About forty-four years after the end of my National Service, my son Lee passed on to me a Maidstone telephone directory which was surplus to requirements, having been replaced by a newer edition. I was idly looking through this one morning when I reached the surname Terry. This awakened my interest and I looked down the entries to the initials K.C. The address was in Snodland, which I knew to have been the home of Ken, the hero of my story “Sod Off, Boyce!” I debated for some time whether I should ring this number and eventually decided that I possessed the ability to be sufficiently diplomatic that I would cause no offence.

I took the plunge and dialled the number, which was answered by a soft-toned lady. Jumping in at the deep end I began to explain the reason for my call, “When I was in the army, in Germany,” I explained, “I knew a chap by the name of Ken Terry…” “I’ll go and get him” said she, without a moment’s hesitation, as though phoning a chap, out of the blue, after forty-odd years was the most normal of things to do! After a short while this chap picked up the phone and I asked “Were you in Minden with the Royal Sussex Regiment in 1954-56?” He agreed that this was the case and I went on to explain that my name was Barry Marchant and I had been a driver with the Mortar Platoon. Ken soon remembered who I was and we had a long conversation about our lives since 1956. We agreed that we would keep in touch and meet at some point.

Some time after this I began to write these stories. When I came to the passage dealing with my military service I rang Ken again and told him of my intention to include him in my reminscences. He seemed unfazed by this news and I promised to let him have a copy as soon as it was complete. I, accordingly, made an arrangement to visit him and to deliver his copy.

When I arrived at his house I realised that I would have recognised him in the street, in spite of the passage of time. We greeted each other warmly and got down to the business of catching up with the events of the intervening years. Later in the afternoon saw the return of Ken’s wife, Enid. “Just think of Enid Blyton” he said. This was, of course, the lady to whom I had spoken on the phone about a year earlier. She proved to be an utterly delightful person with whom I immediately felt completely at ease.

We have since met several times, the first of which was on the occasion of our annual summer party, in late June 2002. We later went to lunch with Ken and Enid and were shown around their lovely garden, where the accompanying photograph was taken. They are rightly proud of their achievements both in and outside of their splendid home. Rekindling a friendship after such a period of time, may not always be successful but my family and I are very happy that I made that telephone call.

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