I can see him now in his brown, zipped up, seventies style windproof. Walking towards me down Ashton Lane with his John Wayne swagger, hair newly Brylcreemed back, flask of tea and box of sandwiches in his plastic carrier bag, fag in mouth, mischievous smile on his face.
I loved Joe. I still do. Love may seem like a strong word to use for a guy I only met through my summer job in Glasgow. In his late sixties or early seventies, still having to work as a labourer to support himself and his wife, to many he would have seemed painfully ordinary. But he wasn’t.
I loved his wisdom, his generosity, his kindness and his wicked sense of humour. I loved that he took me under his wing and told me stories. Endless stories of work and love, told in smoke filled Landrovers or in dripping oilskins as we sheltered under trees. Tales of Glasgow glamour from his Shawfield days; haunting memories of unrequited love for a Clydebank shipyard owner’s beautiful young wife; numbing memories of unbearable sadness when predeceased by his son.
When I think of Joe I get an ache of sadness. I still miss him thirty years on. Forget stories of stones rolling away from graves. If there is immortality we achieve it by leaving a bleeding hole in people’s hearts. Joe Wilson left a large one in mine.