“You want to do that again, Son?”
“Yes!!” I screamed with glee.
Oh how I loved going over the bumpy road behind East Wemyss and my dad would take me twice around it, sometimes three times.
And he did not go slow, he was going about 80 Mph.
We flew over those bumps and twisted round those bends like a rally car. My dad was like Colin McCrae and I was his Co-driver, navigating the bumps and bends for him.
Easy to do in his brand new Saab 900 with detachable roof. Suave car for the early 90’s.
I would squeal with glee every bend, and scream with excitement every sharp turn.
Oh how lucky I was to have a dad like this; that would do all the exciting things other dads would not, how he threw caution to the wind and was one with risk.
I loved it; I would tell all my friends at school about these stories, and how some would go wide eyed with excitement, others would roll their eyes in jealousy.
My dad had come up from England for his yearly visit. Oh how this was the highlight of my year. Because I knew this would mean going places. And in a plane too.
My dad was not any dad, he was a Project Manager high up in the Nuclear industry — he would run teams of thousands of men. His job was tough and stressful; as were his times limited with the people he loved.
I took once a year with my stride. I would get a holiday somewhere away from rainy Scotland at least.
And yes, this year we were set to fly off to England. He had work in Sizewell; for those that do not know that is near Ipswich, and for that we had to travel down to Suffolk.
Oh the joys.
Another holiday this year.
* * *
Dad reached into his shirt pocket and took out what looked like a big stack-roll of twenty pound notes.
Thickest I have ever seen.
“Take this David, and one for you Raymond”
Dad gave my friend and I a twenty pound note each to go and have fun whilst he was off to conduct some business.
We knew “business” was code for the pub but we did not care; twenty pound was the most we had ever seen just to spend on what we liked.
This was 1992, so you could imagine how far twenty pound would have went back then.
Both David and I were super excited to go and play the arcades with this–we would be there for an eternity, just as dad had planned. There was no time frame to meet him back. But that did not matter he would find us when he was done.
We were in Ipswich town centre, it was busy, a hot day, we went off to find some coke and then have a day in the arcades.
* * *
“You are a fucking disappointment to the family. No Baxter has ever failed like you have”
Dad screamed at me over the bar table as he was supping his Stella Artois. Spit flying from his mouth, his face contorted with grief, anger and sadness.
“Look at everyone in the family. Your cousins are teachers and doctors. You. What are you? Nothing. Unemployed guy with no hope.”
“My Son is a waster”
He was not scared at making a scene at the bar — everyone watched, I shrunk further and further into my seat as if I wanted a big ghostly hand to rise out of the earth and pull me underground away from whatever this was.
This was regular for me. Ever since I quit college, quit golf, quit everything and went down the route of drugs and drink.
Every so often I had to endure one of dads lectures about how much of a disappointment I am to him; maybe one day he will forget and just move on with his life.
But they kept coming — no matter how hard I tried to please him he always found a way to make everything my fault. It was regular, crushing, hurtful.
I hated it.
Especially when he was no picture of perfection.
Sometimes he would get a little too drunk and he would try and fight me. I am not too sure why; but that was his mantra. He was good at quietening a room; his bark was way worse than his bite.
* * *
By the time I was 25 I stopped talking to my dad; I wanted nothing more to do with him. My family did not understand because they did not see the hell he put me through every time I was around him.
To them it was important that I spoke to him and was around him — yet to me that was only going to send my stress levels spiralling out of control.
I spoke to him no more, I cut contact, he was no longer useful in my life.
I did this because I had friends and I seen how appreciative and loving their families were; how some of them welcomed me as one of their own, and when I messed up they knew I was being as young people do.
Sometimes friend’s dads would give me friendly advice.
I had not seen my dad looking friendly for many years. I was not going to tolerate it any longer.
He was now dead to me; he could take his anger on someone else for all I cared.
* * *
I reached up my hand to push the door open but my wife was there waiting for me; sympathy on her face and hurt burrowing into her eyes.
I knew what this meant — we had been told he was a death’s door for a while now.
“Aw honey, your dad is dead, I am sorry”
I did not expect it to hit me in the way it did; my whole body went frighteningly cold and I felt a little dizzy. You never really think that a parent will die.
There is an unseen veil of protection that exists even when you are not on the best of terms.
That was gone now; he was gone.
I am alone.
Of course I had my wife there, and my son, but there is something primal that snaps when you lose a parent; something buried deep down that releases, I can not explain it, like a bond, a debt, or something ancient.
I spent the whole day that day imagining what it was like to cross over. The moment between living and dead.
Did he go somewhere else?
Or is he just worm food.
I struggled with death. For many months.
* * *
I started piecing his life together after I had grieved; many years later.
How he spent his youth as a latch door key kid.
How the love that his sisters received was not there for him because his mum and dad were always down the boozer.
How his sister effectively raised him herself.
How it was understandable that he turned to the alcohol.
How he lost his job in his industry and he was barred from ever getting a job there again.
How his high flying lifestyle ended and all he had left was alcohol.
It all began to make sense after I studied his life. How the anger and hatred I felt for him turned into grief and understanding.
How I stopped judging him so harshly because the hand he was dealt with was much worse than mine; and for most of his life he had turned it into a positive.
How I went from anger to understanding.
And how I was able to let go of that trauma and transmute it into healing avenues for other people.
We never really understand our parents until we are much older.
Healing from that is one of the most important things you can do in your life.
Do not let your ancestors define you.
As I let mine.
For a while at least.
