A memory of my father

I’m in a sombre and quiet mood right now after what has to go down in my history as the worst Christmas ever. It was not that my inlaws did anything wrong, on the contrary, they threw themselves at the holiday with gusto and at no small expense. There was lavish food and drink, games, gifts and all round good will, well almost all round.

But none of this was going to change the sadness in my heart. On 23 December, after months of ill health and discomfort, my father passed away. He was 79 and had, unlike so many of us, lived his life to the full. Anyone who met him and many of my Brighton friends did, will confirm that fact.

He was an artist and a true craftsman. One day we were out in the car and passed a sign that read “Craft Fair Today”. Quick as lightning he responded – “Today’s craft fair, tomorrow’s boot fair.” It was a condemnation of the misappropriation of the word craft by hobbyists. You may not agree but after years of watching the man pains-takingly carve stone and wood for the restoration of ancient and modern buildings I could see his point.

I had to write a eulogy for the funeral. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to write and I wept throughout. How could I sum up a man that meant so much to me and to my family and to the many people whose lives he touched? He was a father, a teacher and an inspiration.

When I came out to my parents I found it easier to tell Mum, for no good reason I was soon to discover. He called me back, yes, I did it by telephone, and his words were so simple and so succinct: “You are my son and I love you.” We didn’t ever need to say any more, he was totally accepting and unconditionally proud.

When I was very small he taught me how to draw. Lesson one, elipses. I was trying to draw a hyacinth growing in a glass vase, you may know the kind. I was probably six years old, certainly still in the infant school, and he explained how to create the illusion of a three-dimensional circular solid to me in a way that made total sense. By seven he had explained perspective, forshortening and sundry other devices that add up to decent draughtsmanship. He instilled in me a love of fine art, fine music and fine manners too. Mum taught me how to read by the age of four which today would be an asset, but back them meant that I sat at the back of the class waiting as the rest struggled to catch up with Janet and John and that blasted ball.

If it all sounds idyllic it was not. He had a fierce temper when goaded, he had a habit of taking over when he saw you flounder with a project, and he liked to finish things off in his own, often correct, way. There were times when I would have loved to be left to make those mistakes but he could not do that.

He was also a source of much embarassment. A keen practitioner and teacher of Hatha Yoga and a sun lover, he could often be found, wearing the briefest of swimmimg trunks, in the lotus position, a sight that gave rise to the legend that my father walked around naked. In truth he did, but never ever when we had visitors.

“We had a few beers at the pub together and on our return thought it would be fun to see if you can make fizzy milk”

He was also a fool, a lover of practical jokes, silliness and irreverence. One Christmas Mum and Dad had purchased a Sodastream. We had a few beers at the pub together and on our return thought it would be fun to see if you can make fizzy milk. You cannot, and we ended up hysterical on the kitchen floor covered in curds and whey with mum ranting at us from the door.
As a very small boy he never read stories at bed time but instead would play his harmonica (he taught me to play too) – or he would sing. This is what he sang.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,
You make me happy, when skies are grey,
You’ll never know dear, how much I love you,
Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

My father, Eric Kay, is the sunshine in my life that will never set.