Occasional Scribbles

My Dad died last year. Following a stay with my sister as we sought to find the right balance for his funeral, we’ve since been largely left alone to examine our feelings over the loss of such an enormous influence in our lives. A big family with a growing number of grandchildren, cousins and in laws, each with our own thoughts.

It’s almost impossible to put into words my feelings. Our childhood so rich in many ways but tempered by a strict upbringing that has left it’s mark on my sister and I coupled with the tragic death of our brother at twenty, a tragedy never far from us, leaves much mixed feelings. The vibrant man that the entire family held in high esteem, if somewhat occasionally warily, who had achieved an enormous amount in his lifetime, this great head of the family, is so utterly sorely missed.

My own relationship with him soured as his absolute steadfast moral compass collided with mine as I looked for love, that I had found wanting in him growing up, and his character could not accept the behaviour of his youngest daughter. Once I took a wrong turn, there was little understanding from him and I spiralled into a harsh world without the benefit of a father’s understanding or guidance.

My 21st birthday which I went home for, more out of duty than anything else, was dismal. My darling grandmother, my dear great aunt, all dressed up for the occasion, couldn’t smother the turbulent undertones as Dad made clear my birthday present, a beautiful gold necklace, was not from him but only from my mother. He had given me nothing. I thanked him anyway. I tried to keep things lite. Champagne arrived. It was August and the small party drank my health as I tried to smile through tears I so wanted to hide. My sister seeing this, tried to turn away the sadness, “you mustn’t cry on your birthday old girl” she said kindly. So we drank my toast, together with our dear housekeeper and the gardeners, my darling grandmother, aunt, sister, my brother in law and our mother and father. My brother was already dead. It was grim. I raced back to London as soon as was reasonable. I’ve never forgotten it.

There followed a decade or so as I had my children with my Other Half. My dear Mamma tried hard to help during those difficult years, lending us one of their properties but this proved a bit much for my Dad and they then gave us use of a holiday cottage they had about an hour away. Lovely though this was, it didn’t suit us being way out on the marshes and too far from my job working for my brother in law back in town where his offices were which was also where the children’s school was.

I know to some extent Dad tried. But following a relapse in my behaviour he just couldn’t tolerate, he gave up completely and cast me out. This was my final move. I’m still at the home we eventually found, long miles and long hours, from the family.

The gap that was measured in miles and bloated hours of travelling, seemed much further than perhaps it really is. During those early years, I did not attend my Grandmother’s funeral, nor my great Aunt’s being advised I really didn’t need to and, feeling unwelcome, I let him cheat me out of saying a proper goodbye. God knows what my poor sister thought as I abandoned her to deal with it without me.

My Dad was both practical, (initially an engineer in the Merchant Navy, then joining his family firm as a business man) and also a romantic, a book worm, a writer, an historian and beautifully educated as his generation were from their excellent school days. He had a deep love of the sea owning a few boats along the way. He retired young and was able to provide his family with a rich tapestry of his interests. He was an only child which I often thought added to his self assured character and independence of mind. But it also made him unaccustomed to a family of five as each of us arrived. It was always clear that his real love was for our mother above all and we were secondary extras that she so very much wanted. She was put on a pedestal and we knew we could never even come close to feeling the devotion he felt for her. Everything she did was cleverer than us, more dignified, more stylish, more beautiful. Of course we had each other. Thank God.

The years went by. He began to take an interest in my children, having them to stay and taking them on holidays on his boat in France as he did with all of us from time to time. But, much like their cousins it was always a slightly wary relationship as they too found him tricky and sometimes terrifying as we had done all those long years growing up under his roof.

But I must not do him an injustice. Over those years, he continued to spend time with all the children, including mine whilst he and I continued a superficial relationship where I would visit, usually screwed up with nerves, worried my children would accidentally say things they oughtn’t to, often speaking for them until he finally asked that they speak for themselves. Painful lunches were got through as he put them through their paces as he had with us, all those long years ago.

And then after a very full life with lots of joy it must be said, together with his family, he began to grow old. This Lion of a man, this ultimate authority over us all, became a little frail.

And then everything seemed to get upended. My fear of visits began to diminish. I saw the Lion was wounded. My fractious feelings towards him turned to a feeling of protectiveness as I sought to keep his influence and sphere in our family at the top as it had always been. I couldn’t bare to see his power diminish. His fast brain and legendary memory began to wane. I would buy him books, a love we shared, and hated it when he told me he enjoyed them but forgot what he’d read only a page or two before. I couldn’t stand to see this father of mine such a lesser person. And neither could the others.

A few years of this carried on as he became a ghost of his former self and my sister took on his responsibilities extremely well, God bless her. Now visits and those awful lunches were a walk in the park. Quite simply, his power had gone. I could speak as I chose without fear of belittlement or even challenge as he sat beside me eating whatever food was put in front of him. The great raconteur was gone, the huge charmer, the interested chef now sat at the table as he had done with our mother for so many years, largely quiet.

And after a lifetime of rising early, one day our mother said he was going to stay in bed. Unbelievable. He never returned to accompany her downstairs and so the drawn out painful lead up to death began. It seemed to go on forever. Every so often when my sister thought the end was near I’d race down those long miles and through the long hours, home. My grown son had just had a son of his own and was anxious to introduce him to his much revered and affectionately regarded Grandpa. Thank God he was able to do so. Despite all the difficulties, all the grandchildren regarded him with great respect and affection.

The end came. I was staying with my sister while we alternated between her house and my parents, keeping my mother company as the awful night arrived and he was pronounced gone. Professionals are amazing at such times. My sister and I kept up nonsense conversation as both of us distracted our mother from the fact that our father was being taken, tactfully out of sight down the back stairs. Out of his house for the very last time. I don’t know how we did it. Our mother never returned to their shared marital bedroom of some 60 years. Extraordinarily sad I thought. It remains exactly as it was from that awful night.

Amongst endless tears as my sister and I chose music, readings and the arrangements for his funeral, one thing I will never forget was the day of the funeral. Our four grown up sons carried their grandfather’s coffin to its eternal resting place for the last farewell. With great dignity, they placed it gently down. They read from favourite poems of his and of us all, with unbelievable constraint, hiding their grief as they carried out their final duty to this great man, their Grandpa. Heartbreaking.

I think, he would have been somewhat surprised that his errant daughter was given the immense task of writing his eulogy! It was a job my sister felt I could do and a weight off her mind but in the instant she asked me, I was taken back down the long childhood years of uncertainty, lack of confidence and courage so often felt growing up. Could I acquit myself well enough to do justice to this huge figure of a father? With her help and a great deal of editing, condensing a long life into a few pages, I think we pulled it off.

Last night I saw him clearly as I thought of Christmases past. His laughing face at the top of the table looking down on all of us. How I miss those happy occasions that map our ups and downs. Sometimes blissful ones, others with a frown.

Merry Christmas, Dad. You are still with us and always will be. X