Dad, the things i’d like to tell you
Twelve years ago, Jenny Tucker’s dad died. as Father’s day approaches, she opens her heart
A heartfelt letter to a dearly missed father
I’ve celebrated my silver wedding anniversary
remember my wedding day when we stood together outside the register office before the ceremony? It was a boiling July day and we were both clammy with nerves and the heat. You asked me if I was OK and I waited for the father/daughter Big Speech. It didn’t come; you’d always been a man who struggled to expose his heart. But as Prince started playing inside – the cue to take your arm and walk towards my new life – I saw your eyes were shiny with emotion and it was enough.
You and mum were married for 58 years. most peopIe would consider that to be incredible, but we knew it was a rollercoaster of a relationship and mum’s depression often took us into dark corners. But then, at 79 years old, you went first, leaving mum reeling at the loss of her sparring partner.
In so many ways my husband reminds me of you. He’s self-contained, calm and intelligent. They say women often marry a version of their dad. way back then, on that day in July, a friend filmed our guests, asking each of them for a message to the newlyweds. when it came to your turn, you raised a glass to the camera and said, “I know they’ll be happy. He’s a good bloke.” as always, you were right.
Your grandsons are now men
the last time you saw the two of them, rafael was seven and Luca was four. They were both perched on your knee and you were secretly passing them a werther’s from your pocket. now, as young men aged 19 and 16, they’d dwarf you. They’re huge, hairy, muscly, strong-willed and if you offered them a drink, they’d ask for a double shot of vodka in their lemonade. rafael – who has your distinct “Tucker face” with the full lips and signature almond eyes – always loved playing dominoes with you. He says you never let him win, but if he did beat you, you endorsed that he was “the champion”. Stuff like that sticks. luca was so young when you left us, his memories are more misty. He told someone once that “Grandad was a horse man”. Of course he meant the races. we still bet on the Grand national
every year in your honour. Got any inside knowledge on the next winner?
It hasn’t been easy raising teenagers and I’ve often craved your advice. You told me once that children can break your heart and if you were still here,
I’d tell you I get what you mean. You’d probably tell me, “don’t worry, they’ll come back. You did.”
I still laugh at the ridiculous
I miss your dry sense of humour. most people thought you were incredibly serious, even mum. But something would happen, I’d catch your eye and we’d both end up spluttering with laughter. all families have their catchphrases. and while they might not mean much to others, to those in the know, they are the fabric of family life. every time our front doorbell would ring, you’d shout, “That could be the police! Quick, hide!”
I still smile when I remember your incredible ability to mock yourself. no one could deny you were a bit flash: gold rings, permanent cigar, a silver Jaguar with red leather seats (this was the late 70s). You’d lean out of its window and tell the neighbours, “I did think about buying a mini coupe but I couldn’t fit my personality in it.”
The other week, I climbed into an Uber and the interior had that same swanky leather-seat smell to it. I closed my eyes, breathed it in and saw an image of you in the sea after you’d fallen off a small boat. You emerged, cigar still in your mouth and asked if anyone had a light. Only you.
We looked after Mum as best we could
this would have broken your heart, Dad. we suspected something was going on with mum for quite some time but, like fog, dementia engulfs a person’s life one minute, then disperses the next day. a few years after you’d died, she asked us where you’d gone. when we told her, she looked a bit cross and exclaimed, “charming! He didn’t tell me he was going to do that.” Her last years were spent in a care home for dementia patients. Thank goodness you were spared that terrible decision to put her there.
I talk to you in my garden
the day I got the phone call telling me that you had gone, I was standing in my garden. I sat on the grass and cried while my two small boys cuddled up to me, worried that their mummy was so distraught. luca tried to cheer me up by singing me a silly song: Look at me, I’m a kitty cat who wears a bowl of peanuts for a hat. rafael told him, “Be quiet! Grandad’s dead.” That made me cry even more.
months later, I floated half of your ashes in the Thames at leigh-on-Sea in essex where you loved to eat jellied eels and look at the boats. The other half is buried in the soil in my garden. You were an expert at growing the most beautiful roses and an incredible bush of blooms watches over you. when I am out there, I tell you what’s going on in my world. I can’t be sure that you can hear me but it’s a comfort just to say the words.
I still haven’t written that book
perhaps one day I will. But, in the meantime, I have launched a business. I know you’d be so proud. You grew up on a council estate and worked hard to secure a scholarship at a grammar school. as a grown-up, you had your own shipping business and travelled to war-torn africa and the refugee camps to deliver aid. You saw many shocking things and met people who were devastated by grief. If I told you that my business (untapped.ai) supports people at work with their mental wellbeing, you’d think that was incredible because we help a lot of men like you, who find it hard to open up.
But I do also know you’d tell me to write that book. You persistently encouraged us, your three children, to make our mark on this precious life.
You’d remind me now, if you were sitting by my side and looking at the roses in my garden, that there is no time to waste. w&h
“You always encouraged us to grow”