Each month a reader writes to a loved one in the afterlife and Mandy Masters tunes in to share their reply. This month Mary Christou writes to her partner Cliff…
Fate reunited us
Dear Cliff,
Opening Facebook, I saw a message on the new group I’d joined. It was for people who’d grown up in London’s Queens Park and I’d been hoping to reconnect with some old pals. Let’s all add each other as friends, one chap called Ricky had written.
I remember him! I thought. And I remembered you — his brother — too.
The two of you used to hang about outside the school gates on your motorbikes. A right pair of bad boys you were!
Clicking on Ricky’s profile, I added him as a friend. Or so I thought.
‘Whoops,’ I sighed, getting myself in a right old muddle. I’d added you by accident! Sorry about that, I typed, sending you a message. I got the wrong brother!
LOL, you wrote back. You can chat to me instead if you like.
And I thought: Why not? I remember you from school, but you were a bit older than me, I typed. Do you remember me?
No, sorry, you replied. But it doesn’t matter. You seem nice —let’s get to know each other better!
We spent the next hour swapping messages back and forth.
It turned out that Ricky still lived in London with his girlfriend Kim, and you were in Bournemouth.
Two weeks later, I just happened to be in Bournemouth visiting a friend, so I sent you a message to see if you still fancied meeting up. Yes! you replied.
The two of us had our own little reunion at a clifftop café. ‘Look at you!’ I smiled, although truth be told you’d always had your helmet on, so I’d never seen you close up in your younger days.
Still, I certainly liked what was in front of me now, what with your twinkly eyes and laid-back energy.
We spent the next hour catching up over a coffee, recalling the past 40 years. Yours was quite a story.
You’d been in a punk band called Dirty Dog as a teenager with Ricky, and released a single which had done quite well. After that though, your life had spiralled out of control and you’d been in and out of prison.
Now 51, you were divorced with five children, and you were trying to straighten out your life.
Some people might have run for the hills at hearing that, but I could tell you were really trying as you told me all about the voluntary work you’d been doing helping old people with IT problems.
I could see you were a good person — and kind.
‘I take people as I find them,’
I told you. ‘Whatever happened, it’s in the past.’
You looked relieved as you asked about me.
‘There’s not muc
