I have posted some of what few photos we have of Bob (the ones taken after the advent of the digital age) and I see I have picked the ones that celebrate being part of the family as the ones that seem the most important to me. In the past few months as i have reflected on my relationship with bob, it has been that aspect which stood out to me. I'm not always the easiest person to have around but, despite our differences, Bob welcomed me into his home and his family. We had quite different takes on the world and when i look back on it all now, I can see what i had difficulty perceiving then: that Bob showed me more tolerance and respect than I probably deserved.
Memories?
Being nervously drunk the first time i met James' parents and Corina saying afterwards she thought i was drunk as I'd laughed too much at Bob's jokes.
On sunny evening sitting in the dining room, Bob surrounded by a flock of young women (Jo's friends plus me)...he was having a rare old time flirting away with us with his stories of the fire service and the middle east.
Feeding him a godawful homemade vindaloo and he politely ate it all and said it was lovely.
Him getting all protective and cross with me in Dubai when i tried to lift up my suitcase after he knew i was pregnant.
His eyes smiling with pride when Caitlin sought him out night after night for her bedtime story. The fact that, despite his dodgy knees, he would crouch down to kiss her goodnight.
Despite being in his 70s, he came out to Australia to visit and was game enough to get in a car and drive himself about.
On asking if I would change my name once married or whether i had some stupid feminist notion...I looked at him and said 'you know me, Bob' and we both grinned.
Bob, it's been an absolute privilege and a pleasure to have walked some of the way in life with you and i leave you with your son's speech in your memory.
"When my father left Australia to return home at the end of October he left half a bottle of Ballantines whisky waiting for his return.
The next time that bottle was touched was last Monday evening as Lesley and I had a glass in celebration of my dad’s life. As I sat there I looked at a picture on the wall. It’s a picture of penguins which might not seem entirely relevant. The picture is a copy of a print by the author Mervyn Peake and alongside is a quote of his - to live at all is miracle enough. The quote is not meant as a blind acceptance that we just accept what life has given us because we’re just lucky to be here. Anyone who knew dad would know that was not the way he worked ( although perhaps mum occasionally wished he was a little more accepting of things!). No, the quote invites us to marvel at and revel in life rather than to mourn at its passing.
So how do I celebrate my dad’s life? First of all I give thanks that I was a part of it. When dad was visiting us in Australia he commented that if his father had come to Maclean, he would never have gone home…to which I replied that it was a very good thing that he had gone to Rhodesia instead otherwise the family might never have ended up in Bristol, he might never have picked his sister up from work and given a beautiful young nurse a lift home and therefore most importantly I might never have existed. I think that wry smile on his face was a good thing…
Of course the road to myself and Joanna coming into my dad’s life was further beset by difficulties. It was in Rhodesia that he was wandering through the bush on his horse when he was attacked by a lion which pulled him off his horse, leaving him with the scars on his arms which were visible for the rest of his life. Or so he told his neighbour in Libya. After a little too much beer. Strangely when Joanna recounted this episode to Jean when back in the UK, she didn’t appear to recall any such incident. There was the time that a warehouse fell on his head when he was fighting a fire. Lying in his hospital bed, he received a visit from mum, his fiancée. ‘Hello darling’ she said. ‘Who are you’ he said. Luckily he recovered his memory in time for the wedding. Ask mum for the full truth! Another time he was marshalling at Brands Hatch when a racing car left the track and headed towards him. It became airborne and hurtled over his head. Another near miss. Of course, the more whiskies he had had when telling the story, the nearer that miss became, the bigger that lion and the more dramatic the concussion.
Of course, once Dad had children, life settled down. Mostly. Obviously it wasn’t his fault that on moving to the middle east there was an Islamic revolution in Iran which precipitated war with Iraq. Being in Qatar he was nowhere near. It wasn’t fault that on moving to Libya the country got bombed by the Americans…though obviously this was a little closer. And it definitely wasn’t his fault that on moving to Riyadh Iraqi scud missiles started raining down. Though by now you couldn’t be blamed for wondering if there wasn’t a certain connection.
Of course dad’s life wasn’t all about danger…he was after all a safety officer as well as a fireman. So if you want to know about exploding bottles of beer, yank tanks, go karts, wine made of cherry pie filling, mechanic’s pits and melting shoes you’ll have to ask afterwards.
Dad’s life was of course also full of great stuff. I can remember listening to Max Boyce records with him, talking about a game I did not yet know, but I can still remember him singing along to ‘hymns and arias’ and laughing at the jokes…mainly at the expense of the English. In one, wales are beating England at Twickenham thanks to phil bennett and jpr Williams and one English chap kneels down in prayer:
Oh lord let us see a try, we’re losing I can tell
Oh lord let us see a try , something absolutely twiffic
And then JPR scored again and god said
‘You should have been more specific!‘
I remember Dad drawing out street plans on chipboard sheets for jo and I to play with our cars. Mine was called Jamestown, hers joannasberg. I remember him building a mini car racing track in my bedroom in Qatar (definitely for me, not him obviously). I remember being towed around the bay on a watersled, our attempts at sailing and camping, and going snorkelling (ask mum later about sting rays). I remember dad as the short-lived marsa el-brega spin bowling king and our triumph in the father and son tennis competition. I remember his pride when his fire department basketball team won the league, and even more so when he told of his Filipino firemen passing their british fire exams. I remember the look on his face when his granddaughter first climbed onto his lap by herself with a story for him to read.
Not all of dad’s life had to make sense. How does a rugby fan born in wales with a Scottish father end up being an England supporter? Wales winning the grand slam just before his death didn’t make much sense either but i know he loved their style and brought him back memories of the glory days of the seventies. If only Bill Mclaren had been commentating! What did make sense to me was that dad was a man who was could laugh at himself, but was always totally serious about what he thought was right. His love and support for his family, and those that joined his family, was unswerving. He was always there for us. I know he has left a big hole in our life. We cannot fill that hole, but his influence will be always with us. I have a thousand more memories to share, and could carry on all day. Luckily I know i can keep those memories with me, just as you will all own your own Robert Mcinnes with you. i ask you not to mourn that he is gone but to hold with you the life that he lived"
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