Clive’s Tribute

Daddy, when you die can I have your BEA boots … ?

Like every young lad – my Dad was my hero. He encouraged me to always try my best – no matter what it was that I was attempting at the time (with varying degrees of success!). To my anguish I was never blessed with Dad’s natural, almost effortless sporting ability (Rob got that!) but, while things didn’t come naturally or easily, I always got there in the end due to the “stickability” I inherited from Mum. Colleagues with seemingly endless talent, one by one got bored and gave up or were far too lazy … but “good ole Clivey”, with boundless levels of enthusiasm, was willing to stick at it until he became pretty good.

One thing that both Rob and I did inherit from Dad was his “fast twitch” muscles … all three of us in our day couldn’t be touched over the first 50 metres of any sprint.  There must surely be a Jamaican or West African relative in the deep and distant past!

At the age of 7 or 8 I knew that – just like Dad – I loved playing and watching football but with me having “two left feet”, it would take several years of constant practice before I was finally good enough to join a team. In the meantime, blessed with lightning fast pace and limitless energy, I joined a rugby club and a swimming club too. I say this because despite Dad not knowing the first thing about either, he never missed a match or a meet at the pool. He quickly learned the role of a rugby winger (get the ball and run like your life depends on it) and how to front crawl, butterfly, breast stroke and back stroke. Shouting encouragement and tips from the sidelines – pointing out what angle my hands should be at when entering the water, etc. He was a master of motivation … a new locomotive for my Hornby train set was on offer if I could swim 40 lengths in under 30 minutes, etc, etc.

Dad always said that he would encourage Rob and I in whatever we wanted to do because, although his first loves were running, football and cricket, his own father was only interested in boxing and swimming and never once came to watch him do anything. That clearly affected Dad and it was something he was determined would never happen with his two sons. I’d get home from a match and sink exhausted into a hot bath … Dad would be up shortly after with a cup of tea and a few biscuits … “good game today my boy”. Later it was clear that Dad had given Mum a full report on the match. “Your Dad said you played well again today matey … he loves watching you, you know”. Having a Mum and Dad like we did was better than winning any lottery in my book.

I have many happy memories of winning leagues and cups at football but by far my best memory is of a “fathers versus sons” end of season match when I was about 15. My quick reactions meant that I always enjoyed playing in goal during kick-abouts. For this match it ended up with me in goal for the sons and Dad at the other end in goal for the fathers. Some of the Dads were not as fit as they thought they were so by the second half it was all one-way traffic. I watched proudly from my end of the pitch as time and time again my Dad was leaping around like a salmon thwarting attack after attack with his heroics.

My love of cycling and bikes in general comes from Dad too. He proudly told us about his first bike from during the War … “was it a Raleigh, Dad?” … “nope, it was an ASP … All Spare Parts” he’d say with a grin. He always encouraged Rob and I to appreciate a nice bike and to look after our own. While Dad would be out washing both his and Mum’s cars we’d be cleaning our bikes and then giving him a hand with the Solvol Autosol cream to clean and polish the chromework on the cars. Naturally, in time, Rob and I wanted to progress from bikes to motorbikes but Dad was dead against that. Dad’s deal was “I’ll help you buy your first car but if you want a motorbike you’ll have to buy it yourself.” True to his word Dad actually upped the ante and bought Rob and I our first cars on our 17th birthdays. You can’t get better than that! … and they weren’t bad cars either.

While Dad was a very skilled driver – a very proud member of the Institute of Advanced Motorists – his navigation skills were hilariously almost non-existent. Back in those days Mum was “our SatNav” and would get quite frustrated with him when he would look quizzically and say “where now love?” when we were just a few miles from home. No car journey was complete without Dad’s audio cassettes – back then it was James Last, Roberto Delgado, Shirley Bassey and The Carpenters on long “are we nearly there yet?” journeys.

From the mid-1970s onwards Dad had a lot of back trouble and found it really hard to find a car seat that would suit his back. Several cars were dreamt of, purchased and then sold soon after because “the seat’s no good for me”. By accident he discovered that the seats in DAFs (and later some smaller Volvos) suited his back perfectly. The DAFs and Volvos had a unique (and somewhat noisy) engine and Rob and I would often jokingly wave Dad off to work holding our ears pretending to be deafened by the noise. That same unique engine note was also advance warning that Dad was nearly home and that meant one thing … chocolates from the likes of Swissair and Malev. Dad would return from a late shift at Heathrow at around 10:30pm to find Rob and I sat at the top of the stairs waiting for him. “Dad! Have you got any choccies for us?” Usually a choc or two or some fruit the size of a football from Cyprus Airways was on offer. Years later Dad would always get his own back if we happened to turn up in a car that was a bit noisy or past its best. When the time came to leave, Dad would see us off with a hand or both covering his ears in mock disgust.

While Mum was a bit of a hoarder, Dad was extremely organised and was known for his “To Do” lists. In later years, as his short-term memory began to let him down, his lists became an important way for him to convince himself that everything was still OK. Each time Rob or I would visit, no sooner had we entered the house, Dad would pounce on us with a list of half a dozen items … “I’ve been thinking about X” … “what do you think of Y?” … “I’m glad you’re here, could you give me a hand with Z?”. Rob would always maintain that I always got preferential treatment in so far as I always got offered a cup of tea as I began to tackle the first item on my list whereas he didn’t. I’m sure that’s not true but I couldn’t possibly comment. My lists contained things like “can you look something up for me on the Internet?” or “can you add X’s phone number to the phone’s memory?”. Poor ole Rob’s lists were usually something like “could you re-felt the roof on the extension for me this afternoon?” or “could you sort out a bit of wall papering for me?” … each to their own, right?!

Such was Dad’s love of cleaning cars that he wore a pair of rubber overboots from Heathrow Airport that fitted over his normal shoes whenever he washed the cars. As a 4 or 5-year-old I was fascinated by these boots with their 10 or so clips down the front and sides. There really was no other pair of boots like them. It is alleged that I said as bold as brass one day “Daddy, when you die can I have your BEA boots … ?” Little did I know that he’d keep me waiting almost 50 years and if I knew where they were now I would treasure them like gold dust – just simply because they were his.

One thing that we as a family enjoyed together was watching a good film … usually a comedy as Dad’s favourite was Peter Sellers. For days afterwards we would quote lines from the Pink Panther at one another and fall about laughing. Even better was The Party with “Birdie Num Num” being a well-used expression shared between us right up until the very end of Dad’s life.

Dad had a very hard time dealing with life after Mum died in 2013. The love and support of his family, friends and many super neighbours kept him going and, eventually, perked him up again sufficiently to be a bit more like his old self. Nobody I know has a bad word to say about him and that says it all to me. To say that he was devoted to Mum is an understatement and he was never really the same after her death. That said, he was equally devoted to Rob and I and welcomed Vicki, Mona and Emma as “Sheppards” with open arms. To enter the house and always be greeted with a warm hug and a kiss was special.

Dad wasn’t a great fan of talking endlessly on the phone and it was a standing joke when Mum was alive that if Dad answered you’d get “Hello Clive or Hello Rob … I’ll go and get your Mum” as soon as he answered and realised that it was you. That said, since my move to Romania, one thing he and I both enjoyed was talking through that day’s or weekend’s football or cricket matches. When professional sport resumes in the future I will greatly miss my mate at the end of a phone line and our chats about the ups and (more often) downs of his beloved Preston North End, my beloved Nottingham Forest, and the great batting, bowling or fielding exploits of the day.

Rest in Peace dearest Daddy Bear (pronounced “Dayady Bayer” in a deep south drawl picked up during one of our lovely trips to the USA). We are both super grateful for the wonderful start in life you gave Rob and I and all the love, support and encouragement you gave us ever since. Only for your sake are we delighted that you are, at last, reunited with Mum – the love of your life … for us it’s another story.  As a man, a husband, a father and a grand-father you never ever came up short – not once!

In my eyes heroes don’t wear capes, they wear BEA boots.

Love you Dad – I miss you enormously already.

Clive xxx