When Daddy became Dad

“Late one Tuesday or Wednesday evening in October 1989, a twelve-year-old I got out from the back of the horseless carriage of my teammate’s father, having been chauffeured from my midweek football team training session in Stanstead Mountfitchet, about five miles from home.

My next foggy memory is noticing that my father’s car was missing from the drive, I proceeded down the drive that led to the car-port containing a workbench, bicycles, various tools and other bits and bobs. If you don’t know what a car-port is, it is a roofed garage without a front door. The main entrance to the house was situated there on the side of the house rather than at the front. But it was always referred to as the front door.

Unusually, the front door was ajar and the door that separated the hallway and living room was wide open. The living room was devoid of life, the main light was dimmed down low, the television was off, the kitchen was empty and dark. Before I climbed up the spiral staircase to further assess the situation, the lady from next door entered the house with a very concerned look on her face. She nervously explained to me in a vague way that my parents were at my granddad’s house because something bad had happened.

The next thing I can remember was being in bed, presimably after checking my two younger brothers were asleep in the bedroom next door to mine. And I lay still, in the dark, with the covers covering my face, my mind blank, unable or unwilling to imagine what might be going on at granddad’s.  The upstairs and downstairs telephones started ringing in tandem and I rushed into mummy and daddy’s bedroom, picked up the receiver and daddy was on the line.

I cannot remember the words he spoke, but he told me that my granddad had been found dead, it sounded as he was laughing, and I convinced myself that he was joking, I am sure I either asked him as to why he was laughing, or told him to stop joking about. I don’t know. Nothing made sense.

I went back to bed to hide and stare at the dark air, and eventually my dad opened my bedroom door and let in some light, once again I cannot remember what was said, but daddy was not joking or laughing in the slightest. It was the very first time that I saw tears stream from my dad’s eyes.

I quietly cried myself to sleep.

The next morning I could have stayed at home, but I got ready for school determined to be strong, like the 12 year-old grown-up I was pretending to be . At the beginning of morning registration the realisation of grandad’s death hit me hard, I started sobbing and a very kind and thoughtul fellow pupil asked me what was wrong, I tried to get out the words, but my sobs and sniffles were inadequate masks for the pain I felt inside,  a mental and an emotional pain I can safely say could be comparable to a thousand broken wrists. The stifled sobs and murmurs, turned  into  full blown wails and cries… I wasn’t grown up enough to go to school that day after all

I will never forget how wonderfully comforting my form tutor was, a friendly young Christian with an earring and a heart of gold.

I missed him a lot when he eventually left his post at the boys’ school the next year. He decided to become part of an important mission in Africa I think. He was, and hopefully still is a very good teacher, Christian and a brilliant man.” – Frank Broadhurst, November 2018