Chapter 18

The Girl - Sue ‘It’s got to be. …perfect.’

It wasn’t very salubrious, even for storage room above a shop.  A couple of dozen battered chairs had been arranged into three or four rows, all facing towards a makeshift screen that had been rigged up in front of the rear wall. The rest of the space was occupied by a jumble of packing boxes, an old desk and a clapped-out leather sofa.  Most people were already seated by the time I turned up, just making the 7pm start time having come straight from work, fighting my way in through the usual, heavy Bristol rush-hour traffic.  Choosing a seat towards the rear, mumbling a hello to the guy next to me, I gave a cursory glance around the room, making an initial rudimentary assessment of who appeared to be whom.  There was a small bunch of confident looking guys milling around near the front; one was clearly in his fifties but the others weren’t too dissimilar in age to me, twenties maybe.  The rest of us, quieter, seated and waiting for things to start, appeared to be a mixed bag.  Teenagers to forty-somethings, guys and girls, some apparently on their own, others clearly with a friend or sibling.

I’d signed up for an ‘Introduction to Kayaking’ course a week earlier.  It had been advertised on a small poster in an outdoor shop on the Gloucester Road, where I’d been to buy a paddle that I needed to use with the kayak I’d picked up for £25 from Atlantic College.  Rick had made the fibre-glass KW7 during his first year there and had the option to ‘buy it for a token price’ when he left.  Soon to be off on his travels, he didn’t need it so he flogged it to me.  The guy in the shop correctly identified me as a clueless novice, was honest enough to only sell me a basic plastic-moulded paddle, and pointed me towards the advert. He never knew how life-changing his casual recommendation would turn out to be.

The evening kicked off.  The older chap introduced himself as Tony Cox, the owner of the ‘Avon Canoe Centre,’ the premises we currently occupied; it was located down in the Bristol Docks, tucked away between a boatyard and The Orchard pub.  Apparently an experienced canoeist, he wanted to form a new club for those hoping to paddle white-water rivers for enjoyment, in contrast to the other club in the city that was far more focused on the competitive branches of the sport.  No doubt with an eye on the business opportunity for his shop, he was looking for new members (customers) to supplement the small group of experienced paddlers he’d already attracted.  Over the next couple of hours, we listened to an outline of the course content, designed to provide us over the coming months with at least a safe level of competence and a taste of ‘real’ white water.  Essential kit would be provided.  All we needed to do was come with a change of clothes and some snacks.  To whet our appetite, he wrapped up by showing some cine-camera footage of several of his expeditions. 

Whilst all this was going on, I’d been casually studying my fellow course members, forming my usual, often wrong, initial impressions and judgments’ with little to go on other than a rear-view of their backs, clothes and hairstyles and whether they’d opened their mouths to ask a question.  Two rows in front of me was a girl who, from the back at least, sparked an interest.  Slim, hair mousey and casually stylish rather than new-wave trendy, looking like she too was in her early twenties.  Next to her, chatting away was a boy she obviously knew although he appeared a bit younger.  Brother maybe? (Actually a family friend from the Youth Club).  Later, over the complimentary coffee and biscuits as the evening wound down, I had the chance to obtain a better 360 degree view.  Definitely slim, five-five maybe, smallish in the chest department, bum fitting jeans nicely, cute small-featured face that appeared to smile easily,  and … …well something, who knows what, that nudged the interest level up to the next notch.  I wondered what she’d be like to talk to.  Maybe at the weekend session I’d get a chance.

By the Saturday afternoon I’d at least discovered her name but, to be honest, she wasn’t looking her best.  Dressed in a baggy sweat shirt, tracksuit bottoms and gym shoes, cocooned in a faded orange buoyancy-aid and sporting a white plastic canoe helmet, she didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about practising capsize drills in the dubious, murky and certainly chilly waters of the docks.  It’s a necessary rite of passage for novice canoeists and involves being tipped upside down and then, after a few seconds of holding your breath, being able to demonstrate a safe exit from the capsized kayak.  The final stage is, with the help of a fellow kayaker, to empty the boat, and clamber back in.  ‘Find a partner’ was the instruction and ‘funnily enough' she ended up with me.  Four hours later, despite several attempts, we hadn’t managed to let each other drown and, somewhat surprisingly, four decades later we still haven’t.

The course continued through the autumn.  Every few weeks there was an activity that enabled some progression and by the time we’d been on the Symonds Yat River Wye trip for a first taste of real, albeit small, rapids, I’d established some basic facts.  Bristol girl, twenty, living at home, quiet, determined, attractive, working for BT in Personnel (an organisational function in many companies that changed from being Personnel to ‘impersonal’ when it globally rebranded itself as HR).  Things were a bit vague on her social status; she’d mentioned an outdoor activities club and talked about a few groups of friends but I didn’t register anything to indicate a serious boyfriend on the scene.  And that was as far as it went for the next nine months.  I was enjoying the kayaking, going on trips to the rivers of Wales, Exmoor and Dartmoor with my new found friends in the Avon Canoe Club and if we weren’t on the water, we’d be in the pub.  The regular kayak club activities, and the fact that my first marathon was on the agenda for the spring of ’83, ensured I’d plenty to keep me occupied during the evenings and weekends. There was also another reason why I wasn’t especially thinking of pursuing a new girlfriend:  I was pretty certain that, by the late summer, I’d be abandoning my job and heading off travelling for a year, so the effort-reward-heartache equation didn’t feel like it would balance easily.

Nevertheless our paths crossed on a number of occasions during the first half of the following year and it seemed to me like she was always happy to chat whenever we ended up next to each other in the pub, on the beach or in a river eddy.  I even boosted my potential credit by fishing her out of the River Exe near Tiverton after a cold capsize on one trip.  But it was credit I couldn’t cash in, at least not for the time being.  By early September, the best I could hope for was that she’d come along to my ‘farewell’ evening; a meal in town and then on to Busby’s, the nightclub that used to be on Baldwin Street.  She did. We gelled. Right at the end of the evening we kissed and then, after a quick affectionate hug, I disappeared off into the night and out of her life with no more than a promise to write.  I think I heard her say that she would too.

To the sound of Culture Club’s ‘Karma Chameleon’, we went our separate ways.

Over the next few months, plodding up and down the trails of Nepal, or wiling away the hours on Indian buses and trains, I had plenty of time to wistfully wonder if anything might come of it when I finally returned to the UK.  I’d written after a month or so of my travels and a few weeks later had battled halfway across the city of Varanasi (Benares) to the Post Restante, optimistically hoping their might be some mail for me.  There wasn’t.

Em….I’d try again when I reached Bombay (Mumbai) a few weeks later.  Still there wasn’t.  Nor in Bangkok either.  It wasn’t looking good.  Nevertheless, I invested some time writing another aerogramme and sent it winging its way back to Bristol.  Try telling your kids that letters were the only form of communication when you were on different continents, or describing the hopeful expectation you felt when the clerk took your passport and wandered off to check the Post Restante mailbox. Timescales were in weeks rather than the nano-seconds of today’s world of Facebook or WhatsApp.

Surprise, pleasant surprise.  A small pile of correspondence from home was waiting for me at Roger and Jill’s home in Baulkham Hills where I was staying having eventually made it to Sydney a few weeks before Christmas.  Amongst it all was an airmail letter; the sender address on the back revealed the writer as ‘Susan Mead, Stoneleigh Road, Knowle, Bristol.’  Newsy, friendly and signed off with a couple of xx’s.  And over the next five months, as I drifted around Australia and New Zealand, dropped in on a few Pacific islands and Greyhounded across America, we both occasionally wrote to each other.  She pointed out later that each letter contained an extra kiss; something I’d failed to spot at the time.

I flew back from New York in May 1984 to the comfortable familiarity of the UK and headed to Nottingham.  ‘Two Tribes’ and ‘Wake me up before you Go-Go’ were vying for Number One and Bruce’s ‘Born in the USA’ topped the album charts.  Before I could properly re-immerse myself in the music scene, I had three important phone calls to make. 

The first was to the Personnel Director at the factory in Yate.  ‘Hello Mr Bradley, it’s Peter Sheath.  I’m back in the UK and am wondering if there are any suitable roles for me available?’

The affirmative answer enabled me to progress to the second, a call to Jerry Arnold.

‘Hi Jeremy, it’s Pete.  I’m back. Are you still looking for a lodger?’  Affirmative again. 

Now for the key third call.

‘Hello is that Mrs Mead?  Is Sue in please?  Can you tell her it’s Pete.’

A few moments later a quiet voice said ‘hello’ and a somewhat nervous exchange of pleasantries was followed by an equally ambiguous response to my suggestion of going out for a drink one evening soon.

‘I’m in the middle of revising for a law exam and I’ve a few things organised with friends.’ It didn’t sound very positive.  ‘You could give me a ring in a fortnight if you want.’  She wasn’t sounding very enthusiastic.

I called two weeks later. 

‘Hi Sue. Did the exam go okay?  How about that drink?  Really. Great. I’ll pick you up Thursday.’

We went to The Crown, an oldy-worldy pub in Kelston, a small village near the river, halfway between Bristol and Bath.  We’d never actually been out in the first place and hadn’t seen each other for ten months.  Was there anything there?  I thought there was.   Dropping her back at Stoneleigh Road a simple question would reveal her thoughts. 

‘How about going out somewhere again?’

‘Okay.’

That was good enough for me.  Feeling suitably upbeat, I treated myself to a couple of newly released albums (it was still the era before CDs) and added Bob Marley’s ‘Legend’ (still play it) and The Smiths ‘The Smiths’ ( haven’t played it since).

We were up and running…..Well, at least jogging. 

Before we could really pick up speed I had to pass a number of ‘suitability tests.’  I’m still not sure if any of these were actual show-stoppers but an approval stamp didn’t do any harm and probably helped assure her that taking up with a guy from Nottingham who just spent the best part of a year bumming around the world wasn’t too much of a risk. 

Firstly I needed a tick from the hub of her social life, her friends in the Outdoor Activity Club.  The crowded, noisy Wednesday club night at The Hole in the Wall was my first test, just one more face in mass of twenty-somethings chatting loudly, arranging events and sorting out the weekend's get-togethers.  Bumping into her various friends during the evening would invariably result in a, ‘Ah the mysterious Pete!’ or ‘So you do exist then?’  

I’m not actually sure what first impression I gave but from my perspective this was one group that I definitely wanted to be part of: kayaking, climbing, walking, drinking, partying, and Sue was my potential passport.  Over the next couple of months, I joined her on a number of club events, allowed to ease into the group, getting to know them and no doubt allowing them to form an opinion of me.  By the time of the August Bank Holiday trip to Sennen, it felt like I’d been accepted and was beginning to be part of things in my own right.

It clearly helps if you get along okay with your girlfriend’s family; gaining provisional approval as acceptable boyfriend material means that ‘meeting the parents’ is one of those key stages along the relationship journey.   As Sue still lived at home, it ensured that my first encounters with John, Liz and brother, Steve occurred quite early on.  If I’d been concerned at all, I needn’t have worried; a more welcoming couple would have been hard to imagine.  I went in to say ‘hello’ and ended up munching my way through a plateful of ham sandwiches.  It was an auspicious start to what has turned out to be a long and harmonious relationship with her parents.  In fact, if truth be told, I’ve never been able to do much wrong in Liz’s eyes.  Much to her daughter’s bemusement, most conversations she has with her mum involve checking that ‘Pete’s alright,’ that ‘Pete isn’t working too hard,’ or that ‘she’s feeding him properly.’  Now that’s what you need from a mother-in-law!

Although, by the middle of the decade, the original canoe club had folded, there was more than enough going on in the bigger and more dynamic Outdoor Activities Club.  Its role in creating and consolidating friendships is documented in both the Friends and River Deep chapters and Sue and I were at the heart of it as the relationship strengthened.  Sometimes we’d go away on our own but more often than not we’d be part of the gang, the huddle of little tents at the foot of a mountain, the noisy group in the pub, the cluster of towels, windbreaks and surf kit on the beach.

We were getting along well.  I can only remember one seriously grumpy moment when I was on the end of the ‘silent treatment’ for a day or two - something to do with the mess in the kitchen at ‘my’ house in Oakdene Avenue, but enough to ensure that the silent drive to Ystradfellte and the walk around the scenic waterfalls wasn’t as romantic a day as it was supposed to have been.

The odd ‘misunderstanding’ wasn’t enough to put me off.  After a couple of years I was pretty sure: it was love, and I was ready to commit to the long-term.  Any snobbish reservations that I might have held about her lack of further education had been put to bed; she was smart, practical and determined.  In the late seventies, society still tended to channel all but the highest-achieving girls into traditional roles.  More enlightened teachers and more awareness from her parents would have spotted and released latent talents in both academic and sporting fields which may have resulted in several different paths but, as it turned out, she had found herself in a responsible job at British Telecom.  Often appearing quiet and a little reserved amongst a louder, more forceful gathering, her opinions, when finally expressed, invariably came with a big dose of common-sense.  On top of all that, add in the smile, the natural laugh, the go-for-it (within reason) attitude and she was the one for me.

Was I the one for her?  Well certainly she didn’t appear in any immediate rush to commit.  I might have ticked a few boxes in the ‘eligible bachelor’ (do people still use that term?) category as a graduate with a decent job that offered managerial prospects.  I’d bought my first car, a rather zippy red Ford Fiesta XR2 to whisk us around in.  To afford it, I’d had to take out my only-ever bank loan for £1000 over 18 months and it was only afterwards that I realised it’s all very well having a sporty car but you end up paying through the nose for the insurance and the maintenance of the higher spec features; low profile tyres, twin-carbs (whatever that meant but it sounded good at the time) and a fancy exhaust system. 

And by late 1985 I also owned a house; 26 Oakdene Avenue in Upper Eastville was (still is) a two-up-two-down Victorian terrace in a cul-de-sac just off the Fishpond Road.  It cost me £21,000 and I paid the £1000 deposit with the legacy left by Harry and a £500 gift from Dad and Mavis.  Several visits to the second-hand shops on the Gloucester Road and the acquisition of several items from Harry and Ethel’s old place in Bramcote, ensured it was bestowed with a mis-matched collection of furniture and fittings.  To help cover the mortgage, I quickly acquired a couple of lodgers. (Nick and Ann were strangers to each other when they moved in.  I came home one night to find they’d become the best of friends.  Last seen a couple of years ago, they’ve been married for thirty years and still live nearby).

Job, prospects, car, house.  What more could a girl want?  Well she also had to meet the family.  Luckily things had also gone smoothly there.  She’d encountered the whole set at Jack and Nick’s wedding.  With the many aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings and step-siblings, it was no doubt a bit overwhelming for someone from a smaller family.  Mavis and Dad had, of course, turned on an all-embracing, bustling welcome.   We’d also been out to Egypt in 1985 and she’d survived ten days in their company.  They were great hosts, showing her all the sights and providing an exciting first taste of a different culture.  And with the rest of my family spread out across the country, we could pick and choose when to visit them, largely on our own terms.  It seemed another ‘acceptability’ box had been ticked.

During 1986, after three years of going out, I occasionally floated a vague ‘what-if we were married scenario’, falling short of a proposal, in order to try and suss out where she was in her thinking.  It doesn’t surprise me now that she wasn’t sure; I know after three decades of marriage just how much ‘umming and arghing’ goes on when faced with a key decision.  Part of her thinking was whether, still in her early twenties, it was too soon to get married.  For example, she’d not had the chance to have the ‘living away from home’ or travelling experience that many of the people she was now mixing with had enjoyed.  The first was easily solved; she moved out of Stoneleigh Road and became a lodger in friend, Adrian Stone’s new house down by Victoria Park; the second she must have reconciled, could be achieved in association with someone who had a reasonable travelling track record  i.e. me.

By the summer of 1987 the planets were finally in alignment.  We booked flights to Greece for a backpacking trip on the rather dodgy sounding “Biggles Airlines’, effectively piggy-backing on a charter-flight full of package holidaymakers.  The flight was delayed and, without a holiday rep’ to refer to, we were out of the communication loop, failing to check in when, late in the evening, the desk suddenly opened and closed without any warning on the display boards.  Great. They wouldn’t let us on and we had to go on the stand-by list (remember those?) for any flight to Greece the following evening.  We slept on the floor at the airport and occupied the following day with a visit to the Natural History Museum before returning to Gatwick with our fingers crossed there would be some no-shows.   We were in luck and, a day later than planned, we arrived in Athens in the early hours, caught a bus to the Peloponnese and pitched camp at a resort on the Aegean coast.  It turned into a fun backpacking adventure around Greece that included the islands of Levkas and Aegina.   Near the end of the fortnight, we found ourselves one evening on the cliffs at the Temple of Poseidon on Cape Sounion.  With a suitably romantic Mediterranean sunset as a backdrop, she said ‘Yes.’  It was the perfect end to trip that had started out on the wrong foot.

Shortly afterwards, having fortunately made it home without any mishaps, (Biggles Airline unsurprisingly went bust a week later), we spilled the beans to our friends at a ‘Greek evening’ at Oakdene Avenue, becoming one of the earlier couples to clamber aboard the AOAC marriage conveyor-belt.  Our families were delighted and I, who apparently could do no wrong, moved up another notch on the Stoneleigh Road approval rating scale and Liz emptied half a box of tissues when she heard the news.

No long drawn out engagement for us.  These days we’d have numerous options for the big day but in the eighties there was never any doubt that it would be a traditional wedding.  We booked a slot nine months out at John and Liz’s church, although to obtain ecclesiastical approval, it required a chat with the vicar and a commitment to attend three services to hear our wedding banns read out to the congregation.  We tried to keep serious, devout, faces throughout these proceedings.  With the ceremony sorted, we hunted around for venues for the reception and an evening do; a hotel was too pricey so we opted to take the ‘village hall’ route.  Now the sensible thing would have been to use a hall relatively close to the church, or maybe near where we were living in Downend - definitely easier for the guests who would be arriving from all corners of the country.  Instead, we ended up with a mix of locations that would result in everyone needing to take a magical mystery tour of the city.   From the church in Knowle, across town for the reception in Westbury Village Church Hall (5 miles).  Once that had wrapped up, it would be back to wherever they were staying for a few hours whilst we nipped off to our hotel in Alvaston (10 miles).  Then in the early evening, we’d all make the trip out to Failand village where more friends would join the rest of the guests for a buffet and disco.  It was only eight miles out of town so couldn’t be more convenient.  Crazy!  What were we thinking?  Undoubtedly John and Liz influenced the reception venue; they knew the Westbury vicar and after all, they were paying a big chunk of the costs, but we chose Failand based on cost and availability with barely a thought to convenience.  No-one actually said anything to us but I bet they shared a thought or two amongst themselves.

The other big thing on the to-do list was to sell my house and buy one together.  The first bit was easy; with such a large pool of twenty-something professionals in the Activities Club, it didn’t take long to find a buyer and, two years after moving, in I sold it for £28,000.  30% in two years!   What had been a slowly rising, affordable market since the War, suddenly went through the roof.  ‘Get on the property ladder’ we were urged by Maggie’s government, the banks, the press, our parents, our friends, and we were swept along with the rest of society.  Two salaries meant we could afford a mortgage for something substantial and, surprisingly, we didn’t view too many before narrowing the search to Downend and Fishponds and spotting ’16 Hurstwood Road’ in an estate agent’s window.

A 1920’s semi’ at the top of a cul-de-sac, it had been ‘done-up’ by a builder and was vacant possession.  A traditional layout with dining room, lounge and small kitchen downstairs and two decent size bedrooms, a smaller one and a bathroom upstairs.  A rather makeshift garage and a decent-sized, albeit overgrown, garden, complete with some neglected fruit trees, ticked other boxes.  An added bonus out the back was a half-buried old Anderson air raid shelter but with the Soviet Union in meltdown and the Cold War thawing, we didn’t feel its refurbishment was an immediate priority.

‘£60,000 to you but make your mind up quickly! It won’t be on the market long.’  We asked John and Liz for a second opinion, pressed the ‘go’ button and I had moved in by January ’88.  Sue stayed a few more months at Adrian’s place and we used the time leading up to the May wedding to crack on with the essentials.  More beg, borrowing and stealing of furniture, finding carpets and curtains, decorating where necessary.  Thank God for a father-in-law who was good at DIY and didn’t make his future son-in-law feel a complete imbecile despite my lack of home-improvement talent.  I played my part, handing over the tools, screws and cups of tea whenever John popped over to construct built-in wardrobes, add extra sockets and hang wall-paper.

May 14th 1988.

It was a cloudy start to the day, although on a pre-breakfast jog around the familiar trails of Vassals Park, it felt like it was going to warm-up.  Along with Dad and Mavis, Best Man Mike had stayed over, and with little to do other than ensure our ties were knotted properly, we headed over to the Holy Nativity in Knowle early to savour the pre-match atmosphere.  We mingled with the gathering guests before heading inside a few minutes early, taking up position in the front row pew, pretending to be calm as I awaited my fate.  Paddy and Jill Lee, friends who have lived in Vancouver for the last twenty-five years, gave us a novel wedding present: a time capsule that included a copy of the day’s Times newspaper, the week’s Radio Times and Economist, that month’s edition of National Geographic and Good Housekeeping (!),  and the number one album (Fleetwood Mac - Tango in the Night).  Top of the single charts, and remember it still counted for something in 1988, were Fairground Attraction with ‘Perfect.’  And fortunately that’s how the day panned out.

Sue, eyes sparkling, looked lovely, when she arrived, escorted by John and accompanied by bridesmaids, Bridget and Sian, elegant in their green dresses.  To be honest, I didn’t take much notice of the vicar’s sermon or the readings, and just focused on the vows.  We’d decided we’d read them straight out, dispensing with any parrot-like prompting from the vicar, and fortunately neither of us stumbled, or forgot, the key phrases. Mike produced the ring at the right moment and that was that. Married!  Out of the door we walked, under an arch of kayak paddles and a storm of confetti thrown by the young girls from Sue’s Brownie pack who’d all turned up in uniform.

By the time we’d decamped across town to the reception, everyone could relax; everyone, that is, other than John, Mike and me who had speeches to deliver after the meal.  Mike was the ideal choice for Best Man.  Reassuring to me, sociable and inclusive with guests, and, most importantly, unlikely to upset anyone with his speech; I can’t remember much of what he said but it was suitable blend of humour and compliments.  John delivered his words from copious notes and I, fresh with tips and techniques from my work-sponsored Dale Carnegie public speaking course, managed it unaided.  I seem to remember comparing our forthcoming married life to sitting at the top of a big, long, rapid, this time in a double-kayak; desperately wanting to do it, excited at the challenge, knowing that once you’re committed there’s really only one way ahead and that, along with the thrills, we’d no doubt have a few bouncy bits and rocks to steer clear of along the way.  A bit pretentious perhaps but at least it was done.

True to tradition, once the speeches were out of the way, we cut the cake, and then could finally begin to wander around and properly meet people, allowing Sue to bask a little in the limelight as the star of the day.  And then we were off, heading for our late afternoon ‘get-our-breath-back’ few hours at the Alvaston House Hotel before driving back across town in the evening to Failand Village Hall.  Needless to say, the support crew of Mike and our parents had ensured the disco, decorations and buffet were all ready and waiting.  Friends and work colleagues swelled the numbers and it all went off smoothly.  I think Mavis and Dad were happy not to be over-involved for once and were able to meet and chat with all the various mixed groupings. I bumped into my boss at the time, John Taylor, engrossed in conversation with Dad; I’m not sure if they were talking about Brian Clough or manufacturing engineering.

I’m writing this in the camper van in Fort William and just about to throw a question at Sue. Wedding tradition dictated that we should appear on the dance floor for a bit of a shuffle before everyone else joined us.

‘Sue, what song did we do the first dance to at our wedding?’

‘Em… not sure, maybe Lady in Red?’

To be fair, she’s always said the day whizzed by in a bit of a blur; I can’t say I’m sorry though that we married in the days before mobile-phones could capture such moments and post the video on Facebook within seconds.  I’m a terrible dancer and would have cringed with embarrassment at the footage.

When we finally departed, heading back again to the hotel in Alvaston, another wedding tradition of the era ensured that Sue’s Vauxhall Chevette had been adorned with tin cans and had lip-stick and shaving-foam graffiti on its windows.  When did you last see a car on a Saturday night or Sunday morning driving up the motorway with ‘Just Married’ displayed on the rear-window?   These days, wedding couples don’t leave early and usually get a taxi to wherever they’re heading.

Next morning, with surf kit loaded on the roof, we drove down to a little self-catering bungalow in Hayle, North Cornwall, which we’d booked for the honeymoon.   It coincided with the start of a heatwave and there was not even a hint of a ripple, let alone any waves, so we chilled during the days, walking along beaches and around headlands.  And then it was home to Hurstwood Road, where some of our friends had managed to gain access whilst we were away and completely filled the bathroom with balloons, amongst other surprises.  We can sometimes still find confetti secreted into books that were on the book-shelves at the time.

Since then, the Time Machine data banks have been steadily filling with our shared experiences; the folders on Sue are still open and continuing to grow.  Hardly surprising.  She is the common thread that has enabled so much of what the family and I have been able to do and enjoy.  Let’s just dip in and grab some examples from her files, rather like the aliens on Beta Ariedes as they continue to monitor their selected human family, randomly sampling the information from the data inexorably flowing across space and time and picked up by their telescopes.  Maybe this will give an insight into who she is, what she means to me, and how we’ve managed to roll along harmoniously all this time.

‘I wouldn’t mind going for longer.   Maybe I could meet up with Ade and Gez in New Zealand.’

This caught me a little by surprise.  We’d only been married fifteen months and it sounded like she was proposing to unilaterally extend our three-week Australian holiday and continue her travels independently when I had to return to the UK for work.  Our recent experiences in India, Egypt and the Balkans had both whetted her appetite for, and increased her confidence in, backpacking-style travel.  Now she was mixing with a social group in which a number of acquaintances had done long-haul budget trips and she wanted a share of the adventure opportunities.   BT were prepared to give her six weeks so in the end it was only three weeks we would be apart but nevertheless, back in 1989, this wasn’t normal for a recently married couple, especially in pre-internet days when we would be out of communication.  Her mum seemed concerned. ‘Is everything okay?’  And work colleagues raised a few eyebrows but I’d easily rationalised it myself.  I could understand her desire to grab the chance and the fact that some of time she’d be travelling in NZ and returning via California in the ‘safe’ company of a couple of friends was reassuring.  I was also happy, maybe even sub-consciously proud, that she’d felt enough independence in our relationship to suggest it.

So after our week on the Barrier Reef, time with the relatives in Sydney and touring the NSW in a little camper van, I waved her off through the departure gate on a late night Air New Zealand flight to Christchurch.  I then kipped down on a bench seat and waited for my UK bound check-in desk to open the following morning.  I was pretty sure she’d manage on her own for the week before rendezvousing with the guys; after all NZ was a westernised, English speaking country, but without google-maps and search-engines, finding transport links, hostel details and your way around a city was far from straightforward.  I hoped that she’d enjoy it and return having gained another small boost to her steadily growing confidence.

Three weeks later I turned up at Heathrow and picked up three weary travellers off the flight just in from San Francisco and barely gleaned they’d had a great time before they all nodded off as I drove back along the M4.  (This is a habit of hers that hasn’t changed much over the years - you can still guarantee that Ade and ‘my' Sue will be dozing happily in the car while Sue B and I navigate our way home after a long walk or ride somewhere.)

‘It’s blue.  It’s definitely blue.’

There was a mix of excitement and the hint of a tear or two in her eyes.  We were lucky; after only a few months over the summer and autumn of ’91 it looked as though things had worked out and we could start to get our heads around some big changes on the horizon.  Away for a long-weekend in a dinky cottage in a fog-enveloped part of Shropshire, we could do little more than think about the future.  Our good fortune continued and Sue had no issues as the pregnancy advanced.

During Christmas dinner at Stoneleigh Road, I casually mentioned that next year they’d need to set another place at the table.  Liz nearly choked on her turkey before finally managing to compose herself.  There were no big dramas; month by month, Sue calmly dealt with her changing shape, hormones and emotions and worked right up to a few weeks before the due date.  Departing for maternity leave, she didn’t know it would be her last day in the office.  Six months later she’d take advantage of a BT headcount purge and we’d benefit from a ridiculously generous voluntary-redundancy deal (barely out of public ownership, BT hadn’t yet adopted a more realistic private sector approach) that helped fund our house extension a year later.

At the last minute there was a potential hitch; the baby was in breech position and seemed reluctant to put in an appearance.  Finally, a week or so late, things began to happen and late in the evening we headed down to the Bristol Maternity Hospital.  It was a long night, especially for Sue that eventually culminated in a decision to perform a caesarean.  Within half-an-hour, I was in the operating theatre, kitted out in a gown, and watching the action at close-quarters as a female surgeon, who actually looked younger than us, and her team calmly carried out the procedure.  Sue made do with just an epidural and listened to my commentary with the squeamish bits edited out.

‘It’s a boy.’  What an experience.  Let’s hear it for the mum and the NHS. 

Having also more recently experienced my belly being opened up, the stomach and groin muscles pulled and pushed around, and a nice scar where you’ve been stitched back together, I can say with some justification that I am impressed by how little she complained afterwards and how quickly she was back in full-on mother action.

Reprise : ‘It’s blue. It’s definitely blue.’

Almost two years to the day since the first positive test, she had a third.  On this occasion we, including a fifteen month old Stuart, were in County Cork in southern Ireland, sharing a cottage with Dave and Lisa Hoptroff.  We sweated for a few months until all was confirmed as going well; an earlier second pregnancy had sadly ended after a couple of months but she had dealt with the emotional and physical side of all of this with a mixture of tears and positivity.  I’m not sure I was much help at the time; there’s a limit to what hugs and words can achieve.  This time everything unfolded like clockwork and it was back to the BMH where Sue managed to have Boy Number Two naturally.  However there was an issue: our blood groups aren’t compatible the consequence  of which, for reasons I’ve never really quite got my head around, that a second child is going to be short of bilirubin.  This means they will suffer from jaundice at birth and this risk would be higher for any further children.  New baby Murray would spend much of his first four or five days in an incubator being dosed-up with UV to bring his levels back to normal.  That first night, alone in the house, I was a bit worried.  The hospital staff hadn’t been very forthcoming; I’d seen them talking quietly in a huddle by the incubator with serious looking faces, and my mind had jumped to all sorts of conclusions.   The nurse on the ward had suggested I go home, get some sleep and come back in the morning and, with a load of phone-calls still to make, I eventually did as instructed, leaving Sue on the ward in full sleep-feed-sleep-feed mode.   Within a day or two it was clear that his body was sorting itself out and shortly afterwards they were discharged.  Stuart didn’t seem too put-out that Hurstwood Road was now home to four.

Two kids; that’ll do nicely thank-you very much, and we didn’t mind one bit what they were.  Like countless mums over the centuries, Sue, since their birth, has been a completely dedicated mother with a bottomless barrel of love for the pair of them.

‘What’s happened’s happened.   We just need to deal with it.’

To be honest we’ve been lucky so far; no major traumas that have shaken the family to its roots, no tragedies, no financial disasters.  Incidents whenever they have occurred have resulted in a momentary panic, a manageable nuisance, a short-lived disappointment.  At the time, however, they usually send me into an introspective loop of frustrated annoyance, sometimes with myself, more usually at someone or something else.  This might last several hours before I can start to properly rationalise the situation, gain some perspective and begin to work on a sensible Plan B, rather than my initial knee-jerk response.

Sue deals with these events differently, somehow having the ability to see things as they’ve suddenly become and able to drop down a barrier to prevent the emotions of ‘what might have been’ getting in the way of a positive reaction to ‘what do we do now?’ Cancellations, losses, illnesses, it doesn’t matter; her reaction is usually almost instant and practical.

Trivial examples include those occasions when we’ve missed the odd flight or boat.  Already mentioned is the Biggles Airlines example; no wailing, complaining or chastising, just a quick readjustment to the circumstances.  On a similar theme a few years later, on a self-driving tour of Yugoslavia, we caught a passenger ferry from the Croatian mainland to an offshore island and somehow contrived to miss the late afternoon return sailing.  Now for our entire life together, I’m the one who takes responsibility for our travel arrangements, whether it’s booking long-haul stop-overs, driving across Europe, or catching a local ferry.  Consequently, I felt both aggrieved and embarrassed; surely the boat had sailed earlier than time-tabled, and now we’d have to find a room or, thanks to our limited budget, contemplate a cold night sleeping on a beach as we’d only a couple of towels with us.  Whilst I’m still chuntering away and making excuses, Sue has already accepted the situation without a hint of a rebuke and is wandering along the harbour-side looking for options.   And with the stroke of fortune that a positive attitude often brings, she spots a yacht, an elegant ketch, just about to leave the jetty and blags us a free ride back to a cove on the coast, just an hour’s walk from the little resort where we were staying. 

Or take the breakdown of the camper van just outside Monaco in 2019 that turned a planned leisurely week in Italy prior to an Ironman race near Rimini into an expensive unplanned weekend in a little hotel, a long drive in a hired car, and two uncomfortable overnight snoozes in service station car parks.  It took me time to come down off my ‘pissed off’ cloud; Sue, meanwhile, dealt with our new circumstances and quickly looked for the positives, (like a day being tourists in Monte Carlo that she’s never visited before) knowing I’ll be back to normal sooner or later once the angst is out my system.

More serious events have also seen the same quick re-appraisal and, outwardly at least, calm re-adjustment of plans.  Bike crash No.1 instantly blew away any events I had planned for the rest of that year, along with our summer holidays in Yorkshire and Pembroke.  Whilst I was absorbed for a few days trying to manage pain, annoyance and frustration, she was practically, quietly, dealing with the communications, the cancellations, and getting her head around her school holidays being gazumped by caring duties.  If she grumbled about it at all, it wasn’t to me.  Bike crashes No’s 2 and 3 had similar if not quite such big repercussions; I didn’t balls-up any holidays but still couldn’t drive or do much housework for several months and if she wanted a decent walk or ride anywhere, it couldn’t be with me.  There’s never even been a conversation that suggested I try something different to riding a road bike. 

So from my experiences, Sue may well be the person who coined the phrase, ‘No point crying over spilt milk.’  It’s also happens to be one of my tenants but I still reserve the right to be ‘pissed off’ for a few hours before accepting the reality of a situation.

‘I don’t think I can do this.   I’m not sure I’m good enough’

The evidence suggests that the answers are, ‘Yes you can,’ and, ‘Yes you are.’  It doesn’t matter whether it’s a physical challenge, an academic problem, or a social circumstance; there have been plenty of occasions when she’s suddenly found herself out of her depth and needing to swim harder, faster and better than she’s done before.  It’s partly an issue of aspirational and confidence levels where the bars were set too low earlier in her life.  School failed to recognise and release some potential, just content to ensure that an outwardly average pupil could be pushed off the conveyor at sixteen with a broadly satisfactory set of qualifications.  No teacher spotted a latent ability in maths, teased out her interest in social history or told her she was capable of achieving a higher standard.  Consequently she meandered through school in the middle of the pack, happy enough to be on a par with her friends.  Her home background helped reinforce the situation; John and Liz were encouraging and supportive but didn’t challenge the status quo and were more than pleased when she stayed out of trouble, was part of a respectable little social group, passed the basic exams and went straight into an office role with a good employer.

Of course it’s not all about academic achievement but staying on at school or going on to college often provided an extra boost of confidence, helped with debating skills and generally broadened an outlook on things.  Without these potential benefits, she’s sometimes felt a bit intimidated when surrounded by others with no shortage of things to say and possessing the confidence to say them.  On the other hand, there’s never been any case made that climbing the educational ladder makes any difference to common sense, curiosity, a practical approach to things, and a fine-tuned sense of right and wrong.  In fact, it’s possible the sooner someone’s out there in the real world, the sooner these inherent traits can further develop.  Sue is a good example for the theory that suggests other skills and abilities can balance a deficit of educational opportunities and performance.  How else would she end up as Chair of Governors for a huge Bristol comprehensive school?

Keen to get back into some form of part-time work once the boys were in pre-school, she needed to find something that offered hours broadly in line with the school calendar.  It couldn’t easily be a return to a clerical environment, so she enrolled in a two-year qualification course to work in a play-group before opting to train as a teaching assistant.  After a twenty-year gap, it was a return to study and exams; on top of being tested in teaching skills, she needed to bring her maths and English back to a modern-day scratch-level and, not content with this, she followed up with a curiosity-driven excursion onto a two-year psychology course.  It didn’t take long to pick up a job: three days a week at Christchurch Infants, just round the corner and where the boys had gone. Her role required working predominantly with sub-groups of the class but also covering for the whole class for short spells when the teacher was otherwise engaged and taking a regular turn on playground and school trip duties.

She spent hours on lesson-prep and had moments of self-doubt. It was all very well keeping control of our two boys at home but could she do the same with a bigger, noisier, more hyper, fidgety and cheeky bunch of six-year olds?  And what would the full-time staff, with their teaching degrees, educational theories, and years of experience make of her?  The answers seemed positive and she appeared to be popular and in demand amongst pupils and colleagues alike.  Within a year or two, she became confident enough in her abilities, happy to engage with teachers in class plans and assessments.  At home I’d hear of the issues; the troublesome boy, the stuck-in-the-mud teacher, the full-of-herself, opinionated Head, but all were indicative of a growing assurance that she could mix-it in most encounters found in the primary school environment. In 2002, after three years at Christchurch Infants, she had a run-in with the Head on a point of principle about a week’s unpaid leave. Quoting a precedent of another TA in a similar circumstance the year before achieved nothing so she resigned and we enjoyed that extra week in France.

The following academic year, after a brief spell at Blackhorse Infants, she was offered a permanent TA role, three days a week at another local infants’.  Stanbridge was only a 20 minute walk from home and would turn out to be the school where she stayed for the next 15 years.  Some years it would be Year Ones, another Year Threes and, after she’d done some specific training courses, she found herself involved with some special need kids as well.  She enjoyed working there, easing to a position where she’d ended up as unofficial spokesperson for the other TA's and, typically, she didn’t always see eye-to-eye with the hierarchy.  Her sense of right and wrong irritated by the blatant favouritism sometimes displayed by the Head and the careless waste of resources, equipment and electricity by some of the staff.  ‘The Governors should be more aware of some of these issues and get involved,’ she’d grumble some evenings.  ‘Why don’t you become one? ’I’d flippantly respond, half my attention on the football on the telly.  ‘I might just do that,’ she countered.

Next thing I know is she’s a parent-governor at Downend Secondary School, our 1800-pupil local comprehensive where the boys also went.  She’d take it seriously, no doubt quiet as a mouse during the first few meetings, but religiously attending the training, reading the documents and watching the interactions between the more senior players.  I vaguely followed the goings on over the next couple of years as she was co-opted onto one sub-committee or another but wasn’t prepared for the declaration one night in 2006. ’They’ve asked me to take on the Head of Governors’ role.  I really don’t know if I’m up to it.’

This was a big challenge.  A big school with average results, average standards, average morale, average facilities, limited coffers and an unclear strategic direction from a distracted Head who teetering on the brink, and a disjointed senior leadership team.  Barely had Sue chaired her first few governors’ meetings (first time chairing any meetings for that matter) when the Head resigned.  Now what?  Obviously find, interview and select a new one.  Luckily it was still a time, before austerity cuts ripped it away, when the local authority retained an education department that included an advisory service for governors.  This would prove invaluable and, along with a couple of the other governors, she embarked on the task.  Long-story-short:  They picked the right candidate, and over the next five years, the school began a steady upward climb, going from strength to strength on pretty much every measure.  Not a natural debater, she needed to prepare in detail, meticulously researching the subject matter, to help hold her own in discussions and control meetings.  I was seriously proud of her involvement and the positive impact she helped foster.  After a difficult but rewarding five years in charge of the Governors, she opted to relinquish the role, reverting to standard governor duties until 2018 when she finally gave it all up.

Reprise.  ’I don’t think I can do this, I’m not sure I’m good enough.’

‘Yes you can.  Yes you are.’

This time it’s a different set of challenges.  It’s a half-marathon; it’s a triathlon with a swim in a lake; a walk up a mountain; a long-distance bike ride - 100km in a day on a mountain-bike in the heat of Vietnam.  Cautiously pushing her boundaries, doubtful rather than bullish, determined rather than competitive.   If she trained properly, focused on preparing for a particular event rather than flitting between her other interests, she’d find it easier and be more confident in the outcome but it’s just not her style.  She accepts I’m right when I tell her how to go about it but funnily enough, my suggestions don’t carry enough weight to change her approach.  No surprise there then, even when I really do know more about the subject matter.

I’m still proud of her, even if she doesn’t follow all my advice, even if I know she could go a bit quicker, a bit further.

‘Stop talking about it and just enter!’

She knows me too well; what I need as a safety-valve, what I need as a challenge.  Year after year, the calendar slowly filled with race dates, inevitably meaning I’d be out pounding the streets on winter evenings, or at the pool, or on the bike, trying to balance time between family, friends, work and training.  Whilst she also had the freedom to do her own things, her tennis, and her girlie get-togethers, there is no denying that I’ve needed her tolerance and support.  And she had no choice on race-days; up early at some ridiculous time to get to the start, hanging around by the side of the road for hours, waiting for me to ride or run past, trying to spot me in the crowd to shout some encouragement.  Picking up the pieces afterwards. 

‘Okay - if it needs sorting you’d better get on with it.’

From Team Leader to Manager to Senior Manager to Plant Director and back to Senior Manager.  From 5 staff to 40 to 500 and back to 50.  From British bosses to American bosses to Italian bosses and then back to a different lot of American bosses.  From monthly performance measures and hand written reports, to daily performance monitoring, e-mail reporting and inter-continental video board meetings.  From mainframes to desktops to laptops and from old phones that only rang at work to mobile phones that ring, message and e-mail 24 hours a day.  From local evening night-school to numerous training away-days and a handful of fortnightly training courses somewhere in Europe.

Sue has supported me through each step along the way.  Upwards with the career, outwards with responsibilities, higher with the pressures, longer with the hours.  Juggling time at home with commitment to the business and the people.  Rarely grumbling whenever I announced I had to go into the factory on a Sunday morning, or spend all evening on the phone trying to manage a sudden crisis.  Okay, so my salary helped sweeten the pill but it can’t have been easy; inevitably, Sue bore the greater share of running the home and looking after the boys and still managed to find time to work part-time, involve herself with school governance and other interests.

Of course, there were moments along the way; the rolled eyes, the exaggerated sigh, the push-backs when things became stressful: ‘You never do any housework / the shopping / remember a birthday card / think of this or that’ and so on.  Not strictly true, but I was never really in a position to put up much of a counter-argument and, as any bloke forced into a defensive position will tell you, it’s usually counter-productive to get into a debate.

Over thirty years of a working partnership, thanks largely to Sue’s attitude, we found a way to make it work, keep things on track and reap the benefits.  It’s one hundred percent certain that I couldn’t have achieved what I did and coped with the pressures without such a rock-steady foundation at home.

‘You never listen properly to what I say!’

This simple sentence can range from a friendly tease, to a mild rebuke or even a full-blown nuclear assault, the repercussions of which might rumble on for several hours, even days.  Protest is futile; best to surrender immediately rather than try a ‘blag-it’ defence or attempt a ‘justification’ counter-attack.  Sometimes there might be a follow-up problem if there had been instructions involved.  A missed ingredient in the cooking, the wrong sort of loo paper from Aldi, what clothes should be washed at 30 degrees; hardly earth-shattering but on the rare wrong day it could tip things over the edge.  Suggesting it might not be the end of the world is never a wise move.

The ‘Rucksack of Doom’ Theory

Sue, I suspect like most women, carries round with her an invisible rucksack that contains the complete collection of my failings that have built up over the years.  Any new error, mistake or upset is packed away for the day it will be needed.   For weeks, sometimes months, even a year or two, I’d never know the rucksack was there.  In fact, I might even forget about its existence, until suddenly I’d put my foot in it.  Off the shoulders comes the rucksack and a relevant selection of long-forgotten (by me) events are produced, apparently from nowhere, as examples of my shortcomings.  Not carrying a rucksack with my own recollections, or useful defensive arguments, means I’m doomed.  And when the dust has settled again, the latest incident will have been squeezed in, waiting for the inevitable day when it will need to be recalled.

Sue accepts the possibility that the Theory has some justification but doesn’t see any point in me also carrying a rucksack.  ‘What would you have to put in it?’

Most of the time she’s been right.  With half-an-eye on the cricket streaming on the laptop, half-an-ear tuned to the radio, or half my brain thinking about work, I usually received three-quarters of the message, processed half of it and retained a third.  It’s always been the case, though I’d like to think I’ve improved recently.   I’m certainly trying but not being helped by a steady deterioration in auditory capability.

I learnt early in our relationship a couple of the fundamental rules of nature; they probably apply across the entire universe and I’m sure would have been recognised on Beta Ariedes before they did away with genders.   Firstly, women always believe they’re correct and secondly, that they also have an inherent right to comment on their partner’s actions, no matter how minor the perceived transgression.  My acknowledgement of these traits, publicly at least, is a small price to pay for all the many plusses in our relationship.  Add in all the other things that she is ‘actually’ right about, or at least better at, and it’s clear I should just continue to try and do as I’m told.

‘I just don’t know’

Sue’s not good at making some types of decisions.  Even when I think a choice has been made it’s not unusual to discover a few days later that a mind-change has taken us in another direction.  At one point we must have had the world’s largest collection of match-pots and pontificated for weeks on the choice of paint colour for a room; several times we’ve even had the first coat on before I’m dispatched off to B&Q to get something different.  Recently, we had the house re-rendered; a day before the topcoat was due to be applied I received a call from the boss of the rendering team.  Sue had tracked him down to a house where he was on another job and between them had agreed to change to something slightly different.  ‘Was I okay with it?’

It’s the same with furniture; we usually do several laps of a multitude of Bristol stores, confusing ourselves with dimensions, comfort, fabrics and patterns before finally plumping for something.  I then hold my breath for a few days, half-expecting to be told that she’s cancelled the order and we need to start the process again.  It’s also completely pointless for me to offer an opinion on any clothes she’s bought for herself; she’s hardly a big-spender on her wardrobe anyway, I never know what’s staying and what’s going back when new items appear, draped around the bedroom.  At least this also ensures I never have to venture anywhere near a whole range of clothes shops; as a trade-off I can just about put up with our e-mail inbox being flooded with daily alerts from these retailers.

It’s probably a good thing she went veggie 25 years ago.  Deciding between the veg lasagne, veg curry, veggie burger or the occasional veggie Chef’s Special can take a while; selecting from a full menu would take ages.  Whilst on the subject of her vegetarianism, it’s worth noting that she’s never attempted to deprive the rest of us of our regular meat dosage and, over the years, we’ve found a happy blend of meat and veggie meals.  Fish, too, is often on the menu, although her choice is limited to, now get this, fish that doesn’t look like a fish, or taste too fishy.  Salmon fillets or fish-cakes then.

This tendency to ‘um and aargh’, to over-think, to be concerned about wasting money, to worry about ending up with the wrong thing or something she won’t like, has not changed over the decades.  I’ve no idea how we’ll go about it if we ever decide to move house and I sometimes wonder how she ever was capable of making the most decisive choice of her life; whom would she marry and, even then, not lose her nerve and call it off during the engagement.

‘I love you.’ 

‘I love you too.’

‘Walk with me till the sun goes down’   

'There is always someone for each of us they say

And you'll be my someone forever and a day.

I could search the whole world over until my life is through

And I know I'll never find another you.

I still need you there beside me, no matter what I do

For I know I'll never find another you'   

It’s forty years since we first met; four decades of shared experiences; four decades of affection, four decades of fancying her; four decades in which her commitment to our relationship has allowed all the other things in my life to fall into place, four decades of love, support and encouragement, four decades of being reminded (many times) of how to listen and do things properly, and nearly three decades as a devoted mother to the boys.  An unbreakable exquisite thread that’s bound everything together, still continuing to loop, sometimes loosely, sometimes tightly, throughout our lives. 

Desert Island Discs Fairground Attraction ‘Perfect’   May 1988

‘I don't want half-hearted love affairs.  I need someone who really cares

Life is too short to play silly games.  I've promised myself I won't do that again

Young hearts are foolish, they make such mistakes. They’re much too eager to give their love away

Well, I have been foolish too many times.  Now I'm determined, I'm gonna get it right

Too many people take second best. 

But I won't take anything less

It's got to be, yeah

Perfect

It's got to be perfect

It's got to be worth it, yeah.’