A few weeks ago my tutor set me an assignment. The idea was to focus on an inanimate object; something inconspicuous to others, but laden with specific memories for me.
For some strange reason, I couldn’t get my dad’s black briefcase out of my mind – for me, that one innocuous object is aflame with everything my father was, is and will be.
Our fathers are strange creatures.
They are tall and mysterious men with broad shoulders and stern brows.
They represent strength and great responsibility.
For some of us, they are absent, or greatly missed.
For some of us, they are the fount of all earthly wisdom.
For some of us, they are free plumbers, carpenters and furniture removal men.
My father celebrated his 60th birthday this year. I have this enduring memory of him wandering from table to table with a glass of scotch in hand, muttering “But I just don’t feel 60!” to anyone who would listen.
My father; immemorial.
One of the great men who taught me everything I know about God, the Father of the Prodigals.
One of my great heroes.
Let’s all raise a glass to fathers, father-figures and the Father Almighty this weekend.
A Black Briefcase
There are a few things I know for sure about my father;
That he was raised in Ramsgate, England – somewhere near the coast with old concrete lifts that were sunk deep into the crumbling walls of the beach.
That he ran away to join Her Majesty’s Merchant Navy when he was 16.
That he was raised fatherless, by his mother, who was a hardened wartime woman with a partially blind Chihuahua named Janie.
Most other things are a mystery. Perhaps, I think my father was raised in a stoic generation, in a country determined to hold on to her post-war dignity, the Great Lion rising slowly to her knees.
Either way, I’ve never been privy to the infinite details of his life. I’ve wondered where he keeps them; I’ve been an idle spectator for 27 years, which leaves 33 unaccounted for.
I have played detective, as any child does; built up a picture of him that is close to mythological – a composite of eavesdropped conversations, best guesses and fractured memories.
But I still maintain that the key to all this information is in his black briefcase.
The brand of the case escapes me. There is nothing distinguishable about it. It’s a generic thing; polished black leather exterior with 3-dial bronzed combination locks on either side of the handle.
I’m pretty sure he got it when he was working for the Social Welfare Department in Auckland, where he was my mother’s boss, and their office fling turned into a 30-year marriage. I suspect this because he was an appliance repair man and a wood-turner after that, and I don’t imagine my father needing a black briefcase for either of those professions.
The briefcase was an ever-present talisman in our household. A kind of Bermuda square, tucked away in the dark corners of hallway cupboards, or under his mother’s old writing desk. For as long as I have known, important things have disappeared into that dark case. As a child, I did my best to keep an inventory.
One marriage certificate.
Some tax papers, the details of which ‘do not concern me.’
A stack of baby photos, square and yellowed.
(Through the ages of 11 to 14, I convinced myself these were evidence of a secret love child.)
All locked up and guarded by two, 3-dial bronzed combination locks.
I have progressed from a curious child to an angst-fuelled teenager to a sentimental man. And through these years I have realized my father is like that briefcase. He, like the typical kiwi male, has never allowed himself the spending of emotions. Instead, I imagine he shoves his unspoken pride, disappointment, failures and triumphs in that same black briefcase. I imagine I’ve picked up a briefcase of my own, shutting away the skeletons of Oedipus and Freud next to missed appointments and unconstructed tree-houses.
I imagine, and I hope that it is a long time before I am granted the opportunity to reach under that cracked, Victorian writing desk and pull out his faded black briefcase. When I do, I expect many mysteries will be solved and a few will be added.
On my 25th birthday, I convinced myself into a quarter-life crisis. I drank some wine and penned a lingering ode to my father on 4 pages of torn journal paper. I told him that he was my hero and my muse; a darkened, weathered old man who fathered 7 good children and one black sheep. I told him that I had always believed him to be indestructible, and that to this day he has never given me evidence to the contrary.
Before I had a chance to sober up, I addressed and posted the letter.
It was 2 weeks before I gathered the courage to call home.
I asked my mother, did he get it. Did he get the letter?
Sure he did, she said.
I saw him pop it in the briefcase.
