Monday 14th April 1997

I miss my father.

Tonight I noticed his old Royal Marine trunk in his wardrobe and when I
opened it, it was like lifting the lid on the past. It's the smell you
see. A little musty but his old smell I remember. A hundred memories
poured into my mind. Of visiting the barracks, of his office and the
mess, of him dressed in uniform or combat fatigues or whatever that
green and brown stuff is called. God I was so proud of him and I loved
him so much.

I guess I took that love for granted.

Right then I went on an odessy of searching. I saw his uniforms, dj
(the only clothes still here) and went into his room - I don't care if
it's an invasion of privacy. I'm searching. I need to find my
daddy.

The first thing I noticed is that the picture's gone from the top of
his white plywood BHS chest of drawers. The tastless, slap in the face
statement of HER which has rested loudly in it's place for the last 12
months.

It's not a very good picture. One of those studio jobs you can get
done, you know? But it's got no frame, no style, it's just THERE. Why?
I don't know. Maybe for the same reason he kept tackely hiding my
mother's pictures away. The one when she was 21 from the top of the
glass cabinet in the hall, to face down in the hall drawer; their
wedding picture now lives in the cd/video cabinet when it used to rest
on top. And last, but most bizzarely of all the picture of her which
used to stand in pride of place on this very chest of drawers is now
creepily hidden upside down under a pile of old jumpers in his
wardrobe.

But now nothing and no-one adorns his room for SHE is gone. What does
it mean? I don't know. I've given up trying to figure him out.

My serching continues. I know what I'll find in his top drawer. Old
hankies, old cufflinks, a hearing aid he was too vain to use. His
medals for Cyprus and N. Ireland lying impotent in an old cardboard box
for gentleman's handkerchiefs.

I spy some cards. One from me with flowers on it. Father's day, year
before last. I remember that. I forgot as usual and had to beg from my
sister's stock of gift cards. I didn't know then. Secure that it was
the sentiment, not the card that mattered.

Oh yes. I took that love for granted - I thought it would last for
ever, never changing. How little I understood.

Other cards. I hesitate now. Will I find something from HER? But no,
from my sister, father's day same year; a note from Mrs W, a neighbour,
complimenting Daddy on a sermon about war (years old). And from my
mother, the card of the river in Dartmoor which was special to them
both, which she left with the bottle of red wine they both loved on
their twenty-fith wedding anniversay - Even though he'd already left
her for another woman.
"Darling,
I couldn't let 25 years go by without saying something. Enjoy the wine,
we'll certainly enjoy ours, yours as ever"
My mother, sister and I had got sloshed that night on a bottle of the
same wine, trying not to think about what he was doing.

Very graceful, very poigniant. How much was calculated? God I'm getting
cynical.

I search deeper. Batteries for his hearing aid, old watch box, packet
of name tapes, and....what's this? Oh God it's a letter from me dated
July 12th 1987. I was 12.

"Dearest Darling Daddy"
I always started them off like that. Oh I have to sit down.

Cross legged onthe rug in front of that chest of drawers I read what I
was up to 10 years before. The tears started then, blurring the words.
Ten years. How easy it all was. How much I loved him, I adored him.
Didn't he KNOW?

I ended the letter with half a page of kisses. Twelve years old -
probably trying to fill up space. But God how ironic. I havn't let him
touch me for nearly 12 months. No hugs, no kisses, I barely even look
at him. I can hardly reconcile the difference.

I stop crying. It makes my head ache. Carefully putting everything back
as I found it.

Quietly I reach for the next drawer, hoping that I won't find..... but
no. They're there. More than before. I don't touch them. I know what
they are.

Mixed in with old vests and pants are half a dozen news papers. The
sport, the sun, anything with big busted topless women. Normal
behaviour? Maybe. Maybe a nearly 60year old man with a mistress 20
years his junior (not much older than his oldest child) needs some
extra stimulation. But tell me. Why are they hidden if it's nothing to
be ashamed of. Not to protect me from distress, after all he never hid
the picture of HER.

Anyway it's enough to bring me back into the present with a jerk. The
daddy I knew is gone. I know that. Haven't accepted it maybe, but still
I know it all the same. I don't need to go to his bedside table and
look at the books there, about S&;M, sex with young girls and other
sick fantacies. I found them once, even read one with a kind of shocked
facination that goes hand in hand with dying illusions.

That was before. Before HER. Well no, not before, but before I knew.
What's that song? "Always the last to know" Hell, it was all cut and
dried when I was told. Nobody counted on my reaction though. Not even
me.

I close the second drawer. My search is over. My tears are gone.

All that remains is a curious ache in my throat and an empty feeling in
my stomach. I don't have the energy to do any fighting tonight.

My daddy's gone. I don't know who this new man is, with his stupid new
style and new priorities. I've gone from first to - I don't know
what.

I don't like him. I don't trust him. I don't respect or admire or adore
him anymore. I certainly don't idolize him.

But I do love him and I always will.

Who knows? Maybe this man will go too and perhaps I'll be left with
someone in between. I think I could live with that.

I was spoilt and naive before. I guess there's a lesson there
somewhere. Set people up too high and they have that much further to
fall.

But I loved him. I did love him so much, my wonderful Daddy. I had 20
years of good times and so far only one of bad.

Not a bad trade I guess.