That sounds like we’re about to meet up. We’re not as far as I know, and yet I’m sure I’ll see Eddie in moments yet to come.
Somehow it’s easier to write a eulogy for someone you didn’t know very well (Geoff Gudgion), than it is for someone you did. Even if you didn’t really know him all that well or see him regularly. Following a fierce battle with Alzheimer’s and cancer, our dear friend Eddie Orf has gone. Eddie leaves brothers, sons, grandchildren, his wife, Debbie, plus countless others who knew and loved him. Debbie nursed him with profound dedication and love, right up until the moment when neither love nor dedication could make any difference. And then beyond.
We met Eddie at the Stationers’ Hall in London in March 2014. It was an ISO committee event to celebrate some committee member’s retirement. Eddie was wearing a dark green wooly jumper and had a look in his eye that was at once appraising of the august surroundings and making a shrewd observation of the people. These were all people he didn’t know: Debbie’s work colleagues, me, Paul and various anonymous hangers on. He was in a seriously posh location surrounded by conversations at once impenetrable and irrelevant to him. And yet he had an air of authority, of cool, like he was the one in control and that he was only there to make sure the event went as planned. He brought that air of quiet dignity to everything he did, calm, even tempered, kind and empathetic. And always so very generous with his gentle spirit.
It’s been over 11 years since that first meeting when we four hung out at our respective flats, somewhere in Canary Wharf. Back then posh unsold flats were the cheapest place to stay in that part of town. The developers couldn’t sell the places and wisely rented them out. You could get a luxuriously appointed two bedroomed flat for a week for the same price as one night in a local hotel. The rest of the US delegation stayed in some dogbox in Beckenham or in overpriced Marriots on the other side of town. For Eddie the oddness of the accommodation was just something to take in stride. He did the same a couple of years ago when he and Debbie once again stayed in London. By then the Alzheimer’s was kicking in so Eddie carried a card from the hotel whenever he went out to conquer the city. He could be anywhere, but he understood that all he had to do was hand a taxi driver the card and ask them to take him home. He and Debbie stayed with us for a few days before they went up to town and it was clear that the memory thing was heading downhill. We just had no idea how quickly it was going. Or perhaps we did but preferred to pretend it wasn’t so bad.
A couple of years after that first meeting we spent a week in Italy with Debbie and Ed, somewhere in the vacinity of Bologna. Eddie wanted to see where his Italian forebears had come from. No one was very sure if they had come from somewhere in the vacinity of Bologna or not, but they were Italian so they might have done. It rained pretty much every day and we cooked together, drank together and took long and winding excursions to places like Modena and maybe Vignola. We went to a Lambrusco winery and brought home a case of the stuff convinced that it was wonderful. It was wonderful in the winery, but it was less wonderful out of the winery. Why do things go that way? The next day, a Thursday, Paul and Eddie ventured out into the rain in search of comestibles. Wisely Debbie and I stayed indoors. Over the course of the afternoon we polished off most of the Lambrusco, along with a more than ample tray of olives and bread and Parmesan. She and I had long talked of doing this, but had expected to be quaffing and nibbling on a terrace overlooking exotic foliage and sundrenched views. We drank our fizzy red wine and ate our tidbits in front of a roaring fire instead, listening to the rain and rising winds. We had prepared the fire, food and wine to share with our men who had gone out for what we all expected was a brief excursion, but they did not return until it was almost dark. Eddie and Paul on the loose and roaming the wide and hilly bounds of Emilia Romagna. In the rain. Not a word of Italian between them. And really not much of idea where they were. And the temptation of village bars and bakeries. What could possibly go wrong?
As it turned out the thing that went wrong was the fact that it was a Thursday. All the local shops had agreed amongst themselves to shut on Thursday afternoons, because it was high season and there were so very many tourists. They were tired you see, so needed that extra bit of time off. I cannot remember – thank you Lambrusco – how cross our returning men were that we had eaten most of the food and drunk most of the wine. This was probably especially tricky because all the shops for miles around had been shut. But Lambrusco or no, I am sure Eddie just smiled and suggested we talk about where to go on Friday. He wanted to go and look at the Mediterranean which he had never seen. This we did a few days later, once we had recovered from the trials of Thursday. Instead we went in search of a restaurant for a special Friday night dinner. We ventured out into the wet and booked a place that we’d passed many times and that looked promising. The views across the towered valley were spectacular and the car park was always full.
But the man at the desk, rather oddly we thought, was reluctant to give us a reservation without a lot of chat none of which any of us could follow. Not even Eddie who was Italian. Fair enough he didn’t speak Italian, but the rest of us were hoping there might have been some sort of inherited, genetic, memory. But no. Eventually the man at the desk stopped explaining whatever it was that was so important and sighed a big sigh. He took the reservation only after his colleague had explained to us the incomprehensible caveat of Tutti Fritti. Si we said, clueless. We thought the explanation might be something to do with Fridays (and yes fritti Fridays was a thing). We trundled home happy that we had a slap up meal to look forward to that evening.
And we did have a slap up meal, a slap up meal that consisted of about eight courses, all of which were fried dishes. All of them. Deep Fried dishes, even the dessert. Fritti. This was actually the Italy Eddie had wanted to see, particularly the copious quantities of wine they included with all the Fritti. We too appreciated the wine, as it had just the right amount of bite to cut through the relentless Fritti grease. It’s quite a thing to have a slap up meal with eight courses that all taste basically the same. It’s traditional apparently. Once we recovered from the short and twisty drive home we were feeling content but still slightly sick; I think we all slept well that night. But that might have been the night Debbie and Eddie hit the Grappa, and maybe didn’t expect to sleep well until it was all gone.
Then came the next excursion, when after two hours slog in the rain negotiating many complicated and dangerous bends we could finally show Eddie the Mediterranean. We passed Lucca and for some reason made for Viareggio, south of La Spezia, probably because the road to it followed the coast. You see there wasn’t much of a plan. Paul made straight for the water under a persistent rain with Eddie not moving to follow. He quite sensibly pointed out that the weather wasn’t really right for sea swimming. So we watched Paul brave the waves and scurry shivering back to us and then we headed back towards wherever it was we were staying, stopping for food and wine on the way.
This is just one little snapshot of time spent with Eddie, time spent with a man whose kindness and gentleness cannot be compared. There are many more and the reminders are frequent, those moments that don’t end and that happen when you least expect it. Eddie was Paul’s best friend and the four of us became solid, unbreachable, forever friends. And now Eddie’s gone and the gap is colossal and as unsurmountable as the walls of our friendship. Time and disease have stolen one of the world’s bestest people. Eddie leaves a massive gap in the lives of his friends and family. But he also leaves a light of goodness and joy that won’t ever go out and for this we thank him. I am honoured to have known the man and cherish the hours we spent in his company. And I’ll cherish forever the last thing he said to me a couple of months before he died: “I don’t know who you are darlin’, but I do know that I love you”. Love you back Ed.
Thank you Laurel. I do love you, we both did.
And I love you too.
I’m very grateful that I learned to know Ed a bit and had the privilege to spend some time with him. It’s a great loss and there is a big empty space inside me now. But there are many fond memories as well, and those will stay with me forever. R.I.P. Ed, and see you again, somehow, somewhere, at some point.