The Cricketer’s memories
By Glyn Roberts
I first met Eric on a cricket pitch, where, playing for Whitstable Labour Club, he proved an impediment to our progress through their batting order. Somewhere behind his mighty thighs stood the wicket, but it was not clear exactly where. Although a Lancashire man, he batted in the style of Geoffrey Boycott, and amassed respectable scores without the indignity attached to running quick singles. On the strength of one of these innings, he returned to Whitstable full of joy, and won himself a lady. He was also surprisingly good at taking catches, though his leaps had more in common with the salmon than the gazelle.
He took a few years’ sabbatical, then popped up unexpectedly at the Iron Wharf in a well-found wooden boat, on which he was to reside for the next several years. He adopted a singular mode of dress, and made many friends. One of them, Nathan, described him as an “enlightened chaperone”, leading him out to great places, people and parties. During one of the football World Cups, he confused the locals at the Swan sports bar by brazenly displaying a large Ecuadorian flag.
Eric’s piano student remembers
My first piano lessons with Eric started in the summer, under a tarpaulin shelter on the quay at Iron Wharf, where he would give impromptu recitals for the benefit of dog walkers and puzzled eastern European pickers on their way to Tesco. As autumn advanced, the piano was moved on to his boat, where the lessons were always different: sometimes cosy, sometimes sitting among his damp underclothes hanging up to dry, he trying to light his stove, half-cooked food all around and the lapping of water as boats went by. When the tide was out, the boat sat on the mud with a sideways slant, gravity pushing student and maestro together in a huddle at the treble end of the keyboard.
The passage to Eric’s boat was not easy, involving a scaffold plank and a traverse of the barge Orinoco’s deck. Ellie and Frog were on hand to deter Eric from falling overboard, though on one occasion the unfortunate student was flipped into a puddle by Eric’s superior weight on one end of the plank. He played Bach to a high standard, in the style of Glenn Gould.
We will miss him.
Some memories of Eric
By Dot Percival
I often met Eric on the bus back from Canterbury and knew for sure that the journey would be conversationally extraordinary and enjoyable, full of ideas, laughter and over in an apparent flash. His unconventional take on life in general was very diverting.
A few years ago Eric was planning to play some Bach on the Victorian organ in the chapel of the Almshouses just up the road, where he lived in a little flatlet. He asked if he could do some technique practice on my piano, admitting that he was 'a bit rusty'. After a few minutes I realised magic was happening in the next room and crept outside the door to listen. Rusty maybe, but could he play. It was absolutely wonderful. Sadly, but in his view correctly, he decided that he would not be up to the standard he wanted in time for the performance date planned and cancelled. A great shame I thought as the Goldberg variations would have sounded magnificent in that lovely little chapel.
Eric read widely, thought deeply, communicated wisely, laughed often, dressed colourfully, and cheered up the street scene on his bike with his red beret lighting up the recent dark days. I valued enormously the joy and rewards of knowing him. Faversham Quaker Meeting will miss him dreadfully. The town will truly not be the same without him.
Mr E
By Elly Upton
A bon viveur in the real sense
That’s our Eric
Generous in the best sense –
He would give you his last sparkle
Intelligent, perceptive, sensitive,
Joyous, excitable, dramatic
Loved the small things –
Tasty titbits, scrumping,
Baubles and trinkets.
Surprisingly classy,
Surprisingly provocative,
Surprising.
Relished the every day, fellowship
And parties,
Trusty, full of colour and love for humanity.
A Poem for Eric
By Jill Holder 2009
Eric the scholar, lives on the creek
His ship is the smallest of boats,
With a cabin for two
And a hell of a view
He christened her aptly
‘Time Floats’
And by the light of the silvery moon
When he’s back safe
In his little cocoon
You’ll again hear him play
As he honours the day
With that piano stood in the saloon.
His selection of Bach is a wondrous thing,
As it ripples across the bright stream,
An egret or two,
May drop in for view,
As our hero plays deep in
His dream.
And he reads, by god does he read
All manner of curious tomes,
Red ones and blue,
Philosophy too
On thinking and being
And pomes.
And by the light of the silvery moon
When he’s back safe
In his little cocoon
You’ll again hear him play
As he honours the day
With that piano stood in the saloon.
And what does he eat for his supper?
This man of such well defined taste,
Well, a great deal of curry
Made in a hurry
And little left over
To waste.
He’s good with a ball in the summer,
Cricket is really his thing
He’ll deliver a catch
And help win the match
And the willow? Well just watch
Him swing!
And by the light of the silvery moon
When he’s back safe
In his little cocoon
You’ll again hear him play
As he honours the day
With that piano stood in the saloon.
He loves and adores a good party,
Wears fishnets and nail polish bright
With baubles and lace
And painted face
He will dance for the whole
Of the night.
An enchanting companion, this Eric
Courteous, gentle and kind
But the things I like best
Are his incredible zest
And the smile he’ll
Invariably find.
And by the light of the silvery moon,
When he is gone
From his little cocoon
You may still hear him play
As he honours the day
With that piano, once in his saloon.
