Letter to Philip

Dear Phil

Before I start my letter, just a quick aside to anyone reading this who isn’t you. If you are wondering why I am writing to my brother on here, it’s quite simple. I don’t know where he is so this is how I write to him. 

I was reminded of something that happened when we were kids. My friend told me about a girl who walked into a pond covered in duckweed and hadn’t realised it wasn’t solid ground. I remember Nick’s dog, Dusty, doing almost the same thing at Hope Cove. At least I think that’s where it was – where the in-shore pond by the rocks that was filled with weed when the tide went out looked like a small green lawn. And Dusty, enthusiastic dog that she was, ran full pelt into it expecting it to be solid ground. Dog’s faces can show surprise.

Hope Cove

It was good to have those two dogs, Dusty and Petra, in our childhood. I remember Petra jumping from the bridge at the Pig and Whistle on the way down to Devon. We would often stop there as our half-way point. No M4 in those days. Were we in a big old Humber, or were we in the Reliant?  I only just remember the Reliant, sliding about in the back on yellow plastic mats. No seats, let alone seat belts.

I’m sure you remember these things better than I do; my memories of childhood aren’t that many. I remember certain things that could be constructed memories (from stories or photographs), and I remember things that can only have been my memories – such as riding a tricycle in the ward at Great Ormond Street hospital, and a huge room where I had to go with mum for ‘breathing practice’.

Sally told me about taking me to the psychiatrist for my asthma – and of me rolling out plasticine into long rolls. “Very phallic” the doc is supposed to have said. And mother, now, says ‘and of course I just plonked you into a bath with your brother. Phallic indeed – what else can you do with plasticine except roll it out?’  Although I would argue that now (I make faces and animals out of blu-tac all the time), I would think when I was four it probably was all I could do with it. I don’t think sharing a bath when we were kids was the cause of my asthma somehow. 

Why am I going over these memories? Because they are far and few between I guess, and maybe me talking about some of the stuff I do remember will trigger more memories, and some in you too. Hopefully good ones.  

Enough of the past – a quick update on my life: My new job is with a wildlife conservation charity. I love fundraising; some people think it’s a horrible job about just asking people for money, but it’s about a lot more than that to me. It’s about taking responsibility, and taking action. I enjoyed my time at the medical research charity, but I’m back in the area that I feel most passionate about, so I am happy, even though this job is very busy and demanding. I am learning a lot too. It’s all good; I have never liked being bored in a job. 

Well, they say that internet posts shouldn’t be much more than 500 words, so I guess letters on line shouldn’t either.

I know it’s your choice to remain unfound, and I respect that Phil. But I do still think of you, often. 

Photo credit: www.open.edu

Looking back

On 3 January 1974 I went to see 'Mary Poppins' at the cinema with my friend Paul. I was 13. I can't remember if Paul and I went on our own, or if we went with Paul's dad, but the reason was to get me out of the house.

During the night, my father had died. Aged just 53. He'd had a massive heart attack. My brother spent the remainder of the night lying in front of my door, to make sure I didn't come out and get involved in whatever was going on. He must have been 17. My mother was just 41.

I understand why I was sent to the cinema - to get me 'out the way' - but I don't remember if I knew what exactly what was going on. I can't remember if I was told my father was dead, or ill, or that I just needed to go out. I think I was told that he had died, but it was a long time ago and my memory isn't clear.

I do remember the funeral, in Bath. My father was buried in a cemetery in Bathwick and afterwards we went to my aunt's flat in the city. I remember  great anger and frustration because everyone was having a party, and my dad was dead. I know that the vicar came in to see my to try and explain that we were celebrating his life, not his death, but I don't really think I understood at 13 (and I was a young 13).

I never knew my father as an old man. He never knew me as an adult. There's a lot of grieving I still haven't done, there's a lot of things I wish I knew, I wish he'd known, but things are as they are. Life for my mother was not easy, and I had to grow up very quickly.

My brother must have had a hard time too, but it wasn't something we ever really spoke about. I wonder what his memories of that day, those times, are?

I wish I could end this piece on some great understanding, some words of wisdom, but the truth is I'm just thinking, and sometimes just writing is enough.

I remember my dad, I loved my dad, and I miss my dad.

Father's Day

Like many people, today I am remembering a father who passed away many years ago. He died on a cold January night, when I was only 13, of a heart attack suddenly in the night.

I wonder what I would say to him if I could see him again now? I am now older now than he was when he died - that's weird, I am older than my father.

If I could talk with him, I wouldn't tell him all the things I've done, the things I am proud of, or regret, or even that I wish I'd had a chance to share with him. I think, given a small amount of time with him, I'd like to say thank you.

The things he gave me in life were not material; he gave me a sense of humour - a sense of the ridiculous even.. He gave me a love of words; I love to play on words and meanings, very much as he did. He gave me a love of music, bringing me up on Wagner and Beethoven, Mozart and Haydn.

He also gave me the 'Sheppard nose', which is evident in generations of our family, even through to my distant cousin in Australia.

He gave me the confidence to perform, to love the stage and to be able to speak in public. He taught me how to wiggle my ears. He taught me sayings and jokes that now, listening to 1950s and 1960s radio (Radio 4 Extra), I realise were from The Navy Lark and Round The Horn. They are still funny.

Thank you dad - thank you for giving me things money couldn't buy, and precious gifts that have stayed with me for life and helped make me who I am.

And thanks mum, just in case you thought I'd forgotten your contributions. But you deserve a blog all of your own, let alone a post.