“Y’know Mum, I love Chow very much.”
The Pirate and the Submariner.
Depths and heights…
Planning a garden, running to Big Ben and back
and bidding me
“Go home – you must bring him home.”
East Dulwich walk. “But will they
let me keep him at home if he’s dying?”
Mapping the sailing ahead
from Peckham to Plymouth to Oldham
and to Infinity.
A ship of the realm, a sextant,
stars, the lanyard, sail, rigging…
The Old Ships – the anchors.
Eileen Walke
And off we all went to Charlie and Julie’s wedding in Plymouth.
Eric fell in love with the bride as soon as he saw her in her bridal gown – and the more he looked, the deeper he fell. I think it was mutual …
After the moving ceremony we all met to eat, drink and be merry in China Fleet hostelry up the Tamar. It was so interesting to have the echo of China Fleet in the celebrations, because it brought John, Charlie’s dad, right in there amongst us. John’s father, Marcus Mathews worked in the far east for over forty years for the Hong Kong and Chinese Bank and I feel sure he must have known the Hong Kong China Fleet very well because it was this bank that helped set it up and keep it alive as a shelter for the Navy’s China fleet. So John, Marcus and Doris were very much with me in that place.
The pirate theme for each table, with it’s ‘Aaarghs’ and ‘Aaarghs’ kept Charlie’s brother Dom, (who died in 2011), close to us too and no doubt he was thoroughly enjoying the way Chris (Charlie’s son) handled his Master of Ceremonies role.
Chris’ sister Laura, with little Amelie, Charlie and Julie’s granddaughter, formed a circle of love around the happy couple, with Laura’s partner, Luke, alongside.
And the bride. Well, you took my breath away Julie! I’ve seen you now at several family weddings and you always look special – but on this day, your day, you looked spectacular. Happiness flowed through you and out of you to each one of us. It warms my heart to think my beloved son could make you so happy and I understand it completely. You’ve shared in our family joys and griefs for a long time now and I want to thank you for your love and generosity. I often think of the glass of white wine you put in front of me at Dom’s funeral and how you knew I needed it. You’ve helped my precious husband John making bouquets and buttonholes for hours for family weddings. Your bouquet and buttonholes were wonderful and beyond that, the exquisite care and detail you devoted to your guests at the tables was evidence again of all the lovely things you are. We love you very much Julie and you bring love and beauty to our family. Thank you.
And the groom. Charlie – or by his family nickname, Chow – my beloved son, so deeply in love and full of gratitude. You’ll be wondering why we call him Chow. It all stems from when Maria, his little sister, grew to know her newborn brother and called him ‘Dow’ – the nearest she could manage for ‘Charles’. So over the months and years ‘Dow’ developed into ‘Chow’ and other big and small people followed suit. He was a quiet and thoughtful child. He took his time with learning to speak but inwardly digested all the words his sister gave him as she ruled the airwaves in her curiosity about the world. Those of you who know him will recognise his capacity for thought before he speaks – and how what he says is careful and meaningful. I know you worked so hard for the wedding to be such a happy day Chow and I recognised how overwhelming you found the depth of love from your families and friends. Be happy always and we love you very much.
I don’t remember being at a wedding in Advent before and in that holy season of quiet and waiting for love to be born again on earth, we all shared in a glimpse of its glory at your wedding. May your married life be blessed and may you both find joy in the quiet times and the small things of life together.
When I told him about my kidney cancer, this was the immediate response from my Middle Brother, Geoff. It pretty much sums up all that he is to me – generous, funny, warm, interested, consistent, wise and reliable.
Here he is with his beloved wife Patsie. 
And this is why I still call him my “Middle Brother”…
Looking through the early photos, Geoff was always sitting or standing in the middle between Eric (eldest brother) and myself. This is a lovely one – on one of our Sunday morning walks through the fields with our Dad and his Kodak box camera.
Geoff was my baby brother for six years (til Les was born) and in the first year of his life he was often poorly. I didn’t know anything about what was happening to him, but I missed him when he was in hospital time after time and I remember all the worry and concern in the house. I was told he was having trouble keeping his food down and the next thing I knew was having my baby brother home with a red scar on his stomach. Here he is with our Nan, who adored Geoff, in 1948 on holiday at Eccles Beach in Norfolk.
Geoff made the most of life – and still does. He treasures his family and he and Pat are Mum and Dad to Kevin, Justine and Alex. He also has an amazing memory and can fill in the details of any family incident or event from our childhood.
When we eat together, I always find myself watching him to see if he smells his food before he tastes it! When he was young I used to watch him sniff his Marmite sandwich before he took a bite and I still wonder if this dated back to his early feeding problems…
Haven’t seen him do it recently though! We’ve had some happy times together in recent years – visiting their son Kev in Sheffield and taking in a walk around the city and a quiet time in the beautiful Sheffield Cathedral, followed by an evening meal.
When our son Dom was at home with us in 2011 with terminal cancer, Geoff phoned every week without fail to talk with us and with Dom. The love and support from his family is so precious to us – and Patsie is the sweetest sister that I never had as a child. We love them all very much.
Geoff still phones every week and now and again I remember to beat him to it. When the grandchildren want to speak to him, he says he’s Billywhiz! John tells me that name has a few dubious meanings but I’ll stick with Beano or Dandy…
We had a lovely time last summer when we rented a little cottage together in Northumberland for the Walkefest family gathering near Hexham. We were cosy, very much at home and made lovely memories. This was our shared view…
I’ve been thinking alot about how to thank you both, Geoff and Patsie, for this extraordinary love and support you give us through our grief and fears and for the smiles and laughter we can often share in our lives. Last week the actor John Hurt died and he has said ” My life is full because I know I am loved”. That about sums it up for us, eh?
I wonder if you remember that you gave me, many years ago, a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets? Well, this one, number 116, is for you…
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken,
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come,
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
William Shakespeare.
Than these November skies
Is no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep;
Into their grey the subtle spies
Of colour creep.
Changing that high austerity to delight,
Til ev’n the leaden interfolds are bright.
And, where the cloud breaks, faint far azure peers
Ere a thin flushing cloud again
Shuts up that loveliness, or shares.
The huge great clouds move slowly, gently, as
Reluctant the quick sun could shine in vain,
Holding in bright caprice their rain.
And when of colours none,
Not rose, nor amber, nor the scarce late green,
Is truly seen, –
In all the myriad grey,
In silver height and dusky deep, remain
The loveliest,
Faint purple flushes of the unvanquished sun.
John Freeman
Nell Morag, your waking song
is like the Matins bell –
solitary and distant.
A simple sentinel,
softened by early mist
on wakening water-meadows…
astir with new-born plenty
to embrace this youthful May.
Eileen Walke
Potted
Shock-blonde, lick-slicked and collared
I stick upright, aloof from the cool blues,
turps-headed and drying out.
Having swollen for corn, skin, straw,
starlight, a chair, some tables,
their light-pools turning in
and crying out of vases
of summer-sunned flowers
spring songs from iris’ throats –
Then cadmium thumbed from my scalp,
my oily strands stripped bare –
soused, rinsed, up-ended, old and new,
Awaiting the next parcel from Paris,
the unquivering true hand
to dance me laughing on the sky itself
Or drag my hair across despairing fields,
brushing against the verges of the path
that leads to carmine on burnt umber.
Dominic Mathews 2008
Les lives in southern Sweden now, with his two sons Danny and Andrew and 
with 
Domino, their cat. Their home is in a small town, called Bjarred – “Bearhead” – on the west coast not so far from Lund. It’s a stunningly beautiful place, with quiet spots, friendly folk, and access to other towns and cities via a brilliant bus service.
Perhaps the most beautiful part is the path that runs from the wildlife sanctuary with its birdwatching hide, past the little boats moored on small jetties under trees, or moored alone out on the water, looking towards Denmark. You can gather seaweed for the garden down there. It’s a walk I often return to in my thoughts and I never forget when Danny was young and we played together by the water.
When Les first lived in Sweden, many moons ago, he went north into the Arctic Circle to make maps and count stars. What is it about northern light? John always says it’s the best light for painting. Les is a northern man. He’ll be off to the roof of Norway soon to conjure up the Northern Lights.
His two sons are loving people who love people, echoing their Dad.
I remember Danny watching and listening closely to me when we first met, then teaching me Swedish words – useful words like nose, thumb and hair. When I grew older and more sad, Danny would still watch me, would come and sit quietly next to me – just being alongside each other and just what I needed.
Andrew is quietly happy to share, always ready to walk to the shop to choose cake ingredients together, to translate when needed, to show me where his friends live, to take a bus ride with me or to make a chocolate cake and to eat it with big smiles together.
They are both musicians. Music is a big part of life in Les’s home. I have heard that there’s good access to music for young people in the Swedish schools and I’ve also heard that the best music producers today are Swedish. That doesn’t surprise me. Danny’s band is called High Coast. He’s a songwriter too. You can find him on You Tube. Have a listen sweet reader. Andrew plays guitar too and studies music. I can’t wait to talk with him about it all.
There’s nothing like the hug of a loving brother. Les gives the warmest hugs – straight from his heart. When he was a boy, he had the bluest eyes, a ready smile and flaxen hair. Nowadays, the eyes and the smile go on twinkling under a silvery hairline, rather like the snow-capped Himalayas mapped from space on the blue planet. And I think of how like his Dad he is – and wouldn’t Dad have looked like Les if he’d lived beyond forty-two?
Les is as generous as a warm shower in April. Once you’re settled in his home, he will announce that his home is your home, so do help yourself to anything you need. He loves to cook and produces amazing vegetarian dishes with home-grown potatoes, tomatoes and strawberries. And coffee. Always time for a sit with coffee.
In June 2011, Hinnie and I visited Les to take a break from caring for Dom who’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Les gave us his warm welcome, a quiet comfortable room and space to reflect on what was happening. I can never thank you enough for your gentle compassion.
This poem is for you Les.
Jetty Coffee
My brother walked with me.
What a blessing!
Out from the land, along
one of those wooden stretches
over water that you find in Sweden.
A bridge over troubled water.
Over coffee at the clubhouse
he listened and spoke quietly,
“It is,” he said,
“every parent’s worst nightmare.”
And when I came home to you
how we’d missed one another!
And I saw in that photo
how straight you’d sat, waiting
with your customary patience
for radiotherapy to hit the mark.
Then to go home with the precious
prize of time, like that goldfish
in the glistening bag in your hand.
Eileen Walke
73 stitches cast on for the button band.
So much for the ceasefire.
K four rows.
On the second the camera crew
chooses a Medium shot.
A strange and unnatural angle,
a Bird’s-eye view, looking down
on the action, making it seem insignificant
and ant-like.
And there you are. The top of your
small sweet head
unearthed.
From my God-like angle digging figures
struggle to bring you out,
to clear the bomb-bleached dust and rubble
from your face.
Then gently, oh so gently, lift you
into the Love of strong arms and gazes.
Every man there wants to hold you close.
You pass me in a Close-up view,
your ashen head buried in his warm neck.
The Long-distance shot rushing you to safety.
and you are gone.
I can’t follow, darling little man, but
you are our child.
See this coat to keep you warm…
with hearts for buttons.
Eileen Walke
I was sitting, sleepy-eyed, halfway down the stairs, looking at the cuckoo clock and listening to the tiny bleat on the air. All the lights were on and hushed voices murmured – not wanting to wake us children up. Dad came into the hall, caught sight of me and beckoned me. I moved down the stairs, looked at him and asked, “Have we got a goat?” He smiled and shook his head as I followed him into the living-room.
Sitting by the fire, with a bundle on her knee, was Dr Fitzmaurice. “Look at him” she said, “your little brother.” I sat down cross-legged in front of her on the rag rug and she placed the tiny bundle on my knee.
It was love at first sight – not because he meant I could sit and wonder at him into the early hours, but because he was so tiny, so neat, so peaceful and because he held my finger as he slept. That’s how Les and I met in May 1954. I was eleven years and eleven days old.
I can remember how happy my parents were at that time – my Dad leaning over the bump in my Mum’s brown woollen skirt to kiss her and their arms holding each other and their babe. This joy grew when Les came and added to it. The house became a busy place, full of love – a place to grow. No one was more happy than my Dad and the bairn was the apple of his eye.
The next day, at dinner-time, I ran all the way home from school to make sure he was still there. He was, to my relief. I have so much to thank him for and my love for him has grown to this day.
one winter afternoon
(at the magical hour
when is becomes if)
a bespangled clown
standing on eighth street
handed me a flower.
Nobody,it’s safe
to say, observed him but
myself;and why?because
without any doubt he was
whatever (first and last)
mostpeople fear most:
a mystery for which i’ve
no word except alive
-that is,completely alert
and miraculously whole;
with not merely a mind and a heart
but unquestionably a soul-
by no means funereally hilarious
(or otherwise democratic)
but essentially poetic
or ethereally serious:
a fine not a coarse clown
(no mob,but a person)
and while never saying a word
who was anything but dumb;
since the silence of him
self sang like a bird.
Mostpeople have been heard
screaming for international
measures that render hell rational
-i thank heaven somebody’s crazy
enough to give me a daisy
e.e. cummings