Dad bus chat 1973

Dad:	I’m very proud of you working on the bus, John. When I got on, I thought – I know that conductor…
Me:	I always wanted to be a bus conductor, and now at 19, I am one – do you think I’ve peaked a bit too early?
Dad:	You loved that conductor’s uniform you had for Christmas, didn’t you?
Me:	It’s a shame you couldn’t respect the uniform and refrain from hitting me.
Dad:	It’s not something I’m proud of. You wanted to get me angry and you managed it marvellously. It was poor parenting on my part.
Me:	You encouraged me in my art and my writings and my music – not in my dancing, mind – but I always felt you were on my side – I just should have learned to dodge the punches.
Dad:	I never punched you!
Me:	I know you never, Dad – and with this ticket machine I only get to wind out the tickets, I never get to punch them, like I did that Christmas.
Dad:	Yes, I thought, when I got on… I know that conductor.
Me:	But do you know me, Dad?
Dad:	I know I love you.
Me:	That’ll do. Now tell me something. Did Mum get on with Grandma?
Dad:	She was a very strong personality.
John:	Who was?
Dad:	Exactly. It was a bit difficult.
John:	So, why did you stop?
Dad:	Stop what?
John:	Painting.
Dad:	I stopped painting because I had you lot. The art wasn’t needed, it was secondary. It had had its day. When art becomes secondary, put it away. And I wasn’t that good, anyway.
John:	Good enough for me.
Dad:	Thank you.

Dear Dad,

Here is my picture of you watching the telly with your sunglasses on.

Your neat garden is in the background. And you are dreaming that the gnomes are saints. The ones that you newly painted this morning, this is. That are not in the picture, except inside your bonce.

I do regret your not getting to teach me your mother language, and I do regret us never hanging about together in your motherland, but it’s a tiny pebble of regret in the happy heap of what you and Mum had.

There are two photos of the two of you, some twenty-five years between. In both, your arm is keen around Mum’s shoulder. In the one where you are older, it is around her just that little bit tighter.

You didn’t speak French to us, but you told Mum over and over that you loved her making your dinner and you loved her bringing the light and soul and the party to your existence when you had for a time, thought that true happiness was a lie,

and you loved her, so.

Love John

P.S. What do you think of my drawing?