How to talk about my dad.
Well first of all, this just seems totally and utterly weird. We heard Dad had died when we were on holiday in Disneyland and that was surreal enough, trying to decide whether to go see the fireworks or to sit and contemplate this strange, strange, unbelievable news, was slightly bewildering.
In some ways, though I have been talking about him, meeting people passing on their condolences I still do not quite believe what has happened. Dad can’t be dead, I need to talk to him about our trip to the Brie museum in Meaux, I need to put up photos of Cressy La Chapelle on facebook and tag him in a post that says at least this time, it is not another photo of Dash the dog on a muddy bit of the Clyde.
I am still looking forward to when I get home and it is time for the weekly phone call on a Sunday which I always tend to make just that little bit too early. I have relied on those calls for many years, Sunday; eight o’clock; children up in their rooms, glass of whisky, antiques roadshow on in the background and Mum and Dad at the other end of the phone. Me pretending not to be me, wittering for ages to Mum because she has the talent to get anyone to talk and then my lovely talks with Dad.
Unlike many of the other members of our family, especially the women, I am pretty useless at small talk or any sort of talk to be honest, for which I have little or no excuse. Dad, on the other hand, had loads of excuses for struggling to speak in his later years but we would enjoy our conversations, manage to the change the subject when I put my foot in it and asked him questions that involved a good use of memory and just giggle when we both reached that awkward point when we both ran out of things to say.
We had long ago acknowledged to each other that we run out of conversation quickly and have been tender over each other’s inadequacies in this area of our lives and known that that hasn’t damaged the love we have for each other.
The last time I was down was with my partner, Wendy, where we were supposedly looking after Dad while Mum went to visit Richard. It was very hard work indeed! Many hours sitting in the garden reading in the sunshine, lunch times with cold beer, occasional trips to the co op for ice creams, occasional excursions following Dad in his buggy to the yacht club which we knew would be closed. We had a great time and the two things I remember most were how he insisted that he could still drive safely and that when Mum got back he was going to look into getting an automatic Jaguar sports car with which would mean it would then be easier to visit us. Wendy was delighted at this idea, even when I said no way would I be driven by Dad nowadays.
It just showed such lovely and optimistic spirit, such positivity.
The other thing was when he had a small turn and putting him to bed upstairs, he held my hand and we were both able to say how much we loved each other, I will always remember the emotion of that hug; those clasped hands.
Wendy has only known Dad for the latter years of his life but her perception of him has been a great blessing to me. She openly said he was like some wonderful James Bond Character when he talked about some of his flying exploits, his sailing adventures, the company he kept, the places he went, the fact that he was selected to train to be an astronaut and when he was young sailed across the Atlantic on some great and venerable passenger liner and on arrival in Canada did some engineering thing that saved some oil company millions of pounds.
It was good for me to see this: being a typical, one time, guardian reader; inclined to support extinction rebellion rather than oil exploration, closer to being a pacifist than a jet fighter pilot, more likely to think the dodgems are a frightening experience than someone who revels in adventure and risk, then I have sometimes not always been the best fit with Dad.
I am lucky that I have had the chance to be delighted at Dads spirit energy and vigor which must surely be one of the key reasons he recovered from his awful embolism and heart attack a year and a half ago. So whilst we grumbled at his insistence that he be discharged from critical care straight home which luckily was overruled; it was this that helped him achieve so many of the things that he did throughout his life.
Wendy also delighted in his sense of humor and in the respect he held for her. At home Wendy can be wonderfully rude and crude, but when she is with family she is on her best behavior. Dad was delighted to hear this , encouraged me to get her to be even more silly and spontaneous when she was in his company and gave me the blessing of his great approval of her and her ways, I love that little mischievous glint of humor and rebellion that he still retained.
Wendy also said that Dad, despite all he had done and his willingness to speak out, seemed slightly shy. I had never thought of that before; maybe he was. Maybe Mums ability to get on with everyone helped him with the world, with people, with connection.
And that is so obvious, with Dad and Mum you cannot talk about one without seeing the effect of the one on the other. I had been really hoping we could all get together to see them this Christmas but you do not necessarily need the events and those statements that let you know of love and communion.
I always thought I needed those long and embarrassing drunken conversations of my early adulthood, up to 3 in the morning, in a maudlin series of conversations ending in whisky laden hugs.
It’s taken me most of my life to recognize that sometimes it is more intimate and loving to spend the afternoon sitting side be side in the garden reading books together, pausing for scattered sentences and the occasional drink than those desperate statements of love that come from the need to know what you do not dare to know.
It has also taken me most of my life to understand that family, friends, dogs, going to Disneyland, watching Maleficent together; sitting curled up together in front of the TV, hugging a young child who is upset about something you don’t understand that has happened at school, ultimately mean more than status or career or awards.
I don’t know if Dad shared that view, I know latterly he regretting not being able to do some of the things he took for granted in his earlier years but I also know he mellowed as he got older, was able to express his love for his family; his wife, his children and grandchildren, maybe not in the way I would which usually leaves people acutely embarrassed but in a soft and curiously gentle way.
I don’t know how I will remember him when I finally realise he is dead, maybe at the helm of a yacht, surfing down the waves on a sun speckled sea with the cockpit piled with cheese, wine, bread and frui. Maybe when we boasted about him to our friends when we were little children and saw him dressed up in his RAF uniform. Or that time he seemed to defeat the laws of gravity when catching a cricket ball in our garden in Norfolk. maybe that time in High Wycome when he chased after a car that had splattered mum with mud, caught up with it and came back with the money to pay for her coat’s dry cleaning. Or maybe those times when we were young and Mum and Dad grabbed a chance to have a kiss in the kitchen to our delighted cries of disapproval.
Dad wrote a memoir once and said that having read my memoir he no longer wanted to publish his, I wish I could find it; his life was fascinating, he was a huge influence on me. I am delighted and honored that he was my father, I have been very lucky and privileged to have had Alan in my life.
Thank you
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