Fathers' Day

FATHERS'DAY

Today (when I'm writing this) is Fathers' Day.  It’s a day for fathers to put their feet up and be fed peeled grapes.  Of course, it maybe a day for that, but that rarely happens. Mostly they just get crayoned cards with “Best Wishes” and a couple of extra hugs. Maybe the lucky ones get their favourite meal.  It depends!

Growing up in Cockney-Covey-land I don’t ever remember a Fathers' Day, but then I don’t remember a Mothers' Day either.  But I do remember our father.  I remember a man that scared the living daylights out of me, and from talking to my siblings he did the same to them.

Well you might ask: what was it that scared us so?  Looking back, I think it started with Mum’s psychological set-up.  Whenever we misbehaved, she would threaten us with the dire consequences that would occur “when your farver comes ‘ome”.  I for one never wanted those events to happen and neither did LS, LB or LLB.  I’ve mentioned before that this man who had us all quaking in our (father soled) shoes, never once laid a hand on us, but he had a big voice and he used it. 

He was strict, he had rules; lots of them. Mostly things we were not allowed to do. As teenagers neither LS or I were allowed to wear make-up at a time when every other girl was so plastered up, they seemed to be auditioning for the movies.  Recently, LB has told me that as a young boy he was not allowed to cross the road, even though his friends were. (Might have had something to do with my previous confrontation with a car?).

Looking back on my father from an adult viewpoint, it’s obvious that he loved and cared for us, and he cared for our survival.  As children, both ten-year-old LB and his young-hanger-on LLB were not quite so aware of that when the following occurred:

The war had been over for a few years, and our Covey was nicely installed in our brand-new council flat surrounded by lots of green fields and space for young lads to explore. So, they did.

Our new council flat.

There was a favourite hangout that someone had labelled “Blue bell woods” just north of where we lived.  It contained an old house that most kids, including LB and LLB, considered a playground gift from Hitler’s Luftwaffe.   They may have considered it so, but they were wrong.  It was in fact a little piece of history that had gone into decline.  It was known locally as Clarence House.

I do not know for sure that they were forbidden to play in that particular spot, but they had been warned not play on bombed out buildings.  And, since they considered this to be in that category, they were totally aware that it was a death-defying act just to wander near this crumbling building.  Of course, they were not wandering near, they were knights defending a castle, atop the roof, tossing slate tiles onto the enemy below.

As in all good stories there has to be a hero and there has to be a villain.  The part of the villain in this story is the one who snitched on them by telling our father where to find them.  Who it was can only be surmised.   I do not know.  I was married by that time and no longer lived at home.  LB and LLB could not know - they too were not at home when father innocently inquired: “Where are the boys?”.  Was it Mum?  Did she know where they went?  Had she she merely given the boys the “When your farver comes ‘ome” warning? Or was it the only other member of the family?  Was it LS?

Whoever it was, was no longer important once LB looked down from his roof top aerie and saw Dad approaching.  He knew they were in bad, bad trouble and they could expect the worst.  Any minute now, the booming voice would strike like the voice of God and they would be turned to stone as they bouncingly balanced on the open and exposed roof-rafters. 

Surprisingly, it didn’t happen.  As Dad approached them, he called to them in the calmest voice he had ever been known to use: “Come on boys. Supper time!”.  They couldn’t believe their luck, dad wasn't angry.  Dad continued to climb the rickety stairs towards them as he steadily guided their progress down.  Whew! At last, terra firma!

That’s when it happened.  The gentle, calm and totally unknown father did a Marvel Comics routine and turned into a raging bull.  With his bare hands he tore a switch from a tree which he brandished over two cowering boys as he ordered them to run home.  They did.  They ran.  They ran to the kitchen and together made themselves as small as possible huddled in a far corner on the floor.  Dad didn’t hurry. He strolled home to give the boys more time to consider the consequences of their actions.

Of course, there has to have been a punishment.  It’s hard to say what was the actual punishment.  Was it that big voice hollering and the wagging finger thrust toward each boy’s face in turn?  Or was it the two to three-day grounding? Personally, I think it was watching the other kids playing outside when the weather was unusually fine for England and then as soon as the normal rain began pelting down being told: “Now you can go out to play”.