Category Archives: fiction

The interview

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The interviewer glanced sharply at Igor. Whilst she did not actually move her eyebrows, he had the impression that she did not approve of him.  Negativity and discouragement seemed to come off her in waves.  He made a conscious decision to gather up his courage, taking it up about him as if it were an actual cloak; with an effort, which he hoped was concealed, he held her gaze steadily.  He’d been through battle, through fire and storm; he had no need to be afraid of such as she – and yet, he was. But where had she been at Yekatarinburg? Had she attained to battlefield promotion? Had she seen what he’d seen, done what he’d had to do? Yet, he knew in his heart the answer to all those questions.  The interviewer was an air force officer and very much senior to him. She was a combat veteran – we all were. She would have seen as much action as he, if not more than he.

She took a short intake of breath, as a precursor to speaking.  Ages passed in an instant.  All time seemed to him to stand still in that single moment between her little intake of breath and the words that he knew would follow.

“OK, Major. Thank you for time and for joining us today. The panel will consider your application and we will let you know in due course.”

And that was that.  He had hoped against all hope that he would know in the interview itself, though he should have known better. He would have to wait. He arranged his face in what he knew would appear as a grave and formal military mask, and thanked his interviewer.  He pushed back his chair, rose to his feet, and saluted the officers of the panel. And he left the room.

“What does the Group Captain think?” asked one of the other two members of the panel, once Igor had left the room.

“He’s easily the strongest and most able candidate we’ve seen so far. A definite.  I don’t want him thinking he’s God’s gift to Mother Russia though, so I had to take a stern line with him in the interview. If he has a weakness, it’s that he will tend to see things in black and white.”

“That could be his downfall” replied the Army officer to her left.

“Indeed.  In these times, the need is for balance and nuance, for political nouse, for treading carefully through the post-war wreckage and taking forward what is right, but letting go what is not right, whilst not condemning it overtly.”

“Letting the old, bad ways wither on the branch”, put in the Army officer.

“Tochna” replied the third officer, heretofore silent. Precisely. “Much is at stake.  Stray but a little to the left or to the right, and our new-found strength will snap in our hands.  We would not wish to return to the past.  Russia has moved a long way during and after the war.”

There’s a new young man at Tony’s

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There’s a new young man behind the counter at Tony’s coffee shop.  Young, good looking and Italian – of course Italian.  As Italian as they come.  Thick black hair, olive skin, white teeth, lots of gesticulation.

I once knew an old man who spoke perfect Italian.  As a soldier in the war, he’d been set to be a translator, during the Italian campaign.  He told me once that he’d grabbed an Italian officer by the hands.  He’d took hold of both the guy’s hands, and held them still.  And the poor chap was speechless.  Literally.  You ever met an Italian man who could say anything without moving his hands? I reckon this new chap behind the counter at Tony’s will be like that.  I saw him talking – no, gesturing – to one of the waitresses.  He’s very energetic and outgoing.  Cram full of energy, like Tony used to be.

“Issa good job amma fromma Sardinia” Tony once said.

These days, Tony looks a little careworn.  Particularly so, since his mother died – you know what Italian men are like with their mothers.  Tony’s black hair is edged with grey.  Look closely at his eyes, and you see care.  You see concern.  Tony has a kind word for everybody.  An older man’s friendly kiss for every young mum.  A hug and a chuck under the chin for every baby. A handshake for every man. Tony knows everybody’s name.  And now he has a new man behind the counter.  A new generation is coming, taking up the mantle, ready to continue in his footsteps.

 

 

2017 in reading

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It has been a challenging year in a number of different respects. Difficulties at work, family bereavement, complexities in my volunteer role as a senior Scouter.

I’ve read nearly fifty books in 2017, though some of this reading will have been comfort re-reading – a bit like comfort eating or comfort shopping, but healthier. We’ll look at some of the more edifying reading, as well as some of the comfort food, here.

Peter Frankopan – The Silk Roads

I started off the year reading this excellent overview of world history from the standpoint of trade.  Trade goes along roads.  This was a history of the world in roads, and had little enough to do, however excellent and readable, with the Silk Road or with Central Asia.

Stephen King On Writing

Perhaps the best and most inspiring read of the year, recommended to me by fellow members of the Woldingham Writers Group.  This was an encouraging and stimulating autiobiography, telling the story of how King wrote his first novel – “Carrie” – in his lunch breaks whilst working at a laundry. 

Stephen King – The Stand

Thought I’d re-read quality fiction after my interest in Stephen King was re-ignited by his autobiography on writing. The opening paragraph is unforgettable, classic Stephen King – “Arnette, a pissant four street burg in East Texas”.  Yet, he is never disrespectful of such a humble place or of the humble folk who hail from ordinary places.  King’s heroes in The Stand are not the Walkin’ Dude or the old lady Abigail, but common folk like Stu Redman, hailing from “pissant four street burgs”. 

Nicholas Monsarrat – The Master Mariner

Read masterly fiction – it should sharpen your eye and make keen your appetite for good writing. This is classic tale weaving.  Our hero Matthew, guilty of cowardice at a battle in the 15th century, is cursed by a witch to live on and on until he learns courage.  Clearly he had not managed it by the time of Trafalgar, centuries later.

David Eugene Smith and Louis Charles Karpinski – The Hindu-Arabic numerals

This is a nineteeth century work on the history of numbers, and is, for something hailing from that era, surprisingly accessible and informative.

Len Deighton – Declarations of War

Another fine writer whose work we would do well to emulate.  Deighton here brings us a series of short stories about war, some with amusing twists in the tail. We read one about the rise of right-wing politics amongst honourable and upright men – ostensibly in the UK – and only in the last lines  do we see the name of Herr Goebbels mentioned.  In another, men battle in the home counties against the German invasion, as the front rolls inexorably toward London.

Richard Morgan – Altered Carbon

Richard Morgan’s characters are bitter and twisted.  You don’t need to read more than a few dozen pages of his fiction to feel anger and frustration boiling off the page.  Here we have a dark detective story set in the San Francisco of 500 years hence.  An immortal man has killed himself – and it is important to find out why.

Chuck Palahniuk – Fight Club

Why did I read this? It was on my daughter’s shelf.  It was certainly compelling, but ultimately a futile read about a futile subject.  And in any case, the first rule of Fight Club is, don’t write about Fight Club.  I should point out that I never watched the film, nor ever will I watch it.

W.H Murray – The evidence of things not seen

For me, the long-awaited autobiography of celebrated Scottish climber and environmentalist Bill Murray.  His work “Mountaineering in Scotland” is one of the best pieces of mountain literature available.  In this longer work we see the whole of Murray’s life laid out before us, from childhood, through his war service as a tank commander in the Western Desert, imprisonment in Germany, and onto his work in Everest reconnaissance in the Himalayas after the war.

Bruce Sterling – Holy Fire

I like Bruce Sterling; this earliest of the “cyberpunk” authors here tells a rather odd story of an old woman who through late twenty-first medical technology, is restored to full health and youth.  The holy fire, I think, is that of youth.

Peter Fleming  – Bayonets to Lhasa

Peter Fleming was the older (and today, less well-known) brother of Ian Fleming. Both brothers were capable and gifted writers. Here, Peter Fleming writes an account of William Younghusband’s assault on Lhasa in 1904.  It is an essential piece of reading for anyone like me interested in Central Asia or in “The Great Game”.

A. N Wilson – Our times

Another sweeping historical perspective work, covering the new Elizabethan era – our times – from the mid 1950’s until the early noughties.  Much changed in the first four decades of the reign of Queen Elizabeth II.  But, it might be said that more has changed in the UK since A. N Wilson finished this book, than in all the forty years before.

Geoffrey Wellum – First Light

A delightful boys-to-men account of a youth who longs to fly, joins the RAF, and becomes a great pilot, taking part in the Battle of Britain.  Even as I write this, I am reminded of Robert Mason’s classic “Chickenhawk” which tells a very similar story about a helicopter pilot in Vietnam.  But Wellum’s account is stiff upper lip throughout.  Mustn’t grumble, old boy….

J D Vance – Hillbilly Elegy

J D Vance has been condemned as a “poster boy of the right” for his Republican views, but what he surely is, is an example of conquering adversity and winning through against the odds.  It is the story of how a boy from the backwoods of Kentucky,  a hill-billy – made good.  Three things contribute to his success: the faith, love and support of his grandmother; serving in the Marine Corps, and a certain amount of luck.  Other reasons are available: ability, charm etc.  A very inspiring read.

Isaac Asimov – It’s been a good life

I set out deliberately this year, to read autobiographies of great writers.  Find me someone who thinks Asimov was not a great writer, and I’ll find you a fool.  Isaac was blessed with a mind far sharper than most of us, and as a writer was energetic, prolific, and wide-ranging in interest.  John Campbell said of him, I think, “Isaac Asimov once had writer’s block….it was the worst ten minutes of his life”.

Rick Broadbent –  Endurance – life of Emil Zatopek

This was encouraging to me as an erstwhile and very amateur 10km runner.  I first heard of Zatopek when I was just a boy.  I recall reading about his amazing triple triumph at the Helsinki Olympics in 1952. That year, he took the gold medal in the 5000m, 10000m, and in the Marathon.  I found the book much more interesting in the first half, which dealt with Zatopek’s upbringing and his early success as an athlete.  The second half, dealing with his fame and his struggles with the Communist regime in Czechoslovakia, whilst important enough a subject, I confess I found less stimulating.

 

R.A Heinlein – The unpleasant professional of Jonathan Hoag

Representing the many sci-fi books I read this year, this is Heinlein’s only real horror story.  It would make an excellent movie if only someone would write the screenplay.  The story opens with a man trying to find out from a doctor what the substance is that is stuck in his nails. He goes on to hire a private detective – to find out what he does for a living. After that, things get macabre.

Hampton Sides – Blood and Thunder: An Epic of the American West

This was spot on: whilst at one level, a biography of Kit Carson, at another level, it is a biography or history of the American nation in the late nineteenth century, as the imperial expansion out to the Pacific was made reality by the grit, determination and plain nastiness of men like Carson and his mentor Fremont.  A very worthwhile read.

Tim Harford – Fifty Things that Made the Modern Economy

A first rate canter through some interesting technical and cultural developments that shaped the modern world.  The book is basically an extended version of some chats given on the BBC World Service.  I wasn’t sure which one of the fifty I would have chosen, if any, as the most important, but if I had to pick any one, it would be the JOint Stock company or the concept the Limited Liability Company or LLC.

Len Deighton – SS-GB

I remember when this came out; I tried to read it then as a youth and could not make headway against it, however well-written it is.  Len Deighton is a master of the written word and you’ll learn a lot by him: read him, emulate him.  Unsurprisingly much-copied, this is the grand-dad of all alternative history spy thrillers.  I was particularly gratified to find in his story that the side-streets around the back of Victoria Station, on Vauxhall Bridge Road, were considered one of the roughest inner city areas in Europe.  Go there now!

Tim Marshall – Prisoners of geography

I go this in a charity shop in St Ives. A most excellent account of history as seen through maps, cartography and the importance of where you live, where your country lies.  Straits, river mouths and estuaries, mountain ranges,  cliffs and forests – these are the difference between life and death, wealth and penury.  Even in the days of cruise missiles and cybersecurity, your location still matters.

In a country churchyard

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We have experienced a quintessentially English village hall wedding, that of the daughter of a dear friend of ours. I am moved to create Chaucer-like descriptions of some of the main characters, the chief set piece scenes.
I took a day off to make the journey from my home to the place where the wedding was being held. My wife preceded me by car, to offer help to the bride’s mother. On a sunny morn I went on foot from London Bridge to St Pancras, stopping to look in the outdoor equipment outfitters in Covent Garden. I stopped in a café on Shaftesbury Avenue, before pushing on through the streets of this great city. Whenever I walk in this town I am accompanied by the shade of my wife’s dear Aunt, who died at the beginning of April this year.
She knew this town, and I oftimes walked these streets, especially the streets around Bloomsbury, on my way to have dinner with her. Those walks are memories to treasure, for I shall never again have dinner with her. But we press on, and remember well.
Recall from our C.S Lewis, how Screwtape rages when his young devil allows his “client” to do something he really likes doing. Be it a walk by the river and a cream tea; be it a deep scented bath with candles; be it a glass of lager and a Club sandwich. Or a walk through the streets of this great city.
Arrival
People close to the bride’s family gather in the days before the Great Day. For months prior to the event the bride’s mother has been preparing decorations, ordering drinks, planning settings. On a hot Friday I journeyed by train from Surrey, arriving by omnibus at a village in the flat, big-sky country of the Trent valley, at 6pm on a sweltering summer evening.

The bride’s mother, the bride-to-be herself, my wife and oldest daughter (one of the Bridesmaids) and a host of other ladies, including the groom’s mother, are preparing the Village Hall. I am minded of the Natalie Merchant song “My sister Rose” about a similar village hall wedding in the USA. In other rooms, ladies in black Lycra do synchronised stretching. Kids gather for a karate lesson.
Tables are endlessly adjusted – a foot left here, one a bit forward and slightly to the right there. Eventually the tables are arranged to the satisfaction of the bride, whose critical eye sweeps over the tables one last time. It is time now for table cloths and place-setting. All wash their hands. We do not now leave the hall until the table has been laid for all the guests. Vintage china, napkins, glasses. It has to be just so. The sun is low on the sky before we set off back to the bride’s mother’s house for a well-earned drink ourselves.

The morning of the wedding
Immense quantities of Prosecco, wine, beer and soft drinks are transferred to the hall, in fridges and cool boxes. Cake, cheese, rolls, sandwiches: food is delivered to the kitchen in the hall, which has been scrubbed to within an inch of its life. Eventually, after much going back and forth, all seems ready and it is time for the labourers to scrub up and put on their glad rags, and become magically transformed into guests.

The rain
As we put the orders of service into the church, it starts to rain. It has been a long time coming; we could see the storm approaching all morning. The rain drums on the roof of the ancient and lovely church, and for a moment we are happy to be trapped inside. But only for a few minutes. In ten minutes it is over; in an hour, little sign remains of the downpour.
The gathering and the wedding
Guests start to arrive about an hour before the service is due to start. They gather like birds of paradise in their bright clothes, near the ornate lych gate on the main road. The groom’s mother recalls that the groom’s party arrive in a body, striding down the road toward the church like a western posse. Eventually, all are gathered in the cool of the church. 1pm comes and goes. Some of us discuss, in low tones, how fashionably late the bride will dare to be. At the altar, the groom and his best man stand, looking nervous. This is possibly the one occasion in the life of a young Englishman not schooled to military service, when he must stand up straight and look smart for a long period of time.
The conversation of the waiting guests dies down, and an expectant hush fills the church. It is 1.15pm. “All stand” rings out, though some of the guests can hear the vicar saying “excellent, excellent” as he has forgotten to turn off his throat mike. All are on their feet, ready, and the bride with her father make their entrance
“…dressed in simple white, wearing flowers in her hair,
Music as she walks slowly to the altar” (Chris de Burgh)

Classic English hymns – Jerusalem, Thine be the Glory – are drowned out by a brass band in this small English country church. The readings are taken. Firstly, by an elderly lady friend of the bride, who reads slowly, beautifully, and with the greatest dignity, and secondly by the bride’s grandfather, a devoted Christian man whose soft Geordie accent and clear faith illuminate the words.
At the Signing of the Register, the band play a wonderful and moving piece written by a songwriter known to many of us. This is the brass band’s finest moment, and it is achingly beautiful. And then, out into the churchyard for the photos.
A bridesmaid approaches my wife discreetly, holding some keys. The confetti…it is still at the bride’s mother’s house…might we fetch it? Off we go on a short car journey, a Confetti mercy dash, and the day is saved. No-one is any the wiser.
The afternoon tea
To the village hall, on foot. A journey of a few hundred yards on a pleasant summer afternoon. Eventually, after standing around drinking Prosecco for a time, we’re all seated in our places. The warm wind billows the curtains in through the open French doors. More Prosecco. And then there is cake and sandwiches, served on vintage china. Tea is brought in, in large teapots.
We are sat at a table with two very similar looking brothers in their late fifties, uncles of the groom. One has a teenage son with a thin shadow of a moustache. The youth wants to be a professional footballer, but is refreshingly reticent about this ambition. The other person at the table is the wife of one of these two brothers, an attractive lady in a red 1950’s style dress. She and her man have been married 44 years, and they both look good on it. It becomes clear in conversation with this lady – she has a certain look about her – that she is involved in the Guide movement, and indeed, was once a District Commissioner for Guides.
The elderly couple
Here are an elderly couple – let’s call them Jill and David. They have been married 60 years; old and frail they seem, but they are not as frail as they look. Each week David visits his elderly brother in a care home near Stockport, travelling by train from their own home in retirement, which is near Brighton. To make regular return train journeys between Brighton and Stockport would be an achievement for anyone in twenty-first century Britain; for someone in their eighties to do so, is a demonstration of immense commitment and love. This lovely Christian couple were the bride’s landlords during some of her time at university. Indeed, they became friends with the bride and offered her the full hospitality of their own home. David was a consultant surgeon and speaks with a lovely cut-glass English accent – though he is ostensibly of more humble origins than his wife. To my eyes he bears a startling resemblance to the TV naturalist Sir David Attenborough.
He spoke of a wedding he attended in Edinburgh, at which there was a fight. Someone in this fight got their thumb bitten off. David recounted how the wound, infected as it was with baccal bacteria from the mouth of the assailant, smelt of halitosis – bad breath. We feel assured that David played a full part as a surgeon in returning the victim to full health.
He spoke of struggling to get to his own wedding. He and his best man were at Waterloo, trying to get to Haslemere by train. And there were immense queues. Somehow they made it on time – this was 1957. It was said of this couple that they found their own wedding reception (controlled and run as it was by their parents) so stultifying, boring and bound by the conventions of the day, that they made their escape, hid under some railway arches and then took train to the Isle of Wight for their honeymoon. Wonderful. Literally true to say, you couldn’t make it up.

The tools

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From underneath the coffee table, he drew a heavy wooden box, opened it, and showed me some of the tools inside.

“These chisels belonged to my grandfather”, he said.  “I cleaned them up, put these new handles on, and then I sharpened them”.

The thickness of history was upon the box.  He showed me the contents with the reverence of a man who had a deep love for things.

“This belonged to my dad”, he said, showing me one tool. I could not guess what it might be used for.

“What’s it do?” I asked.

“It’s for creating straight edges and angles”, he said, holding the tool in his scarred craftsman’s hands with a satisfaction that was almost palpable. Here, I was in the presence of greatness.  It was for him to speak, and for me, to listen.

“These here”, he continued, unrolling an old leather bundle of a dozen or more wooden-handled metal tools, “are wood-carving tools.  It was a set like this I gave to Andy.  These are much nicer, though.”

“What would they cost today?” I prompted, knowing that he would have something  to say about it.  He thought for a moment.

“Sixty, eighty quid each? But you can’t get tools like this any more.  These are real quality.  They are from before the first world war.”

A review of “Endurance” – a life of Emil Zatopek, by Rick Broadbent

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A review of “Endurance” – a life of Emil Zatopek, by Rick Broadbent

This was a good read, particularly encouraging to me as an erstwhile and very amateur 10km runner.  I first heard of the Czech long distance runner Emil Zatopek when I was just a boy.  I used to get “Look and Learn” and “World of Wonder (incorporating ‘Speed and Power’)” which were improving and educating magazines for the boys of the time.  And I recall reading in those magazines about Zatopek’s amazing triple triumph at the Helsinki Olympics in 1952. That year, he took the gold medal in the 5000m, 10000m, and in the Marathon. And as he entered the stadium at the end of the Marathon, the magazine told me, he heard the crowd chanting, Zatopek, Zatopek, Zatopek…

I found the book much more interesting in the first half, which dealt with Zatopek’s upbringing and his early success as an athlete.  The second half, dealing with his fame and his struggles with the Communist regime in Czechoslovakia, whilst important enough a subject, I confess I found less stimulating.

But it was certainly inspiring.  Zatopek’s training methods (he more or less invented “interval training”), his humble background and his sheer success captured my attention.  I myself have run a little faster and a little harder since reading this book.

 

Ebb

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Kenning was ahead, his sledge making a hissing sound as he pulled it over the ice, his red arctic wear bright against the white of the snow and the almost unbearable blue of the sky. The mountains reared to our left, the exposed rock predominantly brown in the sunshine, the snow vaulting gracefully upwards in smooth curves. To the right there was nothing – only the ice-shelf, almost flat out to the horizon, like solid light in the punishing glare of the sun.

A mighty wall of rock was exposed; the lowest ice levels in centuries, prompted by the highest temperatures, had melted so much ice that there was more of the bare rock of Antarctica visible than at any previous time in history. The mountain range curved round, only a part of it visible as the two men trudged towards it.  The shadows of seracs and pillars of ice showed black against the brown of the rock in the light of the sun. And there Kenning’s eye caught an anomalous shadow, a shadow bigger than the ice that caused it. It was still distant; John frowned under his goggles. After three weeks he was tired – and patient. Whatever it was could wait until they were closer. More steady footsteps, pulling hard against the heavy harness, straining against the wide straps that connected him to his sledge. His feet crunched against the ice and snow underfoot. His breath rasped in his ears, his heart beat thundering. The path lay slightly uphill, and the two men slowed down as the slope increased. As the incline leveled off again, Kenning stopped and leaned heavily on his sticks. He glanced around at his companion, and then back at the rock wall. The strange shaped shadow was some form of enormous cave entrance or depression, he thought. It was still a good five kilometres distant.

As they drew nearer to the rock wall, drawn automatically by the strange cave exposed by the retreating ice, something quite appalling started to dawn on them. For as their comprehension of the approaching cliff face grew better, they realised that this depression in it was quite artificial.  It appeared to be the entrance to a tunnel, perfectly round in shape, though half buried in ice. It was clearly enormous, the roof perhaps thirty metres above the surface of the ice, and even then the ice filled half of what was a large round shaft bored directly into the mountain.

Phil Keynes stared into the blackness of the tunnel. Ice filled over half of the wide bore, a ribbon of silver and grey disappearing into the gloom, colouring from white into grey as the light faded. He looked up at the sides, taking in the smoothness of the finish, the grey colour of something that looked like concrete contrasting with the light brown of the surrounding rock. This tunnel entrance had lain buried and concealed in the ice for millennia, brought to light only by the changes in climate that had started at the end of the last century. That it was not natural was beyond any shadow of a doubt; it must have been built in dizzying antiquity, perhaps even before the Antarctic ice cap had come into existence. It clearly predated all of human civilisation. Such a structure might be twenty thousand years old – or a hundred million. A very strange and ancient feeling arose deep inside Phil Keynes, not exactly terror, not exactly excitement. Here there was something awesome, maybe something great, perhaps something horrible beyond human comprehension. The stygian gloom of the tunnel as it disappeared into the rock of the mountain seemed to contain every kind of childhood bogeyman that ever existed. The atavistic fear of the dark that lies hidden even in the strongest men arose in Phil. And against himself, a Royal Marine and experienced soldier who had thought he had seen everything, he shivered.

Eulogy for Toby

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We’re here today to remember the life of Toby, who has been taken from us at the age of 18. Toby was a great friend to us all, always cheerful, ready to greet strangers and friends alike, and with a simple, positive and outgoing approach to life.

Much of Toby’s time was taken up with simple, but to him, deeply important, matters. One of these was his compassion and concern for others, particularly for young children and for people weaker or more vulnerable than himself. Toby felt he was born to make others happy,

The other main concern of Toby’s life was food. Those of you who knew him well will recall that. If he was not concerning himself with the affairs of other people, ensuring that they were happy and content, he was looking forwards to his next meal, or indeed, towards any snacks that he might be able to find in the meantime.

For a Labrador to live 18 years is good going. Toby lived a good and long lifetime, and I’d like to remind you now of one or two highlights of that life well lived.

Perhaps most well-remembered is the custard story. On one of the many occasions that Toby got lost, he found his way to the custard factory. For Toby to get lost whilst out for a walk was not unusual, so we were not unduly concerned – he would show up at dinner time. The mere sound of the drawer being opened to get out a can opener would bring him bounding from the other side of the house.

We received a call from the custard factory. Toby was brought home sometime later in the back of a car, laid out on the back seat. On that occasion, there had been some kind of fault with a custard making machine, and gallons and gallons of custard had to be poured away down the drain. It was perhaps unfortunate that Toby found one of these drains and decided to start lapping up the custard. And he kept on lapping up the custard. By the time he was discovered, he was so full he could no longer walk. He did not eat for some time after that.

Then there was the occasion of the dead sheep. A local farmer warned us that there was a dead sheep on his land, and that it would be removed shortly. Not shortly enough, unfortunately for Toby, who saw it and quite naturally and understandably decided that raw mutton was just what he needed. He ate a fair amount of dead sheep before he was dragged off. We arrived back home and by this time Toby was clearly not feeling quite himself. There was something wrong – perhaps something he ate? And then, right at the top of the stairs, he decided to throw up. It’s funny now, years later, but it was no joke at the time. It was like a waterfall of sick, flowing down the stairs, and it stank to high heaven. Poor old Toby was very ill for a few days. But he recovered, dog of iron constitution that he was.

On another occasion my husband was going to work and was already dressed in a suit. But Toby needed his walk, and my husband took the dog out without changing into old clothes. Toby ran into the local pond and was splashing about – as you do, when you’re a Labrador. My husband’s insistence that Toby “Get out now!” fell on deaf ears. He continued to splash and play in the mud and the reeds. And then he caught a frog. Thought he’d eat it. This is pure Toby. As Toby’s jaws closed over the frog, the poor creature, still living, was desperately thrashing its legs. At this point my husband, a simple soul, could take no more, and ruined a good suit by leaping into the pond to drag our errant hound out by the scruff of the neck.

Yet for all his carnivorous instincts, Toby was deeply loving. On at least one occasion when we as parents had told off one or other of our daughters and sent them off to their rooms in disgrace, Toby disappeared shortly afterwards. We discovered him hours later, curled up next to our sleeping daughter, comforting, always comforting the sad or tearful.

Ladies and gentlemen, raise your water bowls and dog biscuits – for I propose a toast: To Toby the dog.