foxinthestars

It occurred to me this morning that if I had to pick only one adjective to describe my late father, it would be "joyless". That summed him up in a nutshell, and it was very sad. He had a rotten childhood (so bad he could never be persuaded to talk about it; I wish he'd had counselling like I did - it would have been a great help), and this was very much complicated by the fact that he was autistic at a time when that wasn't really understood at all. He never got an official diagnosis, but it was still very obvious. He did things like drumming on the table and fiddling with things at meals (activities which would have got any of us into serious trouble); filing his extensive record collection meticulously on cards (and each recording had a paper slip inside it, which he'd date-stamp every time he played it); playing all the FreeCell games on his computer in strict numerical order; and, of course, woe betide anyone who disturbed any of his routines. He couldn't cope with people in the house who weren't immediate family, with very few exceptions, and honestly he couldn't cope with children being children, either. The autism helped to make him an outstandingly good accountant, and he made a great deal of money, but nonetheless he never really learnt to enjoy his life.

He said he didn't have a religion, but that wasn't quite true. Never was there a more devoted member of the Temple of Mammon outside the pages of A Christmas Carol, although, unlike Mr Scrooge, he didn't see any objection to spending money on luxuries, as long as he was the one doing it. I remember having to hide new (and necessary) clothing purchases from him when I was at university, so I didn't get the third degree about it ("what on earth have you bought that for? You've got enough clothes - you don't need it!"). I'd just wear it quietly later and rely on the fact that he never noticed anything anyone wore. It worked every single time. He spent thousands of pounds on hi-fi equipment, but that was fine, because it was for him. Just him. Nobody else was allowed to touch it, not even my mother. So it was all right.

We were expensive nuisances when we were growing up, and we were constantly reminded of the fact. Every time one of us needed a new pair of shoes, Mum would bemoan the expense to Dad, at length, in front of us, so we knew what a bother we were and what enormous sacrifices they had to make for us. I invariably felt guilty about needing new shoes. We'd get one pair of shoes each (I once asked if I could have some winter boots, and got shouted at); Mum had an entire collection of shoes under the bed, because she liked shoes. She needed at least one pair to go with every outfit, and I knew that if I had to have a pair of shoes, it meant she felt she couldn't buy a new pair herself that week, and that wasn't right, because she needed to have little treats, because she had to put up with us all the time.

And then there were things like paper and sticky tape. In my parents' house (it wasn't "our house" - you weren't allowed to say that because you hadn't paid for any of it), these were doled out very grudgingly because they were, apparently, Expensive. (It took me years to discover they weren't, and it was really more about control than about money.) You couldn't just go and help yourself to a sheet of paper; you had to go and ask for one, and heaven help you if you wanted sticky tape. You'd have to submit to a lengthy interrogation about what you wanted it for, and if the purpose was deemed frivolous (which it usually was, since, after all, it was only children's crafts, and those weren't important), you didn't get any. They could, without even thinking about it, have bought us each a pad of paper and a reel of sticky tape, but if they'd done that they wouldn't have had so much control over us. It was the same with the lights; electricity was also Expensive, so you weren't allowed to put the light on without asking except in your own room, and generally speaking you'd be told no, because you "should" be able to see what you were doing in semi-darkness (and, in any case, what you were doing wasn't important, it was just children's stuff anyway). Granted, they were incandescent bulbs at the time, so more expensive than modern LEDs; but, even so, the hi-fi equipment was perfectly reasonable and affordable, so there was no sensible reason to pinch pennies bringing up children, other than that Dad wanted to. I get it. We were a nuisance. Nobody likes spending money on a nuisance. Hi-fi equipment is much better; it doesn't ever need your attention when you don't feel like giving it.

But, for all his expensive hi-fi equipment, the poor man wasn't happy, and I think there was something in him that very much resented the fact that other people were, even though they didn't have as much money as he did. He once told me he'd far rather I was successful (in worldly terms) than happy, which tells you a lot about him. I wasn't supposed to be happy; I was supposed to have a lot of money and be miserable, just like he was. When I was at university, he told me one day out of the blue that he was seriously considering disinheriting me. Of course I asked him why; I wanted to know what I'd done to deserve that. On being asked that, he found he couldn't answer me. He genuinely didn't know. He never made that threat again. I can only guess what was going on subconsciously, but certainly the fact that I was slipping out of his direct control probably had something to do with it; I also think the fact that I was suddenly enjoying life didn't help. I'd got away, at least for most of the time, from a place where I was constantly controlled, denigrated, and devalued. I had friends whom I could go and visit, and equally who could come and visit me because I was now living in a space that was controlled by me rather than by Dad. Looking back, that must have been awful for him. (I know that sounds sarcastic; it isn't. It must have been genuinely painful for him to find that I preferred freedom to the rigid slot he'd taken so much care to build for me. I wasn't just supposed to be completely controlled and poorly treated, but I was supposed to be content with that.)

I think I understand him a lot better now. The thing was, being happy despite not having a great deal of money actually went against his religion. Money was his god. He spent his entire life being convinced it could make someone happy, in the teeth of all evidence to the contrary (he was never very capable of accepting evidence when it went against his preconceived ideas). So someone being happy without being rich was, I think, a complete offence to him, though he never understood that consciously. He was notoriously bad at articulating his feelings, even to himself.

He was abusive, controlling, inflexible, and rude. But, when you get right down to it, he was also completely deceived.

Poor old blighter.