I like to talk about my friends. I talk about them often because I love them and I know that I owe them my life. I never really knew the true value of friendship before Charlie died. All of my emotional focus was centred on him, and I tended to keep most people at arm's length. When he died, I had no choice other than to embrace those people who were trying so hard to support me. They kept my head above water for such a long time, and now that I am strong again I am fully able to appreciate what a rare and precious gift I have. Friendship is, without doubt, the most important gift that comes from death. You learn who really loves you, and in doing so, you learn to love yourself. It is something that can never be taken for granted and great care must be taken to nurture and maintain the friendship of those closest to you. I am incredibly lucky to have the friends that surround me now. They gave to me at a time when I had nothing, and they gave without asking anything in return. We have reached a happy equilibrium now, and I find myself being able to return their generosity in a variety of different ways.

Two of the friends who have shown the most kindness to me are my ex-neighbours, Walker and Deb. They have been constant in my life; reliable and true, they have kept a watchful eye on me for the last six years. I knew if I ever had a problem, I could walk up the square, knock on their door and be welcomed inside. They never turned me away when I asked for their help; they fed me, nurtured me and comforted me through my darkest times. Walker is a thoughtful and loving Godfather to Alice, and I see him as my unofficial guardian and protector. Deb has all the best qualities of a mother and sister combined. She is forever patching me up after I've injured myself in some DIY mishap or other, and is a wise counsel in times of trouble. I love them both, I owe them both, but sometimes there is simply no way of paying back that which has been given unasked.

And now my friends are leaving the village and I feel bereft. They are only moving a mile away, but even a mile seems such a long way. They have just taken on a project that will probably take them the rest of their working lives to bring to fruition. Walker and Deb have always wanted to own a water mill, and when one came up for sale recently, they took a gamble and made an offer.

The mill is now theirs, and it has to be said that they have a bit of a job on their hands. The mill is a building that I used to drive past regularly. I loved it then, as I love it now and I am so glad that my friends are the new owners. Mysterious and romantic, it is seated at the foot of a beautiful, wooded valley, and is a higgledy piggledy, slate-hung confection of a building. It must have been an arresting sight in its working heyday, but they closed the doors on the flour mill in 1964 and now it stands, a tired, neglected shadow of its former self. The massive cast iron mill wheel is still in place, and behind the wooden mill doors is a sight reminiscent of the interior working of a huge, wooden clock, with dusty cogs and wheels, pulleys and trapdoors all still in place. The ticking sound that can be heard comes from the deathwatch beetles that are slowly eat away the massive lintels, but Walker and Deb are undaunted; they have a clear vision of how it will be, but for now they know they have a monumental task on their hands.

I took my girls to visit last weekend. We walked around the pretty cottage garden, poked around the mill, gasped at the hideous wallpaper, and gazed in awe at the huge mill wheel pit, which will eventually be glazed over and converted in to a wine cellar. I have every admiration for my friends, but admiration is not much use when you are exhausted after having spent a day hacking at ivy and rotten floor joists. As I drove away from the mill after our last visit I suddenly realised that I had a chance to repay Walker and Deb for some of the kindness they have shown me over the years. They fed me, week in, week out, at a time when I was too distraught to feed myself, and I can never, will never, forget that act of friendship. I always say that making a meal is the kindest thing you can do for a person in times of trouble. It is an act of love, because it involves thought and care, and washing up. It is such a small thing, but will make a huge difference to a person who is in the depths of despair.

I am no longer in despair. I am in full control of all my mental faculties, and last week I was also in possession of a large portion of raw oxtail. I knew how much Walker and Deb loved my oxtail in Madeira, I knew they would be exhausted at the end of the day, and I knew that the very best thing they could stagger home to, would be a hot bath and a meal cooked by somebody else.

The oxtail has special qualities. I've made it dozens of times now for all kinds of people, and it appears to have the remarkable ability of being able to elicit a groan from every man who eats it. Sometimes women groan too, but mostly it's the men who do it. It's something about the mouth-melting tenderness of the meat, and the unctuousness of the Madeira-laden sauce that renders men almost weak with gratitude. Deb says I should sell it, but I prefer like to save it for special people and special occasions.

Walker and Deb loved their oxtail stew, they emerged from their bath to find it sitting on their kitchen counter. Red wine and hot stew are the perfect antidote to a day of hard physical labour, and I was happy to be able to repay a small part of their kindness to me. If I could make them oxtail stew every day for a year, it would still not reflect just how much gratitude I have for the lovely Lapthornes. Walker and Deb, you are the true embodiment of good Samaritans and I'm going to miss not having you around.


© Kate Boydell 2004. All rights reserved. e-mail: [email protected]. Close window.