My Story Pt V

I have a small daughter, to whom I read regularly. She loves books, and so do I.

We were reading The Gruffalo's Child, and the closing scene has a picture of the Gruffalo, the Gruffalo's Child, and a mouse.

My daughter looked at the picture, pointed at the mouse and said, "Where's his daddy?"

"Well, I don't know, the book doesn't say, we don't find out."

"Where's YOUR daddy?"

"Er...well, I don't know love."

"Oh well, we'll have to ask mum then."

It was like a dagger through my heart.

I'm not sure I can even say why really. Fatherhood did not seem to me to be complicated by having had no father of my own. I had a reasonable idea of what dads did, after all. And it didn't seem to throw up any issues of my own background.

Until now.

It became evident I needed to do something about it. But what?

My Story Pt IV

I barely considered not having a father for most of my life, over thirty years. Except once.

When I was about twelve, and out for a walk with my mother, I asked her about my father. She told me, seemingly without qualms. I don't really remember much about what she said, though I do recall she didn't portray him as flawless.

I had no interest in meeting him, no desire to trace my root like that. I used to watch programmes about meeting your birth parents or other long-lost members of your family with some interest but no feeling I would ever want to do it myself. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Until about five months ago.

My Story Pt III

Through most of my time at school, not having a father did not seem to make an enormous amount of difference. I felt loved and looked after by my mother and grandmother, who I still call "my parents".

At the age of sixteen I became a Christian, and became very friendly with a Christian teacher at my school, who encouraged me to trust Jesus Christ and obey him with my whole life. I tried to spend an awful lot of time with him. On reflection, he was another "father figure". I'm impressed at his great patience with me hanging around all the time and having meals with him and the family.

It's when I started going out with my now wife that another father figure came into my life, my now father-in-law. I really enjoyed talking to him about all sorts and everything, and although I can't say we did lots of matey "bonding" stuff (neither of us are like that) I think we have become close.

The experiences of others

I've been trying to track down some resources online to help me come to terms with my father.

The first real parallel I've found was in this blog. Tom Coates tells a remarkably honest story, and is far braver than I by attaching his name to it.

He used Traceline to help get in touch with his own father. His experiences of the Salvation Army's service put him right off, but Traceline sounds effective and rather more detached. Besides, the Salvation Army seems not to want to be involved with "fathers of children born outside marriage", though their website seems unclear. Guess I ought to ring them.

I'm still hoping to find the experience of others online.

My Story Pt II

Starting school seemed to prompt my mother into saying, "If anyone asks you about your dad, tell them that he's a policeman and works away a lot." It hadn't even occurred to me that it might be a problem.

Not having a father around was unusual in early '70s working-class northern Britain, and I suppose I was aware of that. Then again, I didn't see it as a problem, and neither did anyone else I knew at school. At the same time, I didn't know anyone who seemed to be in that position themselves, except for one girl. She lived in a rather grand house with a single mum. I was under the impression she was unmarried too, though I have no idea what had happened to the bloke.

I think on one occasion I used the "copper" cover-up line, though I felt it was unnecessary at the time. I was saying it to please my mother, really.

Besides, I did not miss having a father at all, at least not consciously. However, my first male teacher at primary school did have quite an effect on me.

Mr Shenley had a beard, attempted to teach me the most awful copperplate-style handwriting, and was a laugh. He was keen on putting on productions and persuaded me to appear in Joan Aiken's Winterthing as Jakin. I thought he was great, even when he forced us into doing Scottish country dancing to Jimmy Shand LPs.

In retrospect, he was probably my first crack at finding a father figure. He certainly was, apart from family, the first man I ever got to know in any meaningful way.

My Story Pt I

I was born in a terraced house in the north of England in the Sixties. I was brought up by my mum and my grandma and grandad. Mum worked in a variety of shops in my early years, including the corner shop (or "beeroff" - an off-license) at the end of our street.

I only had one brief memory of my life before I was about four: a very clear recollection of having my nappy changed. Goodness only knows why that stuck.

There are photos of me with the family cat, who died long before I remember him. Probably just as well, as I am now allergic.

My grandad was an austere man who I principally remember as coming back from jaunts away from home with his mates and giving me presents. The kind of plasticy toys which give small children such pleasure. Mum, grandma and I did not seem to be included in these trips. He also went to the local bookies to place bets on horses and dogs, which seemed to drain what little money we had with precious little return.

He died just before my fifth birthday.

All about my father

I've started this blog for one reason: to write something about my father and my feelings for him. So far, he & I have never met. I hope one day we will.

I've just come back from seeing a counsellor about the traumatic emotions I have experienced recently, for the first time ever, concerning my absent father. It was suggested that I might like to write about it, and so I am so doing. I've decided to blog about it, as I am not sure anyone else has, and it may help them (and me) come to terms with the whole thing.

My plan is to tell my story first, then to describe what has happened recently.