A child, a soldier, the desert and a rescue

I was certain I hadn’t left a full, unopened jar of coffee on the kitchen worktop when I left earlier that morning, but there it was, staring at me as I staggered into the kitchen following my run home from work. Only my brother had a key to the house and his annual visit wasn’t due until Christmas Eve. Anyway I put it down to fatigue and addressed the pressing business of preparing sustenance. With the pasta on the boil I headed for the shower, pausing at the bedroom to disrobe, whereupon the coffee jar mystery solved itself. The bedroom window was wide open, as were two drawers in the dresser. I definitely hadn’t left things like that.

I’d never suffered a break-in before so was more than a little taken aback? What did I do next? The helpful woman on the other end of the line when I rang the police told me not to move anything and an officer would be with me as soon as one was free.  A pensive hour and a half later having noticed other parts of the house in some disorder the police office arrived, did a brief inspection, took a few notes having asked me what was missing, gave me a number to ring if I thought of anything else and went on his way. No fingerprints taken; CSI not called. Most likely a drug user (apparently) who had taken the few things he could quickly offload for a few quid to feed his habit. These things included a GoreTex jacket, an SLR camera and zoom lens, three ten-pound notes, a jar of coppers and one other thing ...

My dad was an incredibly quiet man. Not the John Wayne, former-boxer-returned-to-Ireland kind; just a quiet man who never raised his voice, rarely indulged in small talk and certainly not one to take up an argument ... to the great consternation of my mother. Perhaps that was why a deep relationship between father and son never formed. Apart from a bi-weekly visit to Bramall Lane to stand on the terraces and watch Sheffield United win a few and lose a few more (they were in Division 1 back then), we didn’t do many father-son things. Well, he worked shifts at the steelworks and was either at work or in bed for around two-thirds of the time I was up and about. So no, we were never close.

As a boy then I had little appreciation of what my father gave me. Living in a tiny two up, two down council house with an outside ... rest room, we were similar to most of my friends at school. Small house, small garden given over mainly to growing veg., which my dad tenderly nurtured each year. Nowadays ‘growing your own’ is rather trendy and middle-class. Back then it was more of a necessity; a throw back to the War I guess. We had one two-week holiday each year, when the steelworks went on shut down, though all the earliest trips I remember were up to visit Gran in Glasgow which in the 60s was as far from a seaside holiday as you could get, both figuratively and geographically. I must have been seven or eight and therefore vividly recall our first telly arriving and could even probably still describe the controls – especially the little a knob to tune it with a red needle that traversed left and right across a numbered scale. A rental set from Wigfalls; we certainly couldn’t have afforded to buy one outright. The early years of family life must have been tough for mum and dad, what with the steelworks often only providing ‘short-time’ – three days work per week, yet we always ate well and were well-clothed, albeit occasionally in my cousin’s hand-me-downs. Having butter on the table rather than margarine was incredibly important to mum.

As the years passed, finances eased and we moved to enjoy the luxury of a larger house, though still rented from the council. Eventually my brother and I flew the nest, mum and dad secured a pensioner’s council flat and they became more ‘comfortable,’ no longer having to support the two of us. After mum died, I felt the need to make sure dad was OK and visited more regularly. I didn’t really need to; he was adequately independent and able to cook (he’d always been able to make better pastry than me!), clean, mend clothes (another talent I didn’t share), manage money and do the weekly shop. We didn’t talk much when I went round, just sat and watched the telly. Sport more often than not. He’d sometimes come round to my house, though only when needed, never just for a visit. So if the gas man was coming to service the boiler or some repairs needed doing to the building, he was happy to come round and ‘house-sit.’ When he’d gone, often before I got back from work, I’d discover he’d occupied his time with a little chore like mowing the lawn, ironing some clothes or cleaning the bath. He didn’t need to, but I guess it was his way of showing he could still be useful even as a septuagenarian of some years.

He always enjoyed walking, ensuring the dogs we had over many years got more than their fair share of exercise. The last one was a Sheltie and dad doted on her; she could wrap him round her little finger (do dogs have little fingers?!) But as she aged, her joints became increasingly arthritic and the walks became shorter and shorter until one day when she failed to hop over the door step, tripped and couldn’t get up for the pain. Dad called me. He never asked for help, though was always grateful for it when proffered. During the drive to the vets we discussed possibilities, but given the surgery, medication and poor prognosis of previous visits, the likely outcome wasn’t good. I asked dad if he’d prefer I took her into the examination room and given what we’d discussed earlier if the vet asked ‘the question,’ he’d agreed the answer should be ‘yes.’. When I came out alone, he just nodded and as we walked out to the car for a return journey heavy with melancholy and even quieter than usual, a few tears trickled down his cheeks. I’d never seen him cry.

The walks dad took latterly were more of necessity than for pleasure: to the shops, the Post Office to collect his pension, to the barbers or to the bank. He’d never learned to drive, but as they’d never been able to afford a car, there was little point. All too occasionally I’d ask if he fancied going for a drive and I’d pick him up and we’d have a morning pottering around the Peak District, stop and amble up a dale for half an hour, then seek out a cafe for a cuppa and a slice of cake. He’d sometimes point out a feature and briefly recount cycling past there as a young lad. When I remarked how far we were from home, he’d say it was the only way he and his friends could get about.

Dogs came back into dad’s life once more, the time my brother asked me if I’d ‘dog-sit’ for his two Dobermans whilst he was away for a week. They were both docile, friendly creatures, though far from the sharpest knives in the drawer. Although the bitch was as placid as could be, it was hard work taking them out walking because the dog was so strong and poorly trained on the lead. When I rang dad to ask if he’d give me a hand, though he hardly exuded enthusiasm, I knew he was glad to have been asked. I picked him up and we drove out to the canal with the dogs ensconced in the back seat. I’d picked a circular route of around three miles that was somewhere new for dad, though perhaps a little further than he usually walked these days. Springtime on the canal was always wonderful; peaceful and quiet, but with new life bursting forth along the whole towpath. Seeing the car upon our return was welcome for us both, I because I’d had one arm nearly pulled from its socket for the preceding ninety minutes and dad because it was a stretch further than he was used to these days. Our relief was short-lived as a young woman called us across. She too had been out walking her dog, but as she manoeuvred her car to pull away, one wheel had dropped into a shallow ditch and she couldn’t get out, so could we help? With the dogs out the way and despite my protestations, dad insisted on lending a shoulder to help me give the car enough of a push for the wheel to grip and skip up out of the ditch. Having duly thanked us for the rescue, the young woman was free to continue about her business ... and we were free to pop into the canal-side cafe for a coffee.

The call from  SeniorCare, the company that monitors the emergency pull-cords in the council flats where dad lived, came at just after two in the morning. He’d been rushed into hospital with a suspected heart attack. He survived for another nineteen weeks, yet never escaped from the hospital, so weakened was his heart from the trauma. I visited every day, but the few words we exchanged became tougher and tougher as the news he could pass on to me became less and less fresh. There’s only so many times you can ask ‘What did you have for dinner?’ and ‘Was Mr Jones a bit quieter last night?’ The only thing he wanted was to get out and get back to his flat. In the early days that seemed like a possibility, the doctors suggesting he’d need a couple of weeks to recover and build up his strength. Then it was another couple of weeks to reduce the water retention, then another couple and if he was strong enough, perhaps a bypass. When I finally pinned the consultant down, he conceded that the damage dad’s heart had suffered was irreparable, the remaining muscle tissue was insufficient to sustain him and his deterioration would continue. Though neither we nor the doctors told dad, I suspect he knew. He cried a lot.

He was seventy-nine when he went; a reasonable innings for a man who’d had quite a tough life, first down the mines, then later having endured twenty-eight years hammering enormous slabs of metal with a hundred ton forge hammer. But I was only thirty-six. I had only just reached the point where my eyes were beginning to see what this quiet man and my mother had done for me. In a tiny council house, with no spare cash, they’d clothed and fed both me and my brother and brought us up with a strict sense of morals and respect for others. They’d ensured we took school sufficiently seriously to access higher education and consequently worthwhile careers. Through the upbringing they provided, we both enjoy far more comfortable lifestyles than they ever had. And I hadn’t had the chance to thank either of them properly.

So when I peered into that open dresser drawer and saw the missing photo album, I was devastated. There were two medals carefully arranged inside the back cover, in recognition of the three and half years my dad spent serving his King and country in the deserts of the Middle East. Not for valour, just campaign medals and as such, of little value. Perhaps the thief had watched too much (or too little?) Antiques Road Show and thought the photographs of my dad with his comrades at Giza, in Cairo and around their desert camp might provide the context needed to add further value to his haul. They were the only photos of dad I had; they and the medals were the only tangible remaining connection with him. The thief who broke in my house that day didn’t steal a wartime photo album and a couple of medals. They stole my dad.