Voices from beyond
Each month a reader writes to a loved one in the afterlife and Mandy Masters tunes in to share their reply. This month Sue Hudson writes to her dad, Thomas Dear Dad
‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ you asked, when I showed up at your place, flashing my new camera. I’d barely opened my mouth to explain before you tucked your arms behind your back and put on your best smile.
You loved having your picture taken!
When I look through all our family photos now, I’m reminded of the stories you told me about your childhood.
‘People talk about the good old days, but it’s rubbish,’ you would say.
Life was hard back then. Born in February 1920, you were the youngest of eight, growing up in a closeknit slate mining village in Powys, Wales. You were just five when your mum, Margaret, died leaving your three sisters to raise you as Granddad was working.
But despite having lots of family around, you were often lonely – and scared. I don’t know if someone told you a spooky story after your mum died, but you always seemed frightened of the paranormal.
On Saturday evenings, when Granddad went down the pub, you would sit in a tree for hours, watching the village lights in the distance until he got home.
‘I was too scared to be in the house on my own,’ you told me.
Later, when you were 14, you worked long days splitting slates in the quarry.
When the Second World War began, you joined the RAF as an armourer and went to Egypt and South Africa.
‘War is a senseless waste of life,’ you would say, showing me photos of you and the friends you’d fought alongside. You’d seen so many of them die. I could only imagine the horrors you’d witnessed.
After the war, you met Mum, a widow with a young son called Gary. I came along two years later, in 1950.
Despite losing your mum so young you had such a soft, maternal side.
When I couldn’t sleep, you would crouch by my bed and sing me songs.
As I grew older and learned to ride a bike, it was you who ran alongside holding the back of the saddle until I had the confidence to go on alone. And when I swapped two wheels for four, you sat next to me in the car teaching me how to drive.
My daughter, Emma, came along in 1970. Sadly, things between me and Emma’s dad didn’t work out, but you were always there for me to talk to and gave good, sensible advice.
It came as a surprise when you and Mum separated, too, when Emma was a teenager. But you remained good friends and would visit each other.
We saw each other lots, too, didn’t we?
Some of my favourite memories are of bringing my dog, Poppy, round and you feeding her Polo mints!
In the warmer months, we’d relax in your garden while she tucked into runner beans from your veg patch.
When I met Neill you liked him straight away. We got married fairly quickly and life was good.
But not long after, you told me you kept getting breathless for no reason. I urged you to see a doctor.
‘I’ve been!’ you shrugged. ‘They said I was fine!’
The phone was lying off the hook
Mandy doesn’t read your letters in advance. She is given only your first name and relationship to the person you’d like to speak to in Spirit
That put my mind at ease so, that day, when I brought round my new camera, little did I know that precious photo I snapped would be my last ever of you…
It was Sunday afternoon, about 4pm when the phone rang. ‘You don’t know me but I’m the mum of the boy who’s supposed to be staying with your dad…’ she began.
You had a Welsh student coming to stay for a year. Welsh was your first language so you were looking forward to having a few conversations in your native tongue.
‘I’m here to drop him off but your dad’s not answering the door and the curtains are closed,’ she said.
‘He’s probably at the community centre where he volunteers,’ I said. ‘I’m sure he’ll be back soon.’
I didn’t twig anything was wrong as I mentioned it to Neill. But, as a nurse who works with elderly people, he saw what I hadn’t.
‘Fetch your dad’s key,’ he said. ‘We need to get round there.’
When we arrived at your house, six miles away, the lady was still waiting. I tried my key in your door, but it was bolted from the inside. It was then I panicked… Going round the back of the house, Neill smashed the kitchen window with a brick and climbed through to open the back door from the inside.
As I looked towards the hallway, there you were lying motionless on the floor in your dressing gown. Next to you, the phone was lying off the hook.
‘Dad!’ I screamed, running over and trying to shake you awake.
But it was clear, from the way you were dressed, that you’d passed that morning.
It looked like you’d gone to unbolt the door, as you always did when you got up, but had had a heart attack and fallen, knocking the phone off the side.
What happened next was a blur as we called Mum and other family members to break the news.
I thought about how much time we’d spent together over the last few days. I’d kept thinking;
‘I’ve got to remember this moment’ and now I knew why. Something inside me knew our time together was running out.
As if losing you wasn’t bad enough, Gary passed three years later aged 56, from cancer and Mum’s gone, too.
It’s 29 years since you passed. I always talk to you as if you’re here, like this month when I’ll be wishing you a happy Father’s Day.
I don’t sense you around, but I know your fear of ghosts means you’re keeping your distance, just in case you scare me. But, Dad, you wouldn’t!
Your passing left a massive hole in all our lives. A light went out that day. But you were and always will be, the perfect dad and granddad.
Sue xx