Saying goodbye to a friend

Manchester, UK

Last Friday on the 17th of February, I lost Mark at 2050hrs at Salford Royal Hospital. He was surrounded by Rachael and his parents as he passed away. Outside the room were his friends, including me. We met when I was 16 at 352 Squadron of the Air Cadets in Burnley. 352 was and still is an unassuming hut set at an entrance to Thompson Park in Burnley and it was there we met, he was a conservative, I’d always been Labour, a cigarette hung from his mouth and he’d tell me about the Falklands War—there was something about him, we kept meeting.

These were the days you knocked on for people, no mobile phones, so I’d walk up to Townley Street from Duke Bar to have a brew, on the weekends Mark introduced me to Bodie & Doyle and The Stone Roses and how to hide your bag in a bush outside Burnley Central Library and go night clubbing. Nobody actually needed a pocket watch on a chain in 1995 but Mark had one. We drove up to Pendle Hill and Lancashire surrounded us as we sat in the night in his car and chatted.

He was the first person to take me camping. We’d walk from his to Clowbridge reservoir. By the time we got there it was night. We’d set up camp. Stringing up a poncho. Behind us the trees, in front the still water. He didn’t like the spiders, I didn’t like the frogs. A small fire and we’d talk about wars, about love and about England. Rules, foundations, order. That mattered to him. And then they did to me. Going to sleep after listening to music on his Walkman with speakers. The cool nights were adventure. It was never too late to knock on for him, he’d keep his rucksack packed after meeting my enthusiasm for those nights by the res.

Years flicked by, I screwed up my education. He did better. A degree, an officer in the Air Cadets, the Home Office, an OBE. When I needed a place to live he moved me into his. When I passed through Manchester he’d take time out to catch up. When I had screwed up my A Levels my parents were worried, Mark knew what to do, he drove me to the local Territorial Army unit. Sat with me while I filled in the forms. He was proud of that. I wasn’t going to give up, be a victim, I was going to fight. Years later in Basra, Mark wrote to me. I’ve still got the army-issued blue letters with his handwriting.

The last time I saw him in London he showed me pictures of Bryson “the boy”, we were in our forties, he was doing well in his career. And then this year a rapid decline. Kidneys, lungs, covid. I visited him in hospital until the end.

Mark, I’m going to miss you but I’ll never forget you. Always.