The picture was taken after Sunday brunch at a New York East Side "eaterie" after an amazing set of coincidences.  That's possibly a tautology.  After all, aren't coincidences by their very nature amazing?  But rather than digress still further into the realm of semantics and philosophy, let me simply return to the subject under review.  How did I meet Gail Goldsmith?  Why?  And what were the further circumstances?  I need to go back a few years in time.

When my friend Fred Goldsmith (q.v.) left his wife Barbara and took off for the United States in order to pursue his career as a writer, I lost touch with him for quite a long time.  I had occasional snippets of news from my bridge-playing friend George Marlow (q.v.) such as that he was living in Greenwich Village, he had moved from Greenwich Village, he had failed totally as a writer, he had started acting as a guide to tourists (particularly German tourists because of his bi-lingual ability), and then - finally - that he had married a wonderful woman named Gail, who was a talented sculptor.

This all took place in the 1960s.  By the end of the 1980s I had made several visits to New York, usually en route to or from another destination, and almost invariably I returned with the annoying reflection that I might have tried to make contact with Freddy while I was there.  But each time I forgot to do so.  I think it was in 1989, in the course of a round-the-world trip, that I ended up in New York with a weekend to spare before returning to London.  In my hotel room on the Saturday evening I searched through the telephone book, looking for any Frederick or Fred Goldsmiith.  There were about ten of them and I tried them all.  Some were answered by an answering machine, and I left a brief message; others answered directly, but were not the correct Goldsmith.  I resigned myself to another failure to renew contact with him.

The following morning I received a phone call from a female asking me if I was the person seeking Fred Goldsmith.  When I confirmed that it was, indeed, I, she asked me which which Goldsmith I was looking for.  A somewhat strange request, I thought, but I responded that it was the Fred Goldsmith who used to live in the Hampstead area of London, who had been married to someone called Barbara, who had a son called Paul, and a stepmother who was Vera Caspary.  I felt I had covered all bases.

She sighed.  "Yes," she cofirmed.  "It is the right Fred Goldsmith.  But I have very sad news.  He died two weeks ago."  She identified herself as his widow, Gail, and then asked if I was still in contact with his son Paul.  I confirmed this, and said that Paul had been adopted by my best friend Sasha Lyons, who had married Fred's ex wife - and Paul's mother - Barbara.  After checking with me what my plans were for my stay in New York, she asked if it would be possible to meet up for brunch later that morning, near her home on the East Side.  I willingly agreed and the picture above, shows us at the end of our meal.

The story Gail told me was indeed very sad.   Freddy had been a very dispirited and very angry person for some years.  Quite manic-depressive, in fact.  It derived largely from his failure to succeed as a writer, and his anger - which habitually lacked a serious outlet - would express itself in the most simple of circumstances.  On occasion, she revealed, he would get out of his car, following a really minor incident that would normally just be ignored, and rant and rave at the other driver.

Two weeks earlier, he had rented a motel room, sat on the floor surrounded by trivia and ephemera that derived from his early existence, and simply overdosed.  Gail had no use for any of the documents, photos, etc. that he had left, but would like to get them to his son Paul.  Paul and his father had not spoken for many years and, although Gail had written to him and offered to send him his late father's effects, Paul had not replied.  She wondered if I might take these things back to London and give them to Paul.   I, of course, agreed.

Later we went to her studio which was nearby and I viewed her work.  I have always enjoyed sculpture.  More than paintings actually, because I love their tactual nature.  I purchased three of her pieces.  One was a piece carved out of driftwood found on the beach at Brock Island, where she and Fred spent weekends or holidays.  Another was a simple seated male figure, that I thought complemented another figure from my friend Vinka (q.v.) of a seated female.  The final piece was just from amusement, because I suggested it could be called Legs Eleven - after the British bingo call - and Gail laughed at this.

Mermaid and Legs Eleven	Seated male

 

And now for the sequel.  Upon return to London I contacted Paul who actually, at that time, lived quite close to me in Kilburn.  He did not show any interest in the effects of his late father and, giving a mental shrug, I put them away.  But one day later he called me and said that, on reflection, he had been less than gracious, having regard to the trouble I had gone to, and would be happy to come round to my home and pick them up.  He arrived later, pushing a baby carriage containing a small infant, came into my house and took the package of documents and photos from me.  As he looked at them his face revealed a complex of emotions, as he spotted things that he had long forgotten.  Finally he thanked me for having brought them back from America, and took his leave.

I wrote to Gail and told her of this.  She replied expressing her thanks and her absolute delight that this could put a satisfactory closure to the Fred Goldsmith experience.

Gail's sculpture can be found at http://www.gailgoldsmith.com/about.html