The beautician is round at the house. I am of an age whereby as soon as I hear the word beautician I follow it in my head with sells you nutrition, and keeps all your dead hair for making up underwear. Ba ba ba banana. If you are under 50 you won’t have a clue what I’m talking about [A].
She is a big girl, partly because she’s recently and unexpectedly had a baby, so I’m led to believe. Or maybe the baby was unexpected because she’s so big. I didn’t quite grasp the full story. Either way, from the photo I was forced to awwwwwe at, the baby looks to be a few months old, well developed, alert, but actually only popped out a couple of weeks ago. If I was him I would have waited until Brexit was done and dusted [B].
Anyway, Alex is sitting happily in the dining room having her toes painted and relishing the opportunity to chat about baby-related things (she is about to become a Grandma), and I am making quince jelly for the first time. Our quince bush has at last produced a viable quantity of fruit, enough (I’m hoping) for a couple of jars. It’s a faffy process but having boiled it up to exactly 118F, and poured the resulting mess into sterilised jars, I’m now finished bar the shouting (or in this case, the sticky washing up).
All of which reminds me of a previous visit by Alex to the beautician in St Markhams a few years ago, around the time I first moved to the area.
During my eight months’ sojourn at Kev’s I could count my friends on the fingers of one hand (that’s 5, for readers in Cambridgeshire), I didn’t have many pleasures (and even less money), but one of them was buying The Guardian on a Friday and attempting the cryptic crossword on my own over a couple of pints – a habit I still have to this day. Friday’s crossword, more often than not, was set by a gentleman known to the crossword world as Aurucaria, which is the Latin name for the monkey puzzle tree. When on a long drive one day in 2011, tuning into Radio 4, Desert Island Discs featured the very man, whose real name was The Reverend John Graham, and it turned out that not only did he live in Cambridgeshire, but very close to the area where Alex lived.
Listening to his life story on the radio was intriguing, in particular that he had been thrown out of the clergy for divorcing his wife, after falling in love with another woman. He was torn between his morals, his duty, and his heart. I was not only moved, but inspired by his resolution and determination, and the common threads in our lives. It was a shock then, when completing a crossword one Friday in 2013 headlined Aurucaria has something to tell his readers, to find out gradually through filling in the answers that he was suffering from terminal cancer. Typical of the man to tell everyone in this cryptic way, of course.
On her visit to the beautician in St Markhams, Alex overheard another customer talking about ‘a lovely kind old gentleman’ who was living in her nursing home (of which she was the manager), who had cancer, and listening in, she quickly realised who the lady must be talking about, and confirmed it with her. Alex said that her partner (that’s me!) had reason to be very fond of Rev. Graham, and could she possibly arrange for me to see him? Of course, said the manager, as long as he’s feeling well enough on the day he’s very happy to see visitors. She gave Alex her number.
I had a busy few days lined up, but resolved to give the home a ring the following Monday. On the Saturday I was sitting on the train doing the crossword, and I realised as I completed it that it was a tribute, compiled by all the other setters: John Graham had died the day before, three days before I was going to arrange to see him. He was 92.
I didn’t want to tell him anything about myself or my situation, or share my experiences with him, or ask for sympathy, I wanted to tell him how much he had inspired me, and that his work and his personal journey had kept me going through some very dark times, when I needed support from some quarter, however unlikely. I just wanted to say thank you, that’s all.
Note [A]
The song referred to is of course The Jean Genie, by David Bowie, from the album Aladdin Sane.
Note [B]
These were the heady carefree days when all we had to worry about was Brexit: a few months later we were engulfed by the coronavirus pandemic.