Nobody has one story

To anyone who knows Richard I*** P*** well, they know not to call him Richard.

He is Dicky. To everyone.

Now this might seem trivial, but it’s not. This is important, because it offers us an insight into the man; it offers us our first taste of his modesty, his gentle self-effacing nature. For Dicky, I soon come to realise, the idea of being placed centre stage, of having something written with him as the main character is––quite possibly––his worst nightmare.

Despite these likely misgivings, Dicky welcomes me warmly. He suggests a selection of possible locations for our chat, offers me a coffee, a biscuit (or three), and proceeds to ask me all about how I am, about my family and my life in general. This is, of course, the wrong way around: I am here to talk about Dicky, not about me.

It does, however, give me a taste of his predicament. As soon as I try to lead the conversation away from me, it becomes clear that Dicky is less than comfortable talking about himself.

“I don’t particularly want to talk about myself, Nick. I’m not on an ego trip. No, I just want my family to remember me as a good chap.”

Let’s be clear here. Dicky did not ask me to come and interview him. Dicky did not ask me to write his memoir. This was his family’s idea. Of course, Dicky doesn’t say this. He is far too intent on making me feel comfortable.

“I’d rather them think of me as a decent bloke, and not blowing my trumpet. Not that I’ve got a trumpet to blow.”

I think carefully about my response.

This is not about egotism, I say. In fact, this is quite the opposite. There is a generosity at play here; a generosity attached to sharing your experiences. The idea is that through this process––tortuous as it might seem––through talking to me and recollecting stories from your life, more of you is able to live on. Something that goes beyond simply ‘the good chap’; something that brings to life what it means to be a good chap.

Dicky looks at me thoughtfully. There is a gentle nod, I think. An almost imperceptible acquiescence.

I go on, fortified.

As families, I say, we don’t often have the time, or at least we struggle to make the time, to listen carefully to the stories of our parents, or of those close to us. And when we do listen to these tales––during those rare moments when everything aligns, when our loved ones want to share and when we actually have the space to listen––we very rarely record those stories. Despite their great value, our histories are rarely passed down to the next generation in any tangible way. This is a chance to preserve some of your story.

Dicky looks at me. There is a captivating ambivalence deep within his eyes: he is both earnest and humorous. There’s a well-meaning glint: mischievous, you might say, but kind. Above all else, kind.

“I’ve never thought about it that way before. I often go back in my own mind what I’ve done. No, not what I’ve done exactly, what I’ve been through. And how the years have flown by.

“The grandchildren are still young; like all young people, they take everything for granted. Everybody does. Even older people. I think that to wake up every morning is a blessing. And to be well. To wake up pain free. Especially as you get older. I think I realised this from a youngster. When I was young, at school, playing sport. Seeing how fortunate I was.”