On the line

I was working away in a Spanish cafe today, doing book stuff, when the phone rang. It was my wife, in tears, telling me our next-door neighbour, or next-field neighbour, John, had just died. She was upset and was talking about how much his family would miss him: husband, father, granddad, our kids, and us.

John often appeared at the very worst time of the day (dinner time), climbing over our drystone wall, knocking at the door, oblivious to kids covered in spaghetti and tomato sauce, and exasperated (but welcoming) Vanessa. I never minded; every visit was a treat.

“Cup of tea?” I’d ask. And he always said yes.

He’d come to talk about the war in Ukraine, or Israel, or something real and with meat on it. John was part Norm Chomsky, part Alaskan pipeline welder, Irish, but with an American passport, one-time resident of Fairbanks, but now here, at the other end of a world and of life.

John was from that generation that didn’t send you links to things but brought them around and printed them out. I always read them, as it felt wrong not to, as ignoring a sheaf of paper is more guilt-inducing. He’s been the last person I’d see before coming away, catching me while packing the car to pass on some print outs.

Being in his 70s (I think), his take and where he got it from (websites I’d never heard of) were not the same as mine, but we had something you don’t get much these days: conversations. He’d say something, and I’d add something, and he’d respond, and I’d think about it, and then we’d go on. By the time he’d left, the kids would be in the bath, and my mind would be less made up on a topic than when he’d come around, which is maybe how minds are meant to me.

I would often think, and will continue too I suppose: “I wonder what John thinks?”

Sometimes I’d wonder if it wasn’t so much about Ukraine or Isreal, but more like a father and son talking about football; it was just lovely to talk to people, like people used to speak, without fear of upsetting them, catching a tripwire. Maybe me and John had missed the update or patch, maybe we were still running Windows 98. Sure, we were probably both fools, but I don’t think we ever heard an echo.

One topic John loved to talk about was Alaska, where he’d helped build the Alaskan pipeline. This job seemed to have attracked—like Alaska always does—many crazy people looking to make their fortunes or escape what would otherwise be ordinary lives.

He’d tell me about life on the line, the characters, the bust-ups, the fuck ups, and of life off the line, fishing for salmon, living an everyday family life in an extreme environment (and people).

You could tell a part of John really missed Alaska, the life on the line, the harsh life, not the soft, and maybe he saw the same in me. I got the impression that when I said I was going away, I was taking part of him away with me, and yet, here we were, neighbours, friends, conversationalists, our kids and grandkids around us, living like kings.