28 July 2014
The glorious sunset that made me smile on my way home from work on Thursday night was Commando Senior’s last. I’d like to think he looked out of his window and smiled at it too. At some point during the night or the early hours of Friday the world became a poorer place. We knew we’d have to let him go but we’d wanted to be there holding his hand as he set off on that final journey. In typical fashion he had other ideas, or Mother Nature did.
There were tears but they were for us and what we’d lost not for him. No one could have wished to keep him longer in the pain and suffering that was almost too hard to watch. This is a path we must all take, leaving the comfort of our homes and lives never to return. No one knows where it leads or what will be at the end. We had wanted to see him off and wish him farewell and it hurt to think he’d set off alone without our goodbyes.
His neighbour found him in his little crooked house on the living room floor in the exact same place his beloved wife, April, had been two years earlier. As I knelt and held his icy hand then kissed his cold cheek I got the sense he hadn’t been alone at all. She had been with him. An image came into my head of her curled around him, holding him and whispering in his ear that she was there. Whether this is wishful thinking or not I don’t know but it was so strong it felt real and it gave me comfort.
Albert Donald James Keates came from humble beginnings. The eldest son of a stevedore living in a terraced house in Central Southampton he had an almost obsessive thirst for knowledge, like a magpie gathering shiny things, he collected it wherever he found it. The curious boy kicking his legs on a wall in a city mangled by war watched a dog fight in the skies above and developed a love of planes and flight. As a young man he volunteered for the Royal Air Force.
Another of his loves was dancing and, of course, just dancing was never going to be enough for Albert. Before too long he was teaching and one of his pupils, April, became the great love of his life. She was seven years younger and, no doubt, impressed by the attentions of such a handsome and intelligent young teacher. Their marriage spanned more than fifty years and produced two children, one of them my own Commando.
Albert was a plumber by trade, having left school at fifteen to take up an apprenticeship and, in 1967, started his own business as a heating engineer. Honesty and hard work saw the business thrive. A kind heart, his love of a good chat and a propensity to fix a leaky tap for an old lady for nothing meant he would never be rich but his family never went without either.
His other love was flying. In his middle years when time and money allowed, he flew whenever he could. It was a family joke that, if the sky was blue, he would have dashed off to Popham Airfield and hopped in a plane. This was more than a hobby, it was his joy and it only ended when age made it impossible to continue.
Even then there were no thoughts of retirement. He couldn’t leave all his regular customers in the lurch, besides he loved the art of plumbing and the social interaction. The longevity of his business captured the attention of the press in 2011 and he became something of a minor celebrity as Britain’s Oldest Plumber. There was even an interview on the local news along with several newspaper articles. Sadly, April’s failing health meant he finally had to hang up his wrench in 2012.
Albert Donald James Keates was a man who lived life to the full, grasping every moment. The world is a poor place without him and we, his family, will miss him.
Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.