Dear Peter. I have many memories of him. They start in Rodenhurst Road, southwest London, where we met in our early 20s. We were sharing a house with three other people, but Peter was the one I stayed friends with even after I left England at 28. Peter was already in therapy, and he loved to talk. But he loved to listen too, and he was good at it. We would sit up talking, about love, life, psychology, music, science, everything under the sun, long after everyone else had gone to bed, accompanied of course by the inevitable fags, cups of coffee (him) and glasses of wine (me). Peter’s kindness, support and ability to listen helped me on many occasions. His insight, sometimes hard to swallow but never unkind, also helped me make some difficult decisions. The fact that he recognized his own fragility helped me to admit mine.
Even after I went off to the Netherlands, France, Africa, the US and so on, we stayed in touch. We even went on holiday together when I was living in France. We were talking on the `phone. “I’m fed up,” he said. “I’m fed up too,” I replied. “Let’s go on holiday together.” From Paris, I booked us an Egyptian cruise, down the Nile.
And so we found ourselves on a boat in North Africa with a bunch of French people. Peter was fascinated by everything. I remember we made friends with one French couple in particular. Peter talked, but he also loved to observe: the boats, the landscape, the sounds, smells, birds, animals and also the people. He often surprised me with his perceptive comments, which were sometimes funny but never unkind.
Our guided tours of ancient Egyptian sites were all in French. In our last conversation on the telephone, just before he died, he reminded me of a particular day. “You remember how I got fed up with not understanding the French and walked off on my own?” he asked. “I found myself alone at sunset and the bats sang to me. It was amazing!”
I have many other memories too, including listening to him practise stand-up comic routines, posing for photos in his photographic phase, the flat in Brighton, the rescued white cat called Brian, listening to Philip Glass and our last meeting in London when we went to the theatre together.
I think Peter’s life was not easy, but nobody’s is. He had a gentle and creative soul and gave to many people despite his own problems. I regret that I did not get to see him in time in Frome, where he was happier in his last days. At least we had that `phone conversation. He told me he had few regrets and was not afraid to die.
Peter will always stay in my heart. I hope the bats and the birds are still singing for him. Thank you, my friend. Rest in peace.