The strain of getting out of his chair when it was time for bed proved too much for Dad's heart. He had just enough time to thump the red button on the gadget around his neck, then died. I wasn't there. I was half an hour away at the Cottage in Piddinghoe. The police came to me at 1.00am to tell me the sad news that I was orphaned. And my world changed, five years before I expected it to, for Dad was not quite 88 and I thought he might have another five years left.
My world changed, but it didn't collapse, nor would it have had. I was a self-reliant creature, well organised and resilient. I had quietly taken much already in my life. So I coped well and efficiently with the aftermath, and nobody was surprised that I did. There was the funeral, so very soon after Mum's. Registering Dad's death, so soon after Mum's. And I had to administer two estates now, not just one. I got into gear, and got on with it.
Of course I grieved, but in my own way. I reflected and pondered more than I grieved.
I thought about how things might have been, but now could never be. Dad and I had only just returned from a cruise, and had (with Mum gone) bonded somewhat. I'd been looking forward to finding out how far such bonding might go. Now I would never find out. I'd have to rely on my memories, bolstered by hundreds of photographs taken over the years. Thank goodness I had those.
I'd been very fond of Dad, closer to him than to Mum. And in the ten years that followed, that fondness persisted, even though I gradually perceived more clearly how my parents had tried to control my life, albeit from the best of motives. I was sorry not to miss Mum more, but then we'd always had a wary, careful relationship in which much could not be discussed. Dad was easier to get on with. I was more like him. Equally inclined to judge, he nevertheless said less and I could risk a confidence with him that I couldn't with Mum. I hasten to add that, most of the time, I'd had a genuinely good relationship with both my parents, spiced with good humour and moments of positive sparkle. We'd laughed a lot together through the years. I'd learned to keep certain secrets from them, so that they couldn't thwart me, but their legacy was a good one. And, whatever their opinion of me in later life, they had left me the lifeboat - the survival-capsule at times - of their home. I was so grateful for that.
2019 was to be the year of several important anniversaries connected with my parents. Events had made it impossible to mark Mum's death on 3rd February. The next one was the tenth anniversary of this lunch with Dad on 11th May. It had been an upbeat occasion in 2009, and would be in 2019.
And so I rather looked forward to driving over to Fernhurst, at the far north-western corner of Sussex, where we had had that pub lunch at The Red Lion on 11th May 2009.
The pub was on the village green, away from the main road, and looked very much as I remembered it. I hadn't been back in ten years, not once. Fernhurst was over an hour from home, outside my 'local area', and gradually I'd decided to keep it for this moment.
I didn't feel daft, celebrating a shared meal ten years ago. I felt very happy that was doing this. I hoped, in fact, that I'd be able to discuss my pilgrimage with the pub staff and some fellow-customers. This was, after all, done in memory of Dad. And in a sense, I'd be having lunch with him again.
Inside, the pub looked smarter than I remembered it - a combination of a repaint and new furnishings - although the layout seemed much the same. I spotted where Dad and I had sat, and chose that table for my meal. As I ordered myself a drink and some food, I told the older lady behind the bar why I'd come. She'd been there ten years back. She recalled, as I did, that a reporter had come in, trying to get local views on a local killing - a murder - in the village. He hadn't spoken to Dad and myself, but we had watched him quizzing the bar staff, our ears flapping.
I had decided to drink not wine but a gin and slimline tonic. I ordered a pint of beer for Dad. I couldn't remember exactly what he used to drunk. It had once been Watney's Red Barrel, or Whitbread Tankard. Had Courage Director's ever been his drink? No: in his last years, he'd enjoyed a pint of John Smith's. These beers were either no longer brewed, or were just not available at this bar. But I saw Fuller's London Pride, and got him a pint of that. Too late I recalled that he'd preferred drinking from a tankard, not a straight glass, because with his wrists weakened from arthritis, a tankard was easier to hold two-handed. It was a small detail, though, and didn't matter. I didn't want to remember the pain and inconveniences Dad had endured from his arthritis.
So here we were. I sat where I had sat ten years before. Opposite me, in my mind's eye, sat Dad.
In reality, there was only that pint of London Pride. But it did the job nobly.
And what would Dad have seen, if still around at the ripe old age of nearly-98? This lady, his daughter.
I hoped he would have found pleasure in the thought that I was in his life, keeping an eye on him, and still enjoying a game of cards with him (we used to play cribbage and piquet together), even winning a game or two now and then (he was consistently the better player).
My main course came: beef sizzler, with sweet peppers, onions and rice. Yum.
Cheers, Dad!
Then dessert. Sticky toffee pudding with ice cream. Not exactly Slimming World compliant, but hey, it was a very special occasion. Dad's pint kept up a great conversation. I was so pleased I'd done this.
By and by the meal was finished, and my gin and tonic all gone. It was time to do something else. I left Dad's untouched pint where it was. The lady behind the bar thought that it could stay there, and she wouldn't take it away until she had to. A family spanning three generations had noticed Dad's pint, and I explained to them what it meant. I showed them that shot above - of Dad about to tuck into a plate of breaded fish goujons, chips and peas. Then I walked out, and got thoughtfully into Fiona.
Good bye till next time, Dad.
