A few weeks ago, I finally got round to finding out what had happened to my estranged father. I wasn't sure whether I felt it was important enough to commit to paper but then I realised that I was thinking like a surly teenager. Just this once then, I'll be adult about it.
It's been an extraordinary revelation. But almost more interesting were the lengths one particular family member went to to reach and find me and in so doing created a cascade of activity that led to the discovery of one death certificate for said pater.
Shall I start with the facts? It's as good a place as any. My father died 8 years ago in December of 2009. I know this now, but for the last 29 years I knew nothing of him. The last time I saw him we crossed paths, without stopping, on High Street Kensington. He was wearing a baseball hat and looked me straight in the eye. I was in my late teens. I stopped in the doorway of Barkers - now a Wholefoods - to assimilate what had just happened as my heart near pounded its way out of my chest. I should preface this by explaining that my parents had divorced when I was a toddler. He'd visit about once a year thereafter as he lived/worked on a cruise ship that took him away for long stretches. My relationship with him was postcard based and he'd sign them 'Tony'. Never dad. I eventually fell out with him when my mother died and he decided to take 3 years before calling to give his condolences.
Nevertheless at the time of our paths crossing, we'd not yet had the big fallout. And it was the harshest snub I'd ever experienced, made all the more dramatic by virtue of my youth and let's face it, it was the 80s when everything was intensified with capes and dry-ice dramatics. I'm not sure how long that feeling lasted but I guess given that I can still remember it exactly, it has indeed lasted and I can only describe it as an angry sadness.
Fast forward to my mid 30s. I'm living in Canada with then hubby and young Lishy - using the heck out of Facebook to keep in touch with my London mates, when in pops a friend invite from someone who has the same surname as my dad - my surname in effect - and one that I had not used in years not planned on using ever again. It's a cousin from Spain and I remember her well. She is my father's younger sister's daughter with whom I spent many a temperate summer in the rural ranch where my dad's family originate. Thanks to my mother, while my father was very much noted for his absence, mum always made sure I stayed in contact with his family.
Back to this cousin, I remember it being a strained relationship at times because I'd get the lions share of attention when I visited and this irked her...understandably so. But as kids we didn't see it that way and instead went on to have a bit of a fraught relationship. However my real reason for not wanting to engage was the fact that nothing good had ever come of engaging with anything to do with my dad. So I blocked her.
And this barrier was maintained for a further 8 years though she tried many times to re-friend and communicate via other channels.
Fast forward to my mid 40s. I'm back in London, divorced but life is nevertheless good. I'm just living when I get a message from a different cousin on my father's side - one I remember with fondness even if only dimly. His messages are less insistent to her more "where's your father?" ones. I mean if his own brothers and sisters didn't know, what hope did I have?
These casual texts continued sporadically with him for a year or so. Then one fine day he announces a visit to London and asks to meet for a coffee. I can do coffee and I'd arrived at a place emotionally where I was actually looking forward to seeing someone from my dad's side. Plus, I liked this particular cousin. And yet there was a stirring in the pit of my stomach.
The day comes and I've already exchanged a couple of messages to arrange a meeting place. He's 2 hours late and I'm still waiting. The text messages are bizarre. It's taken a taxi 2 hours to not find Piccadilly when he's only travelling from the South Kensington area. Eventually I switch from texting to a phone call. A woman picks up. I imagine it's my cousin's wife with whom he was travelling. They put the driver on the phone. He's not English. The 2 hours explained. And yet, why is my cousin not taking the phone, instead putting his wife on all the time.
The answer walks up to me in front of The Ritz Hotel, where I've been loitering now for close to 3 hours. And it's not my male cousin who once carried me over a puddle because I didn't want to get my shoes muddy, it's the cousin I'd blocked all those years previous. I'm floored. She's tricked me using this other cousin's ID because I wasn't blocking him..very clever of her. Very silly of me.
BUT....
She has tears in her eyes and seems genuinely emotional about having finally found me. She tells me she's been looking for me for years - eaten up by the guilt of having allowed us all to lose contact after the death of my mum. Apparently she wanted to see for herself that I was ok. She wanted to tell me that I had a family in Spain that still very much cared for me.
I'm listening but I'm not convinced. All of this could easily have been put into an email. But she is adamant. Email was not going to cut it. She wanted me to see for myself that my family still cared. It needed a grand gesture she said.
She asks again about my dad and it takes everything I have not to smack her one. I find myself apologising for him - that he couldn't be arsed to stay in touch with his own brothers and sisters. It's cathartic - so it wasn't just me he ignored. But still, I tell her I have nothing to gain - except possible heartache - from seeking out information on him. I tell her I suspect he has died of alcoholism and fear that he might have also been homeless. Things I have been quite happy all my life not knowing for sure. I tell her that my dad has brought me nothing but drama and that I really don't feel the need to stir that psychological silt.
She tells me it's important because it will unlock inheritances to do with uncles and grandparents. I couldn't care less about inheritances. But she says: Let your dad give you something in death that he couldn't or wouldn't in life.
And I know then that it has nothing to do with money. Indeed what I stand to inherit will just about pay for a Starbuck's coffee.
So I want to thank British bureaucracy and record keeping because it wasn't long before I discovered exactly what happened to my dad and where he ended up. He wasn't homeless thankfully, but he did die of 'lifestyle' related health issues. He ended his days in a care home in North East London suffering from dementia. That explains the sudden loss of contact with his family is Spain.
Was I sad? Yes, I burst out crying when faced with the facts in black and white. It reinforced the importance of good parenting and I am determined that my daughter gets hers this side of both of her parents lives. I also realised that I cannot change who I am simply by renaming myself - there is nothing really in a name, my identity rests solely and firmly on this: I am my mother's daughter and I'm delighted about that.
