Dance With My Father; A personal blog about Father's Day

In some countries, including the UK and France, June the 19^th is Father’s Day and as such, many people will celebrate and be thankful for their father.  

Not everyone will join in with the celebrations. For some, their experience with their father was negative or perhaps even abusive, negating any desire for an ongoing relationship . For others like me, the reason is more simplistic. Their father has passed away. There is no one to call and say hi to on Father's Day, no one to visit and take a bottle of scotch to. It is a day for reflection and memories.

When that life changing call came, I felt my legs go from under me. Someone, I don’t recall who, held me up and helped me to a chair. My mind was numb with disbelief and shock.

At the age of only 56, my father had died. He had not been unwell, but had a massive coronary thrombosis and had died instantly. He was in the back of a taxi of all places, the driver of which, drove immediately to a police station, but it was too late. He was gone. I had moved from Lancashire to Derbyshire only three days earlier. I had said goodbye to him, we had hugged, joked and said goodbye.

How could I have known that it was to be my last goodbye?

At only 56 he was gone







I stood now in a stranger’s kitchen trying and failing, to get my emotions under control. There were no mobile phones in 1981, but someone had managed to track down my closest neighbour and rung them to ask them to go and get me. They were so kind and drove me to a railway station some miles away where I was met my by beloved Aunt. I wept and I sobbed, until I made myself sick. I was in a nightmare from which there was no escape. And what of my mother? She had idolised him; oh God, how would she ever cope. I knew she wouldn’t.

Me and my brother with my lovely mum






At the age of 21, it was my first close encounter with the death of a really close family member – a parent. I had lost grandparents of course, but while I mourned their passing, it was not the same. This was my dad. My DAD for God’s sake. He couldn’t be dead, he just could NOT be dead.

I could not claim to have been close to my dad, in fact, he was a rather distant father. Growing up, he was someone who was in the house on occasion, but did not really interact with my brother and me. I recall mum pestering him to take us out for the day, which he did, with bad grace. He was not a family man, he was a business man, and a busy one at that. He was often abroad in Germany where he had a branch of his textile business. However, when he returned, he would always bring me marzipan and chocolate off the ferry. He never forgot. I actually hated marzipan, but that was not the point. My dad had brought me something, he had thought of ME.

Dad with one of his cars







Dad was a golfer and a Freemason – two activities, which kept him out of the house for most of the time, much to my mother’s disappointment. When I became a teenager, dad and I were little more than strangers who passed through the same space now and again. If I was really stuck, he would take me to work in the racing stables, where I was a groom. We hardly spoke, he really was like a stranger to me, and I found I had nothing to say to him. He must have said something to my mum because she tackled me about it one day. She said that dad told her I hardly spoke to him in the car on the way to work. I felt angry and snapped at her, “What do you want me to say to him mum? I don’t know him”. She was shocked, but knew it to be true. He had invested little time in his children and as a consequence, our relationship was strained and distant.

Always one of the lads - here's dad on the wall



After this incident however, he began to make more of an effort, and I guess, I did as well. Not having much in common made it difficult, but things started to improve.

One overriding memory I have of my dad is of New Year 1977. I was a "know it all" teenager (is there any other type?) my friend Nick and I had decided to go to the pub and see the New Year in. Mum and dad had agreed, but dad wanted to know how I was getting home. “Oh” I said airily, “We’ll get a taxi”. Dad warned that there would be few available taxis around at midnight on New Year’s Eve, but of course I didn’t listen.

Well, we had our night of fun and of course, as predicted, the taxi did not turn up. However, instead of ringing mum and dad from the phone box in the pub, Nick and I decided instead to go to some unsuitable teenage boy’s house along with a gang of other teens. (I can’t believe how stupid teenagers are at times)

It was all perfectly innocent. We listened to music, smoked a few B&H and before I knew it – it was 3 am and definitely time to think about getting home. “I know” I said having a brainwave, “I’ll ring my dad, he’ll come and get us”. Oh the foolishness of youth. I had not given one thought to the worry I had put my parents through that night. They had no way of knowing where I was or who I was with. I rang the number and within a millisecond, dad snatched up the phone; “Where the hell are you” he barked.

I told him.

“Wait there” was all he said, and hung up.

“Is he coming?” asked Nick. I assured her that he was on his way but added that he sounded a bit cross. We heard his BMW coming from about half a mile away, engine roaring, wheels spinning. I looked at Nick, “Mmm, I think he IS quite cross” I observed with all the stupidity of a 17 year old.

Dad in Germany on the steps of the hotel we stayed in. The car is THE BMW from that famous New Year's Eve!






Cross? He was blazing, but managed to remain polite as I had my friend with me. He dropped her off at her house and we sped home in awkward silence. Of course, when I got in there was a scene as my mum was in tears, and dad remained furious for many days.

However, not long after, another family member had a baby girl. My dad congratulated them and said, “You never know, if you’re really lucky, when she’s older, you’ll get to go pick her up at 3 o’clock in the morning”.

He looked at me and he winked. I was forgiven.

One of the last Christmas's we got to spend together. Yikes on the wallpaper mum!





We became closer after that and when he died, my emotions were dominated by anger. I was so angry that he had left me when we were starting to have a grown up relationship. I dreamed about him every night. In my dreams I was looking for him, and when I found him I would say, “There you are, I knew you weren’t dead” and he would wink at me and say, “Yes, but don’t tell anyone else”.

I felt his loss like a knife in the heart. I didn’t think I would but I did. I felt cheated. A few weeks after he died, I discovered I was expecting my first baby. I was bereaved all over again. He would not get to see my baby, I would not get to introduce her to her grandpa. It was unfair, so damn unfair and I grieved for him all over again.

I would walk down the street watching people going about their business and I wanted to scream at them, “Stop it, stop just getting on with life, don’t you know my dad is dead?” It was ridiculous, but at the same time, it consumed me and I could think of nothing else.

As I suspected, my mum did not cope, and just a few years later, she also passed away. While I grieved for her, there was not the fierce, raw emotion I had felt at the loss of my father.

Me and mum in her garden where she grew all our fruit and vegetables





Nothing has ever felt so painful.

He was a popular man, and his funeral was dominated by men – golfers, Freemasons, friends, business associates and more. There were literally hundreds of mourners and the police had to be called to direct the traffic.

I shall never forget the sound of all those male voices, which to me sounded like a Welsh Male Voice Choir. When they sang Bread of Heaven, I simply lost my legs again and collapsed on the seat in a complete trauma of grief.

It took me years to move on from the loss of him. I still cannot listen to the Luther Vandross song Dance With My Father, nor can I bear to see all the Elvis videos, where he’s with Lisa Marie as it reminds me too much of my own loss.

Photos like this one make me so sad




Good memories? Yes, of course, I have those too. He loved Jazz and if he was home on a Sunday, the house would be filled with the strains of Count Basie, Art Tatum, and of course great music such as Glenn Miller and the like. I have always loved music, and we shared an appreciation of Manhattan Transfer’s “Chanson D’Amour” and Elkie Brooke’s “Pearl’s a Singer”. I remember his sense of humour and his handsome smile, and the smell of him. He smelled of Old Spice aftershave.

He was the only person who called me Kate instead of Kathy (Freya is a pen name remember) and to this day I don't like anyone to call me Kate - it was dad's name for me. 

So for all those of you who still have a father, make the most of him; listen to him, he knows more than you and he’s the only one you have. Mine was not perfect, he was certainly no angel, but he was a gentleman, and he had that rarest of qualities - integrity. 

I still miss him, I will always miss him.

He was, after all, my dad.

Please do visit my website at www.freyabarrington.com

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Freya