Written on June 11th. 1998 and found this evening April 13th. 2008 in a notebook.
I'm sitting in the bar of the British Legion club at the end of my road. I've had a pint, read some of my book, grudgingly exchanged a few pleasantries with the bar man. He's a 1950's throwback, tweed trousers, bracers, shirt, tie, plastered back dark hair.
I've been thinking about John Russell.
He died on Monday. I received a 'phone call on Tuesday from a family friend to let me know. John's been ill for over a year off and on. Pneumonia has kept him hospitalised for the past six weeks. When I saw his wife, Molly, on Friday I took him a 'get well' card from our photographic society members. I was due to visit him in hospital on Friday but he'd had an operation to remove fluid from his lungs and according to Molly was "out cold". I also took her a copy of the portrait I'd made of him which I call, 'The Storyteller' together with some talking books that I'd promised to pass on to him. I don't know whether he regained consciousness.
Earlier today I was trying to compose a letter to Molly. It was more difficult than I'd anticipated. I wanted to say so much about how I feel about him but found the right words wouldn't come.
Last night I sat trying to find a quote from Shelley's 'Adonais' which John and I had discussed one night in one of our many pub conversations. I intended to finish the letter with it.
"Peace! peace he doth not sleep
He hath awakened from the
dream of life"
Goodbye John.
11th. June 1998
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