CHRISTA ACKROYD Letters that show that the written word has not lost its power
WHEN my father died suddenly, even though he had been ill for several years, it was the most terrible shock. He was, as for most daddy’s girls, the first man I ever fell in love with. And for those who came later he was always going to be a hard act to follow.
To the outside world he appeared to be a man of few words, a serving police officer for 30 years, who believed if you have nothing important to say, say nothing. Quietly he shared with me his love of words. Words like recompense and enamoured, which I still smile at today, especially when I hear my eight-year-old grand daughter tell me she is not enamoured with this or that. He lives on even now in the words and phrases he gave me at her age.
He had a wonderful singing voice and so my music taste remains eclectic, from choral works to musicals, opera to hymns. Together we would practice his part with me picking it out on the piano in preparation for some concert or other, which means to this day I still sing the notes for second bass either in church or to the Hallelujah Chorus.
Only this week I received a message from someone who had worked with him, describing him as a gentleman. As he was. Even that message from someone I didn’t know but who knew my dad was enough to bring tears to my eyes more than two decades after he died.
When he did I was inconsolable. But my father knew me well. He knew I would be devastated at his death. And I suspect as his illness progressed, and while he was well enough, he knew he had to leave something for me far more than memories or singing to acknowledge all we had meant to each other. Something to see me through what would be amongst the worst days of my life. And so he left me words.
Amidst my grief, mum handed me a letter, as she had been asked to do on his passing. There was one for my brother too. Written on the envelope was the word Blossom, my childhood nickname, with Christa in brackets just in case I had forgotten, which of course I hadn’t.
To this day neither my brother and I have never shared the contents of our letters from our father with each other. And although I share most things with you, dear readers, I cannot bring myself to share them with you either. They were written for me, to comfort me and to sustain me, as they have done throughout the years which have followed.
This week I have opened that letter again. It is not a significant anniversary.
Nothing momentous or traumatic has happened which has made me reach back into my past for comfort and solace from the man who chose my new name and gave me my new life, along with mum, when they adopted me. It is the most important letter I have ever received. And as I re-read its precious contents for the first time in at least five years I felt its power to heal amidst the love that was poured into it once more, before folding it away until I need to do so again.
In it, written in his beautiful copper-plate handwriting, was a typically understated declaration of love hidden amidst more practical advice for my future. It told me, without the need for flowery language, how proud he was of me, how much joy I had brought to them both and ended with a heartbreaking plea to look after mum once he had gone. It also he said he was sorry to leave us.
On my father’s death, my great friend Richard Whiteley sent me another letter which I keep too. Much briefer and in Richard’s almost illegible handwriting, it said simply he knew how much I loved him and that he had ‘certainly done something right’ to produce someone like me. That letter is also treasured along with pages from mum’s diary in her much neater, tiny, organised hand, especially the one she wrote after her dementia diagnosis, simply declaring “I can. And I will”. A brave and at the time unbeknownst to me statement of her intention to battle on. It is kept in a bedside cabinet along with other simple treasures from her life. So why am I writing this to you this week? And why did I get out those treasures which meant so much then and now? I have done so because of our King. The photograph of him laughing at one of the thousands of cards and letters sent to him as an outpouring of love and strength during his illness made me again reflect on the importance of words and the way they make others feel, especially in tough times.
King Charles smiled and was brought to tears at some of those words, especially one written by a child which simply said “Never give up. Be brave. Don’t push your limits. Get well soon.” But then that is the power of words, particularly when they are written down. And His Majesty was moved to share how much they had meant to him saying they gave him “the greatest comfort and encouragement”. And they do, don’t they? And we don’t write them down enough. We text when we could ring. We too often use more modern methods of communication when we could simply write a card saying I am thinking of you. And that is sad.
The King is said to be grateful that his cancer diagnosis has led to more people seeking medical advice and coming to terms with their own illness. But it is the tangible evidence of caring amidst the hand-painted children’s pictures of rainbows and crowns that have meant most to him. That he shared that with us shows he remains an emotional man and that is good for him, good for the monarchy and for us. There is nothing wrong with expressing emotions before it is too late.
It is often a harsh world we live in. Many of the niceties of a more simpler age have been consigned to history. And that includes sending cards and letters. The reactions of a King have shown us they need to be resurrected. I wonder if he will keep some of those words to see him through? I suspect he will.
It is years since I read the letter from my father, but its impact was as powerful this week as the day he wrote it, in ill health and facing his own mortality, yet knowing, as he always did, how important it would be to me then and now.
Like the King, reading it again made me smile and it made me cry. Not because my father is gone, but because he had taken the time to jot down his thoughts and his memories and remind me that he will always be within me.
I don’t know when I will read dad’s letter again. It simply remains a comfort that it is there. And that words written down long after they are spoken are, as the King has shown us, as important now as they ever were. A valuable lesson from two men not afraid to share their emotions. And in doing so remind us that in the end that is all life is, the sharing of an emotional journey. But how much more powerful is it when we take the time and trouble to write them down along the way?