Gareth O’Callaghan: The friendship that taught me why human connection matters as we age
Jeffrey Archer was one of my favourite writers in those times when you need a lengthy distraction. File photo: Phil Noble
“After 50 years of storytelling, I have decided the time has come to write my final novel.”
That’s the first line in the introduction to Jeffrey Archer’s new novel . Its arrival on the bookshelves on the same morning as his sudden death this week make his words eerily prophetic.
I had just bought a copy while passing through Heuston Station last Tuesday, moments before I read the sad news while settling into my train journey. And it is very sad news, least of all because he was one of my favourite writers in those times when you need a lengthy distraction.
He was the perfect long-haul flight entertainer, as my friend Ted once called him. Archer’s book was a gift from me to Ted for his 81st birthday. I phoned him to tell him the news but there was no answer, so I left a message.
You might recall, as I wrote here last October, that I met Ted in a supermarket during the earliest days of covid as we were searching the aisles for the bare necessities — namely bread and toilet roll — only to have to go elsewhere. I drove him around the city for over two hours.
Mission eventually accomplished, I ended up back in his kitchen drinking tea and looking at old photographs of his travels — one of which was a picture he’d had taken with Archer at the launch of his bestseller back in the days when he lived in London.
An arch-Archer fan, he showed me the full collection of novels that evening, all of them in pristine condition, some of them signed first editions. He took down the three-volume memoir based on Archer's time in prison in 2001. There was a framed quotation on the mantelpiece which read: “Birth is life’s first lottery ticket.”
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When I mentioned I was also an Archer fan, he squinted and set about quizzing me on Jeffrey trivia. The place he set some of his novels in? Somerset. When did he write his first novel? 1976.
It seemed like an unlikely friendship in the months after we met. When I left Ted's home that evening six years ago, having given him my number, I wondered if he would want to keep in contact.
A week later, a text arrived. He wanted to go to a friend’s funeral in Dublin, and since I knew the city well he asked if I’d travel with him by train — a journey which sealed our friendship. As I said last October, our conversations made me realise how important human contact is as we grow older.
It’s not just important, it’s a necessity — possibly the greatest antidote to that form of anxiety that aging while living alone can induce. As I wrote back then, I couldn’t imagine Ted getting old. As he said: “I’m too busy to think about getting old”. A mantra we should all live by.
An hour into my train journey last Tuesday, my phone rang. It was Ted’s carer, a wonderful, kind-hearted woman originally from the Philippines whom Ted often joked about wanting to marry — “if only I was 40 years younger”. She’d seen my message. Ted had passed away in his sleep the night before.
The sun was casting its afternoon shadows across the steep green slopes of the Galtee mountains as I stared out in disbelief, much like it was the day we travelled back together from the funeral in Dublin.
I couldn’t help thinking about the coincidence. Archer first, then Ted; and the sudden finality of life’s cruel habit of often ending so abruptly shook me.
I looked at the novel, and at the birthday greeting I had written to him inside its cover, and put it back into my bag. One of Archer’s recurring curiosities in his storylines was exploring the constancy of strong friendships.
As Ted and I got to know each other, it dawned on me that he didn’t place his trust in others easily. He had no close friends. “They’re all dead.”
What must it feel like if all those of a generation who you shared your life with are dead? On the evening I found the courage to ask him, he stood up and left the room.
He asked on one occasion why I bothered visiting him? I enjoy our conversation, I replied. He shook his head. “I’m old-fashioned,” he said. “So am I,” I added. He smiled. Nothing wrong with old school, I said. He nodded. “True.”
Over time, the wall came down and he allowed me in. Instead of the frequent frosty unintentional putdowns, I began to sense a vague warmth. He spoke about the supermarket that night when he couldn’t find what he needed, and how he felt as though he was invisible to other shoppers.
“It was like no one could see me, like I didn’t exist.” How did that feel? I asked him. “Horrible.” He often critiqued this column during random phone calls on Saturdays, as though I had fallen short on some important detail, which I sometimes enjoyed, while other times I felt pissed off.
There were no filters with Ted. Provocation was no bother. I could learn a lot from his decades of life experience, he once told me; and I did, whether I liked it or not. He had a brusque style, and a knack for winding you up, which often had me counting to 10.
“Are you a Frank Sinatra fan?” he asked one evening. “I love his music,” I replied. “Seriously? He didn’t have a bloody note in his head.” A conversation stopper, if ever there was one.
“Did you ever do drugs?” he once asked me. “Never,” I replied. “I find that hard to believe in your business. Not even a snort?” A sharp intake of breath. I wondered was it a reason why his children rarely spoke to him.
Subtlety was lost on him. He had no problem telling you exactly where he stood with you. And yet, on the rare occasion when I would have to cancel, he would tell me how much he missed the chat.
And yet, despite his tetchy temperament, he was extremely generous. He insisted one morning, after I gave him a lift to an appointment, on paying for a full tank of diesel. Another time, when I asked him if he had made a will, he told me not to be “so bloody nosy”.
Last March, he informed me in an ominous tone that he had something to tell me. Ted was his second name, but he liked it, and wanted me to continue using it. By then, I knew him well enough not to ask. “Sure, that’s fine.”
I sensed trust. Did he miss the company of his sons? I felt comfortable enough to ask him one evening. “If they don’t miss me, why should I waste time missing them. Anyway, don’t I have you?” he replied.
Knowing Ted’s gift for being naturally cynical, I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment. I like to think it was.
Will I miss him? Yes, without a doubt. It takes years to feel safe trusting someone, let alone getting to know them. It makes sense. We all become more vulnerable the older we get. Ted was 15 years older than me, but what we shared, as we all do, was that unspoken fear of finding ourselves alone.
His books kept him entertained; but much as he loved a good thriller, there’s no substitute for friendship. I hope in the few short years we got to know each other that he felt that connection.
He was a proudly private man, like many older people are; but perhaps that’s what made him feel so acutely lonely at times — his reluctance to let people in.
Maybe Bob Marley was right when he said, “the truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for”. I can almost hear Ted’s voice when I read that back again.
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