We only ever spoke once. He was rescuing the family trampoline from some common land we have to cross, to get to the village shop. While he and his family were holidaying in Cyprus, high winds had lifted and rolled the giant springy platform across two sizeable fields, setting it down in a clearing, ready for use.
We stopped for a while, as he and his son calculated the feasibility of getting the thing home on a trailer. I had my doubts, as the trampoline was wider than the lane through which it would need to travel. We wished him good luck, and continued on our way.
After that, he always nodded and smiled whenever he passed us in the lane. And that’s the kind of relatonship we had with him, as we do with so many people in our stretched and straggled village: a nodding acquaintance.
A little over a fortnight ago, he passed us in the lane. We pressed ourselves into the hedge and he offered his usual wave of the hand. An easy smile lit up his ruddy face. It was around 10.00. At 13.30 he was dead. Heart attack. Aged 58, the life that generated the friendly wave and a warm grin left him with little warning.
After receiving the news from a neighbour, I tried to recall when I was last shocked at learning about the sudden death of someone I knew. It was before I retired, a full twelve years ago. The death of a colleague is always distressing, but particularly so when they are people you work with, closely. The casual “Have a good weekend. See you on Monday,” can seem like a curse when Monday never arrives for those you have wished well. An aneurysm for a funny, lively, kind woman in her forties. Suicide for a hugely intelligent, innovative, high-flyer in his thirties. Who knew? Nobody.
The fine line comes into sharp focus each time a familiar face leaves the stage, doesn’t it? The news is always sad, but as the years pass, less and less shocking. It would seem that the skin of acceptance is tailored to fit more neatly, with age.