Celebrating my Dad

I noticed that Wednesday falls on what would’ve been my father’s birthday, and while it’s not a notable birthday, neither ending in a zero or a five, I thought I’d share a bit about him.

The second of three generations born in India, in Darjeeling, a hill stations where the government of the Raj retired during the hot season. He went to prep school until being sent to the UK to attend a private boarding school in Cheltenham, flying to the UK on an early flying boat, and spending holidays with a variety of maiden aunts. It’s unlikely he’d have been able to make more than one trip a year home to India but, as the war broke out, even that one trip was ruled out, and it was many years before he was to see his parents and younger brother again.

As a result, his first roots in the UK were put down on the south coast in a little town called Hove, where his favourite of those aunts lived. It’s where he met his lifelong friends – two other Johns and Francis, and was where he developed his liking for British pubs, for tinkly piano jazz, and for jive. He and Francis were mesmerising on the dance floor, even into their later years. Francis married one of the other Johns (whose jive was rubbish) but she and my father remained the best of friends until her death. Sadly, there are no photographs of that time.

National service was spent in Gibraltar where he split his time working the big guns and keeping the apes at bay. A period of management training followed, before a posting back to India where, with his excellent spoken Hindi, Bengali and Urdu, he was to remain for long enough to meet my mother, have a flash society wedding, and have three of out four children. India was very much home, not least because every single member of both my father and mother’s small families were present during these happy years.

Postings in Nigeria and Bangladesh followed, where the alcohol flowed freely, where war and civil unrest became part of everyday life – along with beaches, boats, swimming and silliness (yes, that is my father doing the dance of the sugar plum fairy for a charity event along with a group of friends).

Finally, a return to the UK, to a home which only my father had really known, where my mother felt an alien, where us children had spent time in boarding school and felt varying degrees of at-home-ness or outsider-ness. To everyday life, family Christmases, weddings, significant anniversaries, and grandchildren.

We lost him 6 years ago this Christmas after a struggle with heart failure, alzheimers and vascular dementia. But he touched our lives in the best of ways – teaching us responsibility, commitment, professionalism, and how to laugh at life and ourselves. He kept his opinions to himself regarding our life choices unless specifically asked, but was an unfailingly support whenever needed and in whatever form that took. He was a great company and a wonderful raconteur, a true gentleman, irreverent, scrupulously fair and, as my brother described him during the eulogy he gave – a lovely man. We all miss him, but know our lives were enriched by his presence. As a result, we raise a glass to him on his birthday, and a champagne cocktail on the anniversary of his death – a skill he shared with his children, and which has been passed on to the next generation much to their delight.

I’ve been putting together a family memoir and my mother’s portion has the working title of Indian Duty, Catholic Guilt. I’d really love your ideas on a title for my father’s portion. Also any other suggestions, or recommendations, on memoirs.

© Debra Carey, 2022