Honour Thy Father
I was invited by a very good friend: Beazo, to a morning meeting down in Windsor, at The Hart & Garter, a stunning Victorian Hotel opposite the Castle. The event was called: "A Father's Heart" A Men's Conference organised by Kings Church where discussions centred on the question: In a society severely lacking in the heart of a father, what is the place of a man? Where can we find our future and hope and what is it that we're meant to do?
The subject of honouring your father came up and it was suggested that one could do that simply by spending more time with him, sadly it's too late for me to do that, my dad checked out over 10 years ago. Anyway, I got to thinking that at a certain time, when perhaps he may have needed me, I was absent. I could justify all day long the reasons why. But I did not serve him well. My younger brother was still at home for many of those years so the old man was not alone, of course my mum was always there too. But I made it a point of not being there. So here I am, making amends too little and too late, but don't get me wrong, He knew I always loved him and he me, so I am not shedding any tears.
Tom
This is a tribute to my dad. A quiet bloke, a man's man who did everything to the absolute best of his ability and everything he touched was improved by his intervention.
His background was not ideal, he came from a poor inner London family. Impoverished by most measures especially today, although back in England in the 1930s you can imagine it was quite dank.
He married my mum in 1957, then went straight back to work from the registry office, my mum came home to be with a two year old me.... Oh! the shame.
When I was in my teens, he built a shed in our garden from scrap wood and old planks using a plan drawn on the back of a fag packet. This shed appeared almost overnight it seemed. It was about 15ft x 8ft with four glazed windows. Over the course of the next few weeks and months, enhancements were made, electricity went in, lampshades(?), even net curtains appeared in the windows, then one day, I noticed a large barrel of beer had a place under the worktop. Seats appeared, the neighbours started to visit, (not loads, just one or two). It was his cave and he built it from scratch.
He was handy all round, he worked in the coach building industry on the aviation side, so aircraft seats, pilot seats, and all the fittings that go with. He worked on some awesome projects including Sheik Yemani's Boeing 707 which was upholstered in white suede and gold plated metal fittings - oogh, and several bulkheads carved by African tribesmen from solid wood. In my bedroom I had a couple of reclining airline seats, these were the old 70s type which were very comfortable (they were meant to be binned due to faults etc.) I had a the odd girlfriend back to my room where we would sit listening to Diana and Marvin in the fully reclined position for hours on end.
Thinking about it my old man made me so many great things, like a proper cowhide gunbelt (with bullet loops!) for my cap firing Colt 45 which I thought was the best thing ever, Moccasins - my dad could cut a pair of those out of cowhide - by eye - and weave them with a strip of leather into a working shoe, if you needed any little gadget or doo dad, he would simply make one, and it would work, this guy was something else! When I was about 6 years old he gave me a drum kit for Christmas, bless him, any 5 year old would agree that this is a top present. By Boxing Day it had mysteriously disappeared, my mum would change the subject whenever it came up and eventually I stopped asking, but I had had a cacophonous day of days, Dave Grohl would have been impressed, thanks dad and.... sorry mum.
For a time we lived in a ludicrously small flat with a garden in North Acton but even this was like Beverley Hills compared to the flat we had occupied in Paddington, where I, my, brother, two sisters and my mum and dad shared one bedroom. My mum still yearns to be back there though, she loved it, come to think of it, so did I.
Thing with my dad was these were rented places (they never got to own a house until the late 80s) but irrespective my old man would move in and within a month at at his own cost, the whole place would be painted, decorated and fixed up down to the smallest annoying thing he would bring it up to its best, and then we would move on to another toilet where he would get out his tools and make the magic happen again. Even today if I have to do so much as hammer a nail into a piece of wood, I hear him guiding me, (often with exasperation) and if it is a particularly difficult job which I have never done before, I ask his help and its always there, at least now he can't say "no boy you are doing it wrong, give it here".
Friday was a special night when he would come home (after having had a quick half in the pub) with Smiths Crisps, Sunpat Peanuts & Raisins (in a box) and a bottle of Tizer or Cream Soda, for himself and mum he would have a couple of bottles of beer, wrapped in white tissue paper twisted at the top. We would all sit around the black and white TV and feast on all that the two channels offered. Where else could one possibly want to be?
I know he was as great a father to my sisters who both adored him. My younger brother was probably the closest to him and the respect he holds for the man is gargantuan. My two daughters knew him for only a few short years. Oh and girls, I am not hinting that you should spend more time with me, I will never see enough of you both, that's a given, but as long as you are happy and content, live your lives.
The song Tank Park Salute reveals memories of typical holidays with sandcastles, donkeys and beaches with still existent coastal anti-tank defences looking like Normandy 1940, (mainly on the North Kent coast). When I was on his shoulders I felt as though I could see a thousand miles. I was a young prince riding his giant.
Tank Park Salute also hints at the awful silence that fills the space they occupied, when they are gone. My mum honoured my father all her life and she still endures the silence through the years after, but luckily my mother's view (and her inheritance to me) is "stay young, get busy, live your life" and always see the positive". So she deserves a mention too. (and yes Dad, I am looking out for her and no Dad, I will never be absent from her life, I swear).
See you up the road Dad.
Billy Bragg sings the tribute to his father
on my Spotify Playlist: Bad Scooter Unforgiven
Photo: Arthur George (Tom) Peacock,
1965 Kilburn Sunday best. More pix of the old fella on Pinterest here
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