The earliest recollection I have of Dad is being with him during his working day as a mechanic on a large estate in Wroxham, Norfolk. I was 4 years of age and can remember the comings and goings of the farm machinery as it was serviced and repaired in the workshop. I spent long hours sitting next to an old valve radio. Often falling asleep, I would awake to find I was buried under Dad’s coat to keep me warm. Dad was well-respected for his mechanical ability with all types of farm equipment including tractors, harvesters and lorries as well as general motor vehicles. He also helped out workmates and friends with their vehicles to prevent expensive garage bills.
 
Working on a farm in the 1960s provided Dad with an opportunity that became one of his favourite pastimes – game shooting. He was chosen to drive the estate game cart and this enabled him to watch some of the finest shooting in Norfolk. He also loved being out on his own pigeon shooting and enjoyed telling me the tale of one of his outings using decoys.  ‘I had just set up the coys and had squeezed back into the hide with this thick hawthorn hedge behind me when I heard a Land Rover slowing down behind. I sat tight and blow me if two shots didn’t ring out and pepper my coys - blowing one clean off its legs! To think my rubber coys took the fury of the person pulling the trigger!’ Dad grinned as he recalled the culprit – ‘The Farm Manager’.
 
In March 1967 I can remember Dad and Mum coming to visit me in hospital and I was curious as to why my Dad sat talking to the parents of a boy in the next bed. The boy’s father was an artist and he used to draw cartoon characters beautifully. I later discovered that Dad had been trying to comfort them as the young boy did not have long to live. The boy died next to me one night and was gone in the morning. During a visit to the out-patients a few weeks later we saw all of the pictures that the artist had drawn. Dad lifted me up so I could see them better and it was then that he told me what had happened.
 
                                                                       TIME PASSES
 
As I passed through primary school, I can remember Dad being at the important events: parent/teacher meetings, football matches, Cub Scout rallies and fishing matches. Or were they important because he was there? Dad had a no-pressure approach to most things in my life: academic achievements, friends or marriage. The only exception was the purchase of my first motorcycle - we did not talk for a month. We made up though and the rest is history. Dad helped me to find my first proper job - his reputation giving me more than I could convey at my interview. When it was time for me to start college, he was the one who transported all my belongings to and fro as in my wisdom I had no car. Whilst at college I was persuaded to take my driving test and Dad even allowed me to use his car for this. On returning from the test centre Dad first examined the car for damage and then asked if I had passed. ‘Yes,’ I replied. A relieved ‘well done’ was the reply.
 
Dad’s calmness and practical approach in all sorts of situations was amazing. From fishing on the beach in an easterly gale to being swamped by a huge freezing wave and re-emerging from the surf like a drowned rat with wellies full to the brim. Dad promptly removed his wellingtons and sitting on his tackle box to remove his socks gasped, ‘I’d better buy some waders boy’. The only time I saw Dad worried was during harvest in the mid-seventies. We uncovered a grain pit in preparation for the day’s work only to find a rat of huge proportions feeding on grain at the bottom of the pit. After a shout of ‘get me a fork!’ Dad ventured down the side of the pit to tackle the rodent. However, the well-fed rat had other ideas, jumped up and landed around Dad’s waistband. There was a shriek and the rat was knocked to the floor before running straight towards me.  Using the only weapon at my disposal, I kicked it back from where it had come. Dad’s expression changed from horror to determination as he despatched the dizzy rodent with the words, ‘bloody hell boy’ - one of the few times that I ever heard him swear.
                                                               TIME PASSES
 
Dad retired from farming and set himself up as a gardener/handyman. He was well-liked by his customers, some of whom he had known for years. I believe that they trusted him to do a good job and this is probably why after a few years he was giving potential customers another gardener’s name as his workload became too large.  During his gardening years, Dad joined Probus and together with Mum made many new friends with similar interests. It was also during this time that Dad was diagnosed with a heart problem for which he was admitted into Papworth hospital where he underwent a quadruple heart bypass. When I picked him up from the hospital, I found him thanking all the nurses and they told me he had been the perfect patient. I remember driving him home along the A14 and out of the corner of his eye he saw that I was exceeding the speed limit - he just smiled and said, ‘soon be home boy’.
 
Dad remained cheerful and always retained his interest in the world of farming. Towards the end of his days his acceptance of the hand he had been dealt was unbelievable. He asked for very little but gave so much. He never said he loved me - he did not have to - he was my Dad.
 
Mark