The loss of a beloved friend, wife and mother prompted two gay uncles to organise the lads’ trip of a lifetime for a not-so-famous five. In Florida they found respite, repair and a galaxy far, far away

Words Darren Styles

Photography Darren Styles, Tom Tillmon, James Welch

It begins with my friend Emma. You’d not have liked her. You’d have loved her. In fact, with the notable exception of her husband, Jim, she was built for the delight of gay men. Kind, gentle, charming even, if she wanted to be. But, mostly, very, very ballsy. More drive than a Land Rover, the creativity of an artist, a free-thinker, a wizard cook and the mother of two brilliant boys in the form of Sterling (age 12 as I write) and Tennyson (aptly, 10).

She was the formidable landlady of a tiny village pub, Chiddingstone’s The Rock Inn, a 10-minute drive from me. I’ve lived in my village for 25 years now, but it never truly felt like home until — alongside my partner, Tom — we crossed The Rock’s 500-year-old threshold. I’m gay; I know how it feels to be an outsider sometimes, but I clocked pretty quickly that everyone in and around that pub were Emma’s chosen family.

There was a price of entry to be paid, though: participation, and support of the local community. Non-negotiable. You were all-in, or you were out. We loved it — we were in.

We were dragged along by her whirlwind, sometimes complaining if I’m honest, but we ended up having the time of our lives. In Emma’s presence, I was often colder, wetter and further from my sofa than I wanted to be. And fatter and more drunk than I should ever be. But I’d change nothing.

Except the ending.

Because though everything ends, not everything ends the way you want it to. On a post-lunch riverside walk in late summer 2023 Emma’s vision is coming and going like an errant TV monitor. Friends and family rally, a blur of doctors and hospitals, no time wasted. It’s a brain tumour, found and quickly removed, we are gifted precious time, though not enough. It’s never enough.

Emma sees what would be her final birthday, her 43rd, on Christmas Eve 2023. She had slipped away by Easter.

I share the story in part by way of catharsis, as I did with a eulogy in a packed church lifted straight from the Vicar of Dibley. I asked Jim if he thought it was OK to say “tits” in God’s house if quoting someone who had passed, and he encouraged me to do so. Without telling me the vicar presiding was a she. I gave him a free pass, but could see him giggling in the front row. Now we’re both going to burn.

But I also share the story as a celebration — of a life lived full to the brim, and on account of what happened next. Because while Emma had gifted Tom and I friends and community, it turned out to be a two-way contract. Naturally enough, we wanted to welcome Emma and Jim into our world as they had welcomed us into theirs. If I could be taught to stand in a field drinking Larkins ale drawn from a barrel on the back of a tractor, and not hate it, they could glam up for us.