Paternal admonition

Our watering hole was the Dolphin pub on the corner of Gladstone Road and North Barrack Road in Deal, Kent [pictured above in 1952]. The scrumpy was very cheap and potent. On Friday, 11 August 1966, shortly after my 18th birthday, I was helped home very drunk by my friends. They got me to my front door, knocked and fled, avoiding an encounter with my fearsome mother. She answered the door, dragged me inside and left me lying on the floor. I remember hearing her stomping up the stairs to her bedroom and the door slamming shut. After I lay there for a while, I felt a presence and opened my eyes. There, at the bottom of the stairs, stood my father, dressed in his Royal Marines’ Band uniform, as real as you or me. This was strange, as he had died when I was five years old.

I immediately sobered up. He stood there with such a disapproving look on his face, a look of disappointment, as if to ask, “What are you doing with yourself?” I got up and moved towards him, but he just seemed to move away. I went to the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich. As I sat there, trying to make sense of what had happened, I could still feel him watching me from the semi-darkness of the hallway. Eventually, I decided to go to bed, which meant going past him, but all he did was gently move away. There was no movement of his arms or legs; he just seemed to glide. I made it to my bedroom, undressed and got into bed. He was there, just looking at me. Then I fell asleep. In the morning, I couldn’t believe what had happened. I was unable to tell my mother. She was not speaking to me after my disgraceful behaviour the night before. Life went on as normal.

Stuart Smith

Walmer, Kent