Iain Kenneth
Hoffmann 29/11/1958 – 17/08/2026
Unc died at 6:10pm - very peaceful - we were all there at the end - off to The land of Blighty
So went my message
on our family WhatsApp group.
Three Bs - Baccie,
Bookies and Booze – Golden Virginia, the Gee-Gees and Pyotr Arsenievich Smirnov
Many of us will have our own unique personal memories of Iain. These are some of mine.
At such a very sad
time the headline might appear as some-what crass, but Iain – or as we four - Alison,
Will, Tom and I, (his brother) knew him and always referred to him – UNC
- wouldn’t be offended at all – instead
he would enjoy the title, giving a wee chuckle - the first to say, how these
interests, alongside other things, were integral aspects of his great enjoyment
and pleasure in life.
In the days since
Iain died, the foremost response has been – So sorry to hear that - I LIKED Iain – indeed, I’ve never heard anyone say
anything different. Quite simply, he was a very lovely bloke, a nice guy, with
a good heart and an excellent sense of humour and fun.
Iain was never ambitious chasing false gods, power and glory - instead, Hillaire Belloc’s
famous words give a small insight into him and his character
"From quiet
homes and first beginning... there's nothing worth the wear of winning, but
laughter and the love of friends".
And he was greatly loved.
From a young age, he had an easy capacity for friendship. In primary school Iain and Ali Douglas were best friends, but equally I'm sure that Les Ramage and Boo-Boo Hanlon would say that Iain was also their best friend too. Extending into adulthood, he had an easy facility for getting along well with people – both ladies and men, who warmed to his likeability.
At both workplaces he was popular and well-liked.
Having left school with few qualifications it was
rather wonderful that Iain got such good breaks in life to enjoy long periods
of secure employment at two of the capital’s great institutions.
Whilst, on paper, Iain wasn’t academically inclined -
coming from a fractured household – parents divorcing in 1971 - didn’t help, but
Iain wasn’t daft. When it came to working out Ladbrokes’ betting odds and
returns he could outperform most maths graduates.
On one occasion he regaled my elder son Will and me about some of
his recent betting successes, I asked him about his approach – what was his strategy? It seemed to be a mix of
complex factors – I would describe it as, instinctive-intellectualism, thus
informed to a certain degree, but as he said, luck too. But that luck was
tempered by following certain horses for years throughout their careers.
He also enjoyed doing some reading, more recently the
detective Denzyl Merrick’s, but, worked his way through Charles Dickens’s Great
Expectations and also enjoyed Young Stalin - but of course, it would
be to the racing section he would turn to first thing in the morning.
He was also ahead of the curve on the American
election of 2016, predicting the result ahead of the polticos. When I asked him
how he knew that The Donald would be elected, he said it was through
playing online pool against a range of American players. As they say, it’s a small world.
The only occasion I recall Iain being actually a-top of a horse was back in 1991 celebrating our brother-in-law’s birthday when we spent a morning with a riding school, horse riding in the wet, misty Pentland Hills. The key advice delivered to our group of a dozen novice riders was to show the horse who was boss, otherwise the horses would take advantage and simply do their own thing.
Luck of the
draw but Iain and Craig were on the largest horses – two giant beasts of the
field who quickly realised they had two amateurs on board. And of course Iain
was far to kind to be anything but gentle with his horse.
Both likely lads sat high in the saddle –
high in sky - both terrified out of their wits – with the only bosses being the four
legged types.
What with their unorthodox riding helmets they
looked like a pair of Nazis, circa WWII; within a few minutes, as the horses stopped to graze, they began to
fall behind all the other riders, their horses leading them a merry
dance. I too was apprehensive, but only a-top a medium sized pony - anyway my good luck, but still feart, combined with the boys' plight made me howl with hysterical laughter.
And as advised I took control of the
reins to show who was boss and became increasingly confident as we went up hill
and down dale through streams and on through the misty landscape. But what
weather. It was pissing down. Come the blessed end, when we got out of the
saddle we were all walking like John Wayne. A day none of us would ever forget.
I’m aware, that in his career – horse racing was always more than a pastime, more of a passion - he had at least one or two big wins – one in five figures. Certainly in April 1994 he phoned me to say – Pete,
remember that 100/1 horse I told you about? Well I’ve just won 260 nicker!
And when he did get a reasonable return, he
had the lovely habit of always putting some of the silver into the hands of the
betting firm’s employees.
Iain was born on the 29th November 1958 with Anne
completing our Oxgangs family in 1961. A few weeks after he was born, that
first December, the Hoffmanns – father, Ken aged 32, Mother 22, myself two
years of age all moved into one of the ground floor flats in the newly built 6
Oxgangs Avenue. Three years earlier, our parents had married in Dalkeith. At
the time Mother was only nineteen years of age and had just finished her first
year at the University of Edinburgh. Father was a Chief Officer in the Merchant
Navy having trained at the Ben Line. Mother used to say, she met her doom at
the Plaza Dance Hall in Morningside. After marrying, she never returned to
university, much to our grandmother, Josephine’s great disappointment.
Iain attended Hunters Tryst Primary School between 1964 and 1971 before going to Firrhill Secondary leaving circa 1974/75. Our parents had divorced in 1971. The year before, Mother went out to work, firstly at the Department for Agriculture & Fisheries, Chesser House before moving to the Scottish Office at New St Andrew’s House offices in the newly built St James Centre.
For several years we hosted sleepovers at 6/2. Once Father had left there was a much more relaxed atmosphere at our home. Our mother was excellent in this respect. Our friends liked her. They felt very relaxed and at home in our household. It was a fun and easy going atmosphere and our pals clearly enjoyed hanging out with us.
During those years there was rarely a Friday evening when there weren’t children staying for a sleep over. Despite it being such a small flat with only two bedrooms friends such as Les Ramage; Ali Douglas; Boo-Boo Hanlon; Paul Forbes; Colin Hanlon and others all stayed on occasion.
We fostered these evenings around the Friday night horror film which was a staple for years - Dracula; Frankenstein; and Edgar Allen Poe's Tales of the Rue Morgue.
Even in a group and despite our jocularity we were all shitting ourselves watching these films. The evenings were fueled with bottles of juice, bags of crisps, chips, sweets and chocolates. Because the Hoffmanns had paper runs or milk runs early the following Saturday morning a bonus was that the pals who were staying overnight would often accompany us. For a while we all wore our Woolworths' gold crosses in case we stumbled across Count Dracula in the dark, creepy Morningside tenement flats!
The second of the big Bs – there will be some little ones too - is BACCIE - many friends and family, when on holiday abroad would be requested by Iain to bring him back his beloved duty free Golden Virginia. Until he stopped all three pleasures around 18 months ago, smoking gave him great pleasure. If you rocked up to his Easter Haugh kitchen back door, he would often be leaning out enjoying his puff, trying his best to keep the rest of the house smoke-free, usually a forlorn hope for his wife Janette.
When it came to smoking he was a
pragmatist. When his daughter Jennifer began smoking aged 16 when we were all
on holiday in Malaga, Spain, whilst Janette disapproved, Iain suggested she buy
some duty free to minimise costs!
Like a few of us, Iain began smoking in the
back alley at 6 Oxgangs Avenue – we all might share one of the cheaper brands,
20 Gold Sovereign.
Our father smoked: in many respects he was quite different from the
other local fathers. For one thing he smoked French cigarettes - either Disque
Bleu or Gauloises, a brand not available locally. To discourage Iain
he shared one of his strong French fags, but to no real effect. As Iain said
back in 2021 - I can remember Disque
Blue only too well. Dad let me smoke one in his company. He thought this would
make me sick. It didn’t. Unfortunately I am a seasoned smoker now!
Our father carried on playing cricket and rugby
into his mid-forties when his heavy smoking and heavy drinking caught up with
him. But with Iain, surprisingly it didn’t really hold him back in terms of the
likes of playing golf. Instead, it was the insisidious aspect of MS that
snookered him, making life increasingly tough for him over these past 15 years.
As to the third of the three big Bs - BOOZE, vodka was Iain's go-to tipple, an integral part of his weekend. Whether it remained a secret to him or not – I guess we’ll never know – when Janette used to buy his weekly bottle of Smirnoff, she always watered it down, ensuring the bottle was diluted by half. In that, and many other respect, she was good for Iain and his overall wellbeing.
In addition to the three big Bs, I’ll throw in quite a few little Bs – bears; booths; Bain’s; Boo-Boo; bottle; birthdays; bikes;
balls; Ben Sherman; barmen and brothers to the end.
Back in January 1971 I helped the old lady who lived
in the next stair (8/4 Oxgangs Avenue) opposite Ali Douglas, carrying her bags
home for her. She was a great auld lass, mostly recalled by our family because on one occasion she asked our mother how Iain was getting on
bear hunting in Canada! What a lad.
Groups of us used to enjoy visiting the
former Woolworths store at the east end of Princes Street. One of the sets of
fun photies taken in the booth feature Iain, Boo-Boo, Paul and me.
44 years later on the 10th October 2016,
thanks to our niece Louise, we recreated
the photo-shoot at Swanston Golf Club. As with back in the day, we were all in
fits of laughter, really great fun.
As to Bain’s after butchering and prior to joining Ferranti’s he spent around 6 months delivering meat to butcher shops in Edinburgh and the Borders. The job only lasted for 6 months, coming to a swift conclusion, when the company discovered that never mind an HGV Iain hadn’t even passed his driving test. Iain’s defence was that at the interview all he was asked was if he could drive? He replied in the affirmative! A colourful character to the last.
Whilst Iain wasn’t the most athletic nor interested in playing the popular local games of football, compared to today’s generation, he was actually surprisingly active. A group of us often went on long cycle rides to Dalkeith or Portobello. Iain went swimming regularly with Boo-Boo. And during the school holidays we all went for many adventures up to the Craiglockhart Hills or the Pentland Hills.
As to the latter, after walking up to and through Swanston Village, from there we began the steep climb and scramble up the scree slopes of the northerly side toward the summits of Capelaw; Caerketton; and Allermuir. I found this quite daunting and scary, but we had to keep up with the party or risk becoming detached and isolated, so we pushed on keeping pace with the older boys.
The climb was worth it because once at the top we could survey and take in the whole panorama of Edinburgh and where the Stair and Oxgangs Avenue fitted in. It was an early opportunity to take our bearings to look at the bigger picture and realise there was a world beyond Oxgangs.
On one of these adventures we forged beyond the hill tops deep into the glens; for some reason Iain (two and a half years younger than me) and I had to turn back to head home early. I didn’t know the way. We were both in tears. Eventually we found our way back to the summit. What a happy relief it was to be able to survey the whole panorama of Edinburgh and to sayWe’re fine Iain and I think I know the way home.
As to bottle – I’m talking now about another type - like our father, Iain had the bottle to dive off the high boards at the Commonwealth Pool or similarly, to launch himself from the top of Hillend Ski slope.
Indeed there’s a lovely picture of him from the Glasgow Herald newspaper of him taking part in a schools‘ competition.
He was a powerful swimmer – there’s many
lovely photos of him swimming with his daughter Jennifer and his nephews Will
and Tom on his back in the likes of Loch Achility or abroad on lovely holidays to Spain where he taught both boys how to dive in the villa’s pool, eventually
progressing to competitions gathering coins from the bottom of the pool.
And if they weren’t all diving in they’d leap
in together with a big shout – For the auld folks back in Blighty!
The Ben Shermans were bought in 1971, when we braved travelling down to Leith. We both went for quite contrasting ones reflecting our personalities, but looking back Iain always had a certain sense of style, whether in clothes or other cultural aspects. Alongside his Ben Sherman there were his jeans – with Mother using her St Cuthbert’s six-monthly dividend Iain commented - I remember going to the Bread Street store for my Levi jeans shrink to fit and then sitting in the bath until they fitted - memories!
And when Mother at last used her Edinburgh University education and got a job in the Civil Service we got some greatly valued items, either for a birthday or as Christmas present.
On one occasion Iain got a rather wonderful Johnny Seven Gun and also the James Bond Aston Martin car with the ejector seat which featured in the film Goldfinger. He also got a nice slot car racing game - it wasn't Scalectrix - but it was good quality and great fun to play with.
We each received a pair of the famous Wayfinder shoes. They had a secret compass hidden inside one heel of a shoe and had animal tracks impregnated on the soles. I wasn't sure how many of these animals roamed around Oxgangs not to mention it being a pain to keep taking your shoe off if you wanted to track down a wild beast; and then what were we supposed to do if we came across such a wild creature in the locality – perhaps carry his Johnny Seven gun!
Then there was his
Raleigh Chopper bike too.
Unlike today, mums and dads often enjoyed the same music as their children. Whenever the Rolling Stones were on Top of the Pops I recall Iain getting up and doing his Mick Jagger, impersonation much to the delight of Mother.
He liked his films – a crowd of us would enjoy regular Saturday afternoon trips to The Dom (Dominion Cinema) to see The Love Bug or Where Eagles Dare. At home, Terry Thomas was a great favourite – throughout the 1960s, many’s the Tuesday we used to lie beside each other on the sofa watching the British Film comedies loving the antics of Stanley Baxter in the The Fast Lady, rolling about with laughter. Throughout the decade of the 1980s he was still taking the Victor comic picking it up en-route to Ferranti’s. He enjoyed collecting little serendipities – including Zippo lighters and was passionate about watches.
Until I left Edinburgh in 1996 I used to
organise nine holes of golf at Vogrie Golf Course, most weeks from the early spring through to late
autumn. These games were mainly a foursome of Les Ramage and John Duncan
(Mother’s second husband) against Iain and me. Before we got into this habit,
back in the early 1980s, Les, Iain and I along with others regularly played
dozens and dozens of games on the lovely Braid Hills where if you weren’t
hitting the ball well you could at least take in and enjoy the spectacular
views over Edinburgh.
During our teenage years, one of the more
incredible episodes from life at The Stair was when Iain; Ali Douglas;
Paul Forbes; and I ran a chip shop from our bedroom window. Extraordinary as it
sounds it’s absolutely true. During that long ago school summer holiday many
kids from the local stairs were complaining about how poor the lunches were. We
did some lateral thinking. Many of the kids have got lunch money - school
lunches are crap - can we provide an attractive alternative that would beat the
competition and make some money and allow us to have some fun too?
Management gurus, beat that for a definition
of marketing.
Mother was out working in the Civil Service
and our sister, Anne, was away for the summer staying at relatives who lived in
Edinburgh's New Town, so we had the run of the house.
We had a kitchen for cooking; we were
situated on the ground floor, so we could use our bedroom as the shop; the
window could be opened and used as a serving hatch; and the back garden was
where our customers would gather.
Much of our initial stock was purchased using
the largesse of our unknowing mother. One of our household duties was to buy in
the week's messages. We had carefully planned our venture in advance and one
Friday we bought a large sack of potatoes and pies from Jock the Store’s
butcher.
Following good business organisational theory
we divided each aspect of the business according to our strengths. Ali Douglas
peeled the potatoes; Iain ran the kitchen and did the cooking - after all, he'd
been frying Sunday breakfasts since the age of six - Paul was on serving duties.
We'd also bought some greaseproof paper at the Store and had saved up a ready supply of Daily Express; Sunday Express;
Sunday Post; and Edinburgh Evening News newspapers for wrapping up the suppers.
Meanwhile my tasks were to drum up business -
form an orderly queue now - encourage secondary spend (we'd bought in lots of
small sweets which we sold for a penny each); and last of all I handled all the
cash transactions at the bedroom window.
To add to the authenticity of the venture
we'd ordered in (from Mother’s Chorlton catalogue) a toy red plastic till,
which actually worked. It made a very satisfying ring each time a transaction
went through. And of course we knew the importance of having a good relationship
with our customers. I tried to ensure I spoke to all of those in the in the
queue whilst taking their orders in advance; letting them know how long it
might take before they would be served; and encouraging them to buy a few penny
sweets. I think we even allowed them the use of our loo!
Once we closed the shutters for the day the
four of us made an excellent job of clearing up and completely airing the house
to ensure Mother didn't find out. Of course she did, but it was not until well
over a decade later. She had been sitting on a number 16 bus speaking to
someone and reminiscing about the past. ‘Mrs Hoffmann, do you remember the
chip shop the boys ran one summer?’ ‘The what?’ ‘Aye, the chip shop bloody good
chips they were too!’ Iain and I received a call from Mother later that evening!
Another never to be forgotten escapade was on the 26th October 1973. I received a desperate phone call from Mother. Iain - aged 14 years and 11 months - was a bit tipsy – a quaint old word and description! He and Les had knocked – for you more genteel of persuasion – stolen – around a couple dozen tins of Walker’s shortbread out of a locally parked open van. PC Plod was already on the case. The local bobbies were out in force investigating. Crikey! Decisive action needed to be taken.
Before there was a loud knock on the front door of 6/2 I thought the best strategy was to go round various local stairs in the neighbourhood getting rid of the ill-gotten goods putting them down the chutes.
It would have been somewhat ironic if
whilst getting rid of tartan tins I’d been caught red-handed. Excuse the
French, but what a fucking panic all combined with hysterical laughter, each
time I arrived back to collect another pile of tins before any cops arrived at
the door! That was an evening and a half!
Anyway,
no sooner was the last batch despatched and I had squirreled Iain away to
Portobello out of harm’s way where we stayed overnight at our grandparents in Porty, when there was a knock at Mother’s front door – We’re looking to speak to Iain
Hoffmann. Oh, sorry officer, she repied but he’s been down at Portobello all evening – but
would you like to come in for a cup of tea, and, AHEM – perhaps a slice of
shortbread?
As I wrote, Iain wasn’t the most athletic, yet compared to youngsters today, like the rest of us he was often out and about.
Anne and I both did well on school sports day, but for me the only slight unhappiness was Iain struggling to do so too, but he always had the right attitude, enjoying the occasion taking it in the right spirit competing with a happy smile on his face. But on one happy occasion he surprised us all, winning two of the treasued Hunters Tryst pencils - for the sack race and the obstacle race. I was overjoyed. Having tried from the side-lines to will Iain to victory for many years I got more pleasure from his wins than all my victories put together.
In the early 1970s Iain, Ali and I served petrol and oil at the local National garage.
In July 1972 five of us set off for a glorious
and very happy week’s camping holiday to Stobo, Peebleshire - Alison Blades;
Fiona Blades; Paul Forbes; Iain; and me. We got a lift there from Douglas
Blades in his red Austin pick up. Douglas's van could only seat two passengers
in the cabin so Alison and Fiona sat inside. Paul, Iain and I sat in the back
with all the camping gear and luggage. We were completely open and exposed to
the elements but fortunately the weather was set fair. It was a great feeling
sitting in the back of the van with the rushing breeze blowing our hair back.
We felt cool, metaphorically and then literally as the journey progressed
through the wynding open roads of the Borders. After we travelled through
Penicuik we passed Leadburn Junction and made our way to Eddleston where we
turned right for the drive over the gentle Meldon Hills and on through old Lyne
Station to the tiny hamlet of Stobo.
To keep sheltered from the wind we snuggled
up together and kept as low down in the vehicle as possible. Fortunately we
didn't come across any policemen en route. Although it was a laxer age they
might well have stopped us if they'd seen us sitting in the back of an open
vehicle. Stobo is a sylvan spot in Peebleshire set amongst the gentle and
beautiful Borders landscape.
We had managed to borrow a large tent from
the church. I think it belonged to Oxgangs Evangelical Church rather than
Charlotte Chapel. I note from my diary that it was Fiona who got it for us. I
had borrowed a sleeping bag from my grandparents and we bought in lots of food
from The Store including a few flagons of cider. Looking back it seems amazing
that teenagers could buy alchohol and tobacco so easily. The farmer gave us the
go ahead to camp in his field.
And once again, that quaint word - tipsy –
but on this occasion it was Paul who had consumed too much and was sick - I
recall him swearing that during the night he'd seen a shooting star, but we
were dubious, much to his dismay.
Normally the problem with camping in Scotland
is the weather. People often get washed out and have to give up and go home.
Ironically we had some difficulty with the weather too but for the opposite
reason. We had chosen one of those very rare occasions when Scotland has a heat
wave. The week we'd chosen to go camping was the hottest of the summer. In the
following days the temperature was mostly in the eighties. Indeed it was so hot
that most of us began to suffer heatstroke. By the following Tuesday our grandparents
were good enough to drive down to take Alison and Iain back home to The Stair
to recover.
Another b is for birthdays. For many years Anne; Iain; and I were allowed to invite one friend along for each of our birthday teas. For Iain, Ali Douglas appeared regularly - Anne often invited Lynn Steer – I might invite Paul. These were simple little affairs, but never the less, really good fun. We lived quite simply so having a mix of egg and cress and ham and tomato sandwiches, followed by Cadbury's Chocolate Fingers; Jacobs Marshmallow Coconut Biscuits; Tunnocks' Chocolate Teacakes, all of which were great luxuries, meant these were red letter days. The piece de resistance was always the birthday cake the chocolate cake so lovingly baked by our grandmother which was absolutely scrumptious. It was based on a recipe which had been kept in the family for generations.
When I first posted that memory on a blog, in
November 2012 wishing them both a happy birthday, from across the ether and
across the years both boys were able to
respond, Iain saying Thanks Pete great feelings come back on our birthdays;
wish we could travel back for a day like Captain Kirk in Star Trek. I remember
Ali Douglas with great fondness, and to think his birthday the 30th St Andrews
Day is the same as my oldest granddaughter Brooke's. Ali responded I
have always remembered that his birthday is the day before mine on the 29th
November. I always think of Iain at this time and raise a glass to him!
But amongst all the good memories, the fun
and joy of life, alongside the ups there were the downs too. On of all days, my
birthday, the first of July 1990, Mother phoned me that morning to say that
Ferranti’s may be about to make Iain redundant. I go on to write of how it’s
been a torrid few months for the lad as essentially he’s also lost a wife, a
child, the house, his car, his driving licence and now his job.
But life became somewhat more settled when he thereafter took up work at the National Library of Scotland and began to go about with his future wife, Janette.
At times Iain remained delightfully childlike and we all at times indulged his
fantasy of winning the National Lottery and what he would do with the winnings and
of how he would distribute the largesse and look after us all. On the 17th
October 1995 he and I had a blether with him fantasising (as ever) about
winning the Lottery. But encouragingly he also spoke about applying for
promotion at work (National Library of Scotland).
In the years and the decades after growing up
together in Oxgangs we remained very close. When we moved to West Mill Colinton
he and Janette were very regular visitors coming round several times each
week. It gave me immense pleasure to be able to share our good fortune - the
country in the town, with our former mill worker’s cottage and large garden which stretched
down to the Water of Leith.
In June 1995 after they married in Peebles on Beltane Day, we hosted and celebrated their wedding there.
And in the years and the decades that
followed after we moved to the Highlands they, along with Iain’s daughter
Jennifer visited us enjoying all the fun of the fair at the Black Isle Show in
summer, swimming in Loch Achilty as well as joining us at Easter and in the
deep mid-winter too.
Iain had a tough last decade such was the
insidious impact of multiple schlerosis. Whilst staying with us in Jamestown he
had developed a mysterious dragging sensation in his leg, making the likes of
joining us for games of table tennis in the garden a challenge.
Then on 26th September 2012 we received a
phone call from Janette to say he had been diagnosed with MS. For the brief
time that I spoke to her I got the impression she was relieved, perhaps
a-fearing the absolute worst. It was diagnosed as the slow moving type. And
therefore more likely the thing that
takes him off to the happy hunting ground, will be something else before it gets
too progressive. As indeed it was on Monday this week at 6:10 pm when he passed
away peacefully at the end.
Iain was my longest standing friend. Since we
were wee boys we’ve shared many experiences together. When first initiating this blog, 6 Oxgangs Avenue back in 2012 it emphasised further, the passing
of the years, time a-flying.
Iain and Janette continued to visit us until August 2022. Whilst we very much enjoyed the Black Isle Show once again, we were overly-ambitious taking Iain along with Janette. They had to park far too far away. And even with the mobility-type scooter I’d arranged for Iain, the event itself was too crowded, with many people unthoughtful, getting in the way constantly.
It brought home to me just how desperate Iain’s
MS was. Afterwards, traversing the grass from the showground to the car park during a cool
rain squall he looked comatose: I half-wondered whether he might pass out. The
chair, whilst obviously a great boon revealed just how much of a great struggle it was for him. On arrival
at the car, it took him an age to form some kind of a grip in his hands,
thereafter desperately attempting to move his right foot and swivel his hip. At
one stage he was quite stuck in the scooter. It was a complete nightmare. And a
wearing one for Janette. It made me more understanding of her frustration at times. I admired Iain’s fortitude and of how desperately depressing it was for him.
Every movement and effort, an act of will. But on a more upbeat
note, come five o'clock, he greatly enjoyed his Renato’s chippy supper with Will and me, alongside a good
few wee chuckles about the old boy, in particular, the episode when he put his
hat back on his head, little realising the sugar was resting within it.
Even as early as 2013 when we took a holiday to Portugal, his condition had deteriorated: Alison and I had gone with Iain and Janette, meaning we could ease their passage - I could help whisk him around the airport in a wheelchair or drive the car each day. It was small recompense how over 30 years earlier he came to my rescue. In October 1979 Thor cracked his hammer and split my world asunder in two - the end of a three year romance. I was deep in the Black Forest - Churchill's black dog - I called Iain to pick me up from this Bedlam. This madness. This vision of hell. And darkness. I saw only a bleak future. A season of ice. A long winter. A bleak winter. And a bleak future too. Iain came to my rescue. Together, we walked from God’s Waiting Room. To Oxgangs. I felt wobbly on my pins. I said I won’t forget this kindness. Coming to meet me. Coming to visit me, in this my hour of need.
And in the almost half a century since, I never have forgotten that brotherly kindness – He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.
One last memory of Iain which perhaps gives a
small insight into his personalty was from a winter’s Saturday evening in 1984. In the early evening Iain, Les and I had enjoyed a relaxed drink at the
Goodies. I spoke to an old tramp who told me that he often slept in graveyards,
barns, haystacks, etc. On leaving I bought him a half pint. Just as we were
leaving the barman took the full glass away from him. Iain noticed this. As in
a Western film, he walked up to the barman asking him what the score was. And
promptly demanded the return of the money, handing it over to the tramp. That was Iain.
Be
near me when my light is low
Alfred Lord
Tennyson
Be near me when my light is low,
When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick
And tingle; and the heart is sick,
And all the wheels of Being slow.
Be near me when the sensuous frame
Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust;
And Time, a
maniac scattering dust,
And Life, a Fury slinging flame.
Be near me when my faith is dry,
And men the flies of latter spring,
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing
And weave their petty cells and die.
Be near me when I fade away,
To point the term of human strife,
And on the low dark verge of life
The twilight of eternal day.
In the winter of 1958 I looked upon Iain for the first occasion in his cradle when he was born: 67 years later, I sat by his death-bed in this the late summer of 2026.
He features in my journals in thousands of entries, more so than anyone else.
Throughout the four seasons of the year, over seven decades – the 1950s through to the 2020s, through the ups and the downs, with most of our interfaces filled with much laughter and fun and joy, it brings a gladness as well as a sadness to my heart.
He
was liked by all, loved by many. His passing leaves a massive gap in all our lives.
For, and from – The auld folks back in
Blighty!
