Adam Mars-Jones - Kid Gloves - A Voyage Round My Father

It’s possible that what I really wanted was not an encounter between Dad and his complexity but a soap-opera resolution between the two of us, with him begging to be forgiven for his blindness. That’s not something I can rule out, however often I state as a fact that closure is for bin-bags not for people. It’s even true that Dad had made some progress with his apology technique since my teenage years. He had learned that it was possible to own up to a fault almost without being put under pressure. Admitting to an imperfection could be a strong rhetorical move.

Making an apology needn’t be like walking the plank. It might be more like a rope bridge. The moment of vulnerability could be cut short, and Dad find himself safe on the other side. Admission of weakness might even be redefined as the key to strength.

One example was what he said when I got a good degree in English, after dropping Classics against his advice. ‘Well, boy,’ he said, ‘you were right and I was wrong …’ — rope bridge, dangerously teetering — ‘… and I hope I’m a big enough man to admit it when I’ve made a mistake.’ Back on solid personality rock.

So he could certainly have found a way to turn his change of attitude into a virtue. ‘Well, boy,’ he might have said, ‘your poor old Dad may have been saddled with a lot of backward ideas by the time and place he was brought up, but no-one can say he didn’t struggle against his conditioning. How many men of my generation have come so far from where they started?’ That might have been a good thing to hear, but I’d have settled for him remembering Keith’s name once in a while. Or perhaps I should just shut up and agree to receive what was on offer. Perhaps it was perverse to be refusing of him at a time when he was finally, and in his own fashion, accepting of me, the ‘me’ that he had found so hard to live with.

Of the two carers who made things easier for Dad in the last stretch of his life, it was Nimat I would have liked to see again, but though we had a couple of phone conversations neither of us suggested a meeting. She had stopped working for the care agency and was studying for a qualification in social work.

I had more extensive dealings with Bamie, though he didn’t contact me directly. It was a solicitor who phoned to ask if I would testify on his behalf in court. Why? What was the matter? He was up on a charge, and my testimony could make a difference to the verdict.

What was the charge? It was rape. Bamie was being charged with the rape of his wife’s cousin. My knowledge of legal procedure was and is rudimentary, but it seemed unlikely that I could give evidence in any useful way. The only way I could help Bamie’s case was by proving that he was with me at the time of the alleged assault, and that wasn’t on the cards.

I asked the solicitor if anything I said in court could possibly make a difference. He said it could do no harm.

Bamie’s defence was that he had been having an affair with his wife’s cousin at an earlier stage, when she had been living under their roof, and that there had been no coercion either then or when they resumed their relations.

There must have been a time when Bamie explained to his wife about the falseness of the accusation made against him and how it was to be combated. I was glad not to have been present at the conversation when he had given her the good news.

She had moved out, taking their son with her, and was now living in a hostel. Further misfortune had rained down on this family fragment in limbo. The little boy, exploring in an unfamiliar kitchen, had pulled a pan of boiling water onto himself and been scalded.

I gave an undertaking in principle that I would testify on Bamie’s behalf, though I admit I was hoping not to be called on. I could certainly be a character witness, but how was that relevant? Rape is not something on the level of a character flaw.

It was months before the case came to trial, and then it was announced for a day when I was away on holiday — not on the far side of the earth, it’s true (Devon), but far enough away to make my heart sink still further. It had to be done though, in conscience, and I took a train from Totnes with my praise for Bamie thoroughly rehearsed, ready to emerge in solid sentences. I still had the feeling that what I had to say was meaningless in this context, and if Bamie was relying on my testimony then things did not look good for him. A young female relative by marriage and an elderly stranger he looked after for pay were obviously in different categories. Ideally he would have mild and tender dealings with both, but it was faintly mad to look to one of these styles of behaviour for evidence about the other.

I didn’t stay long after doing my turn in court, and returned to pick up the threads of my holiday. Later I heard that Bamie had indeed been acquitted, I imagine on firmer grounds than someone being appreciative of his skills as a carer.

Years later, when I had moved to South-East London and was waiting for a bus on Denmark Hill, I was startled by a car on the other side of the road doing a drastic U-turn, so as to end up in the bus lane next to me. A man leaped out of the driver’s seat and came towards me. I have to admit that I recoiled until I saw it was Bamie, transmitting intense goodwill on a wavelength bang next door to the one usually reserved for aggression.

He told me that life was much better for him than it had been the last time we had met, though he admitted that it had been touch and go for a while. His religion had been sorely tested, and he had come close to losing his faith. He grasped my hands and said he would never forget the help I gave when he needed it.

There were so many reasons for cutting the conversation short. A 468 bus was heading our way — my bus — and even if I didn’t want to board it Bamie’s car was blocking the bus lane. He needed to jump back in and do another U-turn to carry on towards Camberwell. I didn’t even have time to ask whether he and his wife were back together. In fact I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, and I certainly didn’t want to hear him talking about his recent history in terms of a test of faith, some sort of religious trial.

This was a reading of painful family events that seemed guaranteed to yield no insight, besides being unappealing to believers and unbelievers alike. The Book of Job would have exercised a lot less fascination down the millennia if its starting-point had been Job having sex with his wife’s cousin.

Before I moved to South London I was unaware of religious diversity, in terms of the day to day. The beliefs on offer seemed to be variations on white-bread, meat-and-potatoes faith. Only Edith Wellwood had an unorthodox background, having been brought up in the Catholic Apostolic Church, a millenarian denomination inspired by Edward Irving. He’s commemorated with a plaque on Amwell Street. The church was somehow both high and low, with a hierarchical ministry (angels, priests and deacons) but also talking in tongues, or ‘speaking in the unknown tongue’ as it was called in the church. As a girl Edith had been told to pray for the Lord to return in her lifetime, which she did, though adding under her breath, ‘But not before I get my Matric.’ The church died out like a self-limiting virus. Established in the first place to await the imminent end of the world, its constitution wasn’t built for endurance. When the last Apostle died, in 1901, there was no mechanism for creating clergy, and when the last minister died there was no more church.

Living in Herne Hill I found there was an explosion of spiritual cuisine more or less on my doorstep, with many local varieties and no doubt the occasional attempt at fusion. I go most days to catch a bus or a train at Loughborough Junction, where there are such exotic spiritual blooms, though they are housed by and large in battered commercial premises, as the Power of Faith Continual Miracle Church, the Celestial Church of Christ (Clapham Parish) and the Light of God Evangelical Ministry (A Palace of Breakthroughs). There’s a Vessels of Treasure Sisterhood that holds regular meetings. The Light of God Evangelical Ministry offers a monthly Night to Repossess Your Possessions, which I must admit intrigues me. Repossession has an ominous overtone, but I’m sure it’s not meant to. How does the magic work? Do you bring along the possessions in question, or is a list enough?