Dad,
I have thought about you from time to time over the last 20 years though I confess that I have put some effort into not doing so.
In the past, my thoughts have always followed the same course: I draw up an indictment. The accusations have been held and turned in my hand for so many years that they have worn smooth. They lie polished and comfortable in my palm as I close my fingers over them. It’s as much as I can do not to run through the whole charge sheet now. Let me pick one. Do you remember when I was four or five I wandered into the neighbouring field where older boys were trying to start a fire? I scared you so you scared me. You climbed the stairs shouting, enraged, dangling me by my wrist and kicking me as we headed to my bedroom. I was released at dinner time and made to eat dinner naked to “teach me a lesson”.
Because the indictment is forever in draft, I have never heard your defence. If you had a barrister he would tell the court that you are a product of your own parenting and education: your father the headmaster, your time boarding at school or as a cadet on HMS Conway – so much discipline. I accept the force of the argument.
If you represented yourself your theme would more likely be exculpatory self-justification. Hasn’t it all turned out alright? Haven’t I done well enough? Weren’t all those lessons you taught me ultimately valuable ones? I have to say that I am not sure that the lessons I learned were those you intended to teach me. I cannot bear to have people stood behind me as I eat. I cannot believe that anyone, even P, is sincere when they say they love me and when a girl I once cared for first raised a hand to touch my face I flinched. I know you would despise that weakness and one lesson you certainly taught me was to despise myself.
When H called me, she said she had news but wasn’t sure how I would react. She said you have cancer. I gather it is in your bowel, your lung and your liver.
H was concerned I would be pleased. She worried that I would see this as you getting what you deserve. That is not how I feel at all. No-one deserves what you will be going through.
I did not feel happy; I felt nothing. That, I am afraid, is what you deserve – I stopped caring. Don’t misunderstand, I have no animus; I am not angry with you; I do not hate you. I have, I suppose, forgiven you. So let me say, not as son to father but man to man, I hope the treatment goes well. I hope you are spared the suffering and the indignity and I hope you find peace. I am sorry.
