Fundamentally, I suppose, man is a solitary creature. What goes on in the deepest parts of a man’s head and heart is ultimately unknowable to anyone else. And certainly in the real crises of life, including death, man finds himself very much alone. Yet in between times men are pre-eminently social animals. Some of the greatest satisfaction we ever get we find in the fellowship of others.
A long time ago, it may be nearly 45 years, a group of us used to meet on Sundays to partake of mutton curry, drink Houston Blue Label, and talk and argue endlessly. We ranged over all the mysteries and despairs while rum flowed and the curry pot passed round. Everywhere in the world, in every age, countless similar groups come together with convivial regularity to relax and take a steam and have a gaff and taste the sweets of the companionship between men. It is an immemorial activity. It is one of the best things in life.
At the core of our group those many years ago were Makepeace Richmond, Sonny Rodway, Gig Delph, Terry Lee, Neil Savory, Roy Dookun, Bertie Taitt and myself. Others came and went but these were staunch. Our gatherings were full of good humour, good fellowship and endless talk and sharp argument. A less stereotyped group you could not wish to meet. Those Sundays were a good thing in our lives. Of that multi-natured group only Roy and I remain. We still remember and laugh a lot in remembering.
The snapshot which brought back my memory of those Sundays was of HL ‘Bertie’ Taitt. He was one of those people whose image and personality and style can be summoned up immediately and exactly no matter how many years pass.
He loved music and I could never follow him or Sonny Rodway into the complex depths of their knowledge of that subject. He also loved tennis and there I could match him. He loved to plan intricate strategies against his tennis opponents. Who could ever forget Bertie Taitt plotting the overthrow of a steady baseliner?
“You see, just float the ball deep into his backhand, advance upon the net, calculate the probable angle, and cut off the return. Just tuck it away when he tries to pass you. Tuck the volley away. The man isn’t a genius you know.”
And on court, his string-thin body alert on stilt legs, full of determination, he would do exactly that – except that all too often he would tuck it away for a loser into the net and then the damns and blasts would flow. But always he would be undeterred as he pointed out how the theory was alright only the execution was sometimes a little wayward. I delight in the memory of Bertie Taitt and his marvellous tennis strategies.
I said he loved music and tennis. But then he also loved anything worth an argument and that after all includes pretty well everything in the world. With Bertie in the group, disputation was inexhaustible. He was unshakeable in his dogmatisms. Furious arguments raged around his outrageous dictums obstinately maintained against all-comers. It would have been infuriating except that he was our friend Bertie and you made allowances – which, when you think about it, is the basis of all friendship and, indeed, of all love. You make allowances because the man is infinitely more than the sum of his faults and foibles.
Once, exasperated beyond endurance, I said to him that he brought to mind a famous saying of one of my old schoolmasters at Queens Royal College in Trinidad, Grant Elcock Pilgrim, greatest of men if you use the word great rightly. Mr Pilgrim was accustomed to say to boys in his class who ventured definitive answers without too much factual knowledge: “When you learn, you know; when you don’t learn, you don’t know and then you guess like a fool.” I challenged Bertie with the quotation. But he was quite unabashed. “I don’t see how that applies to me. I never guess,” he said, “I always know.” What could one do but laugh and take another Houston and ice in a big tumbler. I delight in the memory of Bertie Taitt, old dogmatist and friend.
It is a long, long time since Bertie Taitt sat on my veranda and took a rum and helped himself to mutton curry and dhal puri and laid down the law on this and that. It makes me sad to think how quickly time goes by and ends. It is long, long ago but I cannot forget. Such times, such men, are among the best things that happen to anyone in a lifetime.
No one can be sure what prospect beckons after death, if any at all. But one might suppose that if there is something it will be more perfect than what we now experience. However, not, I think, so perfect as to satisfy my old friend Bertie. “Now, God,” I think I hear him say as he sips a glass of nectar on the high balcony of heaven, “Now, God, it’s quite simple. If you do it this way I’m sure you’ll find it works better.” And leaning forward intently he will continue: “Let me explain, God, before these, excuse me, fools confuse you.” And, right or wrong, the ensuing discussion will I know be stimulating and entertaining. When the time comes it will be worth joining if only to hear Bertie say once more, “Now, Mackers, what do you have to say that might lead us from darkness into light?”
