Dick Hatch was my first vicar when I was ordained in 1970, and I was his first curate. Before I went to be interviewed for the post, my college principal told me that it was expecting a lot of someone who did not know me to employ a long-haired, scruffy-bearded and none too smart applicant to be taken on as a parish's first curate. I needn't have worried. Dick never batted an eyelid and never referred to my appearance. I was soon to learn that his style was more flamboyant than my own.
Dick taught me hard work, humility, how to preach, how always to say "yes", however personally inconvenient, how to drive and how to enjoy being a priest. He more than once poured me into the back of his camper van when I accepted over-generous hospitality while parish visiting, with never a word of censure. I met my future wife in the congregation and Dick preached at our wedding.
A few years later, when I was an incumbent in north Manchester, our third child was born with a severe physical disability and was given six weeks to live. I rang Dick from the ward and asked if he was free. He said something like "no, but I'm affordable", at which point I sobbed my news down the phone, asking him if he could possibly come and baptise our son. He was there in record time, and it was long before he forgave himself for his flippant response to my call (I should say that our son is now 34). Dick was a blessing to the church, and to me.