As a much younger man, I was
dreadfully unfair to Dad. Everyone here
surely knows how infuriating he sometimes was and he certainly had his
flaws. Unlike many of us who can make
excuses for or hide our own flaws, he could wear his like a badge of honour
with stunning self-assurance. In my
younger naivety, arrogance, impatience and embarrassment, I failed to
appreciate his qualities, the efforts he made, the example he provided and even
his love. This isn’t a recent epiphany,
by the way; he lived and died knowing how much respect, gratitude, pride and
love I had for him.
He provided a happy childhood for me
and Chris. Sunday mornings always began
with a walk to the newsagents and seven pence each for sweets. As we returned through Heavitree Park, there
were three points at which he would start Chris and me in a running race. I suspect Chris, like me, could run the exact
same races today, Dad’s ‘Ready!
Steady! Go!!’ echoing in our
heads – the only difference being that these days, Chris would win! In beach games on holiday, rickety DIY-built
cupboards, wonderful Christmas celebrations and drunken neighbourhood parties,
I formed happy memories.
I didn’t know then just how hard he
worked but thanks to him, through our early childhood, we had our brilliant stay-at-home
mum and the best, most loving start to life any children could have. Perhaps his work ethic should have become
clearer to me on Saturday mornings when Chris and I would pillage the Westward
Freight and Warehousing premises while he continued working in his office, or
when we accompanied him on weekend visits to customers like Fyffes, leaving him
to deal with the fallout when their warehouse filled with the dry powder
discharged like a bomb from one of their fire extinguishers.
As teenagers, we knew times were hard,
especially when Dad’s business folded.
His pride must have been shattered and it must have been hard to know which
way to turn, but when I accompanied him on his pools-round or delivering
catalogue-packages from the back of his car, I saw first-hand how he threw
himself into whatever work he could find to ensure we kept the same roof over
our heads and to shield us from the challenges he confronted. Eventually, when he retired from his more-than-twenty
year career in the cardboard industry, I think it was as much a celebration of
his resilience and of how he had turned failure to opportunity and so
successfully adapted to a new career.
The most surprising thing about my
grief is that Dad might finally have turned me into a Liverpool fan – a feat he
long-since gave up on in life, despite taking me with Mum and Chris to Anfield
on two occasions. Recently, I told
someone about how we had been at the 1989 Championship decider between
Liverpool and Arsenal; with some awe, he replied, ‘Oh my God! You were at that match?!’ I’m afraid I was too busy reading ‘The Lion,
the Witch and the Wardrobe’ to remember anything of what I gather was a truly
historic occasion. Maybe that’s when Dad
gave up on me showing any interest in his beloved Liverpool, or maybe – after
taking me to see two losses – he decided I was a dodgy talisman!
Football may be baffling to me, but I
couldn’t fail to respect Dad’s loyalty to the greatest football team in the
world, represented by his collections of shirts, mugs and calendars, nor to
smile at his exuberant joy as he exploded from his chair with an ear-splitting
cheer with every goal scored. His
loyalty extended far beyond Liverpool though and those four letters YNWA
carried a deep, spiritual, existential meaning to him, and through him to
me. When I wear a Liverpool shirt later
today and in the future, it will be a reminder of Dad’s loyalty.
Finally, Dad was a hoarder. Mum despaired of wardrobes bursting with
decades-old clothing and God knows what awaits us in the loft and garage. Much of it carried sentimental meaning to him
but he delighted in junk too. Beyond the
junk, he hoarded knowledge – a mine of useless information and the perfect pub
quiz compere. Christmas won’t be the
same without round after round of Dad’s quiz, complete with his convoluted
rules, not-so-subtly designed to tip the balance in his favour!
Above all though, he was a remarkable
hoarder of names and memories. On many
an occasion, we’ve rolled our eyes at his stories of Fanny Orchard, his
infants’ school teacher. There was
something very touching though about his visit in the last few months to Mike
Ounsworth, one of his teachers at Heles.
Dad never forgot the people who made a difference to him and the events
that shaped him.
He loved giving too. Last Christmas, even at the age of
seventy-four, I could sense his growing excitement as, with a Santa-like
twinkle in his eye, he brought stack after stack of presents to the lounge for
us all to unwrap. On the day I was born
he gave me this bear. For my fortieth
birthday, he compiled an album of photographs spanning my four decades,
pictures I’d drawn at school, even a loving note I’d written to mum aged six or
seven. It was a surprising and very
special gift, and I didn’t need telling of the many, many hours he’d spent
preparing it. Through the stacks of
presents he gave at Christmas, the delicious cakes he baked for each of us, as
a New Year’s Eve party host, or in the time he gave to guide, help or for a
good chat, I learnt a lot from him about generosity.
I think people might dread writing a
eulogy and think it must be so difficult.
As I sat with my laptop, notebook and pen to write this one though, I
realised that I’ve actually been writing it my whole life. It has been the hardest thing to write and
the easiest; the saddest and the most joyous; certainly the most
important. It has solidified memory,
shown me how Dad shaped the man I’ve become and helped me begin to understand
his legacy. I’m glad I’ve been able to share
it with you today.
