Last Friday I heard that my father had died.
My father hadn't been part of my life for more than 50 years, so the news was more of a surprise than shock. Since then, I've been striving to find memories of him but they are few are far between, and not all of them positive.
He left us - my mother, my younger brother and me - when I was 9, and chose not to be part of our lives from then onwards. What I remember of life before he left are sketchy, although I was aware that there was tension and occasional arguments between my parents. He worked as a postman, so up early and home around lunch time when I was in school. He was also a member of the Territorial Army and spent a lot of time away with them, both at training and socialising. Between the two, he wasn't at home much when my brother and I were around.
In the years that followed, it was tough. My mother never got over his leaving and we had little money to survive on. I got used to not having a father in my life, but his absence affected my brother more. When my parents finally divorced, I was about 18 and shortly afterwards he remarried and had a new family. We saw him occasionally, he was always pleased to see us, but an adult relationship didn't really happen. He didn't come to my wedding and give me away but he did meet my children as I wanted him to acknowledge he had grandchildren when each of them were born. I'd get the occasional birthday card and Christmas card, and he didn't always remember my children's birthdays. The last time I saw him was at his wife's funeral, about 5 years ago, and he was surprised but delighted to see me.
As I've grown older and look back, I'm more able to see what went wrong between my parents and having heard other memories from my wider family, I can easily understand that their marriage was set to fail. I'm not going to write about it here, I'd rather think about the things I do remember when he was in my life.
There was obviously a time when I was his little girl, the only child, born a year after my parents married. We lived with my grandparents - his parents - for those early years and for a while after my brother was born 3 years later. I remember him having the patience to tie bows in my hair and on my dress and helping me to do it for myself, which must have taken a long time.
He was creative, or 'good with his hands' as I heard him described in the family. He could draw, sew, cook and make things, had real patience for all the small details. It was him that let me cook, making a whole heap of mess making pastry, cutting out the rounds and splodging each one with unmeasured spoonfuls of jam, all the while encouraging me and even eating the finished and rather dubious results.
When we were learning about the Mass in junior school - I was brought up as a Roman Catholic - my teacher asked if anyone's father could build a small model of the altar, so to demonstrate to the class the ritual of the service. My father went to our local, controversially modern new church, and sketched the interior. In a very short space of time he'd made a scale model of the east end of the church, the altar, the crucifix, the tabernacle light and most impressive of all, had replicated the bright panels of stained glass to one side, installing a light behind so it could be lit, throwing multicoloured patterns across the altar, just like the south side of the church he'd based it upon. He'd even commandeered one of my brother's toy soldiers and covered it with a small vestment to take the role of the priest, to help with understanding where each part of the service was conducted from. All this from the viewpoint of someone who was not a Catholic himself. Needless to say, my teacher was overwhelmed when I took it to school and it became a treasured possession among the staff.
I don't even have a photograph of us together. What I do have is a book on calligraphy,
The Book of Scripts, that he gave me with a set of pen nibs that I became obsessed with and led me to change my everyday handwriting style to italic. I keep the nibs in a container that once belonged to my grandparents - it used to store needles for their gramophone player. I don't know how, but I also have his Sunday School bible, complete with presentation inscription and a carefully written name and address on the opposite page.
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| My father's Sunday School bible, A Book of Scripts and box of nibs. |
There is no doubt that my life could have turned out quite differently if he'd stayed, but what I do know that his absence gave me an inner strength. I grew up making decisions for myself, as my mother gave all her attention to my younger brother who had learning difficulties and a number of problems that needed medical attention, including spells in hospital. I also inherited his artistic abilities and which I know have also been passed on to my children. I may not have much to show of my life with him, but, as one friend said to me, he was part of my story and I was part of his. I share his DNA, as do his grandchildren, and am a much-loved member of his wider family and to whom I owe so much for their love and care.
