tried her best to make certain that the selected sellers covered the widest range possible with their available goods.


She absolutely loved putting-on the fairs (personally, I rate them as her finest achievement work-wise) but each one took several months to organise. This in amongst other work, plus horse duties, the ever present cancer threat, and treatments, meant that eventually something had to give.


Elaine was on heavy chemo’ treatment mid-2016 when she became seriously ill. We feared the worst, and Macmillan soon became involved. It was surreal, the two of us discussing with a nurse, the best place for Elaine to die, either at home, the hospice or maybe in hospital.


I cannot describe the mental anguish I felt at that time, it was overwhelming then, and I know too well it still can be now. But I remember walking out to the front of our home, and staring up into the sky.


I silently asked an equally silent and invisible God, “Please give us more time, at least another five years together, PLEASE…”


My plea was to be almost answered in full. She lived another four and a half years, thanks to a new drug, and later, different treatment in a London hospital. (Wish I’d asked for fucking ten tears now, or maybe fifteen!)


Reluctantly, Elaine had to give-up organising the fairs. I know she felt heartbroken in doing so-she loved the Vintage world so much by now- but even she knew she had reached her limit. But as one door closes, another one opens, and this is when the Vintage Barn at Cranborne came into our lives.

Cranborne is a village about eleven miles from our home. A garden centre has been there for some years, and the Vintage Barn is two thirds, of what is really a large wooden shed, set within the grounds. Just four sellers were involved, working via a commission-on-sales only basis.


Elaine’s friends, Irene and Jenny, were two of those sellers. One of the others dropped out, and Jenny suggested Elaine to take over the vacant space. She had a meeting with Claire, who runs the show, and the deal was done. Elaine loved selling direct to the public, and though she was still actively selling online, she missed setting-up a stall for people to peruse and enjoy; she wouldn’t actually be there doing the selling, but it was the next best thing.


It was early spring 2017 when we first set-up stall in the Vintage Barn. There wasn’t a huge amount of space, but Elaine became adept at cramming as much as possible into it. Sales were somewhat slow at first, but again never one to do things by half, Elaine started putting the word out about it on social media etc, and things picked up rapidly.


By now, I was going with her to the boot sales, as she found it too tiring ferrying items back to the truck. I soon started buying too, when I noticed things that she had not seen; teamwork which increased when Jenny left the Barn, and Claire allowed us to take over the extra space. Later, an outside area was made available for vintage items which could live outdoors, and sales increased even more.


I really enjoyed the next three years. We kept our Barn space well stocked between us, and still did some Vintage fairs when Elaine felt up to it. She continued selling on-line, but we were together more than we were apart, especially during the beautiful summer of the first lockdown, due to the spread of Covid.


We were always honest about the cancer situation, and spoke openly with each other about it. But towards the close of 2020, words were unnecessary, both of us knew she was not well, and treatments were now limited, and failing.


By now, I was going to the boot sales alone, as Elaine found them too much for her. One morning when I returned home she said, “Mark, I think it would be a good idea for you to carry-on with the Barn after I’m gone. You know what to do well enough, and it will get you out and meeting people, which you’ll need.” If I remember right, she said a similar thing in the hospice. I don’t -or don’t want to- remember my reply on either occasion.

Elaine left this world, and the Vintage one, early 2021, and my heart was broken beyond any words or understanding.


Claire kindly agreed to my staying on at the Barn, and later, after the funeral, I went there alone early one morning.


It was during the third lockdown. Parts of the Garden Centre were open, but not the Barn. I unlocked the doors, went in, and found myself in a silent world belonging to the past. My past.


I’m exaggerating if I say I stayed for a minute. I was completely overwhelmed, and damn near broke down. She was everywhere around me. All these things were exactly as she had left them, placed where they were by her, and bizarrely the thought struck home, that they were now all mine alone.


I sat in the truck for a long while before I was able to drive home.

Gradually, I started going back to the Barn more often. It wasn’t easy at first, but I established a routine of going early on a Saturday morning thus avoiding the public, though it was nice chatting to the Garden Centre staff, and I did eventually come to enjoy my visits there.


I had a lot of ‘gear’ still left at home that Elaine had stockpiled. Friends Liz and Jack, and later Lynne, came round and bought lots from me, but even so plenty was left to keep the Barn going over the coming months. But I knew I would have to start buying again if I was to keep it afloat.

Early summer, and the boot sales start again. I knew it wouldn’t be easy going back at first, and it wasn’t. Many people had heard about Elaine, and offered sympathy and tears. Some hadn’t heard, and asked where she was. On being told, there was more sympathy, and more tears.

That first time, just before I left, I sat in the truck facing the infield. It was mid-morning, and the sun shone out of a clear blue sky. In my mind, I could see Elaine, moving from stall to stall, smiling, laughing, picking up things and making offers, moving on. I followed her invisible form with my eyes until she was out of sight, but though I could no longer ‘see’ her, I knew she was there somewhere; it was cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

I kept up my trips to the boot sales for the next couple of years, and then I just stopped. It wasn’t really a conscious decision; I think I just didn’t feel like going anymore. I did still visit the charity shops and picked up good unwanted items, that a local house clearance guy put out free at the end of his driveway.


But my takings in the Barn were not good, and towards the end of 2023 I was considering leaving. Then, out of the blue, I was offered a small clearance job. I came away with two full carloads and heaped it all up in the lounge at home. I did laugh, as it reminded me of when Elaine and I had filled this room, on so many occasions before.


Another year passed, takings were on the dive again, and I mentioned to Marilyn that I was thinking of calling it a day. Never one to exert pressure, she simply replied that I would know when the time was right, and pointed out that on leaving, there would be no going back.


By now, Irene had left the Barn, and I was sorry to see her go. This lovely lady had been a great support to me prior to Elaine’s death, and afterwards. I will always remember her kindness and friendship, and wish her well in whatever she does.


Sue and Mick had moved in, and along with the last original seller, Elisabeth, we carried on at the Barn until an email came to us all, mid- June this year.


It was from Claire. She explained that building work was going to commence at the Centre from the end of July. Takings from the Vintage Barn were not good, and it made sense to close it ‘temporarily’ and utilise the space for storage. We all had four weeks to vacate.


Once again, fate had made the decision for me. Though there was talk of a re-opening, I knew now my time in the Vintage world was coming to an end, there would be no going back.

The others all cleared out fairly quickly, but I hung on until the last couple of days. Glad I did so, as I moved on a good deal of things in those last weeks. The morning came to finally clear out, and Claire turned-up when I was there alone. We perched opposite one another on a couple of tables, and I spoke first.


I thanked her for inviting Elaine to the Barn in the first place, and also for when she allowed us to take over Jenny’s space when she left. Then I thanked her for my staying on after Elaine died.


“I didn’t think you’d last even a year, yet here we are four and a half years later,” she replied.


“I wasn’t sure myself whether I’d be able to keep it going, but at least I’ve proved that I could, and it has been fun too.”


An awkward moment of silence ensued, which Claire broke. “You’re not coming back Mark are you, when we re-open I mean?”

“No, Claire, I’m not. This is the end of the road for me.”


I went on to explain that I’d been thinking of leaving for some while, that somehow I knew it had run its course for me. My life, whether I liked it or not, was moving in different directions, and I could no longer give the Barn the time and energy that it needed. I felt it was unfair to her, and any fellow sellers, to hang on knowing this, and so it was time to go.


I told her also, that I thought that before opening the Barn again, she should consider a total re-vamp for it. Two things I learnt from Elaine; ADVERTISE! And advertise again, if they don’t know you’re there, they can’t come to you in the first place. And, PRESENTATION! You have to make it an enjoyable experience, if you want people to spend money, and come back again.


Claire agreed, but cited the ever present problem of available funds. Whether or not the Barn will re-open, I don’t know, as I write this it still remains shut.


Later we talked about Elaine, and the good years at the Barn, when she was in full swing with it. Both of us got a little emotional, and before Claire left me, we hugged and thanked each other again, for the last time.


There wasn’t much left for me to pack-up and take away, and I was soon done. I pushed the door over to shut out the outside world and stood alone in the shadows and silence of times gone by.

I owe this place so much. It threw a lifeline to Elaine when she needed one. It gave her something to work with and concentrate on. When other things in her world were fading away, it remained constant to the last, a physical link to the world of Vintage, that she had come to love, and that had become a massive part of her life.

And the same was true for me after she died.


I blew a gentle kiss into the slightly dusty atmosphere, “Thank you”…no other words were needed.

During a recent conversation with Marilyn, she asked me if I missed the Vintage Barn. It is a question that really does have two answers.


No, I don’t miss it; at least I don’t miss some elements of it. I don’t miss getting up early in the mornings, to traipse around a soggy field, picking over other peoples’ cast-offs. I don’t miss having to ‘improve’ items with repairs, and paint, and polish, and try to check-out values on-line. I don’t miss writing out tickets or having to keep records, or turning up at the Barn, only to find fuck-all much has sold in the last week or so.


But then again….


Yes, I do miss it. I miss the unconventional hours, and the freedom they allowed. I miss the sense of achievement when some item is resurrected, brought back to a new life, because I have spent time on it, and it goes on to bring others pleasure through their ownership of it. I miss working out the values of things I’ve bought, and loading up the car ready for the Barn the next morning. And I miss that feeling of anticipation, just before going through the door, wondering what’s sold this week; and the sense of achievement felt, on seeing empty spaces before me.

And of course, what I miss most about it all, is Elaine.

The door to the Vintage World started closing for me when Elaine died. I’m bloody proud that I kept it open for over four years after she left. I like to think that she would be proud too, and be pleased at my efforts. I feel I haven’t let her down, and I know she was right in saying I should carry on with the Barn. But life only moves forwards, and I think she would agree, it’s time now for the door to close.

I will always harbour a great love for Vintage. It gave us so much over the years, including new friends and contacts, some of whom are still there for me now, and continue to read these posts today. I am lucky to have such great memories, of so many fabulous times and adventures. Like precious jewels, those memories are hoarded-up and stored in my heart.

They will remain with me forever, never to be forgotten.

PS. Early next year is a certain anniversary, I hope to be able to write then, but this is the last one for now. My thanks to all of you who continue to follow my ramblings, and to those who have newly signed-up to the blog in recent months.

The Seasons’ Greetings to you all. And may whatever Gods you believe in, walk beside you…Mark.

FAREWELL TO THE SKYLARK Part Three.

“Time to say……..Goodbye.”

In the first few days of the New Year 2021, that which I had feared for so long was going to happen did happen, when Elaine died. One of the consequences of her death was that ownership of her pick-up truck, aka The Skylark, passed to me.

It was the third truck she had owned, and undoubtedly the best and favourite of the three. We had bought it almost twenty years prior to her passing, and along with the Isuzu Trooper, that we got a short time later, it proved to be an invaluable asset to the way in which we lived and worked.

We’d had to part with the Isuzu some three years back, after fourteen years of happy ownership, due to increasing mechanical hiccups. Its replacement was ironically another Landrover (see previous two blogs). This time though we had done our research properly, and with the invaluable help of Marcus, at the local Douglas Motors garage, we had chosen a Freelander 2 which has proved a worthy (if not quite as quick!) successor to the ‘Super Trooper’.

By the time The Skylark passed to me it was getting on for twenty-three years old, and those years were more than beginning to show. It had by now covered at least 150,000 miles, but due to a fault in the speedo no one could be sure of the exact figure. Though it had been welded-up a few times, the exhaust was still the original, as was the clutch. A couple of springs had broken and been repaired at different times and the underside welded just once. It never did fail to start and the engine was a jewel that just kept going.

The problem was the bodywork. Getting the underside of a pickup totally clean and free of mud etc is nigh-on an impossible task and rust sets in eventually, no matter the efforts made to counter it.

After Elaine’s death, I could have let the Skylark go, I didn’t really need the expense of keeping two vehicles after all, but she had loved that old truck so much, especially as it became more scruffy, and parting with it right then would almost have been akin to parting with her once more, so I became determined to keep it no matter what.

(Never a car snob, Elaine got really annoyed when people bought four-wheel-drive SUV’s and large shiny trucks just to ferry their kids to school or go shopping in. She believed such transport was better employed for work duties or moving horse feed, hay, straw and shavings etc around the countryside).

I used the truck whenever possible over the next couple of years, but it was often the case that it was left standing for longish periods of time. This is the worst thing for any vehicle, they need to be used, but it always started OK and was still a pleasure to drive, though, thinking back now I feel I kept away from it sometimes because of all the memories driving it evoked.

I always thought of that phrase “All Aboard the Skylark” when I sat in it, and inevitably I would beep the horn as I had done with Elaine beside me, so many times before.

MOT testing time came around each July. It would often need some mechanical item sorted but the bodywork had held up alright, until the last time that is.

I was at home when the phone rang early PM. It was Leon at the garage. “Are you sitting down Mark, I’ve got bad news?”

There were several mechanical issues, but they weren’t the real problem. Corrosion had set-in badly around suspension mountings, the chassis, and inner parts of the bodywork. In short, it was border-line dangerous, and to rectify would require the whole back end of the bodywork to be removed, as access was impossible with it in situ.

“It’s specialist work Mark, we can’t do it here, and it would be well into four figures cost to carry out” he continued. “Also there’s no guarantee that everything will go back together ok, it’s all so old now. I’m sorry mate, I know what that truck means to you.” 

I don’t think that anybody could ever know or understand what it meant to me, other than Elaine, but I thanked him and said I’d be over to collect it soon. I was in turmoil for the next few hours trying to decide what to do; but deep down I knew that repairing it wasn’t viable, the cost would be prohibitive, but I could barely entertain the thought of parting with it either.

I collected it late afternoon, there were five days of the current MOT left, so it was still legal to drive. Leon was sympathetic, and gave me the number of a friend at a local scrapyard; I might get £300 for it on a good day.

Over the next forty eight hours or so my thoughts began to change, maybe if I kept the truck off road I could put funds aside and eventually get it repaired. I was still considering along these lines when on the Saturday morning I went to collect a large ladder that I’d used on a job locally, and fate decided to intervene.

Driving through the middle of town the guy in front of me panicked as a bus came towards us and braked hard, my fault, I was too close and didn’t react in time and so went straight into the back of him.

The strange thing here was that as I opened the door to get out, I suddenly felt this great calmness come over me and I knew without doubt that this now spelt the end of the road for the Skylark; the decision had been made for me.

No one was hurt, we exchanged details and though a bit battered, both vehicles were still driveable, so I collected the ladder and returned home.

I always have, and still do, hated dealing with insurance companies and the like over the phone. Elaine always did all that stuff for us both, but now it’s just me and I find it impersonal and a real bloody ordeal to go through. Anyway, I steeled myself and set the wheels in motion that afternoon.

I knew damn well the truck would be written-off, its age and condition left no other alternative really. As they no longer bother to send anybody to look over broken vehicles- if they can avoid doing so- the insurance company wanted me to beam over pictures of the truck to enable them to make a decision about it. With the help of my friend Bob, this was duly done the following week and I expected to hear back soon.

Huh! Some fucking hope. A month went by, so I phoned up. I was told there was a backlog of ‘cases’ and I should hear from them in the next two weeks. Another month passed, and I called again. I was put through to three different departments, yet no one could explain as to why I had not heard back by now. And so another month passed, again I called up and again was passed from department to department (see what I mean about impersonal!), and still there were no answers as to why I had heard nothing back about the truck.

Finally after another week, the phone rang. The man was very apologetic, it had obviously all gone on too long, but they had an offer for me. There was an excess of £450.00 on the policy and after this was accounted for they were offering me £1300.00 as final settlement, if I accepted, the truck would become their property.

It was, to be honest, far better than I had hoped for, and as there was no other real alternative I agreed.

The money was paid over the following week, and within days I received a call from a large local scrap dealership saying they had been authorised to collect the truck and so arrangements for this were made for the coming Wednesday morning. I now had the thankless task ahead of me to clear the cab of many years’ accumulated memories.

Where does all this stuff come from? The door pockets contained a selection of forgotten screwdrivers, large and small, bits of string and wire, some odd fuses, cloth and a demister pad, many bits of ‘useful’ paper, sweet wrappers and three pens and three pencils between them (how come you can never find a pen when you want one, but when you don’t…)?

Likewise, the glove box hid similar treasures, plus an original old AA handbook, a plastic ice scraper (Elaine had once used a metal one on her first truck, leaving the windscreen resembling a kids etch-a-sketch efforts). Here too was the rubber torch that came from an early house clearance. I always keep a torch in my vehicles and this one I put in the truck for Elaine soon after we bought it; new batteries were fitted at the time. I remember using it once, I don’t know if she ever did, but when I press the button, it comes to life and on opening it, the batteries are fine. They must have been in there twenty years or more!

There is a small tubular case, I’m not sure what it is, so I pull the top off and discover a pair of fold-up magnifying spectacles that Elaine must have put in here. There is also a little unused notebook that I remember being in a Christmas stocking that I had given her God knows how long ago.

Too many memories to count really, but I bag-up the main pieces and chuck the odds and ends.

Next I tackle behind the seats. Elaine’s heavy-duty jump leads are still in their original bag (she had an old battery charger but that’s long gone). Here are the ropes and bungees we used so many times to tie down so many loads. An assortment of waterproof clothing, in various states of distress, lurks under everything else; here too is my missing baseball cap. Several empty carrier bags are present in case they ‘come in handy’, but most poignant of all here are Elaine’s welly boots and her old pink Puffa jacket.

The boots she got from friend Coleen, they were two sizes too big but a good make and well lined, so she just wore two pairs of socks all the time. The jacket was her second Puffa, which I bought her. The sleeve is all chewed where Bruce used to get hold of it, smudges of mud still cling to the surface, old kitchen towels and one woolly glove are still stuffed in the pocket. These things will be staying with me, maybe not forever, but certainly for now.

I know the truck is going to be scrapped, but I don’t want it leaving here dirty, so I set-to and wash down the rusting, dented bodywork then vacuum out the cab and polish-up the dash etc as best I can. Maybe it’s a waste of time doing so, but I find it strangely therapeutic to do on this warm Sunday afternoon; it feels to me like a way of honouring an old friend and comrade.

Later, I plan to go for one final drive. It would be illegal to go out on the road, but I’m lucky to have a short amount of private track to drive on before I reach the security gate and public highway. 

It’s evening, and the mid-October sun is gently fading behind the trees across the park as I climb aboard the Skylark, for what I believe will be the final time. For a while I just sit in silence looking at the empty seat beside me. I can’t help wondering, yet again, why she had to go. I never will understand, not in this life at least, why, when two people love each other so much fate has to part them; it’s simply beyond my mind to accept any reasoning here, if indeed, there is any to be had.

Turning the key the starter gives its familiar screech, and the engine comes to life. Out loud I say “All Aboard the Skylark” then beep the horn twice and set-out up the track so well-known to myself and the truck. We barely get into forth gear then turn and come back. As the Lodge comes into view, I blast the horn again as Elaine would often do when returning home and knew I was back before her.

I turn around and pull-in by the front hedge, rev the engine a couple of times and turn it off. Quietly, I thank our dear friend for all its years of happy, faithful service, then I quickly get out before the emotion has a chance to overwhelm me.

Wednesday morning, and it’s raining heavily out of thick leaden grey skies. It’s not really cold but I light the wood burner anyway to please the cats, and mooch around waiting for midday to arrive when the collection is due.

The driver’s on time, and phones me once he’s through the security gates. He is worried about the overhanging trees in the drive down to me, “I’ll get down ok but I’ll be a lot higher with your truck on the back and might not get out again.”

“That’s okay,” I reply, “You turn round at the top and I’ll bring the truck up to you.”

So I’m going to get one more drive after all. Donning coat, boots and hat, I go out into what is, I think, appropriate weather for this occasion. I climb into the driver’s seat and sit quietly for a few moments. So many adventures for Elaine and I started right here like this, not always certain what the day was going to bring for us, we enjoyed or endured it together and that was the main thing… together, always together.

The familiar screech as I start the engine and, of course, two beeps of the horn after “All Aboard The  Skylark” said for what I certainly now know is the last time, then into gear and off we go. It is the shortest of journeys but I am strangely grateful for it.

The driver has the paperwork ready, I sign where indicated and then I no longer own a truck. As he walks back to his cab, I kiss my hand and pat the bonnet of the Skylark, “Farewell old friend, thank you for always looking after us”.

I walk away without looking back. Inside me I feel a bit like Judas must have; he had his thirty pieces of silver, I have my £1300.00 bank transfer.

It’s still pissing with rain and though just a short walk I’m pretty damn wet by the time I reach home.

Shutting the gates I turn and look across the park. Due to the topography of the land I can see the top of the truck and the lorry quite clearly, but I just can’t go indoors; despite the weather I stand and watch. I feel that to go inside now while the truck is still there, would amount to the final abandonment. The minutes tick by, then I faintly hear that familiar screech and the Skylark moves forwards to take its place on the lorry.

A few minutes pass, I guess it’s being tied down now, then I hear the lorry start and it moves off. The Skylark looking very regal high up on the back, about to pass out of the park and my life for the last time ever.

Put bluntly, I’m fucking wet through by now but what does it matter? In my head turns a kaleidoscope showing all the colours at once of all the happy times and fun Elaine and myself enjoyed in the company of that old truck.

As it leaves, another door of our life together closes forever. My heart and spirit seem to mirror the heavy grey skies around me, then strangely the rain feels warm on my face and I realise I’m crying.

Anger flushes through me, “Fucks sake Mark, you’re a grown man and here you are stood shedding tears for a bloody old pick-up!”

I’ve spoken out loud, a reply forms but not in audible words as such, just as has happened before it comes quietly, a still voice from somewhere inside of me.

“It’s not the truck you’re crying for. That’s just metal and plastic, rubber, cloth and whatever forms it in this world. But for you it’s so much more than the total of its parts because of what it came to represent in your life. It’s an embodiment of the love you had for, and shared with Elaine, but its time is done in your world; that’s no fault or doing of yours, it just is. Accept what you know is the truth, your life can move forwards or stagnate into a wasteland, and if allowed to happen, that would be the greater evil here. You don’t lose the past or the love that lives within it, by the loss of a truck, learn to embrace the fact that you lived it all with, and alongside her, in the first place.”

I know this voice is not a liar, it speaks the truth, but letting go of anything that was part of my world with Elaine I find so very difficult to do. Then again, there are rooms, once full, that are now empty to me, their doors have to close or new ones can’t or won’t open.

Taking one last look over the bleak empty parkland, I leave the unrelenting rain to run its course, and turn for the warmth of home and some dry clothes.

As I do so there is a small inkling in my mind that another door, to an even larger room from my time with Elaine, is also beginning to quietly close before me.

Back soon…

PS: the front badge of the truck came loose in the accident, it is the only physical piece of the Skylark that I have kept.

                                                       FAREWELL TO THE SKYLARK, Part Two.

                                                    “You might be surprised my son.”

Although this is, in the most part, a stand- alone story it does follow on directly from Skylark part one, so it will make more sense if you read part one before reading this.

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Elaine and I had recently purchased the Nissan pick-up that, unbeknown to us then, would be with us until the end of her life, near on twenty years in the future. The Skylark, as it eventually became known, would prove to be one of our best buys ever but we were still stuck with a Landrover Discovery that was possibly our worst. After so many problems neither of us had any faith left in it at all, and we were anxious to replace it as soon as possible, but what with?

By now we were doing a lot of antique/vintage fairs, and had started house clearance work too, and needed a car that had enough space to help out, and work alongside the truck. Where we lived it also made sense for that car to have four wheel drive capabilities.

Our Budget was some £12,000.00, including a hoped for eight grand trade-in for the Landrover, and so the search began.

At the time I happened to be working at Marlborough, some sixty miles from home, alongside my friend Jim. There were horses on site, and a mobile farrier used to visit. I noticed that he drove a pale green Isuzu Trooper three door (SWB), it was the current model, and I decided to pick his brains.

“Yeah I love it mate, I had a Landrover before, but this is much better to drive, much more ‘car-like’ if you get what I mean, there’s plenty of room for all my gear too as it’s a bit longer than most three doors. My advice is get yourself one, if you can find one that is.”

I told Elaine about it and she began looking for secondhand, latest model three door Troopers. It was like searching for the Holy Grail, they just weren’t about. One south coast dealer laughed when she phoned up, “Secondhand SWB, not a chance madam, but if you find one and don’t get on with it, we’ll buy it from you sight unseen.”

Several fruitless and frustrating weeks passed. A commercial version of what we were looking for was advertised for sale in Poole not far from home. It was like a van really with just two seats and no rear side windows, but we thought it worth a look.

Parked at the front of the garage when we arrived, it had obviously seen better days. It was unlocked, and on opening the doors we were hit by the heavy pungent odour of DOG, it absolutely reeked. Looking in the back, we saw that the backs of the seats were completely shredded. Either they owned the Hound of the Baskervilles or had recently given a lift to Edward Scissorhands.

We walked away, and the search continued.

Time went by, and then occurred one of those strange chain of events that sometimes happen in life, when things just fall into place, as though scripted.

We returned home on a Tuesday afternoon following one of our regular jaunts to Kempton antiques fair, just outside of London. Sat drinking tea, Elaine said she would start searching further afield for a car, as anywhere remotely near us had proved fruitless.

Starting straight away, she came across a company at Cirencester in Gloucestershire, well over two hours’ drive from home and decided to ring them there and then.

Her call was answered by head salesman Mike.

“Three door Trooper?” he repeated back, in answer to her question. “Yes, as a matter of fact we do have one here, came in this morning as part ex’ against a new five-door.” I listened in as he told her about it.

Less than eighteen months old, it had covered just under eighteen thousand miles. It had a three-litre turbo diesel engine, push button four wheel drive, plus a low range gearbox. It was painted black with bronze/grey lower body and silver alloy wheels, and they had supplied the car new to its one owner. And the price? £15995.00. Ouch!

Elaine asked about part exchange, and told him what we had.

“That’s strange” came the reply. “I’ve just got off the phone with the guy who has our non-franchise part ex’s. He was moaning that he’s had nothing from us for a while, your Landrover would suit him well.” He did a few calculations based on her description of our car.

“The absolute best we could allow would be £7000.00.” Ouch again!

Elaine asked for a few minutes for us to talk.

We decided we could muster up another thousand pounds, but that still left us four grand light. Having recently bought the truck, it wasn’t really a good time to be shelling out for another car, but we were ever fearful of the Discovery going wrong again and landing us with even more expense.

“Why don’t we go see it” said Elaine. “We’ve not even driven one of these cars yet and if we want it perhaps we can sort something on the day.” I agreed with this, so she got back to Mike, asked if we could have a test drive, and told him where we lived.

“You’re quite a distance from here” he replied. “Why don’t I meet you part way, we have another business interest at Marlborough, I’d be happy to meet you there, sometime next week maybe?” And so arrangements were confirmed for the Thursday of the following week.

Elaine was just about to hang up when Mike said, “Oh there is one thing I forgot to mention. This car was a special order from new, although it’s the Duty model, as the owner was disabled it has an automatic gearbox, does that matter to you?”

She assured him it didn’t and said we’d see him next week.


I groaned inwardly. This was before the advent of multi-geared auto boxes to gain better performance from diesel cars, this would be a plodder. The Discovery was not very sporty, and I had so been hoping for something with a bit more ‘pep’ about it as a replacement. 

                                                 (Note to self: Be very careful what you wish for!)

I knew where their other business was at Marlborough (a kind of garden machinery come country store). There was a spacious car park around it which we pulled into just after eleven on the Thursday morning. I had cleaned and polished the Discovery to within an inch of its life hoping to make a good impression and maybe more money, though we pulled up next to an equally gleaming black Isuzu that looked brand new.

The man lounging in the drivers’ seat got out as we arrived; this was Mike.

I can’t help but feel there’s a similarity between car salesmen and undertakers. There always seems to be a half-smile of expectation fixed on their faces. It’s as if they’re constantly sizing you up as to whether you’re actually going to be a serious customer just yet, or not.

We were being ‘sized’ I knew, as he leaned, one hand on the bonnet of the Isuzu, as we approached him. He was not a big man, had wayward sandy coloured hair and seemed totally at ease within his own casual manner. After introductions he showed us round the car.

It was in fantastic condition, no signs of wear showing at all, and Elaine and I settled into the dark grey cloth seats (me in the drivers) as Mike explained the controls.

“Have you driven an auto’ before?” he asked me.

“Only on a few odd occasions” I replied truthfully.

“Well it’s easy enough. Foot on the brake when you start, then into Drive and off you go. It’s a three speed box, first, second, and third. This button here is for overdrive, it acts like a fourth gear and helps with the fuel economy we just leave them in all the time. You two have a good drive round and come back when you’re ready.”

I went to hand him the keys to the Landrover but he waved them away, “I don’t need to drive it, I can see you’ve looked after it. I’m happy to stand by the price offered.”

I started the Isuzu, and to this day I don’t know what made me say it, but the window was fully down and resting my arm on the door I looked at him and said, “ Heavy car this, diesel, automatic, this will be a bit of a plod I reckon.”

He took a step towards me, placed his left hand on my arm, leaned slightly in and in a soft conspiratorial voice said “You might be surprised my son.” I would soon have cause to never forget those words.

Off we went, and at first took a couple of turns around Marlborough to get a bit more familiar with the car, then we headed out of town. I believe it was towards Swindon, all I know for sure is that after a few gentle miles we hit upon a good straight section of main road.

Nothing much was about, just one car away ahead of us and that was just passing a van parked-up in a lay-by to the left.

It was now Elaine encouraged me, saying, “See what it’ll do Mark.” So I did.

Planting my right foot to the floor, I expected it to kick-down from overdrive into third, and then hopefully progress fairly swiftly along for a bit, before changing back up.

Always expect the unexpected!

Without a hint of hesitation and a ROAR from the engine it dropped straight into second, felt for a moment that it was going to stand up on its rear wheels and then literally threw itself down the carriageway before us.

Elaine went back in her seat with a yelp, I instinctively gripped the steering wheel but for the next few moments was as much a passenger as she was. The acceleration was quite honestly breath-taking. How a vehicle of this size and bulk could take-up in such a way was beyond me right then.

In moments we were moving like vampires trying to escape the rising sun!

Don’t get me wrong, this was no turbine smooth progression, it was raw, visceral and unrepentant, but none the less effective.

Gathering my wits I realised that England was shrinking rapidly around us, and we were gaining fast on the car in front. I was about to lift off when I noticed the parked van was now moving and at the edge of the road, VERY near the edge of the road. Had he seen us? I wasn’t about to take the chance, there was an alternative.

The opposite lane was completely empty, nothing in sight. A glance in the door mirror confirmed nothing was behind us, so I eased out and in seconds we left both van and lay-by in our wake.

By now we had little chance of pulling-in safely behind the car in front. I didn’t have a clue as to how the Isuzu would react to my suddenly lifting off and braking hard (it weighed in at over two tons even without us on board) so the decision was made, the road ahead still being clear I kept us where we were and in moments we passed that car like an assassins bullet on rails.

We were still accelerating as we cleared him, the Isuzu planted rock steady on the tarmac; it was near unbelievable performance.

I eased us back into the correct lane and lifted carefully off the throttle, letting the bulk of the car slow us before braking gently, bringing us to an easier speed. Then I looked over to Elaine.

Have you ever seen a cat that’s been startled whilst washing itself? They look up wide-eyed and staring with mouth partially open, well I was looking at puss-puss right now. I thought I ought to say something.

“Sorry, darling, I had no idea that was going to happen.”

“I could see that by the look on your face. Dear God Mark! What the hells this car got under the bonnet? It makes the Landrover look like a tractor.”

“I’m not sure, but that farrier did say they were very car-like.”

“He didn’t mention the car was a bloody Aston Martin though, did he!” she replied.

We both then got a fit of the giggles and stared laughing. It was that nervous laughter that comes after possible danger has threatened and then suddenly passed without incident.

Finding a place to turn we headed back, then I pulled over and we checked out how the rear seats folded down, soon realising this car had all the space we could wish for. Elaine drove then, showing greater respect for the loud pedal than I had.

 Soon we were back beside the Landrover and she turned off the engine and looked to me. We were in agreement, we both wanted this car, but there was the small matter of the extra four thousand.

“Mark, I’ve been thinking, we’ve got money coming in next month that should cover this, what if we put the extra on the credit card, if they’ll take it, that is?”

“We’ll soon find out” I replied nodding towards the windscreen, as Mike had emerged from the building opposite and was coming towards us.

He came round to the drivers’ side and Elaine opened the door which he casually leaned on.

“Well?” he inquired.

Elaine was never one to beat around the bush. “Can we put four grand of it on a credit card?”

“No problem.”

“Then we’ll take it.”

“Thought you might.” He replied, that annoying half- smile fixed smugly on his face.  

The Isuzu proved to be another real gem and great fun to drive and live with. Together with the truck, it was the perfect combination of transport, for work or pleasure, for us at the time. It could be a fiercely quick car but we soon learnt to drive it with respect to its capabilities; though if needed, it could leave just about anything else standing, and many a would-be boy racer was left breathing its fumes as it disappeared from view.

It proved to be reliable, and we ended up travelling all over the country in it. Elaine even took it to France when she was invited over on a Vintage buying trip by friends Shirley and Mark, who live there permanently.

It was quite a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but neither Elaine nor myself had any reason to think that there was anything ‘different’ about it from other Troopers, that is until it was part of a factory re-call of that model by Isuzu.

A certain wire had apparently caused problems in a number of cars and so they were all called in for replacement. By now, some years had passed since we had bought our car, and it had covered over ninety thousand miles. Isuzu no longer made cars, just commercial vehicles, and it was to a local commercial dealership that we were directed to take ours.

So, on a damp Monday morning, I drove it over, and was motioned straight into the workshop where I left it for the day, Elaine dropping me back late PM after a call confirmed it was ready to collect.

I went upstairs to the office where a young lady handed me the keys and some paperwork, telling me the suspect wire was now replaced, and all was ok.

She then hesitated for a moment, “Mr Edsall could you spare a few minutes as the workshop manager would like to talk to you?”

I said I could, whilst thinking, Shite! they’ve found something wrong, I hope to God it’s not going to prove expensive.

The manger duly appeared, I don’t recall his name now as we only met briefly that one time.

He started by asking a few questions about the car. Did we buy it new? How long had we owned it? Where did we purchase it? etc etc. Had we ever had anything done to the car other than regular maintenance?

I told him that we hadn’t, and he seemed to think now that an explanation was needed.

“You see, Mr Edsall, when we carry out work on a vehicle we have to do a road test. When the guys backed your car out of the workshop it spun its rear wheels in reverse!”

“Yes it has a habit of doing that,” I replied. “You soon learn to be careful, especially in the wet or on a loose surface.”

He looked at me for a moment as though I’d just landed from the planet of the idiots; I began to suspect that I was missing something here.

“Yes well, they came back from the test absolutely enthusing about it, saying that they’d not driven anything like it before. I hardly believed them so, and I hope you don’t mind, I took it out myself. I was astonished, it goes like a rocket the acceleration is simply fantastic.”

“You mean they don’t all drive like that?” I said, rather naively.

“Drive like THAT! Good God no, they’re absolute slugs,” came the reply.

“We put it on the rolling road and sent the figures off to Isuzu. They got back to us saying, that vehicle could never produce that level of performance. So we tested it again and the figures were the same; they’re still scratching their heads, but we did a little investigating.” I remained silent.

“We checked-out the ECU (engine control unit) in your car, it’s been hacked into.” I looked at him blankly.

“Mr Edsall,” he said, addressing a class of infants, “Your car has been remapped or chipped, if you prefer.”

(Remapped/ chipped, this is when a vehicles engine management is reprogrammed to overwrite the manufacturers’ original settings; it’s done to increase performance, throttle response and sometimes fuel efficiency).

All of a sudden, the last piece of a jigsaw, started long ago, fell into place. In my mind I was back to the morning of our test drive and Mike’s words as we were about to leave, “You might be surprised, my son.”

I told the guy in front of me all about that morning and he laughed out loud.

“They had to know about it, no way could you be familiar with those cars and not realise there is something hugely different about yours. My guess would be the original owner, having to have an automatic, got frustrated with the lack of performance so got the work done very early in the cars life.”

“What should we do?” I asked. “Should we get it changed back to the original settings?”

 He thought for a moment. “Well, I’ve seen these cars dead at thirty thousand miles and others going strong at a quarter of a million or more, whatever has been done to yours appears to have been done skilfully and to suit the car, if I were you I’d leave well alone and enjoy what you’ve got.”

As leaving well alone was the cheapest option, I agreed. We shook hands and I turned to leave, then a thought hit me. “You know, it begs a question here, doesn’t it? Why didn’t Isuzu make them all like that in the first place?”

He smiled back at me. “Mr Edsall, I think they would have sold a whole lot more of them if they had.” And again, I had to agree.

We owned that Isuzu for some fourteen years. It had covered 140,000 miles by the time we came to part with it, late 2017. It had begun to suffer problems, particularly with its oil system, and although we were very loath to admit it, both Elaine and I knew that the writing was on the wall for our time with the ‘Super Trooper’.

I don’t now recall it ever really letting us down; but the AA did have to recover it once as it failed to start when Elaine was ready to come home from the stables (she took the photo of it on the low-loader).

We both felt deep sadness at the parting, but by now Elaine was having increasing treatment, and there loomed the possibility of us having to travel further afield for this, and we simply needed to have a newer vehicle that we could fully trust.

I was also, reluctantly, beginning to both realise and fear that the probability was threatening, that I would be left one day as sole owner of both car and truck. I tried to ignore such thoughts, but they never went very far away.

In truth, that probability, was much closer than I feared.

To be continued…

Farewell to the Skylark- Part 1

 I had originally intended this post to be a one-off concerning just the one particular truck, but soon came to realise that I was restricting myself far too much in this way. So, though the loss of the ‘Skylark’ remains the primary story, I have expanded it to cover a number of vehicles over three decades, and three blogs. I think it paints a fuller picture, hope you agree…Mark.

***********************

Pick-up trucks have become commonplace in this country over the last few years. Many are now recreational vehicles only, almost a form of status symbol, but that certainly wasn’t the case when Elaine bought the first of the three which she was to own back in the early 1990’s.

Elaine liked a car that could double as a workhorse, and when she got rid of her ancient Range Rover, she replaced it with a Ford pick-up of rather dubious mileage and history. This was the vehicle that came with her when she moved in with me in 1993.

It was based on the Cortina model, just two seats and a six foot bed to the rear and it sported a huge bull-bar on the front, which I always suspected, was the real reason she bought it. She once had an accident in it being t-boned at a junction. Suffering mild concussion, she came round to see a figure with long beard and flowing robes stood by her. “I thought I was dead and it was an angel come to get me”. Turned out to be a Greek Orthodox priest on his way to conduct a service, and he was the one who had crashed into her! The truck was repaired by the garage it had previously belonged to. To give its 1600 petrol motor a bit of extra grunt they had fitted it with a large twin-choke carburettor. Trouble was, it only had a four-speed gearbox, and when we started doing antique fairs further afield its prodigious thirst (and increasing unreliability) meant it had to go.

We found its successor via small ads in a local magazine. It too was a Ford, this time based on the Sierra model. Just two seats again (king-cabs and four seaters weren’t really around then), but this one had a 2litre engine (petrol again) with a five-speed box and only 30,000 miles on it. It drove very well and was to become our reliable workhorse for many years.

Of course, both working, we had to be a two car household and when my old Mini came to the end of the road, it was replaced with a rather basic Ford Fiesta 1100, acquired out of necessity rather than desire. Its one previous owner had been the traditional ‘old lady’ who had had trouble getting it through her driveway gates, thus it had a series of gentile dents and scrapes to both sides; but it too drove well, and we found that with the back seats down, and the addition of a roof rack, there was enough space to get a reasonable load of gear on board to go to a fair with if necessary.

So for some years we were a two Ford family, but our vehicles had to live outside and the Fiesta started to rust badly, and have mechanical issues, eventually the time arrived to replace it.

We were somewhat better off money-wise by now and so decided that a four-wheel drive car would tick plenty of boxes and be an ideal replacement, but which one?

After much deliberation, and to be honest somewhat against my way of thinking, a Landrover Discovery was deemed the answer. As we didn’t have much opportunity to go car hunting Elaine got a company (long since defunct) to source the right car for us.

And so one bright afternoon we found ourselves 30-odd miles from home waiting to be introduced to our ‘ideal car’. Our lounge-type surroundings were very opulent. Velvet chairs and small sofas abounded. Liberal tea, coffee or soft drinks were available, low tables sported up to date (and up their own arses!) glossy magazines. Elaine pulled a face at me. “Somehow I’ve the feeling we’re paying for all this crap”.

Anyway the test drive went well enough, the car, a 96’-97 model, looked good with dark grey metallic paintwork and matching alloys, and a deal was done, though both of us felt a little uninvolved in the process, like outsiders watching proceedings from a distance. Hindsight later told us we should have heeded those feelings somewhat more carefully.

A week later we collected the car, Elaine followed in the truck as I drove it back. After a couple of miles she flashed me down. I had no offside brake light, so back we went. Red faces all round. They ‘fixed’ the problem “Just a bulb” -though it took nearly an hour to do so- and then we drove home.

How many of you reading this have ever had that gut feeling about a thing or situation that something just isn’t right? Well I had it about this car from the start, but decided I was just being silly. Big mistake.

After a short while, I began to notice that even under modest braking the brakes often seemed lazy and reluctant to bite. Elaine never reported a problem so I thought maybe it was just me not being used to a heavier car. One morning I was doing about 30mph when the traffic up front stopped, there was plenty of room for me to stop too, only I didn’t.

There was a horrible screeching as I braked but nothing happened. I had to swerve to the other side of the road to avoid a collision and didn’t stop until I had passed two stationary cars on the wrong side of the road. The looks from those drivers alone should have killed me!

All seemed to be okay after that, and I was thinking maybe it was just me at fault somehow, but after a similar incident I was completely unnerved and insisted the car go back to be checked over.

The garage didn’t believe there could possibly be anything at fault so soon, but did eventually, reluctantly, agree to take a look one Saturday morning. By now I had learnt to take things very steady and not brake hard or suddenly, so I arrived safe and on time. (I wouldn’t let Elaine drive it until this check- over had happened).

The manageress (I’ll call her Jill) adopted a condescending attitude from the start and grandly appointed a mechanic to test drive the car whilst I rode shotgun.

He didn’t say much and I was aware they thought me a bloody timewaster.

After a short distance he said, “Well what’s the problem, what should I do?”

“Brake sharply” I replied “And you’ll find out.”

He took me at my word, unfortunately we were just onto a railway bridge at the time. He hit the brakes HARD and instantly the wheel spun out of his hands as we slewed sideways across the road heading for the concrete parapet of the bridge, a deafening screech ringing in our ears. He had to virtually stand-up to exert enough pressure on the brakes to get us to stop. I believe we both sat a little higher in our seats afterwards!

We were nose onto the concrete at right angles across the road, lucky for us, no other cars came along.

My chauffer quickly got us off the bridge then pulled over. He sat back in his seat, “Fuck me, fuckin’ hell what a bastard!” He ran his hand dramatically across his forehead and cheeks, then looked over to me. “I’ve seen enough lets’ get back.”

Jill met us as we returned. Her attitude faded as without any preliminary words he blurted out to her for the whole world to hear “Its’ fuckin’ lethal, Jill, FUCKIN’ LETHAL.”

They had the car for over a week; turned out the front brakes were barely engaging at all and one of the rears kept locking-up on demand. It was an omen of things to come. So much went wrong over the time we owned that car. Oil leaks, parts failed, problems with the rear door, power steering problems, the bloody alarm used to go off with the slightest bump, the rear bulbs kept blowing.

It culminated one Sunday evening as we returned home from London. Going up the slip road to join the M3 it suddenly jammed between gears and the clutch pedal went straight to the floor. The look of weary despair on Elaine’s face, I knew, mirrored my own. “This cars got to go, I don’t care about any loss, Mark. I’ll never trust it again.” Truth was, I’d hardly trusted it from the start.

 But before we could do anything about it we had another transport problem to sort.

Our truck had now covered over 100,000 miles and it was beginning to suffer. The body was rusting badly, and we had been told it was unlikely to get through another MOT test without major work and expense. By now extended cab (king cabs) and four seaters were coming onto the market. We decided a king cab would be ideal for us. A foot in length would be lost off the back but the extra cab space meant being able to keep stuff properly dry as Elaine was now dealing with an increasing amount of costume and material that would become spoiled if it got wet.

Though our truck had a cover over the bed it was impossible to keep the rain from finding a way in, and in cold weather the cover would gain a layer of condensation on the underside which, of course, then dripped over anything in the back.

The hunt began, but after a couple of frustrating months we were no better off, we couldn’t find a truck, that wasn’t already half a wreck, in our price range. Then, one Sunday afternoon Elaine was trawling the internet and came across a company in Wiltshire that had a selection of vehicles for sale, amongst them a 1998 Nissan D22 king cab, one owner and 33,000 miles on the clock. It had recently arrived as a part exchange.

She rang them the next morning and arranged a viewing early in the coming week.

We found the place easily enough and, to be honest, it was a bit of a rough and ready set-up. Old and new trucks and cars everywhere and parts piled up wherever there was space.

‘Our’ truck was out the back. “Sorry, but we haven’t had time to clean it up yet” the man who turned out to be the boss said as he walked us round the building; it was more of a statement than an apology.

The truck was painted white, and as we approached it, the wind gently blew and for a moment it seemed as though it was blowing the paint off. Then we realised that it was completely covered in a thick layer of fine white dust. It was everywhere, inside and out, over every surface.

“Like I said we haven’t had time to clean it” our host repeated. “The chap who owned it was a stonemason, very busy man as you can see. Here’s the keys, it’s a good runner have a drive around and let me know, I want £10,000 and that’s firm, plus of course there will be VAT on top of that.”

Dust wafted around us as we got in, just as well we hadn’t dressed up for today. I drove, and was pleased that the truck started first touch of the key though with a curious hi-pitched squawk. It was a 2.5 litre turbo diesel with selectable four wheel drive plus a low range gearbox and apart from power steering no frills whatsoever. But the cab was comfortable and roomy, with radio/cassette and wind-down widows, which we opened to let the dust out to pollute the atmosphere and not our lungs.

 It drove beautifully, light and surprisingly nimble considering its’ size; not a speed machine but smooth and with purpose. After a couple of miles we both knew this was the one for us. Elaine hoped to be able to negotiate the price down a bit, the £10,000 we could manage, but the VAT was a problem for us as, not being registered, we would not be able to claim it back from the tax office.

On our return we parked out front and found the boss behind his desk, coffee mug in hand. By the amount of empty cups and mugs littering the desk I reckon he didn’t waste money employing anyone to do the washing-up. He spoke first.

“I’ve been checking a few things since you left, this stonemason bloke isn’t VAT registered after all, so trucks 10,000 straight, if you want it.”

My wife and I looked at each other, smiled and together said “Yes please!”

I never would have believed then that this truck would still be with us/me some twenty years later.

It was probably the best 10 grand that we ever spent and we both came to love it as a trusted friend. Not once do I ever remember it letting us down. It lived outside all its life, but no matter what the weather or conditions it always started first time; it had quite a tough life with us but never once complained.

It was this vehicle that gradually became known as The Skylark.

Elaine at first christened all her trucks as Mr. Pickup. The Fiesta was known as Fi-fi. The Landrover, well I’ll leave you to imagine what that got called.

Somewhere along the line we started using the phrase “All aboard the Skylark” followed by two beeps of the horn, when we set off in the truck to go to a fair. It was a sort of good luck thing. I don’t remember now how it came about. The phrase is apparently a boating term and was used in a TV animated series Noah & Nelly from the 1970’s. They had a boat called Skylark and said “All aboard the Skylark” when off on a new adventure, which we started to do too. Childish maybe, but I don’t really care, it was us and I’m not apologising for it.

Now we had found a gem of a truck, but we were still stuck with a Landrover we sadly had no faith in. One way or another it had to go, it would mean stretching our finances to say the least, but just what could we replace it with?

The answer was a while turning-up, but when it did the day of the test drive was to remain forever with us.


To be continued…

                                                                 OTHER SIDES.

Firstly I would like to thank all those who sent their congratulations to Marilyn and myself on news of our becoming engaged. So many nice comments, via the blog itself, Elaine’s Facebook pages or direct contact to me, thank you all.

Life continues to move forwards, whether I’ve wanted it to or not, and along the way situations arise which I know I want to write about, but they sometimes have to take a back seat for a while as other things take precedence.

What follows is one of those situations from early last summer

I needed a new key for the Landrover. I say key but in fact it’s a chubby electronic fob that plugs into the dash and charges itself in situ’. Trouble was it had stopped charging, and on my taking it back to the agent we bought the car from, it was declared knackered and so a replacement was duly ordered.

It was going to be about a week in arriving, and would require to be synchronised with the car and, would I mind driving over to the workshop for this to be done. I could wait as it would take less than an hour to sort out.

“To the workshop”- I repeated Marcus the manager’s words back to him.

“Yes, you know where it is don’t you Mark?”

“Yeah I know, though I’ve not been there for a long time now.”

“You’ll find it’s changed quite a bit, the horses are all long gone and so are some of the buildings.”

I’d already heard through the grapevine that this was the case, you see where their workshop is situated is the place where Elaine first stabled Bruce when she got him summer 2009, and I hadn’t been back there since she moved him, as far as I can make out, around six years later.

I was expecting a bumpy trip down memory lane.

It’s a beautiful Thursday morning. The sky is that impossible shade of summer blue that only seems to exist now in childhood memories. There’s a few wisps of cloud on high, lazily drifting along on their personal breezes. There’s warmth to the sun, but not so much that you can leave your coat at home.

This day is an early herald for summer, hinting at good things to come, but for me it’s a morning of mixed emotions as I get in the car and set out to a place that, whether I like it or not, commands a big presence in my past.

I think a bit of history is called for. Elaine named this place Old Roman Farm in her book. That isn’t the correct name, though it is very close. She changed some names and amalgamated some places and people for ease of writing and other reasons. I do not intend to undo that here, so it remains Old Roman Farm.

It lies at the back of the village of Witchampton about five or so miles from Wimborne by the main road. At one time it was mainly a large egg producing unit with several huge poultry sheds and a number of other smaller buildings, plus one house.

When we initially went there only one or possibly two of the sheds still contained chickens. The first large building on arrival had been converted into stables with tack-room and storage. This must have been done many years previously as neglect and the weather were now taking their toll, but the stables were warm and dry and Bruce had company around him.

To the far side and wrapping around the front end, was a large field for the horses to graze, enclosed with barbed wire fence.

There are several routes to get to this place, but the quickest one from home involves a journey of some two miles on narrow country lanes which lead out to a broad, loose chalk surfaced ‘private’ track which undulates across the landscape for a further mile or so to the farm.

It was akin to driving on the moon. Potholes, craters and ridges galore. After rain the surface was a thick gloopy off-white soup, which stuck to everything, it was quite an effort to drive in it. But, when dry, the loose chalk acted like marbles beneath the tyres. Put your foot down and it felt like the car was skating. It was easy to play at rally drivers, which we often did, especially in Elaine’s truck. With its skinny tyres and no weight in the back it was real childish fun, and you were always rewarded with a huge cloud of white dust in the rear-view mirror.

I take the same route this morning.

Though I’ve not driven this way for many years it’s still utterly familiar to me. I’m glad to get the narrow tarmac road done with as it’s near impossible to pass on the latter section should you meet opposing traffic. When it ends, I’m rewarded with the sight of the wide chalk track before me, whitewashed in the morning sunlight.

No one’s around, so I let my right foot do the talking and the car guns forward leaving a ghostly plume in its wake. What memories this brings back! So many times I’ve crossed this land with and without Elaine beside me; horse duties to do, or completed. How hollow it suddenly feels inside that this has all left my life forever.

There’s a downhill section leading to a sweeping uphill bend. Looking to my right I spot a dark shape on the horizon and know immediately what it is. Horse and rider.

The speed drops rapidly as I lift my foot, and the tail of dust conforms to gravity as it loses its cause; a quarter of a mile on we pass each other. The female rider smiles her thanks and waves to me. How many times must Elaine have done the same along here?

Off the chalk and onto a hard road surface for the last few hundred yards, and what a transformation looms up before me. The building that housed the stables has all but gone just the concrete base and sections of the block walls remain. There’s rubble piled in the top corner and dotted all around; weeds are trying to gain a foothold everywhere; a wave of cheerless recognition washes over me.

I drive straight to the workshop which is at right angles to the turn-out field, as was. They are expecting me and say it’ll take about 45 minutes to get things sorted. “I’ll take a walk around” I reply.

Going over to the wire fence I stop and stare across the field. It used to be divided up for grazing and rest with endless ‘miles’ of white electric fence tape, all long gone now; it looks so empty. I’ve never seen it like this before, and despite the gentle warming breeze on my cheeks a cool chill runs through me.

I walk back up the track to what was the entrance to the building. Strangely comforting, the little red brick hut is still here next to where the muck trailer would have been parked.

I stand in silence, like I’m saluting a fallen comrade. Birds are twittering high in the sky but apart from them an uncommon hush seems to have fallen over everything. The memories of what was rush to greet me, as though they’ve been waiting all these years for me to come back so that they may briefly live again.

For a few moments I dare not move as I fear emotion will overwhelm me. I shut my eyes, take a deep breath or two, then looking up I walk forward into the past, my past.

I walk the length of a building that is no longer here except in my mind. At the far end I turn and look back. The white concrete base is bleaching in the early sunlight. It looks impossibly narrow now, it seemed so much wider before. But then, of course, it was so dark in here with the heavy walls and roof.

 A store room, the tack room come kitchen come everything else were first on the left as you entered, then the stables, then storage for hay and feed etc. The back end of the building and the roof space were crammed with all the crap and detritus that always builds up in old farm buildings. Wood, metal, bits of engines, an old Range Rover awaiting a new motor, an old tractor used to harrow the field, all were present; God alone knows where it all rests now.

 Scrambling over the rubble I stand and look back. How many times have I reversed the truck down through there laden with hay or horse feed? Once even a ‘Hen Hotel’ which I built at home and brought here so our four chickens could be looked after whilst we went to America, (one of the ungrateful bastards died the following day, probably the shock of the move).

Climbing back again I walk over to what was the window of Bruce’s stable. The only windows in the whole place were in the back wall of the horse boxes overlooking the field. Unless you opened the main doors it was always dingy inside, as the few light bulbs fought a losing battle with the dust and cobwebs.

The window used to open outwards and Elaine would often leave it open as Bruce liked to poke his head out to look around. The glass was always filthy, until one day she cleaned both sides until sparkling. Unfortunately, she forgot to open it again and Bruce not realising it was shut and unable to see the spotless glass poked his muzzle straight through it. He wasn’t hurt and I replaced the glass with clear Perspex, but it remained unwashed from then onwards.

 I lean against the broken wall and run my fingers along the crumbling remains of the sill.

 An idea interrupts my thoughts and I slip a few tiny bits of rubble into my pocket.

This always was a strangely brooding sort of place. Big landscape and skies, ancient burial mounds dotted around the surrounding fields and something of an aura of melancholy loneliness, even on the brightest of days.

If Elaine had to come here in the evening I would come with her, as I never liked the idea of her being here alone after dark; neither did she. Not that she was a nervous person but it could feel somewhat remote with no one else around.

One night I was waiting for her when I took a stroll past the outside of the building to the open gated field at the top end. The sun was rapidly descending and the horizon was a mass of orange and gold spread along the upper ridge of the land. It all resembled a huge slice of burnt toast topped with rich butter and marmalade. Above it was a band of violet light which became purple and dark blue the higher you looked.

I was quite entranced with the raw beauty of it when suddenly I was aware that I was no longer alone. I looked around me convinced that I was being watched but could see no one. I turned back to the landscape but the feeling remained to such an extent that I went back to the truck to wait for my wife.

I mentioned this to her on the way home, she listened but made little comment that I can remember now. Later however, as I watched TV she came downstairs after showering, wrapped up in a towel, and sat on the settee arm next to me.

“What you said earlier Mark, was that true?”

I knew it was time to turn the telly out. “You mean about feeling I was being watched tonight? Yes it was.”

“It’s happened to me too. Not long after I got Bruce I was mucking-out one morning, when I had the overwhelming feeling that I was being watched. I felt that something had come in from outside and was stood watching –no, observing me. I looked outside and around but nobody was about. It continued for a while then was just gone. Some weeks later it happened again, I hope it doesn’t continue like this, it’s a bit unnerving.”

“You said something, not someone.” I pointed out.

“That’s how it felt, it didn’t feel to me like a person, I don’t really know how else to put it. I think there’s something of the ‘other side’ to the place Mark. I’ve noticed sometimes that the horses seem to be following things with their eyes, things that I can’t see. It’s all a bit weird.”

I remember that conversation as I stand here now, like it happened yesterday. We never did come to any conclusions about it, I never again had a similar experience here and if Elaine did she kept it to herself.

Maybe she was right, maybe there is another side to this place, another side that can’t or won’t show itself to us. Perhaps we can just sense it when the moment is right, who knows? 

Personally, I always liked it here and I do believe Elaine did too, but in later years it became very quiet as several of the other horses passed away and the boxes stayed empty. I think then the loneliness became an issue for her, coupled with a lack of good local riding, she eventually decided to move Bruce to a busier yard just outside of town.

Both horse and owner made new friends, but after eighteen months or so the landowner wanted everyone to go full livery, which never was going to suit Elaine. So Bruce was moved again to a new home at the village of Stur’ Marshall, this time the other side of town; he was there until his death.

Once again new and lasting friendships were made, some thankfully that have passed over to me.

(It’s this last yard I would love to visit again one day, to stand alone by that stable door – and remember).

The sound of an engine breaks my daydream, and glancing across the now open space I see my car being backed-out of the workshop and parked-up.

Time has passed quickly.

This has all been so different to how I feared it was going to be. Yes, a tear or two has formed in the corners of my eyes. But instead of feeling miserable and weighted down by the memories that live-on here, I feel uplifted in heart and spirit. They are happy memories, of happy wonderful times and they will always know life as long as I do.

If the other side does exist here-and I’ve come to believe it does- then good luck to it. I hope it recalls me as a friend because that’s how I think of it today.

To see this place in ruins doesn’t seem so bad now, it’s just moved on, its story continues in a new guise, so too must mine. But it’s good to feel that the ‘other side’ is still present and that it too remembers.

Back at the workshop I thank the guys, collect my new key and hop in the car. Pulling out I follow the fence-line around the edge of the field, then Whoa! Looking at the grass, remembering the electric tape suddenly it floods back to me, how the hell could I have forgotten until now. Quickly I pull over turn out the engine and walk back to the field entrance.

Leaning on the fence I cast my mind back…

It was an early summers’ morning but, unlike today, the skies were a featureless uniform shade of   grey. No sign of the sun, just a sharp cold breeze whipping swiftly across the land and tugging constantly at your clothing.

Elaine had asked me to come here and help her this morning as she had a problem, the source of which was Bruce (no surprise there then!).

As I mentioned earlier the turn-out field was always divided up into sections with electric fencing. This was done to prevent over grazing, giving some sections of grass a ‘rest’, it also served to keep various horses apart and stop one animal from bullying any other.

Trouble was, Bruce was such a greedy sod that once he’d cleared his own section he started to get out into the adjoining ones, much to the annoyance of other horses, and owners!

“He must be jumping over Mark, we need to make the fence higher.”  Elaine’s words to me, so here we were on that grey cold morning, with me trying to find some of the metal tipped plastic stakes that weren’t all bent to buggery, whilst Elaine tried to unknot endless lengths of the white tape they carried.

If any of you have ever had to do this job (and I know many have) then you’ll know it’s a bloody thankless task in general.

Drive the stakes in, and they’ll hit and bend on the only stone for six feet around. The tape tangles in the wind as though it is its sole purpose in life. Our tempers didn’t fray, but we both knew we’d rather have been somewhere else.

After nearly three hours we were done. A new line of almost double height fence ran parallel to the outer barbed wire one and turned at right angles to link up with it. We were clammy with the sweat of exertion but pleased with our efforts.

“That ought to keep him in.” Elaine said confidently, and as the fence carried its charge direct from the mains, and not batteries, I felt she was probably right.

Whilst I packed up the last of our tools she went to fetch Houdini from his stable where he had been left in company with a full hay net.

He ambled out genially, wearing his rug that came up around his neck, Elaine having the rope to his head collar just resting in her hand.

Through the open gate and he turned and lowered his head for her to remove the collar and receive his tit-bit. I think it was a carrot, I couldn’t see, but the loud crunching noise gave it away.

We closed up the doors and walked over to the truck. Now with Elaine the welfare of the animal always came first, and she had the habit of standing to watch when she turned a horse out to make sure it was head down and feeding ok. Only then would she leave.

But Bruce didn’t make any attempt to pick at the meagre grass, instead he marched slowly down the length of the new fence. Then across the bottom, then up the other side almost to the top where he turned and re-traced his steps.

“What the hells he up to?” said Elaine, more to herself than me, though I was quite fascinated by now as there was obvious purpose behind his actions.

He came to the mid-way point of the new fence and moved up close, standing now at right angles to it.

“Surely he’s not going to try jumping it from there?” Elaine spoke with an edge of fear in her words. Her back was turned to me and she was watching the horse intently now, as was I.

He moved as close to the fence as he could without actually touching it. Then suddenly he dropped onto his front knees put his head to one side on the ground and pushed himself forwards using his back legs. His head and neck when under the lower tape which rested on the neck part of his rug.

He pushed forwards again so his body was halfway under the fence, then twisted himself, the tape being now stretched to breaking point but running against the rug on his back. One final shove and he stood upright on the other side of the fence.

I could hardly believe what I had just seen. Elaine was lost for words for a moment as she turned to me mouth open. She soon found her voice. “Fucking Hell, the cunning bugger, he’s learnt to insulate himself using the rug.”

She turned again to look at the horse now happily munching on the ‘resting’ grass.

“Do you want to move him back?” I asked.

“What’s the point, he’ll only try it again and I don’t want to risk him getting tangled in the bloody tape, leave him.”

There was resignation in her voice, but I think also I detected an edge of admiration too.

I’m back in the sunshine looking at the now sadly empty field; after a moment or two I turn and go back to the car.

I’m not unhappy, just a bit sad around the edges that it all came to an end, but I know now it’s all still here when, and if, I want it to be.

That cold morning Elaine and I smiled and laughed together as we drove home. After all, it’s not every day that you get to witness a half ton horse doing a reverse limbo under an electric fence – just to get to the other side.

Thank you.

PS. And those bits of rubble from Bruce’s window sill? When I next visited Elaine’s grave I placed them underneath the soil. Maybe memories can exist too, on whatever side she is now.

RINGS OF CHANGE.

Elaine and I had barely been married for a couple of hours when the above photo was taken at our wedding reception, held right here in the room I’m sat in now.

Several of the many photos snapped that day have already appeared in the blog, but never, I believe, has this one.

It was an occasion very special to the both of us, as the commitment of a wedding should be, though strangely I’d never before imagined myself as ever getting or being married, why I don’t know, it just never occurred to me that I would. But Elaine was barely divorced from her first husband when I asked her to be my wife and we became officially engaged.

Engagement means a ring, and to be honest funds were a bit lean just then to say the least, but my mum had a beautiful amethyst and diamond ring which my late dad had dug up in the garden one Sunday morning years before. She never wore it, and was happy to supply it for engagement duty.

Elaine loved it straight away, even more-so because of the way it came to light, and once altered to fit, she wore it proudly.

By that time we had been together, one way or another, for almost five years. I had no doubts in my mind, by then, about asking her to marry me and had known for a while that I would, and, I’m sure too, that she knew I would ask and that she would accept.

Funnily enough, I don’t remember us ever discussing marriage before I popped the question to her. It was as though we both understood that at some point it was going to be a part of our journey together and would unfold for us in its own time.

The journey that started that day – 29th December 1995 – was destined to test our relationship and vows to one another far beyond the breaking point of many. One that was going to last a quarter of a century, plus roughly six short days.

But, had anyone whispered in my ear that afternoon that the two of us would one day celebrate our silver wedding anniversary together, I would have struggled to believe them.

As many of you will know, late the previous evening, we had sat wide-eyed, tight lipped and tightly holding hands in the surgeons consulting room, being told that cancer had invaded her body for the second time. Only this time it was far more aggressive and would be requiring far more radical treatment than before.

The news left us both struggling to grasp the concept of any long-term future. Because, back then three decades ago, cancer was still being spoken about in hushed tones. It was the big ‘C’ whispered as the small, almost silent, ‘c’.

“Got cancer? Lets’ face it, you’re gonna die bro’ – only a matter of time, and not much of that eh?”

Things are so different now, perhaps because so many are suffering, but back then that’s how it was.

The photo captures Elaine and myself together, frozen in a moment of undying time. She is smiling, laughing, seemingly without a care in the world. We had decided to tell only a couple of people about the news from the evening before; we didn’t want our mums to know just then and risk spoiling the day for them.

Also, neither of us wanted to allow cancer to gate crash our happy day and Elaine certainly didn’t need sympathy being thrown in with the confetti.

“Oh! Doesn’t she look lovely now but……..” (Bollocks to that, then and now!).

Elaine is slightly out of focus, caught mid-sentence in happy conversation, but it’s me the camera has found out in a thoughtful, almost private moment. Though stood by her side I have been somewhere else in my mind and just returned as the shutter clicked. (I’d learnt long ago, that the loneliest place in the world can often be found in a room full of happy people).

I can tell you now, without hesitation, exactly what my thoughts were right then, albeit thirty years have passed.

“Do we have much of a future together outside of this room?”

“Will we have a first wedding anniversary?”

“Will she live, or are we destined to be told this coming year will be her last?”

Look at the photo again. My eyes are witness to a thousand hidden fears, yet I think also that a certain resigned determination lurks there too. The fear was very real, in fact both of us would never really be free of it ever again, but we didn’t understand that at the time. Just as well, but it would not be too long before we realised that, though we may have been able to prevent cancer from gate-crashing the day, we weren’t going to be able to stop it from gate-crashing our lives.

Anyone aware of our story and seeing the picture for the first time, could be forgiven for thinking that maybe the cause of my expression is doubt, far from it.

If I say here that I knew full well what I was letting myself in for by marrying her that day, it would be a lie. Neither of us knew what lay ahead on the road for us, or just how long or short that road was going to be, but we had each other; the real commitment had grown between us over the previous years; the vows that afternoon were the icing on the cake.

We both knew we would stick together, love and trust, hand in hand, side by side until whatever end came out of the darkness to meet us.

I had no doubts that day, and no regrets have ever come out of it either.

Now at this point you may well be wondering where all this is leading to. Why bring up a wedding that happened thirty years back? Well, to some degree history is repeating itself for me.

On Boxing-day morning last year Marilyn and I became engaged!

 And, as before, engagement means a ring. But strangely, this time, it was the ring that brought about the engagement.

I’ll explain…

In all the years I’ve known Mar’ she has never worn a wedding ring. Her original one is quite a thick gold band which she found uncomfortable to wear, so left it off. Instead she wore a small solitaire diamond ring which, some years ago now, slipped unnoticed from her hand and despite an extensive search was never recovered.

Now I have always had a liking for jewellery – although I think too much of it on a man is a mistake- but I frequently do a bit of window shopping should the chance arise. When Marilyn and I started going places together we often found ourselves staring in the jewellers’ windows. I knew that she lamented the loss of that little diamond ring still, and gradually formed the idea of replacing it for her one day.

Time ticked on, until a couple of weeks before last Christmas when we travelled up to Salisbury to take a general look around the shops.

The antiques centre is a place we always visit, and there on display was a neat little ring sporting a row of diamonds.

“Why don’t you try it on?” I suggested.

Marilyn frowned, but the girl behind the counter, sensing a potential sale, already had the ring in her hand and offered it across.

It was Edwardian, and all I can say is that Edwardian ladies must have had extremely small hands and fingers. Mar’ is only five feet tall and, dare I say, in proportion, but it was way too small to fit her.

Later, in another shop window, we saw a nice ring of five small stones in a row. When I suggested going in to try it Mar’ looked puzzled but didn’t argue. Again a small ring and a very tight fit on her finger. It was nice, but sometimes you just know when something is not quite right and it seemed that way to us both.

We carried on shopping, and coming across another jewellers spotted a neat solitaire ring in the window. We head in, with Mar’ still wondering why she’s trying on rings instead of just looking at them.

The jovial lady assistant bids us to sit while she fetches the ring and its companions, set on a tray, from the window. As I look at her the words of Charles Dickens describing Mrs. Fezziwig in- A Christmas Carol- spring to mind “One vast substantial smile”. I know very well she’s silently assessing us; are we time wasting dreamers or real possible buyers? Having been married to a born saleswoman, and seen her in action at the many stalls we shared over the years, I know the look.

It is a delightful little ring but once again far too small even for Marilyn. Our jovial lady senses our real disappointment and suggests that another tray, from a side window we haven’t seen, may have something to our liking; and it does.

A white gold band with three diamonds, one central, flanked either side by two almost oval shaped stones. It is solidly made but with an air of delicacy, and punches above its size in the way it catches the light and casts it back out again.

Marilyn tries it on and it fits as if made for her.

“I think its 1980’s vintage,” says Mrs. Fezziwig, “And looks as if it’s never been worn.”

It’s a lovely item but Marilyn is hesitant, (I notice that she has glanced at the price) and suggests going for lunch and thinking about it.

Leaving the shop, and the rather crestfallen assistant behind us we head for a little pub we discovered on a previous visit. It’s our turn to be crestfallen now as we find they have stopped serving food so we sit with a soft drink apiece and mull over our day so far.

Getting engaged or married is not even in our conversation. But, of course we do discuss the rings and so decide to go back to the last shop.

It’s getting colder now as we re-trace our steps back through the crowded streets. Dodging fellow pedestrians I glance at the woman with me and can’t help thinking that it was here in Salisbury where my friend Mike made me realise just how lucky I have been in life (meaning Elaine) and how lucky I continue to be, meaning Marilyn.

She could easily be here walking along with somebody else if she wanted to. When we first started talking over the phone, a while after Elaine died, I ventured that it had been some four years since her husband had passed.

“No Mark, it’s been seven years since I lost Jeff.”

“Seven! Who are you seeing now then, surely there’s someone else by this time?”

“No, nobody, I’m still on my own.”

“What’s the matter with all the men that come in that pub then, are they all blind and bloody stupid.” (At that time she still worked three shifts in the tiny Oddfellows Arms in Wimborne).

A big laugh comes down the line to me. “No, I’ve had…offers.”

“And?”

“I was very flattered of course, but there was nothing that I felt was right for me, that’s all.”

Sometime later, when we started meeting regularly, and it was becoming apparent to us both that something more than friendship was beginning to develop I asked her the same question.

“I told you Mark, there were offers but nothing that I felt was right.”

I had to ask the now obvious question. “Why me?” Her two word answer has never been elaborated on.

“You’re different.”

As I walk along beside her now I’m none the wiser as to why, in her eyes, I’m ‘different’, but I’m really pleased that I am.

We reach the shop and it’s empty as we enter, only a male assistant behind the counter.

“We were here earlier…” I start to explain when he cuts in saying, “Ah yes, I’ll fetch my colleague”.

Mrs. Fezziwig glides in from the backroom, seeming to fill the space behind the counter like an expanding genie rising from the lamp; she smiles knowingly at us as I ask if we may see the ring again.

Floating across to the far window I know she feels that she has us hooked and it’s now only a matter of reeling us in; gently of course, no rushing.

Marilyn tries the ring on again and I know that it’s a done deal.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, yes I do. Do you?”

“Yeah, I think that it suits you perfectly.”

I feel here that she wants to say something more but isn’t sure what, quickly I look across to the genie, “This is the one, we’ll take it.”

She glows with commission-fuelled happiness as we conclude the transaction and boxes and bags our purchase for us.

“Happy Christmas” I say to Mar’.

“Thank you Mark, but you keep it at home for now please.”

I’m not too sure what her thoughts are just at this moment, and neither of us mentions the ring again. It comes home with me ready to become the Christmas present as intended, but I know full well the implications that come with it; and I’m pretty sure she does too.

We had Christmas with Marilyn’s son and his family. As previously, we had a great time and also, as before, I was made to feel welcome and at home. Marilyn and I save present opening for Boxing Day and the last present out of the bag, so to speak, is the ring.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d bring it now or save it for my birthday”.

“It was always meant for now.” I reply.

She unwraps it, and holds it between her fingers.

“Which hand shall I wear it on?”

“Left of course.”

She hands it to me and I push it firmly into place on her finger, it looks right and truly suits the hand it’s on.

A short silence follows which I know I have to break. “It really does look like an engagement ring doesn’t it?”

We look at each other and I continue. “Do you want to be engaged?”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“I do too.”

And that was it, no previous talk about marriage or getting engaged we just are, it’s come about in the same natural way that it did for Elaine and I, and as then, I have no doubts that it’s right.  

Before we told anyone else we went to tell Simon, Mar’s son, and his family. I must admit to being a bit nervous, but they were over the moon to hear our news. Word soon got around and I’m glad to say that everyone we know seems to be pleased and happy for us.

Of course, now they keep asking “when’s the big day going to be,” but honestly, we have no plans as of yet.

The relationship between us has unfolded naturally and at its own pace, as did the one between Elaine and myself. It’s nice to have this commitment to each other, that isn’t just born of an exchange of vows, but also as before, has developed gently and solidly over time spent together.

It is though, a different situation for us now than the one Elaine and I faced. We are that much older and have had the majority of our lives. Thirty years back, Elaine and I had time on our side, that is, if the cancer could be held at bay, but now both Marilyn and I realise that our potential time together is limited by what nature allows. That’s OK, no point in railing against it, but it does sharpen your resolve not to waste too much of the time and chances that come your way.

Marilyn coming into my world, after the loss I had to endure when Elaine passed, was a lifesaver for me, and I mean lifesaver. I could never have envisioned then the possibility of another relationship, let alone being engaged or married. Maybe time is a healer after all, but only to a certain extent, as I know without any doubts also that I will always love Elaine no matter what or who comes into my life.

It is beyond me to change that, even should I want to; but of course, I never will.

POLLY’S PYJAMAS……Update.

When I carried on with Horse Husband & Cancer after Elaine’s death, it was early on in the third lockdown, January ‘21. There was grey, cold, miserable weather outside mirroring just how I felt inside, no work to do at all and very little contact with anyone else.


Writing the blog was a saviour for me. With major encouragement from Anna (Blake) in the States I started out on, what was then, a completely alien path; along that path I found a voice with which I could call out of the darkness surrounding me and, in doing so, keep Elaine alive to a world which she had so recently had to leave and help keep myself sane.


I had the time to prepare and post each week for several months; then the weather changed, the lockdown lifted, and the gloom began to lift a little too – at least on the outside. Work had to be done again to fend off the unrelenting bills, and as I walked wraith-like and unbelieving back into what could only be loosely termed reality, I found that time was just not always going to be available to me for writing, however much I wished differently.


I stopped completely for several months as it was the right thing to do at the time, but a new desire had been born into me and I always did believe that I would pick up the blog once more, sooner or later.


In the autumn of that year I started writing again, but with Elaine gone and so many other calls on my time, it meant that I could only post on odd occasions and by no means as often as I would have liked.


That remained the ongoing situation until the unexpected arrival of Polly, which came to dominate my life so completely that it left me unable to keep, or put, my mind to anything else. Though there were ideas for blogs in the pipeline I simply could not gather the concentration to write and do them justice, so the decision was forced upon me to stop altogether and have at least one less thing to worry about in my life.


I never could keep the blogs to any particular timeline. They always did, and probably always will, meander back and forth through past present and possibly even the future, but I hope they have always made sense within themselves to the reader, and will continue to do so.


Polly’s Pyjamas are set back in time, but not very far back, so when things improved and I felt able to pick up the keyboard once more, writing about why I had been silent for so long seemed the logical place to start out again, regardless of any other ideas that I possessed.


And yes, I am happy to report that things have improved vastly and Polly is at last off of my shoulder, not put to flight completely you understand, but off of me and expelled to a perch in a corner of my world hopefully to be evicted from there too in a year or so.


That afternoon, at the end of the previous post after I took the half-dose of steroids, I went straight home praying silently for drug induced salvation and by the following morning it had been partially delivered.


For the first time in many weeks after a decent nights’ sleep, I stepped from bed without having to lift legs and feet with reluctant hands. I had no pain as such, just a gentle aching in my limbs and joints, what a difference after so much discomfort and worry. I found myself just standing by the bed smiling at my naked toes; I’m sure they were smiling back.

I kept that smile throughout the day but moved gingerly about, afraid that if I believed too much that this was all on the way out it would return with a vengeance and bite me in the arse. I took my first full dose of steroids mid-morning and the following day on waking the miracle was complete. I stepped from bed pain and ache free as though nothing had ever been amiss.


What a transformation! How the hell a few tiny pills can make such a difference in such a short space of time I do not know, but am I ever grateful they did.
With steroids for this condition you start off high then gradually reduce the dose until you reach a level where things are just under control. I’m at that level now, 5mg, any less and Polly starts to sing again. In about a years’ time I’ll start to reduce anew and if the bird has at last flown, I can come off treatment altogether.


But steroids do bring side effects with them. One of the most common is increased risk of osteoporosis (brittle/thinning bones) so I have to take Alendronic acid tablets and Calcichew-D3 to help protect against the possibility of this occurring. My temperament is also affected and I’ve found myself, on more than one occasion, struggling not to explode over some bloody trivial matter or other, not always successfully I might add.


But whatever, this is a small price to pay considering how serious the condition can become if left untreated. This was brought home to me a short while back when I had my eyes tested.


I told the Optometrist that I was on steroids and why. Pulling a concerned face she asked if I had experienced any headaches or optical problems and was relieved to hear that I hadn’t and that it seems I was diagnosed before things could progress that far.


She then went on to tell me that she has seen first- hand the consequences of Polymyalgia being left too long or untreated.
I was very, very lucky!

My thanks to all those who have contacted me since I began the saga of Polly to wish me well and in several cases share their own experiences of the condition.
I’d never heard of it until it flew into my life and so never realised how many people have suffered with it too. I guess I can’t be blamed for not expecting something that I didn’t know existed but they do say to always expect the unexpected, don’t they?
*

The season is just about upon us, so to speak, which brings home to me only too well that it’s now close on being four years since Elaine left us. Four years, where that’s passed away to I really don’t understand, but then I suppose I said the same about three years and will more than likely say the same in a years’ time about five years.


I think as I get older it passes quicker, which is something I’m not sorry about, but I must be honest here and say that Polly coming along has forced me to acknowledge yet again that my time too is not infinite and that it’s not a good thing to sit around wasting life whilst trying to decide just what to do with what’s left of it. More on this another time.


At the moment getting through Christmas is enough for me to contend with. Not that I don’t enjoy it still, I do, and it will be lovely to spend the time with Marilyn once more, but it is sometimes impossible for me not to get swept away on a tide of nostalgia for the Christmases of the past that Elaine and I shared together.
I guess it’s better to remember the fun times more so than the sadder ones, but all are quite capable of bringing on the tears, as too are the sounds and smells of the season.


We used to listen to the Christmas carols and songs a lot on Classic FM at this time of year, but the first couple of years after her death I could not bear them. Gradually since, that has changed, and though many of them are quite able to bring a dampness to my eyes I’m more accepting now and at ease. Whether that’s due to a change within me or just the passage of time I don’t know, and don’t really care either; it just is.


There is one song that always gets played a lot around now that does provoke wonderful memories for me and make me smile through the tears that always seem to come with it. Those wonderful memories are of an hour or so of time that Elaine and I shared with each other one winters’ night out in the snow.


That song is “Walking in the Air” by Howard Blake taken from the timeless animated film The Snowman. I’m pretty sure most of you will know it and have seen the film.
It happened like this.


I can’t remember the year but it was quite a while back and shortly after Christmas time. Elaine returned home after doing horse duties around about 6pm and was excited that it had begun to snow after threatening to do so all day.


I looked out; the iron-grey sky was now hidden by darkness but it was snowing alright, big heavy ripe flakes falling like fists of cotton wool and it was settling fast.
In short, it snowed like hell for the next four hours and did not let-up until just after 10 o’clock. We had been watching, and now the decision was made that this was just too rare a chance to pass up and we were going out for a ‘walk’ in the exotic landscape that now surrounded our home.


Though she always felt the cold, in part due to the treatments she had been having, Elaine loved snow and thought it magical; I must admit, I do too.


So we donned jumpers, scarves, gloves, boots, coats and hats and ventured carefully outside. Carefully because the small to medium features of the land had gone, smothered by winters’ hand. Only the bulk of larger objects allowed them to announce their presence to the eye.


The snow was deep, threatening boot tops, as we crumped our way round to the front gate and after battling that snow for command of the same, we stood in the front driveway looking across the captive parkland before us. The glory of winter.
It was eerily, unnaturally light. Everywhere that pale, hard, kitchen appliance blue/white that only comes with deep reflecting snow at night time. The air was slowly freezing, the silence complete. A few scattered stars fought their way through the atmosphere to twinkle like tiny diamonds from a broken necklace.
We were utterly enthralled, rarely in this region do we get snow like this that holds the land in its grasp completely. Brooding, still and quiet, no traffic brave enough to risk the road, just Elaine and I the only two humans left alive in Gods frozen creation.


And God smiled from above as, for the best part of the next hour, we walked hand in hand, arm in arm, head to shoulder. We cavorted like children, threw snowballs, made a rather rough snowman and even played ‘snow angels’, though not for long!
Our clothes were wet and we were getting cold by the time we turned for home, but our spirits were high and inside we were glowing. As we got once more to the gate we both turned and looked across at a view we both knew we were unlikely to witness again for a long time to come, if indeed ever at all.


Holding tight to my arm but still looking before her Elaine said, “It reminds me of that scene from the Snowman Mark, you know the bit, where they fly above the landscape and look down at the snow covered fields and towns and it’s all quiet and sleeping below them, and that lovely tune is playing. Isn’t this wonderful?”


And it was wonderful. We’d never known a time in the snow like it before, and we never did again, that’s why it remains so special.


The footprints we made across the landscape that night have long since melted away, but the ones that night made across our hearts remain, neither weather nor time can efface them.

My deepest thanks to all of you who continue to follow my ramblings and to those who have recently signed-up to the blog. Thank you all for being there, it makes a difference believe me.


I shall be back next year but for now I wish you all a Happy Christmas time and may whatever Gods you have bless you with good health and fortune in the year to come…Mark x

POLLY’S PYJAMAS… Part III.

I’ve just got back to the car park, Waitrose supermarket, thank God just a short walk (or hobble and roll in my case) from the surgery. I open the car door and thankfully flop sideways onto the drivers’ seat, there I get my breath for a few seconds before commencing the task of lifting each leg into the foot-well using my hands. I have to do it this way as my leg muscles don’t want to suffer the pain and discomfort of lifting themselves; my arms reluctantly obey, silently enduring their own distress.

Shut the door, I’m in and ready for home, but I rest easy for a while; I just need to gather my thoughts a minute, run through this in my head, try to make some sense of it all.

A few months back all seemed well, at least on the health front. True, I was still carrying the burden of grief for my late wife, but I had at least come to accept that it was always going to be with me no matter what and that my life was meant to go forwards regardless.

Elaine has gone and she is not coming back-fact! But I can’t be sure that fact has fully sunk into me or indeed if it ever actually will. There is something within that will always deny and resist it I know that, but time and life are thankfully bringing to a close my everyday grieving, it has to stop or it will corrode away at the new things in my world. But the overall grief of such a loss will always be there; it was born directly into my life and can only die with me.

Elaine didn’t want to be forgotten, and she also wanted me to be happy. I reckon she knew me well enough to know that I would never forget her but I also know that she would have worried that her death would leave me in such a depth of despair that I wouldn’t be able to get out of it. That I would allow myself to be dragged deeper and deeper into a well of misery and grief and die of a broken heart, if not by more direct action.

The thought would have appalled her.

She would have seen it as her fault; that if it wasn’t for ‘her’ cancer being the cause of such torture, I would have been able to live my life in greater happiness. I honestly believe that she loved me so deeply that, if given the choice, she would have seriously considered changing fate so as we never met and I would have the chance to meet and love someone else and live a ‘normal’ family life.

Well Fuck That Darling!!

I wouldn’t change a damn thing. To lose one second of us would be a loss beyond words, and though how I have felt inside and struggled to stay afloat these last few years since she died, I know she was worth it all, and more. I would change nothing, and implore her not to either. I cannot imagine how in any way I could have known greater, or equal, happiness alongside someone else.   

We were two sides to the same coin, supporting each other in all that the tides of life washed up against us and also enjoying the sunshine moments when the calm set in. Constantly there for each other we both eventually came to understand that it was going to be this way, for us, to the very end.

Our adventures at work or play may have been tame to many peoples understanding, but they were ours, lived and enjoyed or endured together, and it’s that last word that counts the most-together.

But where does all this leave me now sat here with sodding Polly’s Pyjamas to contend with? How, or perhaps why, have I ended up like a latter day Long John Silver with fucking Polly sat on my shoulder for at least the next couple of years or so?

When Marilyn and I looked-up Polymyalgia two nights ago and came across the list of likely causes, prolonged periods of stress (often due to bereavement) jumped out at us. When the doctor mentioned it again this afternoon as a possible factor I said I knew where I would place my money, the look on his face told me his stake would lie there too.

Elaine would hate that this has happened to me. She would see it as a direct evolvement of her illness and her fault again. Almost as if the hated cancer had not fully died but had dived into the dressing-up box, bided its time, and was now striking out from the grave, her grave, seeking to bring me down in a new guise.

I’m not sure that an illness can reason like that, but maybe fate can, or at least one possible fate out of many; possible if it’s allowed to that is.

And now have I been the one who has allowed it that chance?

It’s dawning on me that I have been living in a world dominated by stress for a long time now, but before I’ve never been forced to face-up to the fact.

My time with Elaine became fully loaded with the stress factor. The constant worry of cancer being present or retuning. The 24/7 struggle to try and prevent it doing so, and the fight to crush it once more if/when it did; just for the whole bloody cycle to repeat itself again and again.

I don’t think either Elaine, or myself, fully understood just what a strain this put on us. Not on us as a couple you understand, because as I said above we always supported each other, but as individuals I think we never did actually appreciate the toll it all took at the time; and since she died it has eaten away at me still and become a sort of creeping silent partner that has grown within and has now found a physical presence of its own-Polly!

I suppose it has to break-out somehow. If the mind and spirit refuse to go under then perhaps the strain on the body becomes so great that stress takes the form of physical symptoms morphing into a new condition of its own making.

I’m only guessing here but the idea seems to hold more than a drop of water to me.

Well over a decade ago now when Elaine was undergoing double chemo’ treatment with some really powerful drugs, she had also to take steroids to reduce the inflammation being caused. This combination produced a ‘Perfect Storm’ within her. The steroids amplified the anxiety she was struggling with to a huge extent and she underwent panic attacks and stress levels right off the scale.

I suffered too. Watching the one you love fighting to control a living hell every day and genuinely fearing for their sanity, with so little you can do to ease it, made me a knotted ball of tension, that only alcohol knew how to relieve.

I drank quite heavily in the evenings and at night time after Elaine had gone to bed, which was always early. I couldn’t concentrate on reading (which I love) so sat glass or bottle in hand staring unseeingly at the TV and glancing at the ceiling, knowing my wife was lying just above battling demons that I could only imagine, whilst trying to attain the holy grail of sleep.

Many months later when she thankfully was near recovered that stress within me manifested physically as dreadful stomach cramps, acid reflux and diarrhoea on a daily basis. After many tests and several cameras down the throat, it was attributed to the somewhat vague condition of IBS.

I had to keep a food diary for two years and be careful as to what I ate as so many things triggered it off-strangely alcohol was one thing which had a calming effect! It eventually subsided down but even today there are foods which I dare not risk if you get my meaning.

I came to understand that it was most likely due to the stress proclaiming itself in a physical form after being held within for so long, after all, I could not be ill when I had to be as strong as possible whilst she need me to be, but when that need eased…..

It looks to me as I sit here now, that Polly is born of the same mould as that IBS was.

Elaine’s death has been bad enough to contend with, I knew it would be, but never could have guessed at the scale of that contention. Nor could I have guessed at just how difficult it was going to be to carry-on living without her.

Likewise, up until now, I haven’t given any thought to the stress this has all put me under. I suppose I should have seen this bastard coming down the line but somehow I think admitting to stress is seen as admitting to a form of avoidable weakness that is to be dismissed as not a real condition; I think now I have confirmation that it is.

Well its’ showed itself at last and now hopefully I have the ammunition at hand to shoot Polly down in full flight.

 My eyes alight on the bag of drugs, my ammo, on the seat beside me. The doc’ has told me to take a half dose of the steroids right away then start the full dose (40mg) tomorrow. He’s hopeful of a quick reduction to these crippling pains that have racked me constantly for so long now and I hope to God he’s right.

I open up the bag then one of the many boxes of steroid tablets and evict four of the tiny white pills from their foil home.

There is a bottle of water in the car and I gingerly reach over for it. It’s a few days old but what the hell I can’t make myself any more ill by drinking a little of it down I’m sure of that. The reason it’s there is for me to be able to get painkillers down my throat when needed, they have been my constant companions for a long time now.

I pause a moment and think. Without those painkillers and the anti-inflammatories how the hell would I have gotten through these last weeks of misery? Though they could not dispel the torment completely they at least did manage to dull it enough for painful survival to continue.

I think harder still. How would I have gotten this far since losing Elaine, were it not for those handful of loyal friends who have been close for me in the darkest of moments, times when quite frankly I could have easily, and possibly gratefully, welcomed an end to it all. They too may not have been able to dispel my torment but they have dulled it and given me the chance to survive it and live on.

There is no pill, that I’m aware of, that can fill the void of my bereavement, only anewed life can do that.

My love for Elaine didn’t die with her, it will always exist, with me and with her wherever she is, but new love has found me now and played its part- and continues to do so- in reconstructing my life and my world.

I am beyond fortunate that Marilyn wants to be part of that world. She more than anything else has kept me afloat and being loved and having someone to love is, I recognise once more, the greatest treasure in this life.

I hope she wants to stick around after I start on these little pills, I know they can and will affect my temperament, this may not be so easy but Polly’s got to take flight and bugger-off once and for all, so here goes.

I pop the four horsemen into my mouth and follow up with a big swig of the brackish water, three go down but one bastard sticks to the roof of my mouth and starts to dissolve. A couple more swigs and it chases after its brothers leaving me a very unpleasant bitterness to contend with, not entirely due to the water.

Well it’s started, got a bit of a long road ahead I reckon, but the longest journey starts with a single step and all that, and I’m on my way now.

It’s a shorter journey home for me first, and I start the engine wondering if I’ll be lifting my legs back in tomorrow.

See you soon…..

POLLYS PYJAMAS…Part Two.

I am aware that I’m being watched, no actually I’m being observed, by my doctor who has just come into the waiting room to call me through. He studies me as I brace to push myself upright, stand and then stiffly waddle past him to the open door of his office. Once there, I lower myself into the waiting chair beside his desk with an audible outgiving of breath.
He follows me and closes the door softly, almost thoughtfully, before taking residence in the rather grander chair in front of the desk with its large curved screen computer.
He speaks first.
“This appears to have moved on somewhat since your last visit.”
“You could say that” I agree, in a dead sounding tone of voice that I hardly recognise as my own.
He is tapping something out into the keyboard before him on the desk; he wastes few words,
“Tell me”. So I do.
I tell him of the last few weeks of pain and misery, of ever increasing limited movement, the loss of weight, heavy dead feeling limbs, lava for blood, the constant continuous aching, little sleep and my life seeming to be rapidly closing down around me.
He is still looking at the screen before him but I perceive a slight nod of his head; recognition?
Still sat, he rolls his chair over to face me and grips both of my hands in his, turns them over, and again, before giving them back to me. He looks closely into my eyes as I try not to blink. Can he read my silent plea I wonder? “Please stop this, please know the answer, please have the antidote to it all right here right now.”
He says nothing but rolls back to the keyboard and starts tapping away briefly, before turning to me.
“We’re going to have to do some blood tests to try and pinpoint exactly what’s going on with you.”
I groan inwardly, silently cursing yet more time to wait, more delays, but resign myself to it.
“Where do I go for the tests, will I come back here?
“Go? You’re not going anywhere my friend, you’re staying right there in that chair, I’ll take the bloods myself now, I want this fast-tracked for the results ASAP. If it’s what I’m thinking it could be then I want you on treatment by the end of this week at the latest.”
He gets up to leave but stops, reading the concern on my face, “Try not to worry we’ll get you sorted soon I’m sure of it.”
Then he darts out of the door leaving me staring after him.
Fuck! He’s troubled and this has become urgent, well I did want action, now I’ve got it; be careful what you wish for Mark.
He’s soon back with multiple vials to trap some of the aching liquid coursing through my veins.
Expertly the task is soon accomplished and he is back at the desk and computer.
He speaks whilst typing and looking at the screen. “I’m thinking this could well be a rheumatoid or auto-immune condition but I need to be sure which one before embarking on a course of treatment”.
I put forward my thoughts that it may be Lyme’s disease.
I’m taken seriously.
“Good point, it’s certainly worth checking for Lyme’s. It’s not necessarily an easy thing to identify but you are obviously so ill at present that I would expect antibodies for it to show in the tests.”
He taps away in silence for a while longer as I stare around the room trying not to behave like a patient, but then I realise I am one, and this is all for real whatever I may do to try and wish it not so.
He swivels around to face me. “Right here’s what we’re going to do. Whether you hear from me or not tomorrow or Thursday, I want to see you on Friday afternoon as I’m away for two weeks after that. I’ve not got a surgery on Friday but I’ll be here so come in at three pm, let reception know and they’ll come and find me.
“Try not to worry Mark, rest as much as you can and I’ll see you Friday.”
I rise stiffly like an aging Lazarus from the chair, a bit numb in mind and body to be honest. I give my thanks to the doc’ and waddle out of his world and back into mine. Once again it’s the painkillers etc for me for the next couple of days at least. I inwardly worry what truth my bloods are going to reveal.

I relate it all to Marilyn on the phone that night. She tries to be upbeat but her concern swims on the surface of her words. I know again how alone I would feel if she had not come into my life or had not wanted too, or worse still, if I had been foolish enough not to let her.
The following evening we go to a local pub for their bi-monthly steak night. Again I’m dosed-up on pills to help me get through. It would be easier not to go but it’s been booked for some time and I’m hoping it will help take my mind off things for a while. Amazingly it does, as Marilyn is great company but I cannot sit comfortably for any length of time and directly after the meal we leave and return to her house.
She goes upstairs to change clothes, I’m stood in the kitchen trying to manage the least painful way to take off my coat when my phone bleeps, a text comes through, its’ just after eight o’clock by now.
I swipe the screen and see the text is from my doctor and my heart momentarily drops to my boots.
“Hello Mark, your bloods are back, no sign of Lyme’s but you are showing all the indicators for the condition Polymyalgia rheumatica, it’s treatable, stick to our arrangement for Friday and we’ll soon have you up and frisky again.”
Frisky! Bloody hell.
I’m staring at the screen as Marilyn comes into the room.
“What is it?”
“A text from my doctor.”
“And?”
“It appears I’ve got something called….”
For the life of me I can’t remember what I’ve just read, and I’ve somehow squeezed the side button of the phone and it’s turned off.
All I can recall is the ‘Poly’ bit which stupidly makes me think right then of Elaine’s one-winged metal parrot that still sits on its perch in the garden. She got it at one of the last boot sales she ever went to and it remains with me still.
Marilyn is looking at me, “Mark, you’ve got what?”
“It read something like Polly’s Pyjamas.”
“Polly’s bloody what! Get the text back up.”
I fumble about with the phone and eventually the text re-appears before us; we read it through together several times aloud.
Marilyn looks up at me. “Polymyalgia rheumatica, sounds exotic, lets’ look it up”.
And so we spend the next hour or more with Dr Google. Rather than explaining what we read there it’s probably easier for me to jump here to my next meeting with the doc’.
**
Friday afternoon and I don’t have to wait too long before I find myself seated by the now all too familiar desk.
“You got my message ok I assume?”
I confirm that I did.
“There’s no sign of Lyme’s but Polymyalgia looks to be the culprit, I expect you’ve been looking it up online.”
“I have but I’d rather hear it from you.” He leans back in his chair.
“Polymyalgia rheumatica causes severe pain, stiffness and inflammation in the joints and muscles of the body. No one really knows the true cause of it, but there are a number of factors that may be involved.
“There is a train of thought that it’s caused by a virus, but as far as I’m aware none has as yet been identified. It may be genetic, anything similar in your family history?”
I shake my head, “Nothing that I’m aware of.”
He continues. “It nearly always starts off in the upper body, shoulders then elbows before moving to the lower joints, it was the other way around with you which threw me off the scent on your first visit.
“Those that get it are nearly always older than you are and more often it affects women than men. The weight loss is also another give away sign.”
I interrupt him, “I read of other possibilities also.”
“Yes, there are other things as likely causes. Trauma from injuries, sudden shock often associated with bereavement or prolonged periods of high stress.”
We look each other directly in the eye and I break the quick heavy silence between us.
“I know where I’d place my money.”
I catch again a slight nod of his head. He must witness so many scenes of anguish and despair throughout the year, surely it has to harden your outlook on life, but now there is more than just an edge of sympathy to his reply. “You have been under a considerable strain for some time now.”
I know that sympathy is not wholly directed at the reason for my being here today. This man was not Elaine’s doctor but he did see her on occasions when her own was unavailable. He knew the situation she was in and how mine stands now.
“Is it always so painful doc’?”
“Not always, some people experience it more as a general aching of the muscles and an overall feeling of discomfort, in others the pain is more severe as you are finding it, there are no set rules to these things.”
“I believe it can become quite serious too” I continue.
“Not in every case but it can lead on to a condition known as Temporal Arteritis, or Giant Cell Arteritis as it’s also called. The arteries in the head become inflamed, you may experience headaches particularly in the temples at the side of the head, aching jaw, and maybe vision problems. Has any of that affected you?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Good, it’s not progressed in that direction and we’ll make sure it doesn’t get the chance now, it is serious if it gets that far as it can lead to a stroke or blindness.”
Marilyn and I read this on Google, it being confirmed now as a possibility makes me feel suddenly very fortunate that the pain and misery I have been experiencing has been so bad as to force me to seek help. What if it had been to a lesser degree and I had just tried to live through it then woken-up one morning to a life of permanent darkness and disability?”
He swivels back to the curved screen “Whatever the cause the treatment is still the same-steroids!”
I knew this was coming, bloody steroids, I’ve had the bastards before. Years ago I had a severe lung infection and one afternoon Elaine had to rush me down to the surgery to get me onto a nebuliser as I could barely breathe at all; it was frightening for us both.
To relieve my lungs I was put on a decreasing course of steroids, they worked ok but steroids have a range of side-effects and in me one of those effects is that I get extremely bad and quick tempered.
You know what it is but you just can’t stop it and it’s no fun believe me.
Half to myself I mutter, “Fucking steroids.”
He gives a little laugh, “I’m afraid so, you’ve had them before.” It’s not a question and I tell him of my past experience with these tiny pills.
“The mood swings are something you’ll have to learn to control and live with. You’re going to be on them for some time. We’ll start you off on a high dose to get it under control then we’ll gradually reduce the dose to a level that keeps things ticking over so you can live normally without the symptoms you’ve been experiencing.
“I must stress all we are doing here is treating the symptoms, there is no actual cure as such but in most cases the condition rights itself in a couple of years or even less.”
As well as the steroids I’m prescribed Alendronic acid tables and Calcichew+Vit’D3 tables. These are to protect my bones as prolonged use of steroids can cause the bones to get thin leading to Osteoporosis.
I’m to take a half dose of steroids as soon as I get them then start the full monty tomorrow. We work out a plan for me to gradually reduce the dose and I am to keep in touch with him as things move along; I feel I’m in good hands here and being well cared for.
“If there is no improvement in you by Monday at the latest, then get back here and seek help, don’t wait!”
With that final warning ringing in my ears I slowly take my leave. Seems like I’ve sat with him for hours and I’m glad to go but even more glad that relief is now, hopefully, on the horizon for me.
I collect the prescription from the a-joining pharmacy. The guy goes through it all thoroughly with me like I’m some older citizen who may not understand what I have to do, perhaps I’m looking older than I feel, if that’s possible. He emphasizes that I must not stop taking the steroids suddenly or run out of them. I nod my understanding like the good senior that I am.
Slowly I make my shuffling way back to the car. I’m aware I’m clutching the bag of pills like a drowning man who’s found a rubber ring in an empty ocean.
I’m praying that the answer to the hell of these last couple of months or more is in my grasp.
I don’t fancy taking steroids, but to honest if I was told to take eye of newt and horse shit tablets I’d do it, all this pain is bad enough but stroke or blindness is not to be risked, so I’ll welcome in the tiny tablets with the, hopefully, big punch.
Right now I feel tired, want to get to the car and get back home, and sanctuary!

To be continued soon…

POLLY’S PYJAMAS… Part One.

[Apologies for the prolonged silence. Life, and events outside of my control have been demanding my attention over these last few months. But I’m back now, and determined to continue writing, thank you!]

Its’ 9am, a Tuesday morning and there are about a dozen people, including myself, scattered silently around this doctors waiting room. All but one are staring intently at the little world in their hands and I can’t help but think to myself, just what did we used to do in places like this, before the mobile phone came along?

The one not staring down into their hands is me; that I won’t be able to concentrate enough I already know. So I’m staring at the screen gazers in turn, trying to guess the reason why they are here this morning. Trying, not at all successfully, to get my mind away from the reason that I’m here amongst them, this bunch of fellow pilgrims awaiting salvation.

I was here about six weeks ago, what a difference that time has made, but this all started, or at least first showed itself, a few weeks before that.

                                                                         *******

I had been working on the gable end of Marilyn’s house in Wimborne. I hadn’t done much ladder work for some time and so wasn’t surprised when my lower right leg and particularly the knee started to ache. I’d had cartilage removed from that knee some years back and assumed I had just riled-up an old condition.

It was fun working at Mar’s place. I enjoyed sitting in the sunshine with her at lunchtime, just sharing sandwiches and trying to best a crossword or two. It reminded me that so often the simplest pleasures in life can prove to be the best.

All too soon I moved on to another job, ladder work again, and the aches moved with me. My hips had begun to hurt now and my left knee had started to mimic its twin. In town late one afternoon on a whim I make an appointment to see my GP, “If it all goes away then I’ll just cancel”, but it doesn’t.

By the time I get to see the doctor there is discomfort in both hips, knees and lower legs to my ankles. I’ve also developed a peculiar way of walking, like I’m trying to negotiate the deck of the Titanic in its dying moments.

I’m duly examined by the doc’ and the male student sitting-in with him. The conclusion is that I have probably strained my knees and hips standing and stretching on the ladder for long periods; I must stress here that as of yet everything was confined to my lower body.

I am prescribed strong painkillers and anti-inflammatories and the consensus of opinion is that with these and a bit of rest I should be OK in a couple of weeks.

“Perhaps I’m just getting fucking old” I venture to the doc’.

“You ARE fucking old” comes the quick reply. We all laugh, then, turning to his student “And don’t put that in your write-up”.

I’m lucky to have a good and caring GP, he never rushes anybody through, also he has a very dry sense of humour and I always know that I can speak plainly with him.

I ‘cashed-in’ my prescription and was at the door when a weird intuition came over me and I turned back to reception.

“He’s told to me to make a back-up appointment for a few weeks’ time” I lied, and in a minute or so it’s duly sorted. “If I don’t need it, I’ll just cancel”, if only……

The drugs did undoubtedly dull the aching at first, but I’m never without some discomfort, then as time passed, generally moving about gradually began to become more awkward. By now my knees were really hurting as the aching morphed into outright pain both sides. If fact both legs were hurting from my hips down to the ankles continuously.

 Now too, for the first time my shoulders and elbows began to ache deep inside. That didn’t surprise me really as I was having trouble getting up from sitting and had to push myself upright using my arms; it soon became a real strain.

I now needed cushions when sat down but even with them getting into a comfortable position, just for a short time, soon became a near impossible task.

Another week or so passed. Things were worse on waking I noticed, my body felt ‘thick’ and sluggish and it took time just to get up and get going as I now had to coax my legs out of bed using my hands. As I managed to move around it did ease somewhat but I never was without some pain and discomfort.

Work had now become very difficult and driving any reasonable distance downright uncomfortable. By now it had crossed my mind that all this wasn’t down to any bloody strain, though I tried to ignore the thought.

Isn’t it totally stupid how we try so hard to overlook the obvious when it comes to our health. I didn’t need any intuition now to tell me things were pretty damn far from right and that it was escalating too, but still I was hoping that it was all going to improve soon and I’d be ok.

It didn’t and I wasn’t.

Time passed, sleep had now become erratic and difficult. I kept waking and needing to move, but it was a real effort to have to do so. Then one night I was awakened in the early hours of the morning by a burning in my right bicep like molten metal had replaced my blood, it was absolute agony and it was not long before the left side joined in my torture.

Soon there were other things too. My appetite had diminished and in less than three weeks I lost over half a stone, plus I had weird cravings for foods that I wouldn’t normally ever eat such as pineapple and other fruits, (I later learned that they are all known anti-inflammatories).

Stairs were now rapidly becoming a nightmare to negotiate especially going down, and I sometimes resorted to descending on my arse one at a time. Sitting down on the loo and getting up again was agony personified.  I dared not even risk trying to have a bath, but to shower I had to lift one leg over the bath edge and lean forwards almost falling in; getting out again would have proved a challenge to the best of contortionists.

To get in or out of bed or the car I now had to resort to lifting my legs with my hands. I’m happy to admit, I was getting bloody scared.

I thought of the cancer Elaine endured- the God awful treatments too- all for so very long. She kept a brave face through so much misery and I felt I couldn’t let her down by buckling under, but what the hell was this? Sometimes I just wanted to slip into blessed oblivion.

It was Marilyn in my life that again made the difference. I had someone to live for and I was even more determined not to let her down either by giving-in to this, whatever the fuck it was. I knew she was trying not to make a fuss in case that spooked me even more, but she could not keep her concerns from invading her words or lining her face.

Thank God I wasn’t so far gone as to not be able to appreciate the value that lay there for me.

Looking back I am surprised now that I wasn’t rattling when I moved as I was taking so many painkillers and anti-inflammatories. More than I should have to be honest, though I can’t help but wonder what state I would have been in without them?

Time ticked slowly on, work had thinned out, it was backhanded blessing as I could not have managed to do much anyway. Pain was my constant companion now, day and night.

Lyme’s disease came to mind as a possible cause of this hell. A friend locally had had it and some of his symptoms tallied with my own.  I looked online, possible…maybe, tics are often in the grass around home (the deer carry them). I had been bitten in the past with no problem occurring perhaps this time it had? Though equally perhaps not, as just as many symptoms didn’t tally as did.

Even so I made a mental note to mention my suspicions to the doc’ when I saw him again, the appointment thankfully just a few days away by now.

                                                                         *******

Today arrived at last though I’m buggered if I know quite how I got here, and I won’t be forgetting waking-up this morning any time soon either. At first, without any exaggeration, I simply could not move, not at all; it was as if I was totally frozen but without the distraction of being cold.

 Fear gripped my mind and taunted my reason for a good few minutes.

 “What if I can’t move again? What if this is some awful ‘locked-in’ syndrome and I’ve years ahead of this?”

Clarity of mind returned and along with it the ‘Fuck- This’ attitude that grips me when pushed too far.

I manage to fidget and wriggle then roll myself slightly and bend enough to grip one leg and with heavy arms lift it out of bed and place it on the floor. Its force of will pushing through a wall of pain that eventually gets me sat on the edge of the bed. Every part of me aches and burns inside, muscles, joints the bloody lot; I can only liken it to how it may have been for some poor bastard stretched and tortured on a medieval rack.

This is the worse so far. It’s as if it knows I’m to see the doctor today and either wants to stop me getting there or wants to put on a grand display of defiance in spite of the fact.

I sit for a while sweating and already feeling exhausted, but I know I’m the only one that can do this so I force myself up and painfully and stiffly take my first steps of the day. By the time I manage to get myself washed and dressed well over an hour has elapsed since the alarm went off; by now I’m as much miserable as afraid.

I’m not hungry, but unenthusiastically I do chew a bit of toast and swill it down with a couple of coffees. The decision is already in my mind not to take any painkillers etc as I want the doc’ to witness how I am without anything being blunted. I know it’s going to hurt, but it fucking hurts anyway and I just resign myself to it.

I’m not disappointed.

My appointment is for 9am, it’s about a ten minute drive, but I am dreading it. Good job the cars an automatic, there is no way I could work a manual gearbox right now and by the time I park-up I’m swimming in an ocean of pain and discomfort.

The normally two minute walk to the surgery becomes a ten minute agonising, rolling shuffle. Onlookers could well be forgiven for assuming that they are witnessing an inebriated waster lurching in search of his next bottle. Again the fears run through my mind “What if this is permanent? Is this what it’s like to rapidly age through illness?”

Christ! If they can’t help me now, at this rate I’ll be seeing Elaine a lot sooner than I reckoned.

Elaine, what would she make of this? She much preferred being a nurse to being a patient. She’d be concerned, yes, to a point that is, but she wouldn’t broach much in the way of self-sympathy, and I can easily imagine her beside me now.

“Come on, straighten up and step out; don’t give in fight the bastard, don’t let it dictate you’ll get help soon, keep pushing no one else can do it for you.”

‘WE’ make it to reception, I book-in, then lower myself to the temporary relief of sitting down. I’m totally knackered and feeling as if I’ve aged a hundred hard years since I was last here a few weeks ago; I probably look it too.

Now all have to do is wait, please God not too long this time. My joints are silently screaming out for the painkillers they have come to rely on and my muscles are burning through the effort of getting here.

Have to try to take my mind off it all, so I force my brain to take interest in my surroundings and the fellow pilgrims dotted around me. It’s really a hopeless task as my mind is a swirling sea of pain and fear, no doubt as much imagined as real.

I keep checking the time.

9.05, is there somebody with him now?

9.10, will I be next?

9.15, will one of these others go through first? And if so will they be in there bloody ages with every fucking ailment under the sun to discuss?

The aching pain means I have to try to shuffle my legs about. I pretend I’m stretching in case anyone notices my clumsy movements- not that anyone does- but sitting is now really becoming uncomfortable. God how much longer?

I fidget, partly because I need to, partly because I want to avoid seizing up in this chair.

I wish I’d brought a cushion with me, but then everyone would have thought I was here with a case of piles. It reminds me a bit of the chairs we had at school, hard plastic bastards that must have been invented by some child hating sadist.

 After half an hour or so everyone was fidgeting trying to force some comfort from the unforgiving surface. ‘Ass crackers’ we called them and as the long forgotten phrase comes to mind I almost laugh out loud; the condemned man laughing as he cracks his elbow climbing the gallows.

9.20, how much longer for Christ’s sake….a familiar figure appears in the doorway to my right, the man I’m here to see. We make eye contact. ”Come on through” he steps back motioning to me.

Is my salvation at hand?

“Give me a minute, this isn’t so easy.”

And I brace myself to make the monumental effort to stand up.

To be continued…