Dear Dad
You died last week. And although we were expecting it, it still came as a shock.
There are so many things I want to talk to you about: the James Webb Telescope pictures and what they represent in terms of the advancement of technology, science and our understanding of space; the latest moon shot and how it will be tracked by Goonhilly - just down the road from you - as the moon landing was in 1969; David Attenborough's latest broadcast - the one about cuckoos was good; the death of the Queen and Charlie finally getting a crack at the throne...
But you are not here to share some nugget of knowledge, some fantastic insight or just to sigh and shake your head sadly at the lunacy of the world.
In truth, I could not have had a conversation with you about those things for the last six months - and for the six months before that, it would have been slow and difficult for you to express in words what you thought, felt, understood. Your mind was still keen and sharp, your memory better than mine sometimes, but Parkinson's had robbed you of the ability to have a conversation. I miss that very much. I miss your wise, thoughtful, witty take on things. Your incredible knowledge on such a wide range of subjects. I miss the twinkle in your eye.
In the last week, I have helped my mother to register your death, make appointments with banks and building societies, change the name on utility accounts and myriad other bits of admin. She's going to be ok, Dad. I promise. Jonathan and I will look after her always.
While I was with her, I put up a new retractable washing line outside the back door. I
used your hammer drill. I had to search a bit for masonry bits suitable for the job - I'm afraid Jonathan has been in and organised everything - but it's thanks to you that I know a) that you need a hammer drill to get through brick and b) that not all drill bits were created equal. At each step of doing the job - marking where the holes should go, finding better screws that the ones supplies, drilling a small hole first and then a bigger one, tapping in the rawlplugs with a hammer - I could see your hands doing the same thing. Did you know that you were giving me the confidence to do household DIY all those years ago? I hope so.
When I was very young, you made things form me and Jonathan. I can still see the doll's house you made. Mum says I complained bitterly about all the banging and hammering and sawing sounds in the garage when I was in the room above trying to go to sleep. I don't remember that - I just remember that I had a doll's house on Christmas morning and that clever Santa had made it just like OUR house - even decorating it with OUR carpet and wallpaper.
When my hamster escaped through the floorboards in the lounge, you fashioned a trap with a one way door out of an ice cream tub, put sunflower seeds in it and placed it in the void under the house. It worked and my beloved pet was restored to your very grateful daughter. I asked you not long ago if it was really the same hamster and you confirmed that yes, it was.
One year, you dismantled the white fence that ran between our drive and the neighbour's. The wood was not wasted - oh no (you were after all the man who drove all the way from Cornwall to Leicester with a plank of driftwood on the roof rack because "it might come in handy one day" - you made it into a sledge big enough to carry you, me and Jonathan. You took it into the University and put aluminium runners on it. When we took it to Saddington on its inaugural outing, it was the best sled of the slope - and not just because my daddy had made it!
You taught us to respect the natural world when we were children. I remember an ants' nest in a pile of bricks were moving at the top of the garden. They had been there a while - Mum had started to refer to it as "Dad's Tate Installation" - and the ants had moved in. As we moved the bricks, we watched the workers moving the grubs efficiently down to the next level, only to have to move them again when we removed the next layer. We observed their methodical and systematic progress. "Don't kill them," you said, "they are God's creatures and doing no harm". Funny that you chose that phrase - after all you were not religious. One day, the Jehovah's Witnesses came to our door and asked you how you viewed the Bible. "From a distance." you said firmly as you closed the door.
Once, you found a hedgehog on your way home. It was small, I think, and attempting to cross a busy road perhaps. Anyway, you carried it home in your large cupped hands and showed it us, curled up tight in a ball, before you released it into the safety of the back garden.
You and Mum took us out on long country walks. We went blackberrying, walking along the canal at Foxton Locks, picking field mushrooms if we were lucky enough to see them, or just tramping across fields. We took jam jars and nets to a stream to catch minnows and sticklebacks. Hatched tadpoles which were released into the washbrook. When I was very little, I remember being high on your shoulders and picking hazelnuts off the trees above me.
If Mum ever had to go away over night, you would order an Indian takeaway from the Taj for dinner (you would have your usual lamb badam pasanda) and we'd have a fry up in the morning. Your repertoire was not huge (Mum is such a fabulous cook) but you could make thick creamy porridge with golden syrup on the top and curried beans on toast.
When I was a bit older, you learned to cook Indian dishes from one of Madhur Jaffrey's books - pencilling in your adjustments. You made Kashmiri lamb, Rogan Josh, and kitchari - wrapping it in a pink blanket next to the radiator in the kitchen to cook in its own steam. I still make the chicken in red pepper sauce regularly.
You loved trying new things - just as well as you travelled so widely for work. Australia, Kenya, Japan, America... bringing back things for us: kimonos and sake, wine from Germany, towels from the states. Mind you, you were not so popular went you went off to sunny Kenya and the heating broke in the middle of winter and Jack Frost drew flowers on all the windows. On the inside!
I loved looking up into the night sky with you. One night - it must have been the 1970s - there was a power cut. All the lights went out, and while I expect poor Mum did all the practical things like finding candles and working out how we were going to have food, you took Jonathan and me into the back garden. It was a clear night and the sky was crammed with stars - I had never seen anything so wonderful, having been brought up in a city. Now I live in a village and often lie out at night and look up. When bright objects move across the sky, I wonder if it's a satellite that you worked on.
We had fabulous holidays sailing in Greece. You and Mum had decided to have a hobby you could do together - to be honest, I think sailing was more your thing than hers. I remember we were on a holiday on Corsica and we were walking along a coastal path. Below us, anchored off in a perfectly blue sea was a small yacht. I clearly remember you saying something along the lines of "lucky buggers" and soon after that, we hired a motor boat for the day.
You read to Jonathan and me when we were little - every night, I think. We had a book called something like "Two Minute Stories" which you said was a bit of a con because they all took way longer than that. Your read ladybird books which you had had as a child. Our favourite was "Piggly Plays Truant". If one of us ever started, "Once upon a day young Piggly" the rest of the family would join in, "stayed in bed an hour too late, while his mother called and called him, breakfast cold upon his plate"
You also read The Hobbit to me (I think Jonathan was a bit young) and introduced me to Gandalf, Bilbo and the dwarves. It's still one of my favourite stories - I still escape into the Shire or visit Rivendell whenever I need a 'comfort read'. I went on to read more Tolkien and to become fascinated with runes. Eventually, I studied Linguistics at Durham
and read Beowulf (parts of it in Old English) and recognised at once where Smaug had come from, and the heroes in The Lord of The Rings.
We shared inside jokes, you and I. We were Yogi and Boo Boo and when we were doing something Mum disapproved of, you used to say, "I don't think the Ranger will like it, Boo Boo." You bought me a polka Dot mini skirt from C and A despite mum's disapproval (still don't know how you got round her), picked me up from parties, taught me right from wrong and how to stand back and think before acting. You showed me what bravery is when you gave chase to someone who had broken into Mrs Goldstein's home and got punched in the face for your troubles. You drove me to Durham on your birthday.
Of course, Mum had a hand in all this too. You probably disagreed on many things and it would be odd if you didn't fall out from time to time - even have blazing rows (I did after all inherit bloody mindedness from BOTH my parents) - but the thing is that you kept it from Jonathan and me. We didn't see it or hear it. To us, you were a united front. I bet that was hard sometimes, but we are both grateful.
I look at Jonathan with his daughters and see some of the relationship that I had with you. That, above all things, gives me joy.
You were a rescuer of small animals, a bringer of morning tea, a chauffer, a speaker of truth, a seeker of knowledge and a little girl's hero. You were better than the average bear, Yogi and I love you.
Forever your daughter
Anna
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