FINAL FRIENDS
Unfortunately Damian was never able to complete his degree. He died in the first month of his final year. Fr Michael, whom Damian knew as ‘Brother Anthony,’ recounts his time at St Benet’s in vivid detail:At St Benet’s. Damian was happy there. His room on the half landing had been the Master’s bedroom in years past. He enjoyed showing people where he lived, and also photographs of his family. There was often a story about them.
At Matriculation, in his gown and mortar board. He had achieved the impossible.
In that blue sweater. Damian was always cold. We used to joke that it had become attached to him and could not be removed. He enjoyed hitting me for saying things like that.
Waiting for taxis. We seemed to spend a lot of time in dusty outer offices, waiting for a driver to take us back to St Giles. Damian would teach me patiently about the Star Wars universe. The fact that I was so old that I’d seen the first film on its release was amazing to him. He was glad to complete my education.
Working. Damian did well, especially in the first terms when his health kept up. He enjoyed philosophy. He hated Greek.
Laundry. The laundry at St Benet’s was Damian’s nadir. Down a steep back staircase, it was tough for him to reach even on his best days. Some of us became his laundry aides. It was one of the ways that Damian spread goodness around him. He trusted people to help him and they did.
With friends. I will never forget the evening of the visit to Freud’s Art Café. A trendy bar built in an unused church, Damian had long talked of going there, not with me – he didn’t really want a monk to take him to somewhere like that. His fellow undergraduates made it happen. They arranged the evening – they took him there. I remember watching his slight figure among those others, all of whom seemed so tall around him.
Towards the end, the main stairs of St Benet’s became very hard for him. Even coming to meals was sometimes tough. One evening, a friend carried Damian down.
The day of Damian’s death began like many others. He came down to breakfast very late and ate his toast with a mixture of honey and marmite. A taxi took us to Jericho and the doctor’s surgery. We had, a few weeks before, spent the day at the John Radcliffe. Now his test results had come.
In the car, we talked about an essay he was writing.
We sat together in the waiting room. This was all quite usual. The doctor, Michael Kenworthy-Browne, was someone Damian liked.
Damian knew that the results would not be good. He had weakened over the long vacation, and the first few weeks of that Michaelmas term had been difficult.
He started to get very short of breath.
He held my hand.
As the receptionist called out to the doctor, Damian suddenly stood up. He crumpled onto me. By the time the doctor laid him on the floor, Damian had died.
I think of that day very often. Of how normal it was, how Damian had done the things that Damian normally did. Being at Oxford was a huge accomplishment, against all the odds. He knew his family were vastly proud of him. And his presence in St Benet’s made it a finer place.
Damian died too quickly to feel the loss of any of those qualities that made his life so beautiful.
very sad
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