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Photo
by John Rashby-Pollock
Andrew Nicoll
An Old Friend of
the Family
“Below the kirk, below the hill, below the lighthouse
top!’’ That’s how I will always remember Ginger Perkins -- as he was that last
night, standing in the window of his drawing room at the Grange and quoting
poetry: “Below the kirk, below the hill, below the lighthouse top.’’
Ginger turned away from the view, with the pleasure
yachts dancing about at anchor and the hill and the little church and the
white finger of the lighthouse all gleaming in the last sun of a midsummer
evening.
“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner!’’ he barked.
“Coleridge.’’ And, although he left it unspoken, it was clear there was a
note of triumph in his voice as if he wanted to say: “See, I haven’t
forgotten! Old Ginger’s not senile yet.’’
Ginger was always quoting poetry -- chunks of
Shakespeare and the Bible and Ozymandias and old Omar. He called it “the
benefit of a liberal education,’’ and it was very much ‘liberal’ with a small
‘L’.
That’s
how I want to remember him, in his dinner jacket, ramrod straight, unbowed by
almost 90 years and, although his hair was silver, still in every other way the
same old Ginger. I knew that man all my life, liked him, admired him, and respected
him. I loved him. Why not say it? He was Ginger. Even when he got his ‘K’ he
insisted on it: “Sir Ginger Perkins.’’
“Thanks for bringing me home,’’ he said. “Time for
one more brandy for the road?’’
Naturally I agreed. Ginger kept some remarkably good
brandy. He poured two improbably generous measures and joined me at the
fireside. I remember how his hand brushed that silver model of a Lancaster
bomber on the mantelpiece; such a loving gesture and then that careless,
almost angry little prod with the tip of his finger.
“Who was your first?’’ he asked me.
I was a little shocked. “My first?’’
“Oh, come on! Who was the first woman you made love
to?’’
My throat was tight with embarrassment. “I can’t
remember,’’ I said, lamely. “Don’t be bloody stupid! You couldn’t forget a
thing like that. Who was it? Come on!’’
“All right,’’ I said. “It was Diane, if you must
know. My wife, Diane.’’
“There’s nothing wrong with that,’’ said Ginger.
“Wholly laudable. Nothing to be ashamed of. Good God, no!’’ He took a
sizeable swig of brandy and held it in his mouth for a moment, letting the
vapours rise into his head, releasing the ghosts of decades-old vineyards and
forgotten summers. “I remember my first,’’ said Ginger. “She was an old
friend of the family. Much older than me. Much.’’
continued
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