As a non-religious person, I am
aware of the near certainty that I will never again meet those who have died.
And I have no need to
persuade myself that there may, after all, be some form of celestial dictator,
a supernatural creator, who has designed things to ensure that we all meet again
in the kingdom (and being religious it would have to be a kingdom and not a
queendom) of Heaven.
That’s a bit of a shame
really because I would like to have another chance to thank my mother for
bringing me up single-handed.
I'd also seek
out my father to learn a bit more about him.
With my father living in Canada for much of my life, our contact was mainly by
airmail letter. For years, we did not
have a telephone in the house and those pale blue fold over envelopes
represented our only meaningful contact.
I knew my mother well enough.
She was a simple woman, not a
stupid person I hasten to add, who had few interests beyond going to work,
bringing me up and then going to bed.
When she found re-marriage,
she became a hermit, rarely leaving the new marital home but for a time she was
happy. She died in 1999 after an
horrendous later life of illness and pain, all caused, incidentally, by
cigarette smoking.
I was obviously greatly
saddened when she died but there was little I didn’t know about her. There were no secrets, nothing hidden in the closet.
With one parent remaining (I
also had a stepfather who lived his final miserable years in a care home, his
life gradually taken away by the ravages of Parkinsons) I now know I should
have taken more of an interest in my father.
Anthony Johansen’s was a long
life well lived.
When he died, I had made my
peace with him.
Not that there was any
rancour or bitterness – certainly not from him: he was always blissfully,
frustratingly consistent! – but I knew him far better in his twilight years.
Prior to 2004 (about which
more in a moment), he visited England to see his family and we were part of that visit and
that family.
I loved him being there but
in so many ways I didn’t really understand our relationship.
I had missed the son and dad
life, although I did not realise until much later in life, thanks in large part
to my mother, I didn’t miss it at the time.
When he re-appeared from time
to time, I knew who he was and yet I didn’t.
He was my father but to me
that was only a name.
In 2004, I made my second
ever visit to Canada, my first was in 1975. It was for
his 75th birthday party.
By now, he had met the true
love of his life, Joy Phillips. He never
told me this – it wasn’t the sort of thing he would tell me – but I just knew
from a very early stage.
I still felt a long distance
visitor but I now felt more like a son because he introduced me to people as
such.
Five years later and I was
back in Canada for his 80th birthday, a truly wonderful
time in my life.
As ever, we quarrelled and
disagreed about things but I now knew for sure that the bond was as close as it
would ever get. For his 80th birthday
I took him to see John Fogerty in concert.
I left Canada much happier with our relationship. There would be other times we would spend
together. Maybe I would see him for his
85th?
In late 2010 he fell ill and
on 28
February 2011 he left us for
good.
Days later, I made my fourth
visit to Canada but this time in the worst of all circumstances.
It passed in a blur.
Tears here, there and
everywhere before and on the flight.
My brothers Noel and Vaughan and I spoke at a celebration of our father’s life and
before I knew it, normality was resumed.
It’s the what might have been
that I can’t quite come to terms with.
It’s patently absurd to think
that, in the very unlikely event I end up in Heaven (in the even more unlikely
event that it exists at all!) that I’d find anyone I knew anyway. And how old would they be anyway? The age they died?
I knew my father quite well
when he died but I didn’t know him well enough.
I’ll never know him any
better than I do now and that’s the worst bit.
