It goes without saying that my parents were – and still are – the single biggest influence on my life: they made me, shaped me, inspired me, protected me and gave me the tools to survive and flourish in this often crazy world. I didn’t realise it until much later but my childhood was close to idyllic: an only child from my father’s second marriage, I wasn’t exactly spoiled, but I was indulged, as my parents had the time to concentrate on me alone… but not exclusively. I was often left to my own devices and even today, I can be my own best company, and am not easily bored.
My father was, simply, the most amazing man I’ve ever known. Forty three when I was born, he was nonetheless youthful and energetic pretty much all his life. He was also, in the best way possible, the most annoying man I knew because almost everything he turned his hand to, he did, at worst, well, and more often excellently. Officially a heating engineer, he was also an expert carpenter, bricklayer, decorator, glazier, electrician, gardener, basically anything involving using your hands. I say “almost” because there was one area in which I could best him, and that was writing. Like my mother, he left school at fourteen and, while by no means unschooled, his sentence constructions were a wonder to behold, and he knew it. But above all, he was a supreme countryman: an expert shot and tracker, he could look at a bird in a treetop a hundred yards away that was a mere silhouette to me and tell me its species, sex and age. Every Sunday lunchtime from the age of about five to maybe eighteen, he’d take me on a Sunday walk whilst my mother got lunch ready, and even in the depth of winter he’d find something of interest to show me – a foxe’s track in the snow, a hibernating bat, a quirk of the landscape. These walks also introduced me to his elastic concept of “about a country mile”: returning home one Sunday utterly exhausted, I got the map out and measured how far we’d walked. Father’s “couple of miles” was a good five or six. Anyone who remembers Jack Hargreaves of Out Of Town and The Old Country will have a very fair idea of his abilities, and indeed, they looked very similar. I was trying to engineer a meeting between them, and making good progress, when they both died within a few months of each other. He died in my arms, with his wife holding his hand, and I still miss him daily.
My mother shared with dad a love of gardens and gardening, and was equally expert at it. She provided both of us with a loving and secure home life, which was all we asked for. Although her talents were less immediately obvious, Mum’s influence on me was no less than dad’s, as I spent more time in her company and absorbed more. Good manners, respect, honesty, tolerance and kindness were instilled almost without my realising it and hopefully I still practise those qualities to this day. One of seven sisters and two brothers, I think she enjoyed having more space to herself with just the two of us to look after, and she did, quietly but superbly. She had me at thirty two (just – her birthday was the day before mine) but had a fairly hip outlook, which is why at home we listened to pirate radio rather than the BBC, and watched RSG! and TOTP on a weekly basis. Essentially, my musical education began at the age of eight or so and had the best of groundings (it was due to her, albeit entirely incidentally, that I got to see Jimi Hendrix play live in 1967: he was on a package tour headlined by The Walker Brothers and – the real attraction for her – Englebert Humperdink). I strongly suspect that the house being filled with books was down to her as well: I can’t recall a time without them. As a cook, to be honest, she was average… except for Christmas, and then the magic happened and the food was just magnificent: you could cut the turkey with a fork, and every element of the meal was simply outstanding. Why this should be, I have no idea, but it was so.
My parents complemented each other perfectly, yet there were huge differences: for instance father was solid Labour, mum a staunch Tory, yet I never recall any political arguments. In fact, I recall very few arguments period. I also recall never being physically disciplined: my father’s silences were much more scary, for if he wouldn’t talk to you, you were in deep, deep trouble. Between them, they made sure I kept on the straight and narrow, at least until my late teens when various experimentations commenced. Even then, there was no overt comment or condemnation, just an unspoken concern.
However much subsequent people or events may have shaped this person that I am today, they were merely slightly recasting what my parents had made me, and the less laudable aspects of my character are entirely my own work. To close, a few isolated snapshots of my father and mother, to show their basic nature as I knew it:
my father coming home, changing out of his work clothes and settling himself with a pre-school me in his lap, reading to me from the Daily Mirror, which doubtless accounts for my early ability to read by myself (although how I never became a rampant socialist escapes me)…
my mother, when we were jointly doing a crossword, coming up with an answer I never expected her to get in a month of Sundays and, on seeing my utter astonishment saying with a smile, “see, the old girl’s not a stupid as you think !”…
my father, digging in his garden, having me tell him one summer afternoon I was bored, fixing me with a penetrating glare and saying, in tones of considerable incredulity, “bored ? You’ve got the countryside, you’ve got the radio, you’ve got a house full of books, you’ve got paper and pencils, most of all you’ve got a brain. No son of mine is ever bored”. And even at the age of seven I thought “he’s right”…
my mother, doggedly counting the words of my first book (a biography of the Doors), which she punctuated at intervals with a sharp intake of breath when she saw a Rude Word (and there were quite a lot). Eventually, she asked me if I had to write them, and when I assured her it was what the band actually said, nodded, relieved that I was merely reporting and not doing it for effect, because of course her little boy never swore…
mother again, watching with me a nature documentary some time after father had passed on, turning to me saying “dad would have liked that”, with a smile, and I knew the healing had begun…
finally, the three of us sat down and all laughing uproariously at some TV programme: such shared moments were to be cherished, plentiful as they were.
They were my parents, and I loved them so very much. Oh, how I miss them.
