Alistair

I met Alistair Davidson in 1997 when LP and I were visiting the Carlisle Cathedral. In his 50s, portly and good-natured, he was the guide who really kept us entertained and interested in gothic structures and the "rich history of north England's religious past".

It must have been some sort of wild chemistry, coz the three of us hit it off straightaways. Imagine wicked humour, mischevious demeanour and witty sarcasm all lumped into one brewing concoction. No stirring needed.

Anyways, Alistair had a ball of a time (which prob explained why he invited us to his home for Sunday dinner that week). Since LP had gone back to London, the invite was directed at me.

I accepted with glee, being the social animal that I was (and still am). Any kind of social activity was most welcomed in Carlisle, and I was eager to know Alistair and his wife Pat better.

Unfortunately, as the dinner drew nearer, I started to have reservations and doubts. Why had I been so rash to accept? What if they are serial killers who prey on foreigners and proceeded to serve body parts the following meal? Eeek... paranoia working overtime....

The big day arrived. I had to keep to my word. Made my way to their house on the other side of town with a real sense of unease. I just didn't know what to expect.

When Pat opened the door, I thought I was doomed. She reminded me of the photo of the English serial killer I saw while browsing the crime section of the bookstore. It didn't help when their house was dimly lit, stuffy and overheated. I was asked to sit on the sofa, and was offered a drink while we made small talk.

All these while my mind and heart were racing, "calm down... locate the nearest exit, lock your attention there while showing these people how interested you are in their conversation...and don't drink too much... might be spiked..."

Finally dinner was served. It took me a while to get used to mushy peas and really tender roasts, but Pat's Yorkshire puddings were to die for... until today I can still taste it at the tip of my tongue...

We talked a lot that evening, about everything and anything. In fact, I spent almost every Sunday evening with Alistair and Pat for the next 2 years. Alistair retired working at the train station and was an avid modeler. He made all those 'cute toy soldiers' which he would display on his shelves at home. He loved history, and would take me to the much lesser-known parts of northern England and Scotland to show me castles, cathedrals and churches. Of course, I accompanied him on his trainspotting trips as well, though that has never really caught on.

Alistair loved to paint too, oil, watercolours, you name it. I had grown to love this man and his wife, both unassuming, kind and just regular people. We did something every Sunday. In the summer months it would be fishing, visiting the Fells or birdwatching at his huge backyard. One year he wrangled an invitation for me to speak to the children in his grand-daughter's school (they wanted to know more about people from Asia). During winter we would stay heated indoors while talking about anything from the state of world affairs to the price of beans.

During the last few months of my time in England, Alistair's health had taken a turn for the worse. Instead of his usual walking stick, he needed to be put on a wheelchair. Still, he was spirited, and even attended one of my church's services. Later, he would be confined to his wheelchair in his bedroom upstairs. Even so, he would be snarky when I spoke to him over the phone halfway across the world. I realised his strength was failing, even though his spirit wasn't.

During our last few conversations, we talked about life, death and eternal salvation. He assured me we will meet again, if not on earth.

Meanwhile, I miss my friend.