July

Judy set us the challenge of ending our stories with the words ‘and that’s how I ended up, up in a tree.’

Here’s a selection of finished stories:

• Bad Luck Comes in Trees
• Hard Landing
• Short Man Problems
• Escape
• An Exciting Day
• And that’s how I ended up, up in a tree

Bad Luck Comes in Trees

BY JUDY INGMAN

“No, listen, Sue, I know it sounds silly but I’ve been watching him.”

“My God Mother, don’t tell me you’ve drilled a hole in the fence. Although the way you’ve been obsessed with him, I wouldn’t put it past you! Look I’m going now, see you next week and take care.”

With that Sue blew me a kiss banging the front door on the way out.

“I knew she would be like that, Puss, I shouldn’t have told her. From now on it will just be our secret.”

Puss looked at me adoringly. After all I was the lady who fed her. Purring throatily she moved to her dish as I crept out to climb the oak tree. Luckily Sue hadn’t noticed the stepladders leaning against the first branch. I giggled out loud at the face I knew she would have made had she seen them. I could hear her teacher voice,

“Mother, for heavens sake what are you doing climbing a tree at your age? Have you no sense?”

‘What can she know about my age , anyway,’ I thought grumpily as I climbed up and sat safely down on the firm thick branch. Then I moved along slowly to heave myself onto the cushion I had strapped round it. Snuggling down into it I took out my telescope and gazed down through the leafy fronds into Mr Merryweather’s garden. I focussed the telescope onto his back door which I knew would open like clockwork at half past five precisely. Sure enough he came out as usual looking round to check if he was being watched. Then he went to the same exact spot and dug up a rather dirty looking bag, took something out of it, looking round furtively all the time and then buried it back into the earth just as he’d done on the other occasions when I had observed him.

I knew I was quite hidden behind the foliage and could not be seen, but I remembered with embarrassment the first time when I had climbed up during the end of Winter and he had looked up and seen me.

He had shouted out shaking his fist,

“You Tildy lady, you big busybody, you watch out.”

I’d done very well by promptly saying that I had a mobile phone and could only get reception from a height. I’d waved it at him to confirm the truth as I always carried it in my apron pocket. I think he believed me because he had tutted and said that I must have one of the very first to be brought onto the market!

Mr Merryweather had moved in towards the end of Winter and I, Tildy, had been suspicious from the start. As I’d said to other neighbours,

“Merryweather in itself is a funny name for an Arab and he has such funny visitors at all odd times of the night.”

Sadly the other neighbours didn’t seem interested so I knew it was all down to me to keep an eye on him. I’d tried bringing it up with Sue but she’d told me it was none of my business and if I wasn’t careful I’d be accused of being racist and then I would be in trouble.

She didn’t realise how unsettling it was having a stranger next door having visitors late at night and digging up packages in the garden. So I’d ended up confiding in Puss telling him I was convinced Mr Merryweather was a spy and the more I watched him the more convinced I was that there was something very wrong and that some day after all my observations I would be recognised as a saviour of my country. Maybe I’d even be invited to the Palace and meet the queen. That would make Sue and the neighbours sit up and realise they should have listened to me.

I’d already written an anonymous letter to the Police about him but of course as it was anonymous I didn’t know if they had acted at all and I hadn’t seen a single police car come down our avenue so I knew it was down to me. At first if I had heard a siren on the main thoroughfare near us I would put my outdoor shoes on and rush to the front door ready to discuss ‘the Merryweather case’ as I now called it in my mind. But no one came!

I relaxed into position as I quietly looked through my telescope again into his garden but while I’d been musing he’d disappeared back into the house again.

I realised the evening was darkening and it was time for me to climb down. Then, I heard a rustling through the leaves near me. I nearly fell off the branch but then saw it was Puss, who gave a leap and landed in my lap nearly over balancing me. Luckily I managed to hang onto the branch saving myself from a fall but not before my mobile phone and purse fell out of my pocket.

Rather scared and shaken I straightened myself only to hear a voice beneath me, a foreign voice, a Mr Merryweather voice.

“Enjoy your evening, I’ll be away for a while so you can spy to your heart’s content, busybody Tildy Lady. You like the tree, eh? So you can stay there all night yeah” and laughing he took my stepladders and put them in my shed.

He even turned and waved grinning at me, “ciao, busybody lady.”

I suddenly realised my predicament and wailed to Puss,

“Oh Puss, no mobile phone and Sue won’t be back until next week!”.

And that’s how I ended up, up in a tree!!

Hard Landing

BY MICHAEL J HOWARD

The mist lay low on the fields and in the East a perfectly round weak yellow sun attempted to rise above the unkempt hedgerows. As I climbed out of my car, parked close to the open gateway, I shivered as the chill of the early morning contrasted sharply with the cosy warmth of my heated vehicle in which I had been cosseted during my hour long journey.

In the centre of the field lay the hot air balloon, its multi coloured envelope lolloping to one side of the wicker basket like a clown awakening from a deep sleep. One of the three men attending to the equipment had been alerted by the sound of my approaching vehicle and he had turned to face me. He waved to greet me and beckoned for me to approach him.

Close up, the hot air balloon looked enormous. Whilst the top of the envelope still lay on the dew laden grass the ‘business end’ was gaping wide open ready to accept the next blast of hot air. The roar of the propane burner startled me by its intensity and as I watched the hot yellow flames leaping from it, I marvelled that the fabric did not catch alight. Each ‘puff’ of hot air slowly inflated the huge balloon so that, within half an hour it was standing upright. although still rather unstable. It swayed backwards and forwards like a demented demon springing to life. It took another half hour of intermittent heating before the envelope gained its true spherical shape and the apex of the balloon finally permanently pointed skywards.

I had not been idle in the meantime. Having returned to my car and donned a quilted jacket and a cap, I brought the food hamper to the launch area. I had been informed that once the balloon was ready to go we would be off in a flash. I busied myself helping to attend to the restraining guide ropes as the canopy grew larger by the minute and threatened to begin its ascent without us. Finally the moment arrived. In a somewhat disorderly fashion myself, the other passenger and the balloon pilot tumbled into the basket and with a series of discordant shouted commands the ground crew let go of the final tether and we rose silently into the morning sky.

We rose sharply at first. The sun had burned off the early morning mist and now its warming rays were helping to keep our balloon full of hot air. A couple of sharp blasts of the propane burner and we rose steadily to around one thousand five hundred feet above the ground. The silence was absolute, which came as a complete surprise to me. Apart from the odd blast from the burner, there was no ambient noise at all. We slowly drifted West propelled by the early morning land breeze. Our Pilot engaged us in conversation while attending to the myriad small adjustments he had to make to keep us at a steady height. The other passenger and I fired off a series of questions at him which our pilot readily answered.

Looking downwards, I was amazed at the detail I was able to observe. Travelling at ground level by car or train, your view out of the window changes rapidly. Even during a flight in a small aircraft or helicopter, your speed over the ground is such that

objects appear and disappear from your line of sight in seconds. Leaning over the edge of the chest high side of the balloon basket, I was able to concentrate on minute detail. As we passed over a church steeple I could make out the slight twist in its ancient structure and almost count the slate tiles on its sloping sides. It was a wonder of infinite detail unobservable from any other perspective.

Pangs of hunger suddenly struck me and I reached down for the picnic hamper. The three of us opened the foil wrappers and enjoyed warm bacon sandwiches washed down with scalding hot tea from my Thermos flask. All the time the balloon drifted slowly over the open countryside, its silent progress causing no alarm to the cows and sheep grazing peacefully in the fields below us.

After an hour or so, quite out of the blue, our pilot announced that we must soon ‘put down’. He began searching along our projected flight path for a suitable landing site. He pinned his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon. Myself and my fellow passenger were suddenly aware that the balloon was rapidly loosing height. We skimmed over the roofs of a cluster of farm buildings. Our pilot gave the balloon envelope one final and desperate blast from the burner as the propane supply was now almost exhausted.

We were rapidly approaching a small hamlet with little open space available for a successful landing. Directly ahead of us lay a small copse of mature deciduous trees in full leaf. Our pilot shouted a warning to hold on tight. We hit the top few branches of the first tree really hard, the basket tipping over at an alarming angle. We all clung on for dear life. The reaction caused the balloon to lift and we bounced over the crown of the next two or three trees. The initial impact had caused a large rent in the fabric of the balloon and the loud hissing of escaping air signalled the abrupt end of our flight. We came to an an ungainly halt in the bosom of a Beech tree.

And that’s how I ended up, up a tree on my Sixtieth birthday!

Short Man Problems

BY ANN HENDERS

All week people have been talking about the visit, as if nothing else was happening here. Of course, they weren’t actually talking to me about it but as I went about my work I heard them. What day would he come? What time would he come? How many of his friends and supporters would come with him? I almost joined in myself but I didn’t. I can’t waste my time on chit chat and anyway I have to keep a professional distance. I have a very important job. If anyone thought I was interested in something like that they may use it to press for a favour. ‘A little more time please’, ‘not so much interest please’. No! I keep my own counsel. I say nothing but hear all and sometimes, I hear secrets and secrets are powerful currency. I can work them to my advantage. I have a good home, a full larder. Soon I will be asking Thaddeus for his daughter in marriage.  An offer to good for him to refuse.

So, today is the day of the visit. Some of his supporters arrived last night to prepare the way, sort out a venue, spread the word. From early this morning people were at the city gate to greet him and line the street to the main square. It was mayhem. I walked the length of the route searching for a gap but no one gave way to me. All I could see was the back of people’s heads and shoulders. The children slipped through and under the crowd, I had to resort to jumping up but that was too undignified.

 In the square is a big sycamore tree. A lot of older people and women were taking advantage of the shade, they were a bit easier to push through so I could climb the lower branches of the tree. There I waited. In the distance I heard the first roar of the crowd as they saw him approach, the sound rolled and rose like thunder through the narrow street then exploded into the square. I saw him quite clearly, this famous leader of men. What was all the fuss about? He was just a man, dark, average height, dusty feet and clothes but the crowd went wild. As he moved through the square he stopped and looked into the tree. Smiled and waved to me as if he expected me to be there.

‘Zacheus! My friend! Hurry up and get down from that tree, I will be dining at your house tonight’.

The crowd was silent, then someone shouted

‘But he’s a tax collector and he’s been cheating us for years’

The Leader looked at me and smiled and I heard my own voice say

‘Don’t worry, I will give you back four fold all the money I have taken’

The crowd cheered, the leader continued on his way and I remain, up this tree, dumbfounded by the words that have just left my mouth and wondering what I have at home to feed my guest this evening.

Escape

BY SUE WATKINSON

I’ve been on my own for far too long. The litter tray is full and my bowls are empty. The cat flap is locked shut, just in case I decide to escape or that pesky cat from next door climbs in to annoy me. I gave it a good beating last time that happened and we haven’t been on good terms since then. But it might forget and try again one day. I’m going to find a look-out position to check when the car comes in. Then I’ll saunter down the stairs, turning my back on the family to show my extreme displeasure at being left all day and most of the evening too.

AT last, here they are. Action stations – top step, ready, steady go – down one by one, lazy saunter, head turned away. I can hear the calls and coos but something is amiss. I can smell – dog! And it’s in my house. It’s an instinct, a primeval response. Cat hates dog. No arguments. Whatever are they doing, why ever have they allowed a dog to come in here?  Mistress bends down to show me a bundle wrapped in a blanket.

‘Look,’ she says, all soppy baby talk voice, ‘we’ve brought a little friend for you to play with.’ couchie, couchie, coo. ‘Look Theo, here’s your big sister come to say hello.’

And there it was, a small creature smelling of dog, looking like dog but tiny, smaller than me, with a squashed tomato sort of face, hair sticking up on its ears and big, wide eyes.

Of course I reacted as only a cat can do. The fur on my back rises stiffly, my claws extend ready to fight, my eyes narrow to slits and a low growl comes from my throat. I must make my position clear.

Mistress tries again. The bundle is opened up and the contents tipped out on the carpet. She picks me up and puts me close to the creature. Without being able to stop myself I lash out with one paw, catching the material with my claws. Dog retreats looking anxious. Good, cat one, dog nil. ‘Don’t do that,’ Mistress tells me, ‘Theo is a new friend, be kind to him, he’s just left his Mummy.’ As if I care, my Mummy is a long distant memory, I make my own way in life, that’s what cats do. They walk alone. ‘Make Theo welcome,’ they tell me, ‘he’s going to live here with us.’

How could they do this to me? I’ve been their loyal and constant companion for the past three years. I’ve put up with their nauseous children: being dressed up and taken for walks in the dolls’ pram, having my tail pulled and my fur rubbed the wrong way by the clumsy, fat paws of their young son and daughter. I’ve been patient and thought of my regular meals, my warm bed, Not once have I reacted badly, no biting, scratching, yowling or, as they call it, caterwauling like that tom cat from two gardens’ away. How is he going to react to Theo? My money is on the tom. All these thoughts race through my head as I back off, watch and wait for developments, cursing gently as only a wronged cat can do.

Master is losing patience, I can tell. He goes to the back door, opens it. Then he picks me up and throws me out into the garden. The indignity of it, in front of new dog. And then, as if inspired by this unnecessarily cruel treatment, dog growls too and, on tiny legs, begins to run towards the door. He sees me outside and increases his pace.

I do, quite instinctively, what cat has done throughout millennia. I run away and reach the only tree of any size in the garden. I leap and clamber up the trunk until I reach a low branch where I sit and spit and curse. Theo puts his front paws on the trunk and makes a sound that might be an embryo bark, now more of a squeak. But I’m safe and here I’m going to stay until he’s removed from my territory. Theo can’t reach me, dog cannot climb, cat is safe. ‘Well stay there,’ shouts Master, carrying Theo back into the house. The door is slammed shut.

And that’s how I ended up, up in a tree.

An Exciting Day

BY LIZ DIXON

‘Gillian? It’s Angela. My day’s been so much fun – I’ve been stuck in a tree! You must meet me for a glass of wine, dear, so I can tell you all about it.’

Earlier that day, Angela had shimmied into an old floral cotton dress. She glossed over the fact that the buttons up the front were straining and admired her shapely legs in the mirror. One has to make an effort, even for gardening, she mused – you never know who might pass by. Indeed, weeding progress was slow as she stopped to pass the time of day with neighbours, dog walkers and a group of youths dribbling a football on their way to the field beyond their cul-de-sac. Sadly no hunky men to amuse her today but she enjoyed the banter with those she spoke to. ‘These weeds are growing like billy-o,’ she said to Millie as the young girl from three doors down wheeled her bike along the pavement. ‘Hold on a minute – why are you looking so glum?’

‘I’ve got a list of things I want to do before I’m 10 and one of them’s riding my bike without stabilisers but I can’t do it. All my friends learnt when they were in infant school and it makes me look stupid.’ Angela was moved by the child’s disappointment.

‘Wait there,’ she said, dropping her trowel, hitching up her dress and climbing over her front wall, ‘I’ll help you.’

She demonstrated; she instructed; she held the back of the seat and jogged along for a few paces but something in Millie wouldn’t allow her to take the plunge, unaided, on two wheels.

Apparently, Millie had already crossed off things like getting her first-aid badge from Brownies and baking a cake without any assistance from her mum. She had two items to go. Angela admired Millie’s ambition to achieve her list of 10 things before she was 10 and, with only a week to go before the birthday, she worried that the girl might be crushed by her failure on the bike. ‘How about you change this item to something else? What about kissing a boy?’

‘Yuk!’

‘Okay, what’s the other thing on your list?’

‘Climbing a tree but I haven’t found a good tree yet.’

‘Your luck is in, Millie, dear! I have a large old sycamore in my back garden just itching to be climbed!’ Angela had held a secret urge to climb the tree but at 53 with a figure to match her general lack of exercise, she’d sensibly dismissed the notion. Here now was a broad smile on a nine year old face and Angela’s heart swelled. Between them they wheeled the bike into the back garden and analysed the route up the sycamore.

‘Well, what could I do? The child needed encouragement,’ she said to Gillian that evening over a glass of wine.

‘You could have offered advice from the safety of the lawn, Angela.’

‘I couldn’t help myself,’ she said with a cheeky smile and went on to describe the rest of the incident in great detail.

Millie had chosen a very sensible set of branches that would get her more than half way up. Half way was a long way off the ground and would certainly count as success. Her energy and agility more than made up for her lack of height and she showed her delight at every step. It was a good route. Angela’s long legs could manage that, no problem. She was sure she could manage it, and without thinking any further she set off after Millie. It was exhilarating. She made it to the branch below her young friend and they sat there admiring the view into other people’s gardens and over to the field beyond where the lads were playing football. But when it came time for the climb down, her foot couldn’t find the first branch on her decent. How had her leg been long enough on the way up yet too short to risk stepping back down again? She shuffled a bit, wondering whether she should face forwards, backwards or just shut her eyes and jump. Millie couldn’t get past her so they were both stuck. Better not show her I’m scared, she thought. Let’s think of something to take our minds off the problem for a while.

‘Millie, dear, you have only one more task to do before you’ve completed your 10 challenges. How about you forget the bike and make that last task singing in a tree. Millie thought it was a great idea but didn’t know Angela’s suggested song – All Things Bright and Beautiful – so they opted for Chim Chim Cher-ee from Mary Poppins. They sang joyfully at the top of their voices not caring who heard them. Angela secretly hoped that a hunky fireman would be passing and come to their rescue. Instead, Millie’s dad strolled round to take a photo of them and he helped the pair down without Angela having to admit to her scary predicament. All three of them were delighted with the achievements of the day.

Angela took another noisy slurp of wine, turned to Gillian and said, ‘And that’s how I ended up, up in a tree.’

And that’s how I ended up, up in a tree

BY MIKE McKENNA

Several of you are likely to have passed a fairly undistinguished looking public house en route to your regular Creative Writing Group sessions called ‘The Royal Oak’ situated near Aughton. You may even have graced its doors for a libation or two. Apparently there are about 500 so named in Britain.

But I’m in danger of getting ahead of myself and need to take you back in time. So first things first, my name is Charles, my surname is not relevant at the moment. So, Charles it is.

In the very early days of September I found myself in Worcester. I had come to meet an acquaintance of mine called Oliver. I say acquaintance, but in truth we never actually met, although our lives were inextricably linked, but we had little in common apart from deep hostility and loathing. Thirty one years separated us and Oliver had but seven years to the day before his shrivelled soul would depart from his body. You may think that ‘shrivelled’ is a harsh term for a Christian man to use, but ask any Irishman or woman and they would heartily agree to the accompaniment of curses and oaths.

But I must return to this day in early September. I think I’ve revealed enough of my opinion of Oliver.

Indeed, such was our loathing of each other that we both saw fit to surround ourselves with trusty companions. In my case there were 16,000 ‘companions’ which by any stretch of the imagination is a great deal of companions. They came mostly from Scotland and Worcester and the surroundings were to them a foreign country.

Oliver saw fit to bring 28,000 ‘companions’ with him. Almost double the amount I could call upon. And as it turned out that superiority in numbers was impossible to overcome. Even though we had right on our side. They say that God works in mysterious ways and that day was a case in point.

We toiled for many hours, too many to recall with any accuracy, but sufficient for some 3,000 of my brave supporters to perish. Many times greater than Oliver’s supporters suffered.

When the outcome was becoming ever more apparent some of my closest allies persuaded me that caution rather than obstinate and futile bravery was the only recourse open to me. I had to flee the battlefield. At first I resisted. The sight of so many doomed, dead and bloodied companions was more than I could stand. But I was eventually persuaded and seizing a lull in the skirmishes nearby, we slipped undetected off the main road and into the concealing shelter of a dense wood.

In the weeks that followed. Weeks full of terror and deprivation I became a fugitive in my own country, hunted by Oliver’s followers and sympathisers. I could trust no one.

There was a price on my head. Enough money to keep the locals in food and drink for months. And the description of the ‘tall black man upwards of two yards high’ was posted in all the surrounding towns and villages.

That brief description was sufficient to arouse any suspicion and it was necessary for me to wear borrowed, rough labourers clothing, blacken my face with soot and suffer torn and bleeding feet wearing only makeshift, ill fitting shoes. A far cry from my customary apparel.

But despite the reward for betrayal there were many, nameless for obvious reasons, who risked their lives to conceal my presence. But one family I cannot avoid disclosing were instrumental in my eventual escape. They were the Penderell brothers. Five of them and all devout Catholics. They owned a sprawling manor called ‘Whiteladies’ in Shropshire and there I hid for several tense days and nights.

But Oliver’s men were making increasingly exhaustive searches in the surrounding countryside. The Penderell’s religious allegiance was well known and they knew it would not be long before their home was exhaustively searched and my presence discovered.

And so at the Pendrell’s suggestion, along with a certain Major William Careless, later to become a Colonel, it was decided that we two should hide in the nearby Boscobel Wood until the searches subsided. And so with no more than a two day ration of cheese, bread and a flagon of beer we fled to that dense forest, more in despair than hope.

As we beat a path towards the centre of the wood we heard voices, dogs barking and the sound of bushes being beaten with sticks or clubs. Our pursuers were getting ever closer.

At Major Careless’s urging we climbed up into a large oak tree. I was too exhausted to manage it myself and but for his strength and assistance I would have remained rooted to the ground. But with some difficulty he hoisted me up onto a sturdy branch. As I mentioned earlier I was exhausted and despite the peril I was in I quickly fell asleep on my new friend’s sturdy arm.

At nightfall we deemed it prudent to climb down from our unlikely sanctuary and seek permanent safety.

And that’s how I ended up, up in a tree.

September

For our September meeting, Sue challenged us to write an obituary. It could be for a real person (living or dead) or a fictional person. As usual, the resulting pieces varied tremendously. below are a couple of examples:

Obituary

BY ANN HENDERS

It is with sadness that I announce the passing of my middle age.  When it first made its presence known, sometime in my early forties I must admit I was not a welcoming host.   It blurred the jaw line and crinkled my décolletage, breasts and buttocks began to slowly slip southwards. The first time I ‘oophed’ upon sinking into an armchair I checked to see if anyone else had heard me.  Fortunately, there was no one else in the room.  This left me at liberty to undo the button on my jeans, while I watched the news.  Sometimes, I was able to ignore my middle aged alter ego, with skilful application of ever more expensive creams and make up I could recapture the bloom of youth, or that was the promise.  I bought ‘shaping underwear ‘ on line but by that time the menopause had kicked in so rolling latex knickers from knee to midriff was like pushing hot stuffing between breast and skin of the Christmas turkey but without the tasty end result.

Over time I got used to the middle aged years and grew to accept and even love the new me.  Sadly, they came to a sudden and shocking end when I had a cataract operation.  I looked forward to the big reveal.  The clarity of vision, being able to recognise a friend before actually bumping into them, or worse, walking past them. I woke the next morning and went to the bathroom.  I instantly realised my loss. My wonderful, liberating, middle years had died overnight. I was now staring old age in the face!  Without the milky, soft focus of my pre operation eyes I had to say goodbye to the middle years, which upon reflection had been marvellous.

Goodbye my middle aged self, we achieved much during our time.  Raised a family, enjoyed a successful career, looked after ageing parents and had some wonderful times together, I will miss you dearly.  I now embrace my new travelling companion, decrepitude.

Obituary

BY MICHAEL J HOWARD

The death has been announced of Lt Cdr Richard Horatio ‘Chalkie’ White who passed away peacefully at his home, overlooking the Beaulieu river at Bucklers Hard in Hampshire, on Tuesday 9th August 1986 at the age of 91.

Growing up, his home was never far from the sea and with his father and two uncles both serving Officers in the Royal Navy, he was naturally drawn towards a career afloat. He joined the Senior Service in 1909 at the age of fourteen, first training at HMS GANGES before being posted as a Midshipman to the First Destroyer Squadron, Mediterranean. He saw action in the First World War at Gallipoli and Alexandria. His classical nickname originated from a tour of duty in the Royal Chatham Dockyard during his training.

At the outbreak of the Second World War Richard was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Commander and given command of HMS STORK, a Bittern Class long range escort sloop attached to the 32th Escort Group. His ship helped to protect convoys of merchant ships sailing from Plymouth across the North Atlantic as far as the Southern USA and South through the U-Boat infested waters of the Bay of Biscay to Gibraltar.

In 1941 he was transferred to command of HMS WHIMBREL, a Black Swan class sloop, based in the Port of Liverpool as part of Captain Johnnie Walker’s notorious Submarine Hunter Group. Under his command, HMS WHIMBREL scored one U-Boat ‘kill’ and assisted in two further ‘kills’. In 1945, at the age of fifty, Richard retired from the Royal Navy to take up the post of Harbourmaster at Lymington in Hampshire. It was here that his love of competitive sailing was nurtured.

A well respected and much loved amateur sailor Richard is perhaps best known in yachting circles for two of his many attributes; the first being his successful management of the 1953 America’s Cup Challenge in which the UK 12 metre yacht SOVEREIGN, won five out of the seven races to wrest the America’s Cup from the Americans. His rather unorthodox management style saw many young and inspiring amateur yacht designers and sailors replace the established ‘old guard’.

His second most revered attribute was his ability to create positivity whenever he was present. He had the happy knack of viewing life with the utmost optimism and was always able to induce a mood of positivity even under adverse conditions. After retiring at the age of sixty he took up after dinner and inspirational oration. Many a sombre occasion has erupted in peals of raucous laughter after Richard put his rather sardonic sense of humour to work.

A single man all his life, Richard is remembered by his two younger brothers, their wives and extensive families. His nephews and nieces will particularly miss his sharp wit, his sound advice, his comforting smile and the encouraging pat on the back.