AN UNWRITTEN LETTER

This is the time of year is for families and reflection. This is a letter I wish I had written.

A letter to my….…Stepfather

Our first encounter took place on a railway station when I was almost twelve, a meeting my mother had arranged so we could get to know each other. You gave me a pink plastic handbag and I threw it back at you, shrieking that I loved my Dad, hated you, and didn’t want your bribes. Not an auspicious start.
My mother had left home two months previously, after what I can only describe in retrospect as living Hell. I don’t know what was worse, the stony silences, during which I was used as a go-between - “tell your father this” or “Tell you mother that”, - or the rows, which started off in in violent whispers and culminating in shouted insults and slammed doors, once or twice in physical blows - from both sides. Then suddenly it all stopped. I came home from school one day and Mum had gone. There was no explanation from my Dad, she just wasn’t there any more. Letters came, letters I learned to dread for the effect they had on my father, turning him morose and bad-tempered, but there was no word for me. It was left to an aunt to explain things and tell me about that proposed meeting. I didn’t want to go, and all the way there I tried to think of a way to escape, but when you are eleven, and especially in those days, there is no option but to do what adults tell you.
Some six weeks later, during which time I still had had no contact from my mother, I was told I was going on a visit to her. She was living with her elder sister, my favourite aunt, so it was with mixed feelings that I made the journey. I had been there for a week and was beginning to ask when I would be allowed to go home, when Aunty Rose told me that you and Mum were going to be married, and it had been agreed by all concerned that it would be better if I never saw my dad again. Of course, no-one had bothered to ask me. Philip Larkin was so right - they do fuck you up, your Mum and Dad.
You married abroad and I wasn’t at the wedding, opting instead to go to boarding school and thereby avoid living with you. Holidays were spent at a holiday home and Airmail forms were the only contact. Then came the news that I was going to have a baby brother or sister. Oh, the excruciating embarrassment that news caused me! Nevertheless I was thrilled to be asked to think of a name. I remember filling one of those letter forms with every name I could think of, using the smallest writing I could manage. There were hundreds of them and they must have been unreadable; I even added to the list in subsequent letters.
Eventually you came home on leave, took me away from school, and I came at last to share a home with you. Robin was born and we returned to Africa, a fledgling family, albeit one with a lot of baggage.
I’d never actually liked my mother, a feeling I think was mutual, and we were soon at loggerheads, especially as she treated me as an unpaid Nanny. You, however, were different. You never treated me with anything but kindness, going out of your way to help me keep up with my education, talking to me, sharing jokes and generally taking care of me. You introduced me to books I’d never have read without you, and nurtured an enquiring mind I didn’t know I had until then. But there was a distance between us, mainly caused by me. I never called you by name, never spoke to you, only at you.. If only I could have explained that my teenage truculence was really shyness and embarrassment about my behaviour at our first meeting. I was so ashamed; I couldn’t forgive myself and felt sure you couldn’t either. I didn’t realise that you were shy too and thought you sometimes stern and unapproachable. I was in awe of your intellect and I felt so inadequate beside you. How silly the young are!
In due course my resentment of my mother’s behaviour, both then and in the past, brought matters to a head. We had a row and I was sent back to England. A few years later you all came home, but still we were apart - me in London, you in the Midlands, and visits were rare. When my children came along I brought them all to meet you. You were a brilliant Grandfather, full of fun and laughter and shielding them when they fell below Mum’s strict standards. They loved you dearly, and I was more relaxed in your company, but still we never touched, never hugged, and even then I couldn’t bring myself to use your name
And then, aged forty-eight, you had a massive heart attack and died. I stood by your grave and grieved, not only for your death but for the lost chance to tell you how I felt. It’s nearly thirty years since then but whenever I think of you the pain of regret is as sharp as ever. Those two damned words “If Only”… again.
So that’s why I’m writing this letter. To let you know how much you meant to me, how much I grew to love and respect you, and how very much I miss you still.
I’m so sorry… Dad.