Gosh, these months come around quickly, catching us unawares and sometimes breathless. We knew ages ago what we wanted to do this month-June. We wanted to visit Warwick Castle. I'm not sure why, or where the idea came from, but there it was and we were all agreed. It just so happened it was also Father's Day, so two birds and all that; it seemed perfect.
Tickets bought-(how much!!?) and we were there, stepping back into history, into a story of battles, besieging, intrigue, terror and winning through adversity. It was also a story of a family home and generations of custodians of that story.
Our visit started with a timed entrance to the Dungeons.There was the intitial obligatory photograph of me being beheaded by David and Matt. Their expressions, as they held the hatchets high, betraying a sinister secret perhaps, and a darker side to their natures. Then we were plunged into darkness, barely able to make out the horror of ancient implements inflicting indescribable pain on their victims. As we felt and shuffled our way from chamber to chamber, from gruesome to obscene, from hilarity to terror, we slipped further and further away from the present, from normality into a base underworld of depravity. Screams echoed through the corridors and vile smells cloaked us in the gloom. Judges, executioners, aparitions, 'surgeons, embalmers and simple murderers barked their commands to 'move along there' until, finally, we fell into a well lit room where the hard sell encouraged us to purchase our execution photographs. No thank you. We bypassed the gift shop, shielded our eyes from the sun and escaped the horror, making our way to the coffee stand and on to the falconry arena.
Matt is, and always has been, fascinated by birds of prey. Their power, beauty and majesty; their, ruthlessness and grace all combine to make, in his eyes, perfection. The eagles battled against the wrong sort of wind, their soaring compromised and their landings somewhat precarious; the African Vulture was comical in his tottering gait and near miss flying, causing the crowd to duck as he skimmed their ears and close shaved their heads. A well deserved clap sent the birds, one by one, back to their hides for a tasty day old chick, no doubt eaten with relish.
The last time Matt and I had visited Warwick Castle was about twenty four or five years ago with a Sunday School group. Mark and the boys' dad were there too and we had a wonderful day, exploring the castle as only young boys can, firing pretend arrows, sword fighting until someone was poked in the eye, charging each other with shrill battle cries and tearing up spiral staircases, ignoring desperate pleas to, 'be careful!' and 'come down!'. Funny how one's memory selects random momnts and imprints them for ever. I remember the picnic by the river more than the visit to the castle, the game of rounders more than the walls of armour and the softness of what seemed like a perfect day more than the sharpness of the specific. Matt remembered that day too, although his memories are more of friends and Mark and, I guess, his Dad.
Matt's Dad has been out of his life far longer than he has been in it. He left when Matt was eight and Mark was thirteen, but in a 'standing from a distance sort of way', I guess we both miss him. That is, we miss the lego playing Dad, the Dad who built amazing sand cars, aeroplanes and animals, the one who could draw and paint and play music so well. He was an amazing Dad for thirteen years and then no Dad at all since. Few phone calls, no effort to see his boys, a couple of cards at Christmas and birthdays and a painful void in their lives where he should have been; a void that Mark filled with friends, and parties, adventures and sometimes more negative things to numb the pain of his absence.
And Matt fills with self doubt, a lack of confidence, a feeling of never being good enough and a desperate need to care for people, animals and the arts. And yet we still miss him.
We strolled the grounds of this ancient monument, enjoying the sunshine, watching families, big, small, new and older, partly with envy, partly with sadness but mostly with a sense of being part of something normal and continuous. Sitting in the sunshine, sipping tea and watching the 'show off' antics of the resident peacocks, our eyes were drawn to a young family also watching the birds and struggling with a wriggling toddler, who was hell bent on getting away and helping himself to a few turquoise tail feathers. They smiled at each other and shared the moment with their baby son. I so hope they realise how blessed they are. Both my boys would have/will made/make amazing fathers. Mark would have been terrified and delighted in equal measures. He would have flaunted the baby advice books, put the baby in a carrier and shown him the world. He would have thought nothing of camping with a newborn, trekking with a toddler or back-packing with a moody teenager. He would have cheered on touchlines, dumped dirty kit by the washing machine and raced ridiculously fast on old BMXs. He would have encouraged his child to love books, the written and spoken word; he would have relished the beginning of debate, the odd argument and he would have taught him that you can live on very little, that the most precious possessions are family and friends, that a friend's sofa for the night is luxury and that faith in our God is enough.
Matt, on the other hand, will be a much more cautious parent. He will worry over every sniffle, bump or graze. He will watch his baby sleeping several times a night, marvelling in the miracle of creation, his creation. There will be holidays in France camping, playing Round the World table tennis, canoeing expertly down sun drenched sleepy rivers, swinging courageously through the treetops, and enjoying crepes and un boule de glace before bedtime. There will be music of every genre constantly playing, music lessons and a shared love of films and comedy. He will take fatherhood seriously and will strive to be the fun, involved and playful Dad, like the one he had all those years ago. I just hope with all my heart he gets the chance.
David, of course, was with us this time. A different sort of father from the boys' Dad, a stricter, more rigid figure, dependable, safe, predictable, almost disapproving. A man brought up by a cold, disciplinarian, a unemotional being, who shaped David's view on how fathers should be and how they should behave. He brought his two boys up with rules they could never hope to keep and they have a sort of polite relationship now, which I don't understand. As a step father, David has tried to be supportive and involved in the boys' lives. He has painted walls of grim student flats various hideous colours, travelled up and down motorways with a car load of stuff, and put up with the chaotic debris of living with two boys who were very different from his own. Aftershave, socks and the occasional amount of money disappeared with regular annoyance and David silently put up with it all. And, because we know how hard it has been for him at times, there is a kindness and a benign tolerance for his incomprehensible and ridiculous ways now he is an old man and struggling to accept he is not as able as he was both mentally and physically.
And so Fathers' Day was spent with my son, thinking about Mark, Paul, the past and hopefully a brighter, sunnier future where Matt's little boy gets to chase peacocks, fire bows and arrows and watch birds of prey soaring high above him.
An almost perfect day....as ever, almost.
