A very good friend from my far-away Kenya days sent me this copy of a letter written in 1982. At first glance I thought the writer might be my mother but she never wrote by hand but always typed; so it was almost with puzzlement that I looked at the foot of the four sides of close writing to find that the author was my father. My father always found writing very difficult so he avoided it. In part it was that he had, as he described it, 'a poor hand', by which he meant that he struggled to form the letters so, on the rare occasions he did write, he had to take his time. My memory is of him dictating. In this he excelled, and he was fortunate in having first class secretaries - in his office in Mombasa, a Mrs Thomas, and at home, my mother.
The letter was to Bill Solly, a very old friend who had been a master in the British India Line, based in Mombasa, so they had shipping in common but also a love of cricket. Bill and his wife Margaret travelled across from the Isle of Man to stay with my parent each summer, when the cricketing season was at its height.
What struck me as I began to read was that my father wrote exactly as he spoke, in a measured, organised way, this despite him being in his eightieth year. So, for example, he dealt with each topic in careful order: shipping matters first, and at some length; then news of mutual friends, one of whom had recently died; followed by cricket and news of his family. As I laid the letter aside it was exactly as if he had been speaking to me in the pub, a pint of bitter in front of him, a voice from over forty years ago.
That was lovely.
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