314. My favourite cousin

My cousin Martin called me in January. I hate talking on the phone, but his calls always made my heart leap with joy. He was a great teller of stories, but also knew how to listen, and not to judge.

When necessary, he was direct. He didn’t beat around the bush on this occasion. But he did hesitate, trying to find the right words, and I sensed what was coming. He was 72 and had gone through several health battles in his later years. And was now diagnosed with cancer in the bones, lungs and liver. Having previously gone through weeks and weeks of chemo for prostate cancer, he had no desire to re-endure those agonies for the sake of a bit more time alive.

The doctors had given him a few months. “I can have very strong pain killers as it gets worse. I’ve chosen not to battle it.”

I got it. More importantly, his close family didn’t oppose him. Mart and I had a long phone conversation about a month later, talking about everything under the sun. And then a much shorter chat, in March. I wanted to drive over from Brentwood to Saffron Walden to see him, but he insisted no. He was already in too much pain.

He left this world on 3 May, quite peaceably. Maureen, my brother Neil and I attended his funeral on the 24^th. The crematorium was so packed that some mourners had to stand.

I wasn’t surprised. I had deeply enjoyed his company over the years, and he seemed to have friends from many walks of life. It hurts me even now that he isn’t around anymore. I think about him sometimes on my walks. How can he not be here?

I don’t have many childhood memories of Martin. His dad had died very early, in a tragic RAF air crash, so that Mart had next to no memory of his father. He holidayed once with us at Butlins, somewhere, with his sister and my Aunt Elsie. Maybe he made a few visits to our house. Always bigger and stronger than me. Did he get a motorbike at some stage? Mum always talked about him as if he was a bit of a maverick, which got my interest going.

And then, in about 1983, we hooked up again at my cousin Susan’s wedding. Bumped into each other in the gents. He was in his early 30s, witty, confident, handsome, friendly and had a good-looking wife. Stories of drunken times with mates rolled off his tongue. Best of all, he was well paid for climbing the sides of tall buildings. A steeplejack, goddamit!

He instantly became my favourite cousin, because he seemed happy to not be doing any of the corporate shit that is held out to us as the good life. I’ve always liked outsiders and rebels.

He came along to my wedding reception in 1985, arriving before this drunken groom. I recall thinking I wanted to somehow spend more time getting to know him.

It happened eight or so years later. He became a member of my Gameplan betting syndicate, with a £500 stake, no less. He brought the cheque over to Chelmsford, along with a vicar’s daughter that he was squiring, the lovely Kirsty. Martin stuck with Gameplan through its many ups and downs, encouraging me when I felt fragile about the inevitable losing runs. I’ll always be grateful for that. I’m glad to say he came out a few quid ahead at the end. Maybe that’s why he helped paint two of our houses in Chelmsford, free of charge.

When his son Paul got married in Ireland, it was a huge pleasure to take Maureen and the kids across for the week. More good memories, especially to sit and drink with Martin and his mate Les and a few others at the hotel.

He loved singing and playing the guitar. Him and Les performed in pubs. Me and a mate went to watch him one evening. They did great Beatles covers, especially the harmonies. Martin joined Neil and I for a curry in Chelmsford a couple of times, and he would regale us with stories about his quite regular busking around London’s tube stations.

He even got to play at his own funeral! A very chilled acoustic version of Slade’s ‘Cum on Feel the Noize’ that he had recorded some time ago on a cassette. It was placed on a loop at the wake. It felt like he was next door.

He seemed to live naturally near the edge. His love of poker took him out to Las Vegas a couple of times, one of which saw him become so ill that he needed an operation. The local hospital performed it despite his lack of medical cover. The costs were enormous, many tens of thousands of dollars. He phoned Paul and his daughter Louise to come and get him almost immediately, and somehow flew back to England without his finances being penetrated. I believe he then had to jiggle some of his assets to ensure that any US legal action to recuperate the money was not seen as worthwhile.  

Maverick or not, he was a family man through and through, who loved his mum. He made a lovely speech at her 80^th birthday do, and another tearful tribute to Elsie at her funeral. I finally got to see most of his extended family in 2016 when he came over to our Great Waltham home with his daughter, granddaughter and great grandkids.  

They all bubbled over with gratitude for what a kind and brilliant dad, grandad and great grandad he was. He gave up countless hours to look after his younger brood, all the unsung after-school and weekend stuff that goes under the radar, to help out. Maureen remembers him as “a lovely, gentle man who was great with kids”.

The bloke was just so easy to be with. More recently I was flattered by his praise for this blog. We had some great phone chats in recent years, which I miss tremendously. 

In his final month, as I couldn’t visit, I wrote him a letter telling him what pleasure his company had brought me down the years. I concluded: “I don’t suppose we will see each other again, so I wanted you to know all this. I can’t imagine how you are feeling about the days and weeks ahead, but if my words can make even a small difference, then I’m glad.”

But he never received it, as the Royal Mail were engaged in a series of very lengthy strikes. It arrived after his passing.

I was gutted. But he knew he was loved by so many.