My Old Man

by Ted Kessler

  One strange thing about interviewing people for a living is that you realise you can ask someone you’ve just met in a hotel room how they felt about their parents, what their youthful ambitions were, whether or not they’re happy, all the important things, while failing to put those questions to the people you love. I cringe when I remember being driven home from university in the holidays, jabbering away about all the thrilling new ideas I’d had about how the world worked, too full of being young and clever to coax Dave into talking about how he felt and then to actually listen. I take some consolation from my mum’s revelation that he never discussed his feelings with her either – emotional reticence was baked in from childhood – but I could have at least tried.

  The year after I left university, Dave fell ill. He had been diabetic since his teens, which often made him crabby. Now everything was going wrong at once. In quick succession, he had a heart bypass operation, a stroke, a diabetic blackout that caused him to crash the car, and kidney failure that required a dialysis machine. That was the blow that finally forced him to retire at fifty-two. I wasn’t there. I had moved to London to start my career. I had fallen in love. I was busy doing important things like clubbing. I was your common-or-garden self-absorbed twentysomething. I thought he’d get better, mainly because I was too scared to consider the alternative. He wasn’t old and I wasn’t ready. He couldn’t die yet. But he did.

  What I remember from his final year is the stuff. The Black Sabbath CD I asked Ozzy Osbourne to autograph for him. Our last conversation at the hospital when I made him laugh by describing an Armstrong and Miller sketch about an inspirational teacher who stops caring the second the bell rings. His all-too-revealing obsession with Spiritualized’s devastatingly sad ‘Broken Heart’, which I chose for his funeral in 2000 alongside his own choices, ‘Spirit in the Sky’ and ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’. Take away the books, the records, the TV shows, the movies, and what did we talk about? What did I know about him? Not enough.

  So I don’t tend to think about Dave when I’m with my wife or my daughters. I don’t often consider what he was like as a father. I no longer have the recurring dream in which he’s chatting away and I know that as soon as I break it to him that he’s dead he will disappear. But, God, when I think about all the things he would have loved, all the shows he would have enjoyed by my side, all the interviews with musicians that would have given him a vicarious thrill, then he comes back to me.

  Why did Dave need all that stuff? Because it was how he communicated best. And, in lieu of all the conversations we should have had, it’s how I communicate with him still. Dave’s passions were so numerous and varied that there are as many things that remind me of him as there are stars in the sky.

  Dorian Lynskey is a journalist and

  author who lives in London.

  THERE WAS NOTHING I COULD DO THAT WOULD SHOCK HIM

  John Weller by Paul Weller

  He was my best friend. As well as him being my dad, we had a long working relationship, from the age I wanted to get a band together when I was thirteen or fourteen. And we were lucky enough to continue that throughout my career, right up until he got ill towards the end. He was very supportive of me; one of those dads that whatever I was into he’d be right behind me. When I was into football he got a football team together, even though I was the worst player on the pitch. He was always up for whatever I was into. It was probably because he had such a lousy relationship with his own dad. That would always come out whenever we talked about being a father, how he didn’t want to repeat what his dad had done. He’d always be encouraging. And then I got into music and he could see I was serious about it.

  He was still working when I was getting The Jam together, on the building site or on the cabs. He’d get a van, hustled off someone, and drive us to gigs. We’d have some gear but we also had to beg, borrow or steal other bits and he weighed in there too. Then he started getting us gigs. We’d go out in the week, the two of us, go round all the social clubs, working-men’s clubs, Liberal clubs in Surrey and hustle gigs for the weekend. Then it started becoming a bit more serious and he became our manager, not so much reluctantly as nervously. I remember him saying to us around the time we got signed to Polydor, ‘I’m not sure I can do this.’ All of us said, ‘Well, if you’re not doing it then we’re not.’

  He learnt as he went along. He had no prior experience other than street smarts. But he was the manager when The Jam were signed. After the initial scramble when The Sex Pistols and The Clash got signed, all the labels went out to find their own punk band and we were coming in with the next tide. The A&R man from Polydor came and saw us at the Marquee and it all led on from that. We thought ourselves very lucky to have been signed. Six grand and we couldn’t cash the cheques because none of us had a bank account. So my dad asked for it in cash. You can imagine how that went down.

  I was eighteen coming up to nineteen around then, which was when I was meant to be rebelling, but there wasn’t much to rebel against in my old man. He was a cool geezer. There was nothing I could do that would shock him or that he hadn’t done himself – maybe drugs being an exception – and that could be a bit frustrating as a teen rebel. No cause.

  But there were compensations. We always had a good relationship. If he was going to the working-men’s club for a drink, I’d go along with him. We were always mates. It wasn’t perfect: there were things that I did in my career that he wasn’t always supportive of. Such as splitting The Jam up at our peak. That’s probably top of the list. He thought that was mad. Like, why are you doing that? You’re number one! Any manager would be like that, though. And even he came round to The Style Council after a while. But if we didn’t see eye to eye then we’d have a tear-up and that would be that. Back to normal. You knew where you stood with him. He was brusque but charming with it. He was a bit of a bull in a china shop but you had to forgive him that.

  Some of my happiest memories are after working on the building site with him when I was a kid, loading knocked-off gear into the back of the van that he’d borrowed. Also travelling back from gigs we’d played in clubs and pubs in London. After all the years of working-men’s clubs in Surrey, it was just nice to see some youngsters again. Then coming down the A3 afterwards, being pissed in the back of the van, singing with him and the band. Those are some of the best memories.

  It should have been difficult spending a lifetime together, but we had some of the best fun. The best memories nearly always involved booze, always shorts, never beer. He could drink a river dry of booze and still be bright and breezy in the morning. God knows how he did it, because he was only a little geezer. Nobody could ever work it out. Maybe he had hollow legs. I have so many memories of him reducing me to tears of laughter and some incredible scenes in my mind. Nearly always in bars. Hotel bars. Backstage bars. Airport bars. Lots of bars. I’ve got so many stories about him but none that anybody could print. So quick-witted that he got away with murder because of his charm. A Teddy Boy managing a rock band. Everyone just loved him.

  I thought his passing was a blessing. He was really not in a good way the last four or five years – he was ill before that, but those last years were really sad to watch. It’s a cliché but if he’d been an animal you’d have had him put down. This once proud, strong man looking like someone in constant turmoil was not good to see. You can never tell how you’re going to feel with someone’s passing. I wondered if I was going to fall apart, but I didn’t because the person I knew had gone years before.

  When I saw him dead in the hospital it was a beautiful April day, really sunny. The window was open and he looked at peace at last. I dealt with it okay because of that. I’m my father’s son. He was strong and I have some of his strength of character. I also see the lineage of him and our forefathers in my kids. It’s not so devastating when you can see that link passing down through the generations. I really believe that. He’s still here in my kids, in me.

  Paul Weller is a singer and songwriter.
<
br />   His previous groups include The Jam and

  The Style Council. He lives in London.

  A DEAD MAGPIE PEEKED AROUND THE BEDROOM DOOR AND SAID ‘HELLO’

  Memories of Dad and animals by Rose Bretécher

  Frogspawn – 1990

  You came into Year One with a tank of frogspawn from our garden to show the boys and girls in my class. You said the funny clear stuff, which is like jelly, protects the little dots inside that will one day be frogs. You said they wouldn’t survive without it. You said the adult frogs return to the place of their birth every year. The boys and girls in my class all looked into the tank and asked you a lot questions and I was proud because you were my dad.

  Pigs – 1991

  You took me and my brother to see the pigs on the twisty lane next to Hunkers Wood, where dormice and adders and skylarks lived. You sang your Pigs Lane song, which sounded a lot like your Heigh-Ho song and your Cow Lane song.

  Puppy – 1992

  You picked up the puppy and she fitted in your hand she was so tiny. When you put her in the basket by our kitchen door she cried and you touched her head and told her she was a good girl. You showed me how to stroke her without stretching her eyelids back.

  Swallows – 1994

  You took me for a walk on the Malvern Hills, which are as big as mountains, when the swallows were migrating in summer. Thousands and thousands, all the way to the Nile Valley, you said. You put me on your shoulders even though I was too big for that now, so I could try to reach them. You said I was at the top of the world.

  Long-tailed tits – 1997

  You wouldn’t let me take them straight away, because you said the mother bird might come back, but when a cat started coming across the lawn you brought them inside. They were like two tiny balls of cotton wool and their eyes were like tiny black beads. They were shivering and I wanted to hold them to keep them warm but you wouldn’t let me. You said I could talk to them while you went to find worms and caterpillars, and I did, but they died. I said it wasn’t fair and you said Nature isn’t fair, and I stomped away from you.

  Tadpoles – 1998

  The tadpoles were nearly adults, so you said I ought to see them while I had the chance. They still couldn’t live independently outside the pond, you said, but they were coming closer to the surface because they were starting to breathe in a different way. I groaned and walked off. You’d shown me them a trillion times before.

  Woodlice – 2000

  I was trying to make a good impression because it was the first time my sister’s boyfriend had been round for dinner. You came in from the garage and demanded to know who’d been spitting on the woodlice in the back loo.

  Pheasant – 2002

  I was bored on a Saturday afternoon when you came home with a dead pheasant. You’d accidentally run it over and thought it’d be fun to show me how to pluck and gut it. It was totally gross. You held up the kidneys to your ears like earrings. I told you I had better things to do and went into town.

  Dog – 2004

  I was away at uni when the dog got put to sleep, but you told me about it on the phone. While it was happening you touched her head and told her she was good girl.

  Magpie – 2011

  I was up from London with my new boyfriend. It was the first time you’d met him. In the morning, while we were still in bed, a dead magpie peeked around the bedroom door and said, ‘Hello,’ then did a little dance to a tune that sounded a lot like your Pigs Lane song. You’d found the bird in the garden and thought it too beautiful not to show us. My boyfriend took a photo. I love that photo more than words can say.

  Frogs – 2015

  I called you on my way home from work, tired and clammy from the Central Line. When you answered you were breathless because you’d rushed up from the garden, where you’d been showing your granddaughter the new frogs under the beech ferns by the pond. I was jealous. You once said that adult frogs return to the place of their birth every year. So often, in the big city, I want to return to mine.

  Rose Bretécher is an author and writer living in London.

  Her first book, Pure, was published in 2015.

  HE PAID FOR EVERYTHING WITH A CREDIT CARD, ALWAYS EMBOSSED WITH A DIFFERENT NAME

  Mohammed El Tahtawy by Yasmin Lajoie

  When they first met he told her that he was a doctor. She found out the truth, that he’d never had a proper job, a few months later but married him anyway. He was a charmer, my old man. That’s what Mum always said.

  They divorced before I can remember and, following a messy abduction attempt, my mother was granted full custody. When he got out of prison, though, he repeatedly took her to court, exhausting legal aid and pushing for more and more of me and my brother until he had regular unsupervised visits. A lot of the time he never came and left us waiting for hours. His excuses were incredible: there was a fire, he broke his arm, he had malaria.

  When he did show up, he bought us stuff, I think maybe because he didn’t know how else to love. Video games, trainers, mobile phones. He paid for everything with a credit card, always embossed with a different name. I remember once, in Toys R Us, he was Omar Sharif.

  My younger brother got more than me because he was a boy. More pocket money, more presents, more praise, more everything. I was told to be pretty and shut up because men didn’t like smart girls, and I was too young and inarticulate to argue. Feminism was left to gestate inside me – an embryo of outrage and indignation.

  Quite often he was with his other family in faraway places (Cairo! Beijing!) but he would always come back into our lives, popping up every year or so with his presents and his lies and his indefinite leave to remain.

  When I was thirteen I decided I didn’t want to see him any more. It was something small that broke me – I can’t even remember what he said or did. But that was it: I told him that I had run out of hurt. I changed my name. I was stubborn. I wished that he would die.

  Then, suddenly, two years later, he did die. He was on a night bus coming back from a club when a drunken teenager grabbed the wheel and steered it into a railway bridge. There were journalists calling around our house, a five-and-a-half-year sentence for manslaughter, a girlfriend we didn’t know about. All the little things that follow a death, all the paperwork and the lawyers. The compensation, his repatriation, my special consideration. The women at his funeral wailing until they coughed up blood.

  We went through his belongings. My brother took his watch, his passport, life remnants. I found a letter from WaterAid, addressed to his real name. Thank you for your kind donation, it said. At fifteen years old my black-and-white world instantly became muddy, contaminated. He wasn’t evil. He was like me. Grey. Complicated.

  You can’t eject people from your life without expecting any fallout. My dad is there in the parts of me that I can’t reconcile with the person I want to be. My mania and depression, how I’m late for everything, the intensity of my thoughts, my selfishness. Sometimes I lie so convincingly that it terrifies me. That’s him. Sometimes I get drunk and break things. That’s him too.

  Before he died, I imagined that one day he would apologise, I would forgive him and it would all be okay; that there would be some kind of redemption. I still kind of hope that this is a long con, one of his stupid excuses for not showing up. I still look out for him every time I’m at the airport: the man with many names who travelled the world and gave to charity, who was charming and clever and complex. I half expect to see him picking up a carton of Marlboro in duty-free.

  Yasmin Lajoie lives in London and

  works in the music industry.

  ‘ROY, THIS IS FIONA AND SHE IS IN LOVE WITH YOU’

  Roy Castle by Ben Castle

  I didn’t realise that growing up with my dad was any different from growing up with anybody else’s dad at the time. He was the only dad I had. I knew he was on telly a lot, but I didn’t always watch it. I just knew that was his job. I watched Record Breakers and I often enjoyed it, but I wa
s always more keen on whatever was on the other side. Once I was in his dressing room at the Palladium when he was in Singin’ in the Rain and I was moody because T. J. Hooker was about to come on telly and I couldn’t watch it.

  ‘But, Dad, it’s my favourite TV programme!’

  I looked at his face and I knew I should’ve said it was my second-favourite TV programme. It was a terrible awkward moment I couldn’t come back from.

  He was not a stern dad. If ever he had to get cross with us, he’d employ my mum to do it. I remember once when my sister had been naughty my mum said to her, ‘Ooh, you wait until your dad gets home.’

  When he got home, Mum told him to sort my sister out. So he went up to her room and said, ‘Look, Mum’s told me to get cross with you, so if she asks, I have, all right?’

  There was always so much music in the house. I was into a lot of rock from a very young age. I got completely hooked into Deep Purple for some reason from the age of nine. It was 1982 so it wasn’t exactly boom time for them. They’d split up, for a start. But, nevertheless, through my cousins I got hopelessly addicted to Deep Purple and all the other heavy bands around then. It wasn’t particularly my dad’s cup of tea but he encouraged me to get into it, to enjoy any kind of music. He lured me into jazz eventually and was always playing Frank Sinatra. He also played a lot of Clifford Brown, who was a fantastic trumpet player, so I got into all that as well. I loved the rock, but I loved the jazz, too, thanks to him.