A story I wrote about my father-in-law when he was still alive - but he died nearly 10 years ago now.

I am told that I am currently 85 years old, and if this is 1996 and I was born in 1909, I guess that must be right. I seem to have a problem with my memory these days - and often I am quite sure that I am 38, or 47 or 66 or some other number- and it is always very distressing for me to find out that not only am I disremembering, but that I am really very old.

I live in a house, a small bungalow with a pretty garden all around it in Holt, a small Georgian town in north Norfolk. I always contend that there is no prettier place in the world than North Norfolk, with its rolling hills giving the gentle aspect, and fierce winds and high waves showing the more aggressive and powerful side of it. I have lived here sometime now - and it is my home from choice. I was born in Malaya in a town called Tanjang Rambutan and soon after that my family moved to South Africa.

My father, Harold Day, was a mining engineer, and went where he was directed to by his bosses in order to pursue the exploitation of the mineral wealth of the world. He mainly was interested in mining copper and tin. But the family returned to England when the war started in 1916 when I was still quite small, and my mother and we brothers lived with relatives in Worcester for those war years. Then we settled in Ryhall in Rutland where we had a pig farm.
 
I was the eldest of three brothers and a sister, and we were a close family. The boys all attended Stamford School, and the extended family put a very high value on good public education in England. Stamford School had as its headmaster, my uncle, John Day - for whom I was named, for although I have always been referred to as Jan - my given name is John King. King is for my mother's family - a rather interesting and somewhat famous family from Worcester. My grandfather was mayor of Worcester in 1907, and his family started from very humble origins in the grocery business.

But I am digressing. The subject of this story is not my past, although it must and will intrude on the present, but with my current situation. I live in this lovely little bungalow in Pearson's Road, Holt, just across the road incidentally from another public school Gresham School, where I taught Chemistry and was housemaster for many years and my sons all attended Greshams and did very well indeed.

My life these days revolves around my home - because I am old - people keeping telling me so even though I usually feel very well and fit. And my children have long since grown and left home - none of them lived here with me. We only moved here when we were forced to find a bungalow because my poor wife Betty suffered so with arthritis that climbing stairs was a real nightmare to her. So about 15 years ago, we left the house we had bought for our retirement called Sunnyside, in Hunworth, not far from here, and came to this house which is now my world.

Betty died they tell me. I often remember seeing her not long ago, and when I ask where she is - there is an embarrassed silence before someone says, "Well actually, Betty died about 2 1/2 years ago." I find it hard to believe. In my world I am always aware of her - and when I don't see her, I am sure she must be off visiting her mother in Oxford, which she often did. But then they tell me that my mother-in-law has been dead for 20 years, so I again am forced to face my confusion.

But I don't live alone. I have someone with me at all times - and sometimes it is a man called Doogie - and sometimes it is a woman called Beryl. Doogie has been here longer. When he arrived and asked me to call him by that awful name, I resisted and said I would call him Douglas as his mother intended him to be called, and I did persist for awhile, but somehow it was just easier to do what he wanted than to continue to try to make my point.

Doogie is a Scotsman, from just outside Edinburgh, and his accent is very pronounced, and often hard for my family and visitors to understand. But I ken him just grand. Having a Scottish grandmother, who was called Bammie but her real name was Caroline Duncan Day, I am well aware of the Scottish dialect and accent, although my relatives were from the West of Scotland, not the Edinburgh area.

Incidentally the habit of giving one's wife's maiden name to one's children seems to be rather common in our family. Bammy and her husband had five sons, and all of them had Duncan for their middle name - therefore, my father was called Harold Duncan Day, and my uncle John, was John Duncan Day, etc. But back to Doogie, who is partly the reason for my writing this epistle.

I am quite used to writing. As a headmaster, I had to write reports all the time for the boys, and to tell of the progress of the school. After I spent 10 years as Head of Chemistry and housemaster in Gresham School I was offered the post of Headmaster of Elizabeth College, a very well thought of boys public school in Guernsey in the Channel Islands. Betty, my wife, was not at all happy with the prospect of moving to Guernsey, even though her father had held a teaching post there as well, years before, so she was very familiar with the island.

However, I think the idea of being headmaster's wife somewhat daunted her, and she loved her life in Norfolk - with swimming in the sea, picking cockles and samphire, going on endless picnics, golfing at nearby Sheringham golf course, and of course her bridge parties with her friends. And she wanted to stay near her children. The boys were such an important part of her life.

Philip, the eldest was by this time already away from home, having done his national service after finishing at Greshams, and then going on to Oxford. Nick our second son, decided to defer his national service until after he had gone to University , and lucky for him, it was abolished and he didn't have to do it at all. Not that I don't have great respect for the armed services. Some of the happiest years of my life and some of my closest friendships came from me serving with the Norfolk regiment before and during the Second World War.

Christopher, the youngest, was his mother's favourite. He was still attending Greshams when we left, and I knew she would miss him very much. But I felt I had to take this marvellous opportunity when it presented itself, and the boys would all no doubt spend their holidays with us in Guernsey. It was also at that time that we decided that we would have our retirement home in Norfolk, and have it available for us to come back and our boys to come too, during the school breaks.

What was I talking about when I started all this? About writing - and how I am used to having to do it. Well, when I finally did retire from Elizabeth College (at Betty's insistence I retired early) we did move back to Norfolk. However, I was only 60 and felt there was a lot of useful life left in me yet, so I asked the Bishop if I could become a lay reader in this diocese. He agreed, and I underwent the necessary training, and I was installed as a lay reader for the parish group which included our home in Hunworth, and four other nearby churches.

Norfolk has more country Churches than anywhere else in the country - probably - anywhere else in the world. You can hardly drive for a mile in any direction without coming across one. And we are proud of our churches and want them maintained and used. There are no where enough ordained priests to do this, so it is common practice to have lay readers who take services at the churches when the priest is not able to come.

I used to do a service at Hunworth or Stody each Sunday, except on the last Sunday of each month, when we had a joint service and the priest and the other two lay ministers and myself would all attend with the joint congregation for a larger than average service. It was a very great honour to serve my church in this way, and of course I kept in practice with my writing by writing the sermon each Sunday that I was in charge of a service. Usually I had a Morning Prayer service, and we had about 12 faithful parishioners who came regularly and kept the place going.

On occasion, the church was full like at Harvest Festival time. The good ladies of the parish cleaned the church, put flowers on the altar, provided coffee and biscuits to all after the service, and generally did what was necessary. Sometimes they read the readings, and sometimes they took the collection too. A very faithful and useful bunch of women they are. I see them sometimes now, when I go to church, although I don't any longer take any services. But when Philip or Christopher come to stay for the weekend, they take me to church, and it is good to be back with my friends once more and worshipping God in my favourite of all churches - the one in Stody.

I do seem to have got off the track again. I was supposed to be telling you about Doogie, and I only seem to be going on about myself. I must try to concentrate on the subject at hand.

Doogie was my faithful servant and friend for many years. I say servant, but of course, he was my companion - and helped me with washing and dressing, and cooked the meals for me, and generally kept my house in order. I enjoyed his company very much. He loved football and we spent many happy hours watching the various matches - but of course, he was only interested in supporting the Scottish teams.

Doogie was a very good cook - having been trained in it, and worked in hotel catering before he came into his job that he currently has with Medicare. So we had many fancy and interesting meals over the years. Doogie loved to use spices and to try out new recipes on me. He was forever trying to tempt my appetite.

I must admit that my appetite is not what it used to be. However, I'm not losing weight - in fact, my trousers are often rather tight, and sometimes need letting out. But I'm usually the hungriest at breakfast time, and Doogie makes a grand porridge. Porridge has always been my favourite breakfast food, and I have it with honey. I think it is the reason for my long and healthy life. Perhaps that is my Scots blood showing through. But as well as porridge, I eat an egg and sometimes sausage, or haggis, when Doogie can convince Larners, our local delicatessen to get it in. And I like toast or ryevita with home-made marmalade. We have always had home-made marmalade. Pounds and pounds of it, we made, and when my dear wife Betty became too sick with her arthritis and Parkinson's disease she instructed me on how to make it and a jolly good job I made of it too. Philip says we shouldn't cook it in an aluminium saucepan, but we have done for dozens of years, and haven't suffered yet, so that doesn't show much for his theory about dangerous amounts of aluminium leaching into the marmalade.
 
Philip is a chemist as I was. I was so proud when he decided to follow in my footsteps and read Chemistry at Oxford. But he went farther than I could, and he got his PhD as well. He then taught at Sedburgh, a fine public boys' school in Cumbria, or North Yorkshire as it was then, where we had many fine walking holidays over the years. But after two years, he decided to go to the States to do research, and when he returned after two years to take up a post at Manchester University, teaching Chemistry, he brought back with him a wife and a baby daughter, Stephanie.

That was a bit of a shock to us, I can tell you, but we have grown to know and love Jean, his American wife, and I can now happily say, that I am pleased that he found her. She has become a proper English woman and has been a good helper to him in all these years that they have been together. But I can tell you, when we heard that he was marrying an American who was also a Catholic, both Betty and I were very upset and found it hard to believe that it would work out for the best.

But again, I am digressing from the subject. I am hopeless these days at keeping my mind on the present, and forever am remembering the past, when I was fit and life was interesting and full. I am not complaining, because I know that I am old, and one has to give in to one's body's weaknesses when the time comes, but I can't help myself remembering of when it was different and life was fuller.

But the subject at hand is Doogie, and his very good care of me over a very long time. I already went to great lengths to tell you how well he fed me - and although my appetite is often poor for lunch and supper, it was not because I was not offered the very best and most tempting dishes that Doogie could think of But somehow, after a huge breakfast, and coffee and biscuits mid-morning, by lunchtime, I was almost too tired to feel like eating. But I like my afternoon tea, with cakes and scones and jam, and then when it comes to an evening meal, again I almost feel too tired to eat. My stomach just sort of closes up and although the food looks and smells and tastes delicious, it is just too much for me.

But I must have my wee drop of whisky before meals, and Doogie made sure I was not stinted on that. I'd have another cup of tea after supper and then off for an early night - about 9.30 or so, most nights. I would tell Doogie I could manage very well on my own, but he always came and helped me out of my clothes and into my pyjamas and made sure I was able to have a proper wash. Then I would go to bed, and Doogie would check on me frequently to see if I was sleeping, and have a care over me throughout the long nights.

This is going back a long time now. When Doogie first arrived, he would stay for a month at a time, and then have a week off, and go back to visit his children and mother in Scotland. While he was gone, there would be someone else looking in on me and cooking my meals and cleaning the house. They were all lovely ladies, my bunch of good friends who cared for me. But after a week, Doogie would return, and the routine would get back to normal. Sometimes, Doogie would take me in my wheelchair into town, or even sometimes he had a friend drive us to the coast, so that we could have a day by the sea. He didn't have a car himself, Doogie. He always went back to Scotland by train.

Then about a year ago, a new lady started working and substituting for Doogie when he was gone. Her name is Beryl. She is a very lovely lady - small and dainty and very friendly - chatting to me all the time. I often can't find things to say to people, as my mind is often confused, but with Beryl, it doesn't matter because she does all the chatting and I only have to nod and smile and she is happy. So I more and more looked forward to the times when Doogie would be gone, and Beryl would substitute for him. She would not only talk to me, but she always tried to have some sort of project to keep us occupied during the week that she was there. It was always very exciting and interesting and I suddenly felt much more like I was not so old and worthless, but someone with a contribution still to be made in life - someone who obviously now cared for me - not just as an employee but as a friend and companion.

I have always liked women. Betty was often jealous, although she had no reason to be for I was never unfaithful to her, but I always had many women friends. The women seemed to like me, and I liked them and I enjoyed being in their company. I enjoyed being with my daughters-in-law and granddaughters too. Not that I didn't enjoy my sons and grandsons' company, but somehow I felt like the women in the family were the ones who made it whole and added an extra dimension that men were incapable of finding on their own.

So I relished having Beryl for a frequent companion. I looked forward eagerly to her weeks with me. But I don't in any way want to undermine the value of the friendship I had with Doogie either. But of the two sorts of companion, I was happier with Beryl.

I think Doogie sensed this almost from the beginning, and I could detect an undertone of jealousy and uncertainly with him after Beryl started working regularly as his replacement. He didn't actually criticise her when he was talking to me, but I go the strong impression that he felt that what she and I had done in his absence, he often didn't quite approve of

Then about six months ago, Doogie announced that he was getting married, to Jackie, one of the Medicare staff, whom he had known for some time. Of course I wished him well. I had hoped to attend his wedding at the registry office, but it didn't work out in the end. But with his new life and new wife, and a new house nearby, Doogie could no longer work the pattern that he had been accustomed to. So he agreed to work one week on, and one week off, with Beryl coming in the meantime. I must admit that I was very pleased with the arrangement because it meant that I would see at least twice as much of my friend Beryl, and I greatly looked forward to her weeks on.

But it didn't take long for there to be a bitter rivalry between the two of them. Doogie wasn't happy with what happened when Beryl was here, and visa versa. I felt like I was being the rope in a tug of war, with each side trying to get me to say their way was better and the other way was in some way lacking. Each was trying so hard to do the best for me, but at the same time it was a competition to see if they could do better for me than the other one could.

I understand that each of them called my various sons to complain against the other. Each felt that they were doing the correct job and that in consequence the other's service was in error.

Doogie complained that he didn't think Beryl was strong enough to help me when on the very rare occasion I need a bit more assistance with walking or getting up.

Beryl complained that Doogie wasn't taking a proper interest in my welfare - having me outside for many hours when it was not very warm, and I caught a rather chesty cold.

Doogie said that Beryl never checked on my progress at night, when I was often sleepless - but Beryl said that she did check and I slept well when she was here. Back and forth it went - week after week. I liked them both, but I felt as if I was expected to pick a winner from a competition. Beryl made a tape of me going through my daily activities and sent it to my sons. She so much wants them to know that she takes good care of me.

Now Doogie has left. He was supposed to be here last Monday for his week, but he didn't come. He never said good-bye to me, but told his wife that he was not coming back to his job. I don’t know why. 

But I had Beryl even longer than usual this last fortnight and I am not complaining in the least. She is so caring and makes me feel so special. I like her very much. Sometimes, I think I am married to her - as it seems to natural to have her in my house, doing things for and with me. I sometimes try to kiss her and hold her hand, but she says it isn’t proper and that I mustn’t mix her up with my wife. She had a party the other day for all my old Gresham friends and she was a natural hostess. I feel more alive when she is here with me. So as far as I am concerned, it has all worked out for the best. I liked Doogie and valued his friendship and companionship for the time he was with me, but he is gone now, and life must go on. Beryl is making my life special again.

It is sometime since I felt like writing, so things have changed again. Beryl also has left me. She was offered a good job as Assistant Matron at a Nursing Home in Sheringham, and she sent me a brochure about it and a very fine place it looked indeed. She came to see me once too, but we were both awkward and didn't quite know what to say. I felt so lost when she left me, but understood that she needed to go. She said she missed me too, and something that I'm not quite sure about. She said, "I am sure than I am missing you more than you are missing me." How could that be when the days were so much brighter when she was here? Now they seem very grey indeed on occasions.

I am not without friends who come to help me and care for me. Tim comes one week, and Ellie the next. They do very well for me and I like them very much. But life is not as exciting as once it was - and I miss Doogie and Beryl very much - when I can remember to. And now I can’t really remember why I started to write all this down.