A little over two years ago, my father died. It wasn’t unexpected by any means; his health had been going steadily downhill for some years, but he’d never taken his decline seriously. The last time I saw him, visiting him in his flat in Bristol over that Yule, he clearly didn’t have long. Then, around three months later, that was it; he was gone.
Found among his papers in the ensuing clearing up were two brief notes he’d addressed to me, clearly written some time apart, which I reproduce here:
(First note)
Dear Anthony – I just wanted to write this note to say how much I love you and how proud of you I am. If I failed you as a father I am truly sorry. It was simply my selfishness for wanting you with me. My consolation and my pride is simply because you are such an honest good and kind man which is far more important than riches and worldly success. If we should not see each other again just know that my love for you goes on forever. – Love Dad X
(Second note)
Dear Tony – Having borne the shame of my complete failure as a father for so many years I am delighted that you have found happiness at last with Stewart. I am so proud that you have grown up to be such a very nice man and you know that I think you would make a marvellous father. Perhaps you and Stewart could think about adopting! Have a wonderful life. – Love for ever Dad X
When enough of the mental dust had settled, I wrote back to him. I present what I wrote here, as I did the text of his notes to me, without alteration or further comment. Everything’s on some level a Rorschach blot, so I leave it up to you to see what you see in this one, and in our exchange:
The police broke in your front door and found you dead. That was down to me. You didn’t pick up any of my calls on Friday evening or Saturday morning, and I knew that couldn’t be right, so I raised the alarm. Otherwise, how long might you have been lying there? I hope you went easily, in your sleep. Did you?
We’d been keeping one another at arm’s length since I left home. But now we can talk without just making conversation, or stepping carefully to avoid the cracks – one crack in particular. Well, now you’ve finally gone there, in the letters you left for me. You say you failed me as a father. And you did. But I will say that maybe you were set up to fail.
As an ambitious young working class man in the Britain of the Sixties and Seventies, you had a map for a way up in life. Work hard and do well, make money, marry a pretty girl, have children and provide for your family. And you did work hard, and the rest followed. But the script you’d been given only gave you half the story, and the world was already changing, faster than you knew or were ready for. There was more to my mother than her looks; more than you could handle. In the end she left you for an older man who understood her better.
Later you met someone else, who saw a ready-made good life to grab hold of, and trapped you into marriage when she got pregnant. She fucked me up, Dad. Systematically, deliberately, viciously, over many years. You should have stepped in. You should have protected me. You didn’t. I don’t think you knew how. You never got those instructions. But you knew from the very beginning that she was a nasty piece of work.
I realise you were acting according to your lights. You were the provider. You had to keep running on the hamster wheel so that the hamster wheel could keep running. You knew how to do that. You didn’t know how to save your son from your abusive second wife. When the injuries she inflicted on me became obvious to the teachers at school and they started asking worried questions, you tried to handle it. You were afraid the Social Services might take me away if they knew what was going on, and you didn’t want that. But you half-arsed it. When she realised she could get away with it, even though the physical abuse ended, the mental abuse went on. At the age of nearly fifty-two, I’m still dealing with the fall-out when I have bad days. Even now.
By the standards of the time you grew up in, I’d be counted as a failure. I have no job, little money of my own, I can’t drive and most of my clothes are second-hand. But I have a good home, a happy marriage, my writing and my gods, so I’m suited. The people who live in my village are used to seeing a beardy hippie scruffbag shambling through the woods. The kids at the local junior school call out “Hello, Barefoot Billy!” as I walk past, which is either cute or annoying, depending on my mood. Maybe when they all look at me they see me as a bit strange. But I don’t think they see a failure. Now I learn, from what you say in your letters, that you didn’t either. Why couldn’t you tell me you felt that way when you were alive?
And I never failed you. I never brought up the past because I knew it would hurt you. You got old, and ill, and for years I called you every week to make sure you were OK and had someone to talk to. It pissed you off sometimes, being told to take your symptoms seriously and talk to a doctor, and it was painful for me, watching you go downhill. But I did it. Every Friday night, without fail. Which was why the police found you as quickly as they did, and not weeks later. I know you wouldn’t have wanted that.
This is the only way I have of telling my side of the story now. You didn’t leave me another. I feel rather as if your train’s about to leave, and I have to say my piece before it does. I won’t say “goodbye” though, because, as you’ll have discovered by this time, that’s not how it works. But I will say that it’s OK; that you can go now. Your parents are waiting for you on the other side, and I’ll be all right – you’ll see.
Good night, Dad. Safe home.