Eccleston Christopher - I love the bones of you: my father and the making of me

To my mother Elsie, my son Albert

and my daughter Esme. I love you.

PROLOGUE

I saw how the story ends.

My dad was eating his dinner. Every mouthful, so slowly. A labour of disinterest and disengagement as he lifted the fork to his lips.

Opposite him was an aged man of similar disposition. Like my dad he was wearing a baseball cap. Neither said a word. No acknowledgement of one anothers existence. It was the first time Id seen Dad in the home. I walked over Hi, pal. He just mumbled. Nothing remotely coherent. I sat down and looked at him, my face no more than 12 inches from his. The nose, the brow, it was all still there, same as when he peered down at me from his chair, his throne, as I lay on the carpet playing with the toy Indians, Cochise, Chief Sitting Bull, Hiawatha Hiawortha as he said it and Crazy Horse, which hed given me, and so perfectly named, as a kid. That was the face of Ronnie Ecc: handsome, fearsome, an eagle. Except this eagle was no longer soaring. The eyes, no more sharp and searching. The lustre had gone. The last few downward spirals of a once strong, proud and vital being.

I was struck by the sheer pathos of it. I could see that life can end like this. We lose our physical strength. Our mental capacity does diminish. What cut deeper, to the core in fact, was the absence of spirit. My dad had always been a grafter, a fighter, full of bonhomie and passion. Now he didnt know who he was, where he was. A man once so full of vigour had been slowly drained of life, replaced by mere existence. I was seeing my dad reduced to a shell.

His appearance said everything. Dad had always been so fastidious about the way he looked. Always immaculately clean. As a kid, it used to make me laugh. Hed wash his face so hard that his nose would shine, dry his hair so vigorously it stood up the detail only a child sees. Coming in from work would be marked by a shave and a spruce-up. No way did he want to wear the factory when he wasnt in it. Looking good was hugely important to him and, when the dementia came, my mum kept up the standard. When he lived with her, he was turned out fantastic. But he wasnt getting that care in the home. And I dont blame those people. They were understaffed. And they didnt love him. You dont get cared for the same as you do by people who love the bones of you.

We used to drive past this place. Shoot me, Dad would say. Im not ending up in there. I tell you, shoot me. If you wont shoot me, Ill shoot myself. Nobody is looking after me. Nobody. And now here he was.

I sat in front of him and cried. I put my arm round him, hugging him, touching him. My dad and not my dad. I was seeing him away from my mum, away from the love and the care that hed enjoyed. And I was seeing where he was in life, where his story was ending. Here, in this home, was where his life was ending. And it did end there. That was where he died.

Id been grieving for him for years.

UP THE DANCERS

I lay in bed, and as the stories washed over me, I was blessed with an overwhelming feeling of this is my dad. Hed read me a chapter a night, and when the time came to finish hed put his face on mine a kiss and not a kiss and wed both be embarrassed. Other times, at the end of a long working day, hed fall asleep on the bed next to me. The closeness was incredible. Me, my dad, and a book. Gentleness and intimacy. I saw a totally different side to this man. I dont say that with hindsight. Absolutely I felt it at the time.

Dad had to take over my bedtimes. Mum had started working too. She began her shift at 5 p.m. and Dad got in at six. It was up to him.

At first, it seemed weird this was what my mum did but I quickly grew to love the new arrangement. It became a bit of a routine. Dad would make me two pieces of toast at about half past eight, wed watch TV, preferably Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry in Alias Smith and Jones , and then that was it Come on, up the apples and pears. Up the dancers.

What I loved most was that he read to me. I hear people say Ive got a strong voice on stage and, without a doubt, Dad is where it came from. He had a beautiful tone and was very confident at reading. He coloured a story in and made it sing from the page. He read me The Adventures of Tom Sawyer , although I wasnt actually that interested in the title character, and I dont think he was either. We just wanted to hear about Huckleberry Finn, who was poor but extremely resourceful. I identified that character as being my dad, and I think he recognised the same it came across in his reading. Dad liked a story about the lost, the marginalised. He also read me Black Beauty , Anna Sewells novel about a horse that is badly treated, abused, an outsider, before eventually becoming treasured and loved. Both books are about being misunderstood and downtrodden and eventual triumph. Dad absolutely occupied those two books. He was a voracious reader and I wouldnt be surprised if, as a child, hed read them himself.

One day my mum didnt go to work. When it got to bedtime, Dad looked at me. That familiar cry of Up the dancers! went up.

I want Mum to take me to bed.

Right, OK. Off me and my mum went.

Next day, after school, Dad was still at work. My mum had a word: You know yesterday when you asked me to take you to bed?

Yes.

Your dad was a bit upset. He went to pieces.

Inside I was thinking, You cant say that about my dad. You cant say my dad went to pieces because of me. But actually it wasnt her who had brought me up short; it was the notion of me having power over my dad. I was stunned. He was hurt by me ? He treasured that time together? In my head, Id always thought he didnt want to do bedtime. This, I now realised, was actually a man who felt very tenderly towards his child, and that child had hurt him. To understand that my dad loved me, and to witness my mums protectiveness and sensitivity to him, was a beautiful moment. It deepened my love for them both.

I really admired Mum for unveiling my dads true feelings, and her own, and it wouldnt be the last time she did so. On another occasion, me and my mate Dave were mucking about in the garden. My mum came out. Eh, you two, be quiet! Chris, your dads in bed and hes working nights.

It didnt stop us. She came out again. Come in here, you! she said to me. I stood in the kitchen. Your dads in bed because hes working nights, and hes working nights to make money to look after you, so go and play somewhere else.

Again, I took in what she said. God, she loves him, I thought. She knows what he does for the family, and Im being an idiot, and shes told me.

Those two incidents were just huge. Mum was telling me something important: You understand who he is. Im still not sure I do. Ive been trying to work out my dad since my very first memory of him, lying on that living-room carpet playing with my toy Indians as he sat in his chair. That memory, appropriately enough for a man whose character and personality Im still trying to pin down, is ambiguous.

We were in our front room in Little Hulton, the black-and-white TV was on, and he was slightly to my left, reading his paper. We were both absorbed.

Have you noticed anything? I turned my head and looked up at him on his throne. His voice had taken me by surprise.

Why is he talking to me? I puzzled. He doesnt talk much when hes got his paper. I was always careful not to annoy Dad so I could simply have this time in his presence. Even at that age, I wanted him to be happy.