photograph
adam lawrence
every year in your honour. Got any
inside knowledge on the next winner?
It hasn’t been easy raising teenagers
and I’ve often craved your advice. You
told me once that children can break
your heart and if you were still here,
I’d tell you I get what you mean. You’d
probably tell me, “don’t worry, they’ll
come back. You did.”I still laugh at the ridiculous
I miss your dry sense of humour. most
people thought you were incredibly
serious, even mum. But something
would happen, I’d catch your eye
and we’d both end up spluttering
with laughter. all families have their
catchphrases. and while they might
not mean much to others, to those in
the know, they are the fabric of family
life. every time our front doorbell would
ring, you’d shout, “That could be the
police! Quick, hide!”
I still smile when
I remember your
incredible ability to
mock yourself. no
one could deny you
were a bit flash: gold
rings, permanent
cigar, a silver Jaguar with red leather
seats (this was the late 70s). You’d lean
out of its window and tell the neighbours,
“I did think about buying a mini coupe
but I couldn’t fit my personality in it.”
The other week, I climbed into an
Uber and the interior had that same
swanky leather-seat smell to it. I closed
my eyes, breathed it in and saw an
image of you in the sea after you’d
fallen off a small boat. You emerged,
cigar still in your mouth and asked if
anyone had a light. Only you.We looked after Mum
as best we could
this would have broken your heart, Dad.
we suspected something was going on
with mum for quite some time but, like
fog, dementia engulfs a person’s life one
minute, then disperses the next day.
a few years after you’d died, she asked
us where you’d gone. when we told her,
she looked a bit cross and exclaimed,
“charming! He didn’t tell me he was going
to do that.” Her last years were spent
in a care home for dementia patients.Thank goodness you were spared that
terrible decision to put her there.I talk to you in my garden
the day I got the phone call telling
me that you had gone, I was standing
in my garden. I sat on the grass and
cried while my two small boys cuddled
up to me, worried that their mummy was
so distraught. luca tried to cheer me
up by singing me a silly song: Look at
me, I’m a kitty cat who wears a bowl
of peanuts for a hat. rafael told him,
“Be quiet! Grandad’s dead.” That
made me cry even more.
months later, I floated half of your
ashes in the Thames at leigh-on-Sea
in essex where you loved to eat jellied
eels and look at the boats. The other
half is buried in the soil in my garden.
You were an expert at growing the most
beautiful roses and an incredible bush
of blooms watches
over you. when I am
out there, I tell you
what’s going on in my
world. I can’t be sure
that you can hear me
but it’s a comfort just
to say the words.I still haven’t written
that book
perhaps one day I will. But, in the
meantime, I have launched a business.
I know you’d be so proud. You grew up
on a council estate and worked hard
to secure a scholarship at a grammar
school. as a grown-up, you had your
own shipping business and travelled to
war-torn africa and the refugee camps
to deliver aid. You saw many shocking
things and met people who were
devastated by grief. If I told you that my
business (untapped.ai) supports people
at work with their mental wellbeing,
you’d think that was incredible because
we help a lot of men like you, who
find it hard to open up.
But I do also know you’d tell me
to write that book. You persistently
encouraged us, your three children,
to make our mark on this precious life.
You’d remind me now, if you were
sitting by my side and looking at
the roses in my garden, that there
is no time to waste. w&h“You always
encouraged
us to grow”
a big day for
father and
daughter,
25 July 1992proud
grandad
with baby
rafaelWaltzing in
australia
togethersignificant other
woman&home IT’S all aBOUT YOU! 75