Dad grew up in a fishing town in south Cornwall. His
family were butchers, with their own small abattoir and
butchers shop. For sure my dad, Alfred Clive Toms was an
artist and yet somehow he was encouraged to join HM
Customs and Excise and head to London to work, rather than
go to university. He had two brothers, one who was a
prison officer and the other a woodwork teacher.
So there he was, a quiet guy, young, in the London
docklands in the early sixties, working on checking cargo
and shipments and quantities and allowances and imports
and exports. I imagine it was pretty rough. Somewhere in
London he met my mother who was studying physiotherapy in
South London.
My older brother and I were born in north London, but we
moved to the countryside before I was 2, so I grew up in
Wiltshire, where my Dad continued to work as a civil
servant. Now more involved in checking the production
levels of the brewing industry.
His involvement with alcohol unfortunately extended beyond
work, and as long as I can remember, booze was around, be
it long, frequent visits to the pub, home brewing, or
drinking with friends. And later, alone.
I remember his philosophical mind. Things were never
straight forward. He said that he didn't get along with
that many people. Things continued fairly normally into my
teens. It was then I started feeling awkward around him
and his convoluted explanations with touches on true
wisdom, his launching into seemingly irrelevant
descriptions of historical events. But also great humour
at times. I didn't really understand him much. Once when
mum was in hospital I wanted to cry. He told me not to
because he would too.
The heavy drinking got more frequent and I would avoid him
more and more, often hiding up in my room. Dinner at home
became food in front of the tv instead of together at the
table. Weird jealous notes written to my mum. And later
bottles of spirits found around the house. He never got
physically violent, at least not with me.
I left home when I was 18 for university. By then my mum
had had enough and had moved out, and a divorce followed.
When I got married at 22, I was too embarrassed of him to
invite him to the wedding. I can't imagine how bad this
must have made him feel, increasing his alienation from
his family.
Jumping back a while... A keen amateur magician, a
puppeteer, a choir member, a parish councilor, a nature
lover, a film buff, highly intelligent. And jumping back
some more, a loving father, reading bedtime stories,
carrying us on shoulders, a keen walker, encouraging in us
a love of the outdoors.
Away at university and beyond I had less and less to do
with him. I felt estranged at a visit to our old family
home before it was sold, him living alone, a stale smell
in there, me and my two brothers sitting about, all
awkward, him saying it felt like a forced visit to an
aunt. It did to me too. I went out to take the dog, now so
sad-looking, for a walk.
The house sold and I heard he was living with a drinking
friend, in the nearby town. We would write sometimes and
he'd often guiltily defend his drinking. 'What's wrong
with the odd Guinness at lunchtime?' But it was way more
than that, and had been for years.
Then I heard he'd been taken ill. Liver trouble. Big
trouble. Released from hospital but unable really to look
after himself he was in a low grade psychiatric hospital
when I went to visit. Looking around 70, he was yellow
from the liver damage. He didn't really know which of his
sons I was, some amalgamation of us all. He wanted
cigarettes from town and it was a relief to go get them.
This was typical, me avoiding the issue by leaving. A sad
scene in there, lost people looking up at the tv high on
the wall; horse racing.
When he got better, a little bit better, he was out again
but his weak body couldn't take any more. He died of
complications from a stomach ulcer due to alcoholism soon
after. Drinking on an empty stomach. He was under 50 years
old.
A man who never found his place, who didn't fit in easily
and used drink to help. A heavy drinking London culture
started it off. When he quit his profession there were
sorry attempts of self employment but he never worked
again and he never found an outlet for his creativity and
intelligence.
I didn't really know him in adult life. He's taught me the
dangers of alcohol, a route all three of us have been in
danger of in our time. He said that you can tell more
about a person in their eyes rather than their words. Time
and time again while watching tv he would tell us: this
isn't real, you know. Kind of obvious but very true. Real
life isn't mediated and if it is it isn't real life.
Many times I remember his illnesses, days in bed, shaking,
sweating, that strange smell. Trying to quit. And when he
was well, I remember, seems strange now, him doing yoga
asanas on the bedroom floor.
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