The Dead Don’t Die
My friend M died sixty-one years ago.
The first time I met him, I took an instant dislike to him. It was our first day at The Royal College, the top secondary institution of Mauritius. M had come top in the entrance exam, and mine was just a common garden admission.
On that first day, we gathered in the room of our common form master, or tutor, we were twenty six or twenty-eight, and he began by giving us a French dictation. The word “joug” meaning yoke, was the one word nobody had heard before, and we all spelled it “joue”, or cheek, All, that is, except M, who got it right. I took an instant dislike to him.
Over the years I cannot have spoken to him more than twice. When we finished our secondary education, many of us sought a teaching position in the secondary school sector. Anybody who had completed their secondary exams was deemed fit enough to teach secondary, as schools were opening at a faster rathe than teachers could be formally trained.
On my first morning, new to this rather prestigious school run by a Scottish rector, in the Scottish tradition, except that it was co-ed, my heart sank as I saw M, smartly dressed carrying an immaculate briefcase arriving into the staff room where I was waiting anxiously. All the pride of being a teacher at St Andrew’s College dissolved in my resentment of seeing him arrive to spoil my fun. As I was the only familiar face, he made directly for me, and told me how pleased he was to see a friendly face.
A week later, we were best friends.
We were young and enthusiastic, did not look too different from our charges in age, playing football with them, and as we were possibly natural teachers, the kids took to us. We organised many extra-curricular activities for them, including forest walks and hill climbing, and spent four of the best years of our lives there. Together we learned ballroom dancing, to play tennis, and to chase girls. In those days a girl would only talk to you if you indicated that you had serious intentions, but there were some good-time girls who would go out with you if you were ready to spend money on them- part-time prostitutes. We were both earning good money. As a rule, they came with you to a rented place, usually a bungalow at the sea-side, and you brought food and drinks, had the time of your life.
Neither of us had planned to stay in the post, as M planned to go to the UK for university studies in Mathematics. I would have loved to do the same, but there was the question of money. I decided that when he left home, I would do the same, with the intention of finding a job in London and studying at Birkbeck College, which offered evening courses, possibly for a degree in English.
We travelled together by boat from Port-Louis to Marseille, and from there caught the Channel train to London.
Surprisingly I got a teaching job in a London school, and a place at Birkbeck. M went to Manchester. We exchanged letters once every week or fortnight. The Maths course was demanding, and he was coping quite well, but he complained of loneliness and depression. He confided to me that the highlight of his week was Friday evening when he regularly went to a pub in Moss Side and picked a woman for sex. He had also become a music buff, devoted to Sir John Barbirolli, the conductor of the Hallé Orchestra. He came to London to spend Christmas with me.
He did not seem to relish the idea of going back north, but I saw him off at Euston Station.
Suddenly one morning in February I got a letter from him, which began with the ominous words, quand tu liras better letter, when you read this letter … I immediately phoned the Manchester police and told them about M planning to gas himself. I went to my teaching job, and crying and shaking I told my head teacher about it, and he lent me some money, and urged me to go to Manchester straight away.
After my phone call the police arranged for him to be rescued, and he was in a coma in hospital. Shortly after he passed away. When the balance of his mind was disturbed, was the verdict of the coroner.
At the time of M’s death, besides my day job, I had been able to get a place in the English honours course at Birkbeck. Professor T, the head of department had made a few sarcastic remarks about me, and I took it that he had taken a dislike to me, so I decided to leave the course and try to gain admission to read Maths at Manchester. I was delighted when I got accepted, and in September I moved north.
Only recently, I was musing about the six decades following M’s passing. I have never stopped missing him, I often remember with a smile the many things we did together. I must have told his favourite funny story hundreds of times myself since:
Elderly woman calls the police to complain about a neighbour opposite undressing in front of his open window. They send a cop to investigate. The irate woman points at a window opposite, on a higher level than hers. The officer looks and shakes his head. Sorry ma’am, I can’t see anything. No you can’t, agrees the plaintiff, but if you stand on the high table you can.
His favourite joke had become mine. My first lodgings when I went to Manchester was two doors away from where he died, in Landsdowne road. A weekly visit to Moss Side was also a regular happening for me. I regularly attended concerts at the Free Trade Hall, the home of the Hallé Orchestra, I had given up my English studies to embark on Maths studies. Like him, I had become a jogger and a bridge player.
No, they don’t die, they take over.
