Chris Turner

Way back in July 1939, dad was born in Sunningdale, in the Royal County of Berkshire.  He would always make a point of stressing the royal bit.  He came into the world precisely two months before war was declared.  This may be an odd way to begin this piece, but it was one of those things about which he couldn’t resist telling anyone and everyone, while always reminding his family members, you know, just in case we’d forgotten.  This was his claim to fame.  He had a better one, more of which later.  Thus, on the third day of September, every year, we would all be thinking about that fateful day when Neville Chamberlain announced that “a state of war would exist.”  It is especially poignant in this case, because as a result, dad’s dad, Colin, died in Northern France, just four months later.  How did dad become such a wonderful dad himself, when, but for those first few months, he had not enjoyed the love and care of his own father?  He was quite exceptional.  My two sisters and I cannot recall any kind of pressure to perform or to ‘be’ anything other than ourselves.  He was always there, but never dominant, never overbearing, never demanding.  His love was never stated – he would probably have seen that as rather gauche – but it was always evident in his actions.  For such a big man, he was incredibly gentle and kind.

The information about the date of his birth immediately sets his life in some kind of remarkable perspective.  The world today bears very little resemblance to that other world into which he was born; he was part of that generation which witnessed, or which experienced, or were affected by, some of the most significant changes of the 20^th Century.  The atom bomb, the Queen’s coronation, The Beatles, putting a man on the moon, the end of the tot (more of which later), decimalisation, colour television, Concorde, the Harrier Jump Jet, punk rock, the Internet, the Rubik cube, Top Gear, ATMs, speed cameras, skateboards, the Sinclair C5, Cadbury’s Creme Eggs, Countdown, microwave ovens, Pop Tarts, David Bowie, the 1966 World Cup, nice Skodas, smartphones, the Black & Decker Workmate. What a time to be alive!  To illustrate (on a rather mundane level) how things have changed, dad was fond of telling how he once came ashore for a period of two weeks’ leave.  Nothing unusual there, except for the fact that it was the practice at the time to give servicemen their pay in advance in cash, which meant he was sent off with a £5 note in his pocket.  I forget the details, but I think it may have been the first time he’d ever had his hands on such a thing.  The point is that he was effectively mildly traumatised by this, simply because he feared that he would not be able to get change of a fiver.  Just imagine that.  Poor old (young) thing!

While it may be a mundane example, it is also a fitting example of how dad cared; here he cared about not being a nuisance or being the cause of a problem for someone else.  He’d have been really uncomfortable about handing over a white fiver to the newsagent, when all he wanted was that day’s Daily Telegraph.

Ah, The Daily Telegraph.  Now, while some might see taking the Telegraph pretty much every day of his adult life (unless at sea, obvs) as something of a choice based on politics, rest assured that this was not the case in this instance.  No, this is all about the cryptic crossword.  Well, that and the obituaries, and the sport and the Letters to the Editor, but… mostly the crossword.  It was a constant; it kept his brain ticking over; it challenged his resolve; it created a weekly talking point during Sunday morning telephone conversations with his beloved big sister, Mart.  It has struck me recently that the cryptic crossword was a metaphor for how he lived his life.  Let me explain.  It’s largely to do with discipline, and rules, and experience, and knowledge, and the ability to think and to reason.  A clue can only have one answer, pieced together and proven by the sum of its parts, but without knowing the rules, for a novice, a cryptic crossword can seem like it may as well be written in a foreign language.  You can’t fake an answer to a cryptic crossword.  Dad was never fake.  If he couldn’t work out the answer to a clue, he’d ask me or mum or Mandy, or anyone else who might be in the room, to take a look.  He could have just put in any old word, and pretended he was clever.  He would never have done that.  He was honest.  He was smart, and rarely defeated.  I suppose, what I’m suggesting is that the cryptic crossword somehow defined his life.  He learnt the rules, he applied the rules, he lived by the rules.  At the same time, he had an inherent curiosity, meaning that he’d want to know why the answer was correct.  If he couldn’t prove it, he was frustrated.  Most tellingly, in the final few weeks of his life, he lost interest in the crossword.  In that final month, he told me just once that he wanted to pick up a pen and take a look.  That look lasted a few minutes at best, and not a single clue was solved.  He even asked me to cancel the newspaper subscription.  I knew the end was nigh.

Anyone who spent time with dad would have experienced his unfailing curiosity.  An obsession with the BBC News meant that bulletins at 1pm, 6pm and 10pm were an essential part of his day.  Another trait was his habit of always checking for the origin of a product.  He wanted to know where his shirts were made, where his yoghourts had been produced, where his apples were grown.  Anything and everything which crossed his path.  I guess this explains his exceptional level of general knowledge.  You would always want him on your team in a quiz.

Dad was nothing if not modest.  He wouldn’t brag about that time he kept the heads clear on the Hermes, wielding that faithful plunger.  He wouldn’t shout about how he had been awarded two medals during his naval career, nor that he’d never been unemployed or claimed any kind of benefits.  He wouldn’t blow his own trumpet.  I don’t think he even had a trumpet.  Nevertheless, as hinted earlier, he had one astonishing claim to fame, about which very few people knew.  Yes, he’d once met a genuine superstar; a national treasure.  In fact he even shook his hand, apparently.  It was in Hong Kong.  Who else, but Lionel Blair.  Yes, I know.  He could have dined out on that story for years, but I can barely recall him mentioning it.  On balance, I think Lionel was a lucky man.  Dad’s handshake was worth everything to me.

While it would be hard to define dad by his hobbies – I can’t think of anything you could describe as such, crosswords notwithstanding – it was rather revealing to witness the gifts bestowed upon him for his 80^th birthday.  Bottles of rum.  Multiple bottles of rum.  Often spiced rum.  Yes, he had been a sailor.  Yes, he enjoyed a tot or two.  Yes, he occasionally enjoyed more than that, but the fact that so many felt the need to ply him with rum was testament to the fact that alcohol never spoiled him.  He was not dependent on the stuff, but it made him happy; it helped to soften the pain; he was a big old kind-hearted softie, and with a tot or two in his veins, he was just a bigger, softer, old kind-hearted softie.  Never aggressive, never belligerent, never angry, never anything but lovely.  I’ve made a point of ordering some to share with visitors in the coming days, weeks and months.

While not so much a hobby, dad had a passion for shoes.  Think Imelda Marcos, but without the high heels and corruption.  He was always on the lookout for a bargain pair of Clark’s shoes.  He’d struggle to walk past one of their shops without checking through the sale racks.  I don’t think he ever paid full price – it’s not that he was mean – but a bargain is a bargain, especially where shoes are concerned.  I know he did acquire one pair which wasn’t made by Clark’s.  I know because he bought them in Singapore, and some years ago, he gave them to me.  I’ll probably wear them later.  He used to drink beer from them.  That’s how much he loved shoes.

In 1982, dad re-joined HMS Hermes, and set sail for The Falklands.  He’d left the ship not long before the conflict, but was recalled because the chap who had relieved him was away on leave, and as far as I can recall, could not be contacted.  (Note, as stated above, it was 1982, long before people were able to communicate instantly.)  It was a difficult time for those of us back home in England.  The Hermes was a big old unit, carrying some rather important aircraft, so it was nothing if not a massive target.  Dad often said that he never actually saw the Islands.  The Hermes was stationed some 300 miles away, in the cold expanse of the South Atlantic.  I recall the day the ship returned to Portsmouth; it was one of the happiest days of my life, knowing that dad had returned safely, plunger in hand.  The weirdest thing about the whole episode, was the fact that dad was in an actual war – well, it was only a conflict, according to the history books. Whatever.  He was the least likely person to actually want to fight, which begs the question “why the hell did he join the Navy?”, but that’s beside the point.  He would often recount the story of when he was a young naval recruit, compelled to take part in a boxing match.  Even in his late teens, he was 6’3” and 15 stone – a rather imposing figure, no doubt – but when put in the boxing ring and forced to fight, his tactic was to put his (much smaller) opponent out of action as soon as possible.  He hated having to hit him, but he also didn’t want to be hurt himself, so he did the only thing he could to minimize the risk and the length of the bout.  I think he’d describe himself as a lover, not a fighter.

At the turn of the Century, mum and dad upped sticks and moved from Gosport to Oswestry.  Thus, the best part of a quarter of dad’s life was spent in Wilmot Drive.  There was never a moment’s regret.  The location, with Oswestry Cricket Club just there at the end of the garden, was ideal. 

The importance of the cricket club should not be underestimated.  He had almost no interest in the game of cricket itself, but the club became the hub of his social life for most of his time in Shropshire.  He was able to make a number of good friends, and he was a regular at the bar, enjoying a few pints of the local beer, and perhaps a tot, if someone twisted his arm.  The fact that the beer was always slightly too cold for his taste (I don’t think he ever mentioned it) didn’t detract from his fondness of the bar, and for its regulars and staff alike.  He became part of the furniture over there, except that furniture doesn’t usually grumble about suffering from unspecified and indeterminate aches and pains.  His presence will be sorely missed by all who shared some time with him.  He would have been rather touched, albeit slightly embarrassed, by the fact that following news of his demise, the club flag was flown at half-mast for a suitably respectful period. 

Dad lived for a rather impressive 30,541 days.  He was a dad for 62 years and one day (he’d never have been so dramatic and insensitive as to have checked-out on Mandy’s birthday).  He left us 4 years to the day after his aforementioned sister, Mart.  I think he would have rather enjoyed the symmetry of that – the pair of them calling it a day on Valentine’s Day.  Ha!  There’s the drama.  Just when you thought he would have wanted to slip away unremarkably, he pulled that one out.  I’m sure there would have been a cheeky smile on his face and a glint in those beautiful blue eyes. 

I should end with an acknowledgement of the marriage he enjoyed for 62 years, six months and one day (sixty-two and a half years precisely would have been too neat).  Bearing in mind that mum and dad were married at a very young age, and were parents at the age of 19 and 21 respectively, their love survived all those years.  I can best illustrate their unwavering affection for each other by assuring you that dad would always give mum a kiss before heading out of the house without her, even if it were just to walk along the road to the newsagent, or to the club at the end of the garden.  He cared for her until the very end, best illustrated by two episodes I witnessed in the final weeks of his life.  One morning in late January, I was helping dad to get back onto his bed.  He was in so much pain, he could barely move.  In the adjacent bathroom we heard mum fall – she hadn’t hurt herself too badly, although she did manage to land on the scales, which punched a hole in the wall – so I rushed in to help her up.  By the time I’d got her to her feet, I turned to find dad in the doorway, concerned about her welfare.  Never mind his own pain, he needed to check for himself that mum was okay.  Of course he did.  Then, just a week later, literally on his death bed, a discussion with the doctor ended with the obligatory question: “Is there anything else you want to ask, Chris?”  Yes, there was.  He expressed his concerns about what would happen to mum.  He wanted to be there for her, and felt guilty that he’d had to leave her behind.  Their enduring love was an example to us all.

He was my dad, but he was also my friend. I shall miss him immeasurably.