There but for the grace of God, goes God
Today was World Aids Day, and I woke with friend Andrea
Regard circling like a headline amongst more mundane thoughts. He worked at the
florists opposite my cafe in the late 80s and would regularly sashay in for
lunch and a chat. We became good friends over hundreds of espressos, and his razor barbed wit and salacious
stories, usually involving tradesman, would have me rolling
on the floor with laughter. He was fearless, frank, fun and built to play.
Andrea's 25th birthday party in March
1990, held at the cafe - the start of his illness.
Andrea started to lose his appetite and
the little weight that he carried on his slight frame. The boyish good looks and olive skin fading
like fabric left out in the sun. When we spoke of it he brushed my concerns
aside, looked me square in the eye and said everything was fine. It was just a
stomach problem, and the doctor was dealing with it. I wanted to believe his
story rather than feed my dark anxiety and the paranoia that raged back then. When
one of his lymph glands grew to the size of a grapefruit my fears resurfaced but
any mention of the virus was quickly smothered and the subject changed.
One night at about 2 in the morning my phone rang and it was
Andrea. He was deeply upset and asked me to come over so I dressed quickly and
crossed the street. He opened the door in tears and we climbed the stairs to
his kitchen where he turned to me and confirmed my worst fears. I cradled his
dwindling form and could do nothing but whisper ‘you’ll be OK’ as his tears
soaked my shirt.
Andrea never made it into the cafe again and was soon admitted
to Ward 6 at the Hove General, a place few left back then. The ward was
isolated from the rest of the hospital at the top of the building; hidden away to
allay the terror of the masses fearing the gay plague. I visited regularly and
this time it was me who was in denial. Whenever Andrea talked of death I would
try to change the subject but he was pragmatic and resigned to his fate. We would
watch movies together and he would humour my talk of trips to his homeland when
he 'got better.'
Over the course of two months Andrea simply disappeared as
the virus asset stripped his body. Each visit would see part of him shaved away
and the suffering increased. On good days, when light would break through the
clouds of his pain, he would tie up the loose ends of his life, extracting every
available penny to send home to Brazil.
One day after watching the movie 'Beaches' which he'd requested, my resolve buckled and I found myself
getting upset. Andrea held my hand with a rosary squeezed in between and
consoled me with talk of angels. He said that he would soon be in the heavens
and would watch over me. To this day if I think of him I naturally look up to the
sky and say hello.
Andrea slipped into a coma and died on the 22nd May
1991. He was just 26 yeas old. 
Boys that held him dear
Do your weeping now
All you loved of him lies here
Do your weeping now
Brought to the earth
The arrogant brow
And the withering tongue
Do your weeping now
Sing whatever songs are sung
Wind whatever wreath
For a playmate perished young
For a spirit who's spent in death
Boys that held him dear
Do your weeping now
All you loved of him lies here
Do your weeping
Do
At 6 o’clock I joined many others at the World AIDS Day vigil
in the New Steine. Despite the freezing cold the warmth and camaraderie was
tangible. We held candles as the names of the Brighton dead were read out and I
was shocked by the number of people that I actually knew - Graham Wilkinson,
tall Ken, Kevin Dodd, Marcus Riggs, Robin and Andrea Regard.
On the
wings of a happy dove flies a letter with a kiss, a hug and my love
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