In the final week of July a dark cloud descended over the Vale with news of the unforeseen death of the Historian, Eric Wilkinson. This announcement, coming as it did straight out of the blue, was a real bomb shell and completely stunned everyone.
The Historian was held in high esteem, a veritable bastion of knowledge of all things historical, in particular those aspects linked with the military. For instance he spent many hours researching the archives to update the memorial plaque hanging in the clubhouse which honours those club members who lost their lives in the First World War.
In a similar vein he made a point of laying a wreath on the Somme trip at the memorial to the 11th Battalion the Border Regiment at the Authuille Commentary. On a bright, sunny morning the Historian conducted a simple, moving ceremony made all the more poignant by the words spoken when he described the slaughter that had taken place shortly after 08.00 hours on 1 July 1916.
He was a stickler for accuracy, every topic was thoroughly researched as was proved on the Alies’ trips to the Somme, Normandy and Malta but he also provided important and relevant back ground information on the away days. No request to the Historian was ignored; he would go away and beaver away until he had exhausted all avenues before reporting back.
The old adage, “If a job is worth doing, it’s worth doing well,” accurately sums up the Historian’s approach to any task he embarked upon.
The Historian did not suffer fools gladly and his very rare volcanic eruptions were a sight to behold. One such outburst occurred in Bayeux when he had been involved in a verbal joust with a party of Americans. His arrival at the dinner table was followed a bravura oration of such magnitude that people were left open mouthed and rendered literally speechless, while glasses were suspended in mid air between tables and lips.
When the waters has subsided the Borough Treasurer calmly thanked the Historian for his rug chewing declamation and because the Borough Treasurer was Gruppenfuhrer (Fines and Discipline), he immediately made the Historian responsible for not only collecting the money for the meal but being responsible for the kitty that evening. Justice or otherwise, was delivered swiftly by the Borough Treasurer, without fear or favour; Judge Jeffreys by comparison was nothing but a babe in arms.
As a postscript to the events the previous evening when the Historian, by now nicknamed Mr Irascible, arrived for breakfast he announced that the kitty was showing a profit. This statement was later withdrawn when he discovered that the drinks fund had somehow infiltrated his own wad of Euros.
The Historian took it all in good part because he had a finely tuned sense of humour that bubbled away below the surface and he could always be relied on to lob a few satirical hand grenades into any conversation.
Undoubtedly the Historian is going to be missed. He had a wide range of friends and acquaintances throughout the length and breadth of the country and even further afield. He was highly respected for his intellect; he not only took in the bigger picture but also the minutia. His advice was sought on many wide ranging issues and like the teacher in Oliver Goldsmith’s poem, “The Village Schoolmaster,”
“…..they gaz’d and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.”
It goes without saying that the Historian’s untimely death has left a huge gap in the ranks; there is another empty chair at the Round Table. The East Terrace will not be the same without the always smartly dressed Historian, who between puffs on a bowl full of “Old Navy Rough Shag” offering succinct comments on the state of play and other worldly matters.
Without question, the adjective, eclectic, describes the Historian perfectly, just like his eye-catching blazer in Vale’s colours, but trawling through the Thesaurus you could take your pick from, wide ranging, encyclopaedic, multi facetted, extensive, comprehensive, and there are many more to describe the extent of his knowledge.
It was standing room only in the Crematorium; bright coloured clothing complimented the sunshine that streamed through the windows as the congregation hung on every word from the speakers as the obituaries were delivered.
There was a combination of sadness and humour contained in the heartfelt words from wife, Barbara, daughter Victoria, granddaughter, Shannon (Leo) and Rev. David Greenwood. They were delivered with tenderness and love which reflected a unique and special contribution the Historian had made in their lives.
Back in the clubhouse many of the tears were wiped away as family and friends mingled but the Historian was never far from their thoughts. The Oil Tycoon called for order and glasses of 54% rum were raised to toast a very remarkable person.
The words on the last page of the Order Of Service penned by Brown Owl and the Accountant, encapsulated what the sudden death of the Historian means to so many people; “The world will be a far worse place without one of life’s true gentlemen.”