Thinking About: My Dad

Somewhat strangely – or maybe not so strangely – I find myself thinking more about my Father now that he’s dead than I ever did when he was alive. Maybe it’s because now I have lost the opportunity to actually get to know him better. My family are not exactly forthcoming or emotional but is still surprises me that I actually know very little about my Dad. I know he was born in 1929 and joked that he was at sea during the war – being on a boat aged 10 with his family coming to England from Eire. I know he did National Service in the 50’s and was based, I believe, in Newcastle of all places. He must have met my Mum in the early 50’s and they got married, I think, around 1956. After that he spent most of his working life on various building sites. I know that times were not always easy but there was always food on the table and clothes on our backs. Thinking back I think that we were rather ungrateful children – at least me and my brother were – because we were blissfully unaware of my parents lack of money.

I think the most personal thing my father gave me was a love of film. I have memories of watching apparently endless black and white movies during the weekends as well as seemingly constant trips to the cinema where my love affair with the movies deepened. My father was also an explorer, taking us out on trips all around the area. Whenever we complained that we’d walked too far he always said “Let’s see what’s around the next corner.” Of course this turned into the next corner and the one after that. Then there were the museums and art galleries where we spent hours looking at artefacts from around the world and through the ages. We often ended up at Liverpool docks watching the ships come in. I remember (vaguely) scampering over warships that visited the port including – I think – the Ark Royal and a nuclear submarine. One of our favourite trips was on the ferry across the Mersey. In those days you only paid if you got off at Birkenhead so we stayed on and got a free trip across the river and back again. Of course the common denominator in all of this is that it hardly cost any money at all – because, I’m convinced, we simply didn’t have any. Oddly I can’t ever really remember noticing that we were poor in any way, probably because everyone around us was in pretty much the same position. I mean we didn’t have inside plumbing until 1970 after I had turned 10.

After I moved out on going to University I didn’t go home very often and as the years passed I became shocked at how old my father had become – as if the aging process had simply accelerated somehow. Of course it hadn’t it was just that I saw my family less and less often. Dad had always had problems communicating with his kids – though again oddly total strangers would stop him in the street for a chat (something they do to me too!) – so we never exactly engaged in long conversations. Then in the blink of an eye he was gone. I’d been home one November for a week because I wasn’t planning to go home for Christmas that year. Dad was still getting over a bout of illness and had recovered some of his strength and weight. He seemed actually healthier than I’d seen him in a while. A few weeks later he was in hospital with a lung infection. A few days after that he was dead.

I got some compassionate leave from work and got the train home. That was a weird trip. Everything seems either hyper-real or totally unreal. I can’t really make my mind up which. I hated the funeral. We were driven to the crematorium in a big black limousine and I felt as if everyone was looking at us – which they probably were. My mother – bless her – had requested a light Christian ceremony rather than the full on Catholic affair. She said to me “No tutting or rolling of the eyes, OK.” I couldn’t help but laugh at that. I actually lost count of the number of times the stand-in priest mentioned God but I kept my word and not one tut escaped my lips. What disgusted me most though was the conveyor belt process it turned out to be. After the words were said the coffin was whisked away and we were ushered out of the side door to allow the next family to have their 40 minutes of public bereavement. Then back home in the limo again. Apart from the family hardly anyone attended. This was partially because Mum didn’t want a fuss and partially because we don’t know that many people. I couldn’t help wondering how many people would be at my funeral.

I didn’t cry. After three years I still haven’t cried. I was expecting to after it hit me but still – nothing. I did feel numb for a while and sad for much longer but actual tears? No. I did feel a bit guilty about that. I still do. But I do think of him more than I ever did. Maybe that’s something at least. I do look in the mirror sometimes and can’t help seeing how much I look like him. Maybe that’s another of his legacies. Maybe that’s how I’ll keep on remembering him. That and classic movies oh, and John Wayne.