Welcome to Liverpool Confidential
Reset Password
The Confidential websites will be undergoing routine updates. This may cause the sites to go offline. We apologise in advance for any inconvenience.

You are here: Liverpool ConfidentialNews & Comment.

Rear View Mirror: The day after Father's Day

Tony Schumacher, out on the streets in his taxi, reflects on dads lost, dads never been and and dads never known

Written by . Published on June 25th 2010.


Rear View Mirror: The day after Father's Day

MY father died not wanting to make a fuss.

At about 3am on 2nd March, 1987, he woke up, got out of bed, put on a pair of trousers and a shirt and then crept downstairs so as not to wake my mum.

The sadness of not even knowing if your own father was alive or dead struck me. I wondered what it would be like to not know if there was full stop at the end of your relationship

He must have sat there for a while, wondering what was going on, in his “Dad’s Chair” by the fire. Looking around the living room for which he’d worked so hard, at the pictures on the sideboard of the family he cared so much for, and maybe the air bubbles in the wallpaper he’d spent so long trying to smooth away.

Eventually the pain must have become too much and he swallowed his pride and awoke my mum. They went downstairs and he returned to his chair, his condition worsened as my sister joined them.

By the time I was awoken (“Leave him, he’s got work in the morning”) I’d say he was half dead. When he finally agreed to an ambulance he was three-quarters gone, and by the time they arrived... well I suppose you’ve got the picture.

I can remember sitting in the ambulance staring at my mother as she clutched a lonely slipper she had picked up on the drive, while she, in turn, stared at his bare foot sticking out from under the blanket.

The ambulance crew worked like the heroes they were, shouting at him, pounding on him and listening for sound. But in truth they were like bailiffs banging on the door of an empty house, it doesn’t matter how loud you knock. If there is nobody home... nobody will answer.

Later, as we sat in a curtained cubicle, silent, like mice cowering under a bed, listening to footsteps and watching shadows pass by, I wondered who would be the hand on the family tiller. Who would be the rock, the oracle, the joker, the handyman, the provider, and the person who was always behind you, no matter what.

Last night, over 23 years later I was thinking about him again, not because it was Father's Day, he hated that (“wasting money on cards! You shouldn’t have bothered”) but because of a chat I had with a guy while working.

Normally on Sundays, the car ends up smelling of one of two things: roast dinner or clean washing. Visits to mothers by errant sons who have fended questions along the lines of “Are you losing weight? “Is that girl not feeding you?” or “Will you bring your washing? I’m doing mine and I need it to fill the drum.”

Balanced plates covered in foil and bin bags of Summer Fresh Lenor socks and shirts normally fill the back seat as the passenger faces a gentle ribbing from his jealous cab driver (me).

Father’s Day normally adds sheen to this; glasses of scotch shared with the “old fella” soften the edges more than Lenor. And nostalgic chats about football in the garden and learning to ride bikes can usually be coached with ease and filed in my notebook.

But the roast dinner balancing bloke who got in last night had a different tale...

“Been to the folks for Father’s Day?”

“No mate, just been to me ma’s for me dinner.”

“Smells lovely.”

“She does a boss roast; she always made sure we had a boss roast, no matter what.”

“My mum always burnt the beef!”

“Beef? We couldn’t afford beef! Me ma was on ‘er own, we mostly just had spuds and cabbage swimming in ‘gipo!”

We laughed and chatted about who’s mum did the best/worst roast. Then he told me that he wasn’t seeing his kids that day due to them being with their mum and “her fella”.

“He’s a sound lad, taking them to Southport for the day; he’s got a car... I wouldn’t have minded seeing them, but they put a card through last week.”

We sat in silence as he fingered the foil and looked out of the window. After a while he returned and said: “You got kids?”

“No mate, it’s a long story and you only live in Bootle.”

“I love my kids me, but I do a bit of drinking, like.”

Now, in my experience, a “bit” normally means a “lot” and a “lot” normally means a melancholy meander through memories of being hard-done-to with injustice and loss.

But not this time, this time it meant a long hard stare out of the window and more silence, until he turned and said: “My dad was an alkey, he got off when we were kids, I think me ma chased him, but she tells us he did one.”

“Is he local? Do you see him?”

“I think he’s dead.”

The sadness of not even knowing if your own father was alive or dead struck me. I wondered what it would be like to not know if there was full stop at the end of your relationship, not knowing if one day a reformed soul would tap you on the shoulder, take you in his arms and tell you he was sorry.

Would that be worse than the certainty of knowing that the man you knew and loved, the man who let go of the saddle as you rode your bike for the first time, wouldn’t be there when you glanced back proudly?

I think it would.

Father's Day is good for business, not just for me, but for the pubs, restaurants, sweet shops and liquorice manufacturers. A day of hugs, back slaps, aftershave and ale. Cards with footballers, speed boats and vintage cars racing down lanes.

A chance to show you care, without awkwardness and mumbles.

But, I’m glad my roast-dinner-nursing passenger got in the car late on Father's Day and not the day before. Had he got in the day before we may not have chatted like we did: the World Cup would have held centre stage and manly banter about “Those useless overpaid lazy...” would have taken up our time.

But the main reason I am glad is because it meant I didn’t have time to sit here and write this until the day after, because I think it’s the days after Father's Day, the ones that take up the rest of the year, that are the really important ones.

The ones where maybe you should take the time to give him a hug or shout “hang on” when he says “I’ll get your mother” on the phone. Those are the days that you should treasure, because you respect and love him, not because you’ve bought him a card.

I should maybe stop there, but in honour of my dad (who had a mischievous and somewhat eccentric sense of humour) I’d like to take you back to that curtained cubicle 23 years ago.

My older brother had arrived and we four sat shell shocked, cold tea was all we had to deaden the pain until a young, nervous looking doctor entered the cubicle after fumbling with the curtains like Eric Morecambe on a Christmas special. He shook my mother’s hand and, using a clipboard as a shield, took a seat.

“This is always very difficult, especially when your loss has come so suddenly.”

My mother nodded and sniffed respectfully in the way that her generation did when confronted by a man in a white coat.

“But in this situation, time is of the essence Mrs Schumacher, I’m sorry but I have a difficult question for you.”

“Of course Doctor, please, just ask.”

“Is there anything your husband would have wished to donate?”

She paused.

“He had those slippers. They were hardly worn.”

My dad would have laughed like a drain.

Like what you see? Enter your email to sign up for our newsletters which are chock-a-block with more great reviews, news, deals and savings.

20 comments so far, continue the conversation, write a comment.

Red or deadJune 22nd 2010.

This is great writing Liverpool Confidential, congratulations Editoress on giving it a platform.

The Big Sis!June 22nd 2010.

Sitting here with tears in my eyes and a smile of my face! Brilliant x

DigJune 22nd 2010.

Two wrote, two lovely pieces. Fantastic stuff. I'm sure there's a book in there.

edwardJune 22nd 2010.

this is the soul

AnonymousJune 22nd 2010.

That took a very, very long time to read, mainly because the words went all blurry round about the second paragraph. Very powerful stuff indeed Mr S. I wonder if I can get my son to read it.

AnonymousJune 22nd 2010.

What a lovely story, well done!

BendyGirlJune 22nd 2010.

Yet another blinder there Tony. Nice one mate

Recovering alcoholicJune 22nd 2010.

This has made me cry. Is there anyone I can ring? I am looking at a bottle of Denim Aftershave in a whole new light

Professor ChucklebuttyJune 22nd 2010.

Give up the taxi and become a pilot on the emotional rollercoaster. I am sure many readers, like me, will be wondering if we had the same dad. Similar departure date too. Speaking of which, on my first proper outing with the future Mrs C she gave me two perfect feed lines. Is your father still alive? she asked. I hope not, we buried him I replied, to her astonished gaze. When she recovered she asked "what did he die of?" I said, I think he died of a Tuesday or a Wednesday. For the cultured among ye, you will recognise those responses as nicked from Stan Laurel, but I heard them first from my Dad talking about one of his relatives. So although the future Mrs C was a little startled, my dad would have greatly appreciated it. Another beautifully crafted piece.

Hooray HenriJune 22nd 2010.

Beautifully written. Well done Tony. More please.

younger-than-twiggy-anywayJune 22nd 2010.

beautiful. what a find you are.

tim powerJune 22nd 2010.

very fine piece Tony, with a beautiful punchline. respect.

CroxtethPrincessJune 22nd 2010.

Perfect, sad but funny at the end,,lovely, well written,,another LpoolConf Gem! Keep up the good work! xxx

DigJune 22nd 2010.

Or should that be 'written'? Either way you know what it meant.

Mark Garner, The PublisherJune 22nd 2010.

Tony, you have delivered that difficult 'second album' and delivered it well. Getting someone like you on Confidential makes all those shitty moments when I have woken at four in the morning last year on the last Friday of the month wondering how the Fu*k I am going to pay the wages worthwhile. That's the last praise for a bit; you may start asking for more money.

FreshoutofkleenexJune 22nd 2010.

You're a sod, you, playing with my emotions like this. Lovely, heartfelt piece that had me crying buckets, then, luckily, laughing my socks off

Liverpool WagJune 22nd 2010.

Agree, anonymous, very powerful and very well balanced. Nice one Tony. Keep doing the do.

AnonymousJune 22nd 2010.

cool, although i realise that has already been said

Trudy WudyJune 22nd 2010.

Are the slippers still on offer? I will take them.

heroic and really dashingJune 22nd 2010.

Another tear jerker. With a twist of great humour. Your not bad Schuey, not bad, pretty dam good.

To post this comment, you need to login.Please complete your login information.
OR CREATE AN ACCOUNT HERE..
Or you can login using Facebook.

Latest Rants

Anonymous

I agree with the Councillor. His examples really don't go far enough, because of the complexities…

 Read more
Anonymous

Perhaps a "dolmus" system could be used in the city centre, they work quite well for tourists and…

 Read more
Fairminded

Not price related but sad to see that they are doing away with the Citylink bus. This runs around…

 Read more
Anonymous

Thank you Woo

 Read more

Explore The Site

© Mark Garner t/a Confidential Direct 2017

Privacy | Careers | Website by: Planet Code