Stephen Romer

Littlestone Days After the golf, the bridge and the cocktails,after the sets of tenniswith Noël Coward and the Maughamslooking on from the balcony,‘Ah, the dear boys!’ after sherry and theatricals,the dinner-dances and the outings,after charades and canastaand evenings with the gramophone, you alone of them would turn your backand cycle into the wind, then strideyour giant stride across that sacred name,Dungeness, hiss of a withdrawing seaacross the shingle, the bitter waters,exulting, sacred music perpetuallyon your tongueas you trudged to the Pointsobbing your pent-up grief-and-happiness into the wind, for God’s abundant mercies,in giving you such friends,and this wilderness to walk alone in.

I cannot wholly decideabout my father’s resolve not to speak or seek out textsor make arrangements except perhaps to the pillowand the blankets. Was it for him, or for us,or was he ‘in denial’ when he preferred to drift and dozeto music or ambient conversation as if some unusual actwould make the thing too real? That adherence to routine,The Times and the radio, was it because the stream of timeremained too precious to interruptearly, as when he waited for the concert toendbefore unfolding himself from thecar?