"I'll bet.." said Richard with his familiar triumphant smirk when he knew he was on a winner, and had something to tease me about "that the national health has never spent as much on you, as this hospital has spent on me." I was visiting my nearly dead brother so despite the inevitability of me losing yet again, I was drawn into being taunted and belittled. I felt that I should allow him his Right of Kings and Superiority once more before he croaked. But I needed more information from my older brother. "Why, how much have they spent on you." I asked, consciously walking into the sucker punch.
"Guess" he said. I groaned inwardly. I had only just arrived a minute ago from London. How on earth could I guess what the Aix-en-Provence Hospital had (a) done to him (b) charged for (c) paid for hi-tech equipment. I wasn't remotely interested in guessing. They had clearly cut his chest open to get at his heart - which I'd been told had been failing fast, and he was clearly recuperating in an immaculate private room, with the very best of care. And I knew he'd been there for at least two weeks. At what cost?
It immediately took me back to tedious tiring hours of playing Monopoly with this consummate games player, two and a half years my senior; and just as I thought I could finally go bust and escape the humiliating boring game, Richard would find some convoluted way of re-financing me; and keep me in the damn game - which he would never fail to win. He won so often at cards and on horse-racing that aged 22 he was banned from three betting shops in central Manchester. His winning of games at home - and my constant losing to him - put me off games for life. It transpired that he had a natural, effortless talent for card-counting. He knew what was in your hand.
The hospital total, Richard claimed, including the very latest heart-pacemaker, his operation, his two - yes two - top consultant surgeons, his fine room, for which he only contributed ten euros a day - a peppercorn - and dedicated nursing by sexy, pretty French nurses who, he knew, doted on him; was over half-a-million euros. I could not beat that. I had lost again.
It was Richard's betting that had made him twice win and lose a million in Britain, move to Cote-D'Ivoire with his wife, Sylvia, seven children two dogs and a cat, win then lose an oil equipment supply business, win then lose an agency supplying currencies, passports and other security printing to the whole Gold Coast, which he serviced from his own small plane - and had him swim in disease infested waters, catching a liver-fluke that would have killed him but for The London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine curing him.
He had also bet that when playing golf with his son-in-law in Australia - warned to wear boots but triumphantly wore flip-flops, that he would not be bitten by a white-tailed-spider. He was bitten, of course, and nearly died of suppurating wounds in transit through Heathrow; and nearly lost the poisoned leg. During twenty years in Abidjan, Cote D'Ivoire, he insisted against all advice on running every day in tropical heat to keep fit for rugby, and insisted on drinking beer all day and whisky all night. This drove up his blood-pressure to the highest level ever recorded in any mammal. We will skirt round the dumb risks he probably took in romantic African liaisons. He risked remaining in Abidjan as civil war broke out, on the false-logic that people liked him and would do him no harm. It was only when his "friends" shot at him in the streets, that he fled to join his wife in Aix-en-Provence. But, they hadn't killed him, he had won again.
He had won - except that he had become an addict to alcohol, which he continued to drink in large quantities when he moved to France. It was this consumption that had recently buggered up his heart - and sent him to hospital, not once but several times.
It is a longish journey from London to Aix, and I only made it for weddings, funerals and near-death events - such as Richard's. When I went into his hospital room we had not met for months, maybe years, but, as I've explained elsewhere, we never touched in our family - not even to shake hands. So there was no chummy, brotherly hugging - Ugh! We had however spent 17 familial years together, sharing a room until Richard left home, to get married aged 20. You need to start early to sire seven children. More bets, more risks - in this case - all worthwhile.
Now in the grip of alcohol, he was not capable of doing business, jogging or playing rugby - a sport at which he excelled. He did clear the woodland around their home - about five acres; toiling hard in the midday sun - as do Mad-dogs and Englishmen. Eventually even Richard's constitution could take no more and he had several heart attacks, leading to the hospital. The problem with the best heart pacemaker in the world - courtesy of the French and UK national-health service, was that the damn thing wouldn't let him die. He collapsed dramatically and often - nearly dead; then the machine would kick-start his heart and he'd be off again; but growing infinitely weary and depressed.
Richard had never had dreams. He didn't dream and he didn't imagine stuff. But during a major attack, as he lay unconscious, when the ambulance took half-an-hour to arrive (they lived 40 km from Aix), he did have a near-death-experience. In this dream, or visit to the other side, all of Richard's friends who had died were on a pebble beach; it was half dark and half light. The departed souls were on the light side; and they all urged him to join them. Richard said no-thanks and opted to stay on the dark side - and continue living here. He lived another few months. This removed any fear of death - and he told me it was more real, more vivid than real life.
He did in fact have one dream in his life. As an infant, say two years old, he had a recurring nightmare that he was in an igloo, in the middle of a limitless dark flat plain. Alone and frightened. It was his only link to the unconscious. He never expressed any religious beliefs; never prayed; never saw ghosts; hardly ever talked of spiritual matters, an exception being once joining in a Jehovah's Witness Kingdom Hall meeting and enquiring about the afterlife.
Richard's biography
Richard's biography
When he died, a service was held in a large local French Catholic church, packed with several hundred people - and friends came from around the world. I think he was sober by the time he was cremated - as there was no spirited fiery reaction.
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