Main photo – 1948 – aged 10

Right up until his death, Dad was still in touch with four of his friends from his early Huddersfield days.

Some of them had known him since they were six, seven and eight years old. I don’t know all of these men well (though one also happens to be my uncle, having married my mum’s twin), but I know all of their names because Dad mentioned them often over the decades. Two of them were regular presences throughout our families’ orienteering years in the 1970s and 1980s. More recently, I would hear dad talk about their various ailments and disabilities.

I feel that there was a kind of implicit understanding between Dad and me. Since we talked easily about death and dying, I think we both assumed that one or more of these men – perhaps even all of them – would die before he did. Dad was ageing, certainly, but he had no obvious disabilities (other than being blind in one eye), or illnesses. He was still playing the piano for hours a day, reading Latin, working for two associations, hiking, orienteering and running. I confess that I, at least, imagined him becoming the last survivor of what I think of as the “Huddersfield Five”.

How wrong one can be. Oh Emma, such arrogance!

I am trying to remind myself that I should know better. Death has no predetermined order. There is no logic to it. The person who appears frailer is not necessarily the one who will die first. That lesson has arrived (again) with painful clarity.

Tomorrow is Dad’s ceremony. Not all of these lifelong friends will be there. Age, illness and distance make that impossible. Initially, I couldn’t find anyone willing to give anything resembling a eulogy. The obvious candidates were these men who had known him almost all his life, my aunt (Dad’s sister), or my mum. All felt too tired, too elderly, or simply unable to take on such a responsibility.

So I figured I would do it myself.

But I knew that speaking only as the middle of Dad’s five children would never be enough. I wanted to understand who he had been before he became my father. Before he was a husband, a grandfather, or just “Dad”. I wanted to meet the child, the teenager, the student, the young man.

So I convened these old friends.

On two separate occasions I gathered three of the surviving four men, together with one of their wives and my mum. We spent a total of two and a half hours together on Zoom. I asked questions. They told stories. They interrupted one another, corrected one another, laughed, remembered and occasionally fell silent as they re-remembered their bonds. It was an extraordinary privilege.

These are men who first met Dad when they were six, seven and eight years old. Boys who later studied together at Huddersfield College and whose friendship somehow survived for eighty years.

I thought I was gathering stories to enrich a eulogy. What I hadn’t realised was that I was about to discover entirely new facets of my father.

Of course, I knew Dad as the father of five, grandfather of twelve, proud European and committed anti-Brexiteer, gifted pianist, hill walker, organiser, lover of maps, books and conversation.

1977 – aged 39

Listening to these elderly friends, I am learning that Dad was mischievous. Not badly behaved, but inventive. The kind of boy who questioned things, challenged assumptions and found pomposity irresistible to poke fun at. His friends remembered alternative school assemblies, homemade magazines and an endless delight in the absurd.

At Emmanuel College, Cambridge, where he read Classics (specifically, Latin and Medieval Languages), that mischievousness apparently continued. Scholars had the privilege—and duty—of reciting the Latin Grace before dinner in Hall. According to one of his friends, there was an unofficial competition to see who could say it fastest. Dad, exceptionally fluent in Latin, rattled through the Grace at extraordinary speed until, unsurprisingly, he was gently chided that this might not quite honour the spirit of the tradition.

It is such a tiny story, but it captures something his friends kept returning to: Dad was intellectually brilliant, playfully irreverent, and delighted in subverting institutions without ever becoming cynical, arrogant or pompous.

I am learning that he was original – in that he was creative and unique. One friend reflected that the school often misunderstood him. Teachers formed the impression that he was irresponsible. His friends never believed that for a moment. They remembered a succession of harmless incidents that simply looked suspicious at exactly the wrong time. One friend put it beautifully. The school, he said, had “a certain bandwidth”. It seems that Dad’s originality lay beyond it. Another friend wondered whether he was simply too clever for them. He came up with original ideas and original pranks they had never encountered before, and weren’t quite sure what to make of him.

The academic staff saw irresponsibility. His closest friends saw originality. They believed the school mistook one for the other.

Another friend remembered one of Dad’s favourite demonstrations. He would claim that the great merit of a Huddersfield education was that it enabled someone to write or speak a plausible opening paragraph on absolutely any subject. Then, on demand, he would proceed to invent one.

I am learning that he was brilliant, but never showy. More than one friend spoke about his remarkable intellect. It was less about how clever he was, and more about how lightly he carried it. He never used his intelligence to diminish other people.

I am learning that he was constructively critical. He could see what was wrong in the world without becoming cynical about it. As one friend put it, he combined criticism with a vision of what a better world might look like. He questioned, but he also contributed.

I am learning that he was extraordinarily good company. One friend said he always smiled in anticipation of seeing Dad, whether they were young men beginning their careers in London or octogenarians meeting whenever their paths happened to cross. He would always leave with a smile on his face. Others spoke about Dad’s humour, enthusiasm and remarkable ability to make life’s troubles feel lighter for a while.

I am learning that he remained hopeful even while seeing the world exactly as it is. Dad always retained his belief in people, in society, in the countries of the European Union, in collaboration, fairness and doing things well. Whether through his work, his music, his walking, his orienteering or the organisations he served right up to his death, he derived satisfaction from helping things function a little better.

Most of all, I am learning how much Dad mattered to people.

I have had the privilege of having my Dad in my life for fifty-nine years. That alone is a rare gift. Yet through the memories of people who have known him for more than eighty years, I feel I am still discovering him. That too feels like a gift.

Tomorrow we celebrate his life. I hope we manage to reveal something of this rich kaleidoscope of the man he was. And if some stories remain untold because the right people are no longer able to be there, I now have these precious recordings of hours spent with Dad’s oldest friends. They will keep yielding stories for years to come.

In the end, one of the Huddersfield Five agreed to give the main address, provided we didn’t call it a eulogy. I am profoundly grateful. It means I can concentrate on being present, holding the day, speaking when needed, and continuing to learn about my Dad.