As some of you know I have been a bit low over the past couple of weeks. For many reasons, but mainly because of the death of my great friend Nigel. As my lovely dad pointed out, Nigel was one of those unique people who come along once in a lifetime. A large, elegant and outspoken presence who leaves a huge hole in the lives of everyone who knew him personally, but also all the people he helped. He got me started with projects like Stepping Stones and his experience has taught me so much. Despite being born with a silver spoon in his mouth, Nigel accepted everyone without judgement and loved the people he worked with. He never talked about what he did for others, but what he did with others. All mental health group members were friends; equally important and welcome in his exquisite home.
There are many things he did that people don't know about, despite him being very visible in the voluntary and business community. I noticed him before we even met as the man who sat on the chaise longue, alongside Sybil the dog, in our local antiques shop. He was very difficult to age and reminded me a little of Tom Baker. He was a large man who walked on two sticks but so elegantly dressed, always in black underneath but finished off with a long smoking jacket decorated with antique brooches. He had the blonde curly hair of a cherub and a very 'proper' accent. He came into my life through our social worker - my late husband had an assessment for care and our social worker learned about his business and charity experience - she used Nigel like a prescription, feeling that Jez needed a dose of him to make friends locally. Although they got on famously and shared their experience in creating disability networks, I was the one who fell head over heels with him. Together, we worked hard, but we also brought out each others naughty side.
I loved visiting his home because it was like a museum or art gallery, but also had a strange sense of peace it was difficult for me to find at that time. I was caring for my husband almost full time and when I went to Nigel's it was like walking into another world. Walking over the threshold was like an instant decompression and I'm sure my shoulders visibly dropped a couple of inches. It was like letting out a long deep breath. I would sink into one of his Chesterfield wingback armchairs by the fire with his massage cushion nestled in my lower back and sometimes we didn't say anything at all. He would just press a coffee into my hand and sit with me in silence. Other times he would distract me with a box of treasures he'd bought at the latest auction and tell me all about them. I learned about glass by Galle, oriental ceramics, and much to his disgust fell in love with Martin Bros 'Wally' birds (terribly grotesque jars in the shape of comical birds). Every inch of the walls was covered with paintings, ornate frames and a quirky clock in the shape of an owl whose eyes moved from side to side in time with the pendulum. The ticking of several clocks always punctuated the silence and formed an almost meditative atmosphere that I fell asleep in more than once. Under his guidance I bought Moroccan lamps, oriental ginger jars, vintage posters and Persian rugs that still grace my little barn today.
He was shrewd, but kind. He was generous with his time and forgiveness. He could see faults, but still gave the people around him endless chances. He never lost hope in people's ability to recover and turn their life around. He was quietly observant of people and gave me the best advice. When Jez died he appreciated the gravity of what I had lost; I grieved the love of my life, but also the purpose I had caring for him. Almost immediately he got me involved in local mental health support groups as a volunteer, but also because he realised I needed the support. I could tell him anything. When I decided to marry again, he came to the wedding, but reserved judgement on my new husband. When it all fell apart I learned that he had my ex worked out at the wedding. He very bluntly told me that my ex had always been more in love with himself than me: 'no bridegroom should watch his bride go to bed alone and stay up with his friends instead'. He had seen that my ex was in love with what I represented- the ability to have a beautiful home, smart car, big motorbike, plus the fifteen year age gap and the standing that gave him with his friends. He sat me down and clearly told me this man was incapable of change. It helped me move on. He supported me by picking me up and taking me out somewhere posh for lunch or up to Hemswell for a browse.
I saw this kindness and shrewd advice in the way he dealt with other friends and the people he was helping. He seemed to have a magnet for people that others might have dismissed as hopeless cases. He once had a cleaner who drank so much that he came home and found her curled up asleep in his rug in front of the fire. He had less time for bureaucracy, pompous officials and useless antique experts on the TV. We would share lunch and watch Bargain Hunt together while he passed on scurrilous rumours about the auctioneers. We would try out our own expertise by guessing the sale price, although we couldn't watch Flog It because he hated Paul Martin; 'his uselessness is only surpassed by his smug twattery'. The way he dealt with consultants and doctors was hilarious - he taught me not to be intimidated and treat them as equals. Once we shared an orthopaedic consultant who had upset me by suggesting I lose weight when I was only a size 12. The irony was that the consultant was so large his stomach entered the room before he did. Faced with the same advice at his own appointment Nigel didn't miss a beat - 'physician heal thyself' he said sarcastically and swept out of the room.
I guess my only regret in all these incredible memories is that he would never let me help him. As he became more unwell I would offer to cook, or shop for him and he simply wouldn't accept the offer. It was important for him to feel in charge and I learned to accept the way he needed things to be, despite itching to truly be there for him. He rarely asked anything for himself, except for Christmas Day. This was the only day he didn't answer the phone or go anywhere, but chose to spend the day quietly at home enjoying TV and his favourite home made trifle. In the last couple of years he did talk more and share his feelings and fears for the future. He started to let me give him a cuddle when he was a bit low and when he left messages on the answering machine would use unexpected terms of endearment.
Despite moving several times over the last few years I have religiously hung on to the red leather Chesterfield sofa and chairs he gave me when he downsized. I write this sitting in the wingback chair that used to sit in front of his fire. He believed that even everyday objects and furniture should be beautiful and I love that something I sit in every day feels like a little piece of him. I also carry with me one of his most humorous piece of advice on my love life; 'God knows I understand the need for a man, but why do you have to marry them?' The world will miss his charity work, his business brain and his endless energy. I will miss my friend; just like this chair, the everyday world was more beautiful with him in it.
