MEETING PETER GRAVES

One weekend in the Winter of 1987, I visited my friend John Philbrick, his wife Christine and?their two young children, André and Penny. I expect I was an avuncular figure to the children, and?they eagerly looked forward to seeing me on Xmas Day when I invariably visited bearing them extravagant?gifts. I was single and unattached, and it pleased me to spoil them as they had become my surrogate children but absent the responsibilities of raising them, and we could?take our leave of each other at any time.

John and Christine lived at their home in Woodend, which was in a beautiful location, surrounded by?forests and the hills of the Macedon Ranges and Mount Macedon itself in the distance. John stocked his two lakes with trout and native fish species, and one of the lakes had its own island. Two?fierce geese provided security and randomly attacked both man and beast whenever disposed.

They had planted and cultivated a large vegetable garden, and it always pissed John off when I turned?up with sandwiches wrapped in cling plastic for my lunch that I had bought from some shop I had?passed during my drive up to Woodend.

I named their property 'Eden' because it resembled and?reminded me of the biblical paradise of that name. In those days, I visited John virtually?every weekend because I had become very fond of him. His acute intellect and native wit were an unrelenting source of amusement, and I expect that my willing ear for his courtroom war stories and the certainty of my laughing at his jokes made me an appealing foil for him, whose driver's licence had been cancelled following a third conviction for driving under the influence. He was endeavouring to give up alcohol and kept away from persons who might lead him into occasions of sin. I was indifferent to drinking, and John would make magnificent sandwiches, and together we would spend the day fishing at the Woodend Water Supply, a restricted lagoon to which he was allowed access and was home to a prolific and healthy trout population.

I usually stayed the night at Eden, but a lady friend (who, in the fullness of time, I would take as my wife) accompanied me on this occasion. We?intended to dine and spend the night at the Bentinck, which had been recommended to me as a place to pass?the time with a romantic interest. We expected to be dining alone as we had apéritifs in the dim light of the antechamber to the?dining room. However, another couple appeared, and first-name?conversation ensued. They were American. We decided to dine as a foursome as we agreed that to do?otherwise would be to parody Delbert Mann's 1958 film 'Separate Tables'. I conversed mainly with?the man whose knowledge of cinema surprised me. He also looked familiar. We were?seated for dinner in due course, where the light was better. And no, it wasn't Marlon Brando.

But it was Peter?Graves and his wife, Joan. I could hardly believe that I was having dinner with the one and only?'Jim Phelps' of the original 'Mission Impossible', which screened between 1967 and 1973 and of which?I never missed an episode. While the women readily conversed about what their mothers had in?common, Peter was more reserved, and I had to draw him gently with my questions about the?television series. However, I learned much?about his friendship with Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, and?Bob Hope.

We finished dining about three hours later, and I never saw him again. He was a gentleman and died on 14 March 2010.?