I wasn't just losing Dad, but saying goodbye to my family home
I was four when we moved to what was to be our family home for nearly 40 years. It was a detached 1930s house in south-west London, with leaded lights, shutters and one of those big oak front doors with studs. When I think of my childhood, I remember it as being bright and warm.
It was a very happy, noisy home, a place where our friends were always welcome. My mum was a health visitor and my dad an engineer, and there were always piles of paperwork and bits of machinery in the kitchen. Dad’s friends would show up unannounced to get their cars fixed, and there was lots of joking with my two older brothers, Toby and Ben.
I’d go home at lunchtime with my schoolmates and we’d play The Cure and The Wonder Stuff loudly on the hi-fi – there was no one to tell us to turn it down.
Even when I went to uni on the other side of London, I didn’t really move out. I finally left at 24, when I had met John, who became my husband. I went back a lot but as soon as my brothers and I moved out, Mum and Dad were quick to turn our bedrooms into more neutral spare rooms.
Not long after that, Mum became ill with terminal cancer and Dad looked after her at home until it got too bad and she was transferred to hospital. She died in 1999.
It felt surprisingly good to be clearing and cleaning the house as my brothers and I were together, emotionally supporting each other
I felt differently about the place after that. I was in constant contact with Dad but visited less. I seemed to be reminded more of Mum’s absence when I was there. Things in the house got a bit grimy, not that Dad saw it that way. He didn’t notice. I’d suggest he get a cleaner, but he was having none of it.
Then one morning in February this year, I got a call from one of his neighbours. His curtains hadn’t been opened and the lights were on. I called the police as I thought if he had fallen and hurt himself then they could get there before me. I felt sure he was OK, but the police met me in the hallway. He had collapsed and died. He was 78. They’d covered him with a blanket and wouldn’t let me touch him.
I was so sad. I phoned my brothers, my husband and my best friend Claire. Then it was just me in the kitchen with Dad. The police were very kind. Once they knew I was OK they left me to be with him.
I’m a photographer and always carry a camera with me. It was such a bizarre situation that I started taking pictures. It was something I felt I needed to do. I took one of him – he looked so elegant – then I walked round the house recording things that seemed important, like my mum’s Givenchy perfume, Fleur d’Interdit, which he’d kept on her dressing table. Claire came over and then my brothers turned up. Not knowing what to do, we started cleaning until the house sparkled.
Over the next few days we hired a skip and got rid of the clutter – newspapers, books and clothes – and took lots to charity shops. It felt surprisingly good to be clearing and cleaning the house as my brothers and I were together, emotionally supporting each other. We put the house on the market just after the funeral and the estate agent said we should keep some furniture in place, so we left the Parker Knoll armchairs our parents used to sit in.
There were so many memories. One particular Jack Jones LP made me think of my parents’ dinner parties, and we found letters that Mum and Dad wrote to each other while my dad worked abroad. Seeing their handwriting was hard.
I have decided to exhibit the photos I took at the house before it’s sold. It dawned on me that I was not just losing Dad but saying goodbye to my family home.
