Conversations with my dad

I still have them every single day.

It’s nine years since my wonderful dad died, unexpectedly yet quietly, in the middle ot the night.

“The night my dad passed away, he had his favourite meal for dinner – presciently eschewing their standard ‘M&S Meal for Two’ for a good old Irish fry up complete with soda bread to accompany his ever-present cup of tea, something I had rarely known him do. He watched some sport on the TV – we think Ronnie O’Sullivan in the snooker final, and then accompanied my mum to bed, with his bedtime cup of tea, and they did the Guardian crossword together like they did every night, before turning out the light.

He never woke up.”

Today is not an anniversary, a birthday or a significant day in that respect, yet I ache to speak with him right now. Grief goes like that. If follows no rules, no logic. No patterns that we can study, predict or prepare ourselves for. I feel sad, and his gentle humour and sharp, understated wisdom would always make me feel better. Still…I speak to him every day…in my own way.

I’m currently in a residential library in Wales trying to get a handle on my second book - one that is inspired by tales told to me by my mother about her, my dad, and life in the land of my heritage (albeit one I have never lived in) - Ireland. How I wish I could speak to him about it too, although Mum is brilliant in sharing the parts of his life she was present for. It was originally called ‘Tullamore Tales’ (after the town they both lived in), and has now morphed into ‘Little Tufts of Tea’. Who knows where it will end up. It is anchored through the medium of ‘tea’ as I explore how we pass down our family histories in ways other than words; and as I sit here riven with self-doubt and having a health ebb, wondering why I am here alone instead of home with my family, I came across something I wrote a few years ago.

At the point I had the below ‘conversation’ with Dad, I was still working in aviation, on the brink of a new life.

Today, I think this is exactly what I needed to hear:

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“In 2020, as the world was inexorably changing, I decided that maybe now would be the time that I would make the decision I’d been thinking of for years. To become a writer. As we sold our house to enable me to quit my job, I had this conversation in my mind with my beloved, departed dad about how he changed his life in his forties. When mum and he had three young kids, me being the youngest, he risked everything to leave his hated banking job and set up his own business.  This is how I talked it through with him, and how Tullamore Tales was born:

'how old were you, Dad, when you took that risk?'

 '48'    

 my age now

'and we were, what, all under the age of 10?’

'well your sister was a teenager, but you and your brother would have been little yea'

I love how he says ‘yea’ – it’s breathed in instead of breathed out. It’s an Irish thing – all my relatives do it. How they annunciate an ‘h’ at the beginning of words with a sharp inhalation  - hwhat? hwhy? hyea…

'weren't you scared?'

 'aah sure not really, I couldn’t have kept going at the bank - I wasn't treated well. I knew I could do more. Your mum was more anxious about it, but I knew it would all work out. I mean – what’s the worst that could happen…?'

 pause - he’s very comfortable with silence

 '...more tea?'

 'that’d be grand, aye'     

of course he'll have more tea, he's never said no to a cup of tea my whole life

‘so how did it feel?’

‘hwhat, walking out of the bank…? haha, just great’

the soft chuckle, the wry smile – I miss that so much

‘no regrets then?!’

‘there’s no point in regrets – they don’t serve anything’

that gentle twinkle in his eye reminding me nothing can go wrong when he’s here

‘so what do you reckon – do I take the leap? Do I walk away from my crappy boss and my career of 20 years and give this a punt? Can you imagine little me being an author??!?!’

‘well jeez you’re so damned persistent I reckon you’ll make it happen - whatever you turn yer hand to…’

‘you really think so?’

smiles, drinks his tea when it’s still nuclear – how does he do that?

pause

‘mum showed me some newspaper clippings last week – she’s in her 2^nd house now since you’ve been gone, I think she’s really happy – well as happy as she can be without you. The paper cutting said your business was the most successful distributor of Irish music in the UK in the 1980s!! Why didn’t I ever know that? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘aah well….what’s to tell’.

I remember the distribution warehouse, cold, shrouded in cigarette smoke with spiders in the bathroom and a broken loo seat. There was a £1 note pinned to the wall for posterity. Terrifying for a child, but it never felt like that because dad was there. It felt safe. It felt like home.

‘she’s doing well you know… you’d be proud of her.’

‘aye’

he looks sad – he loved her so. We had all just celebrated their 50^th wedding anniversary – 6 weeks later he went to sleep beside her and never woke up again.

‘I’m collecting memories from mum – stories of your lives, I’m calling it Tullamore Tales – I want to get it published. I wish you were here to tell me your stories in person. I wish that more that I can say’.

‘speak to your Uncle Tom – he’ll know.

 ya have any biscuits to go with the tea?’

as if I’d serve you tea without biscuits

‘So what do I do, Dad, if it doesn’t work out? What if I get it all wrong?’

‘well as I’ve always said, when the difficult times comes, you just wait ten minutes and then they’ll pass. And if they don’t, just wait 10 minutes more.’

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Thanks Dad, it’s always great chatting with you. Speak soon.

Love & lemons 💕🍋

Em xxx