My father died back in 2013, but today is his birthday. Like him, I’m not much of a birthday person as a rule, but I always remember his — 5/4/32 — pretty hard to forget. Dad didn’t “do” birthdays, as he put it. He rarely remembered yours, and he’d be offended if you showed up for his.
Nonetheless, I’ve been thinking about him of late. Probably because life has been brutal recently, and his is one of the only voices of counsel I’d love to hear right now. I’ve said before that I’d love to see him play my current hand for me: it wouldn’t last long, but nuclear war had nothing on the old man in top gear. It would have been glorious!
I never made it to the funeral. In my defence, I was on the other side of the world and my brother told me there was no point coming — by the time I got there he would already be gone. Not in my defence, I was a useless bastard of a son. Dad wouldn’t have cared that I didn’t attend, but I do. That’s something I’ll have to square with my maker, should we ever meet. Although, seeing as my maker was the old man, that’s a reunion I look forward to.
I did, however, get the honour of writing his eulogy. Thirteen years on, I dug it out again. Fortunately, I managed to break into an old email account and it was still there. This was long before any writing “career,” and I wanted to see whether I’d done him justice. On balance, I think I did okay:
Thank you all for coming. I am sorry not to be with you today. I know Dad would have appreciated you taking the time to be here, and would have been genuinely surprised and touched by how many people cared about him.
I wanted to say a few words in honour of the man I knew. Partly because, being only human, we don’t often seize the opportunity to say these things when we should, and partly because, being the other side of the world, I missed the chance to share with you in the storytelling — the laughs, the tears, and the fond memories.
Much of Dad’s life was blighted by a childhood that would have broken weaker individuals. The youngest of many in a large family; feeling unloved by his mother; being evacuated as a child during the horrors of the Second World War; and having little education. Worst of all, being innocently sent to reform school to save his brother from prison. This was at best an egregious mistake, and at worst a despicable crime.
This poorest of beginnings left him with a deep and understandable mistrust of authority and institutions — hardly the ideal foundation for adult life. Despite all of that, Dad managed to develop into an extremely well-rounded person. He embodied so many of the qualities we hold in high esteem: he was honest, a humanist, a free thinker, and genuinely kind.
He would step in to save terrified children from drowning while their parents insisted they were “learning to swim.” He stood up for the innocent, spoke for people in court, and gave money to others even when it was all he had. If you needed somewhere to stay, you were welcome. “There’s food in the fridge,” he would say. He didn’t have much, but anything he had was yours.
Dad was unique. Everyone who knew him will attest to that. He was the complete opposite of a charlatan. He didn’t care about birthdays, Christmas, or anything you were “supposed” to do. If you wanted to visit, he wanted you just to show up.
When I was 17 and had just passed my driving test, he gave me his car. I promptly crashed it into a tree, showing off. When I got home to ‘face the music’, I told him what had happened. He simply asked, “Are you alright?” I said “Yes”. He replied, “That’s alright then,” and went back to watching television.
It is hard to judge someone dispassionately when you are their child. But after hearing so many kind words over the last few weeks, the one that comes up most often is “inspiration.”
Because of the chances he never had, we will never know Peter Haviland the honourable politician, Peter Haviland the author, or Peter Haviland the university professor. But we knew him as he was — a good man.
Try not to be too sombre today. Dad would not have wanted that. He wouldn’t have wanted you to wear ties or long faces. He would have wanted you to smile, have fun, celebrate his life if that’s what you wish, and try to care more about each other while there is still time.
Whilst the evidence suggests there is no Heaven, I suspect that if there were, Dad’s version would involve a neatly brushed snooker table and the eager promise of “a quick three frames.” Dad would have approved of that.
If you’re having a drink afterwards, add a generous measure of whisky to the tea and please raise your glasses. Dad would have approved of that too.
So, Happy Birthday, Dad.
Thinking of you. Missing you. Love you.
x
Frank Haviland is the author of Banalysis: The Lie Destroying the West and The Frank Report, which you should probably subscribe to.
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Your affection for your father is beautiful and your description of yourself as a “useless… son” will resonate with many of us, sons and daughters alike, who did not, perhaps, make sufficient effort to really get to know our fathers, so thank you for your honesty.
This will also resonate:
“Because of the chances he never had, we will never know Peter Haviland the honourable politician, Peter Haviland the author, or Peter Haviland the university professor. But we knew him as he was — a good man.”
“A good man” – that’s quite an achievement. May he rest in peace.