I remember exactly the first thing James ever did in my house. He hadn't taken his coat off. He hadn't sat down. He offered to do the washing up.
Sarah had brought him round for Sunday lunch, and there he was, sleeves rolled up at a stranger's sink, before he'd even said a proper hello. I remember thinking, this one's either very well brought up, or he's nervous as anything and doesn't know what else to do with his hands. Turns out it was probably both. But nine years, or however long it's been now, of knowing him, and I don't think he's stopped since. He just quietly gets on with things. You'll see what I mean before the night's out.
I want to tell you about Sarah, because that's technically my job here, and because there's a lot to tell.
Between the ages of three and six, my daughter would not wear anything on her feet except wellingtons. Not sandals. Not the shoes we bought her for best. Wellingtons, every day, whatever the weather, however wrong they looked. There is, somewhere, a wedding she attended in them. Not this one. An earlier one. She stood there in a little dress and a pair of wellingtons and not one adult in that room could talk her out of it, least of all me. I mention this because it tells you something about her that has never really changed. Once Sarah has decided something, that is more or less the end of the discussion.
Which brings me to the Mini Metro.
We rebuilt it together in the garage, over two winters. I say together. I stood there a lot, holding things, making tea, occasionally being useful. Sarah did most of the actual work herself. Hands covered in oil, stubborn as anything, not wanting help unless she'd asked for it first, and she rarely asked. I've still got the garage. I don't have the Mini Metro anymore, but I've got the garage, and I've got two winters of memories of my daughter under a bonnet, swearing at bolts, absolutely refusing to be beaten by a car older than she was.
She rang me every Sunday, six o'clock, for eleven years, whilst she was living in Manchester. Eleven years is a long time to keep a promise nobody made you make. Trains were late. Plans changed. Sarah rang at six on a Sunday. I could set a clock by her, and for a good while, I more or less did.
So that's Sarah. Stubborn, capable, and turns up when she says she will, in wellingtons or otherwise.
Now, James. I told you about the washing up. I should tell you about the boiler.
Boxing Day, our boiler went. Nobody asked him. James simply turned up, sorted it, and when I tried to pay him for the call-out, he wouldn't hear of it. Wouldn't take a penny. Stood in my kitchen in the middle of Boxing Day, having just fixed my heating, arguing with me about not wanting to be paid for it. I don't know many people who'd choose to spend part of Boxing Day under someone else's boiler. I know exactly one, and he's sitting over there in a suit, looking considerably smarter than he did with a spanner in his hand.
What I've noticed, watching the two of them, is that they've each found someone who matches something in themselves. Sarah doesn't like being helped unless she's asked for it. James doesn't seem to need to be asked at all, he just does it and moves on before you can thank him properly. Somehow that works. I watched her let him in, slowly, the way she let me help with the Mini Metro, which is to say, only when she was good and ready, and only on her terms. And I've watched him earn that, quietly, the way he earns most things. A boiler at a time.
I think about that little girl in the wellingtons a lot. Stubborn, sure of herself, utterly unmovable once her mind was made up. She hasn't changed as much as you'd think. She just found a fella who doesn't try to change her mind, he just rolls his sleeves up and gets on with it, same as he did at that sink.
Sarah, James. You've both spent years turning up for people without being asked. For the boiler, for the Sunday phone calls, for whatever needed doing. I hope you keep doing that for each other, because from where I've been sitting, that's the whole thing right there.
So if you'd all raise a glass. To Sarah and James. Wellingtons and all.