Flashback

Lucian Freud’s son remembers awkward moments

I WAS 13 and my dad had never visited my school before. It felt rather surreal that he chose to make his appearance on Speech and Sports Day, an occasion I always awaited with emotions ranging from exasperation to dread. I invariably came last in the sporting events, and the speeches would drag on as I shifted in my seat. He arrived with my half-sister, Bella, who is about my mum’s age. His hat was intended as a disguise, in case any other parents recognised him.

We went into a marquee for the speeches and the prize-giving. The headmaster gave a speech about a grey elephant from Denmark, a personification of childish innocence and playfulness. I felt tremendously touched by it.

We all had a picnic afterwards, which my mum had prepared. My dad and Bella agreed that the speech had been mawkish and recalled it with rolled eyes. Instantly, I felt ashamed of having been so moved, and of having considered the headmaster so wise and warm and inspiring.

My parents had split up when I was about four, though they had never lived together. I saw my dad about once a month. I would insist that my mum came too but she began to refuse. She told me she felt like an intruder, infuriatingly tagging along when I was the one he wanted to see. So I would go to him on my own, and our meetings involved a great deal of silence. He felt so different, and I was often at a loss for things to say. He was extravagant where I was frugal – dining on oysters and champagne while I was happy with fast food – and frugal where I was extravagant, living in his sparse flat and unaware even of how a television worked, while I hoarded video games.

Once I remarked, as we hovered around his kitchen (in which, as far as I know, no food was ever cooked), ‘Well, here’s an awkward silence,’ and he said he didn’t find the silence awkward. This struck me as a very venerable attitude and I was ashamed that I couldn’t find contentment in stillness.

All my life I have loved puzzles, and it was my mum I would spring them on. I reimagined the Game Boy game Super Mario Land as Super Mummio Land, in which she would trace her finger through networks of platforms, and later I developed an obsession with compiling logic puzzles. I would never have felt comfortable challenging my dad to solve my puzzles. I think they would have seemed alien to him and I would have felt embarrassed explaining them, though no doubt he would have admired the obsessiveness with which they were crafted.

The last time I saw him conscious, we ate at Clarke’s restaurant next to his house, where he went every day. As we left, he asked what I was going to do. ‘Now, you mean, or in the future?’

‘I don’t really know what I mean,’ he said, lowering his eyes and smiling sheepishly.

I said I was planning to walk from Land’s End to John o’ Groats, and he replied, ‘Oh, yes, you did say...’ – which I was impressed by, as he’d almost entirely lost his short-term memory. ‘You will keep in touch, won’t you?’

I said I would, and softly he replied, ‘Hooray,’ raising his hand in a mock toast.

The Cryptic Pub Quiz, written and illustrated by Frank Paul, is published by Duckworth (£16.99)

My dad recalled the head’s speech with rolled eyes – I felt ashamed of having been moved by it

Frank Paul, with his parents, on a rare public appearance together