The Man Who Spoke in Whispers

(for Jim Ducker) The growth plundered your voice, robbing it of tone; you spoke in well-articulated whispers, inhaling through that tube thing in your throat. You shone, in spite of it all. No self-pity, even near the end, after years of speaking to us in breaths the way you did – yet you had a voice, old friend. Always the bright guy at the bar, you brought a twinkle even to a whisper; a susurrus of wit would penetrate the tedious tones of those for whom EastEnders and the latest from The X Factor provided fodder for barroom babble. Struggling to be heard but stubbornly winning with smiles and quips, you were never less than sparky with your crackling one-liners and the percussion of your Good Advice. Quite suddenly you died; thirteen months ago you died. You would not wish me to reach for a soppy synonym. You did not pass away: you died, you died, you died. I handled your affairs – so long ago, it seems; but time and distance are such fragile things, and grief is no respecter of them: whisper its name and it will return to you.