In fact, 1993 was quite a good year for Alf, with the satisfaction of seeing Every Living Thingcontinuing to prove just as successful as his previous books. Later that year, however, having begun to experience symptoms of the carcinoma spreading, he found himself in hospital again where he underwent yet another operation. This was the beginning of grimmer times ahead – a time when we realised that the cancer, having kept a misleadingly low profile for almost two years, was beginning to show its true colours.
The brave veneer that he put on his condition cracked only once, in the autumn of 1993, when my mother rang me to say, ‘Please come up to see your father. I am at a loss to know what to do with him.’
This was an unusual call. My mother had, very admirably, borne the burden of watching her husband slowly deteriorate, rarely asking for any assistance, but he had become so severely depressed that she now felt powerless to help him. As I sat with him that day, I was reminded of the bad times over thirty years before, when he had suffered his great depression. He now looked at me, once again, with eyes that were a million miles away.
The position was very difficult for Rosie and me. We tried to cheer him up by talking about his hugely successful life, and the joy that he had given so many people, but we were looking into the eyes of a sensitive and private man, a sincere and deeply caring person with a complex personality which, despite our close relationship with him for so many years, we had never managed to fully comprehend. There had always been a part of my father that I had never really reached and, as I looked at him that day, I knew that I had little chance of unlocking the secret emotions that were troubling him. He had kept his innermost feelings to himself for so many years; why should he release them now?
He assured us that the cause of his despondency was not the fact that his days were coming to an end. I could well believe this. Although without any strong religious faith to help him through those difficult times, he had not only always been a selfless man whose concern for the welfare of others transcended any thoughts of his own well-being, but he, himself, had no fear of death. During his short speech on the occasion of his Golden Wedding anniversary in 1991, he had spoken of his good fortune in having enjoyed such a fascinating and fruitful life, dominated by good health and a supportive wife and family, and that, whatever the future held for him, life had already dealt him a more-than-generous hand. Realising that he still held that philosophy – and that he faced his future with a calm inevitability – I knew that the cause of his present depression was far deeper than just the bleak prospect of his worsening health. Those same mysterious emotions that had always simmered beneath the surface were, once again, exerting their influence.
‘What isthe matter, Dad?’ I asked. Well out of my depth, such a banal and basic question was delivered more in hope than expectation.
He continued staring out of the window and I remember his answer well. ‘I have this feeling of profound and overwhelming melancholy.’ He would say no more.
As an illustration of his deeply sensitive nature, I remember his giving an interview to Lynda Lee-Potter of the Daily MailHaving had a few drinks beforehand, he gave her an unusually frank interview in which he poured out his feelings, expressing especially his intense and lasting love for Rosie and Emma. On reading this in the paper, he was deeply upset. He said that he could not remember releasing his feelings so effusively; it was certainly not in his nature to do so.
It was a full two years later before I fully realised how much this had affected him. I had driven him, my mother and Gill up into the Dales for the day and he and I were walking along a green track high above Summerlodge in Swaledale. In those final years of his life, there was nothing he liked better than being driven across to the Yorkshire Dales; he would sit quietly looking at the places that must have rekindled so many happy memories and, despite his advanced condition, he would always insist on getting out of the car for a moment or two to take in the wild scenery and drink in the fresh, clean air.
On this particular day, it was a short walk; with the cancer, by then, having a firm hold upon his body, he could move only with difficulty. Suddenly, he stopped and put his finger to his lips.
‘Jim, I want to ask you a question,’ he said, looking down at the winding valley of the river Swale, far below. I said nothing, but allowed him to continue.
He did not look directly at me as he spoke. ‘Tell me … have you ever felt that I thought more about Rosie than you?’
I hesitated, as the question had taken me completely by surprise. There followed a silence, broken only by the sound of the wind coursing across the high moorland. I looked straight at him but he continued to stare into the distance, waiting quietly for my response.
‘Such a thought has never even crossed my mind, Dad,’ I replied.
He nodded his head but no words escaped his lips. The subject was never to be raised again.
As we climbed back into the car, I thought to myself, ‘For how long has he been tormented with this? How much of an effort was it to ask that question?’ 1994 was a bad year. We watched him lose weight steadily as his condition became worse, and many were shocked at his appearance during the final year of his life.
From the very first day that the cancer had been diagnosed, he expressed a wish that we should tell no one about it, but it did not take a qualified doctor to know the cause of his weight loss in those last few months. It was as though he was still trying to keep his troubles to himself – but everyone knew by then.
He received a bad setback in June 1994. A sheep had strayed into his garden and, in trying to escape, shot past him and knocked him to the ground. Alf sustained a fracture of the femur and, once more, he found himself in hospital where he underwent an operation to pin his leg. It was another period of severe pain and one that he could well have done without. I have always admired the way he bore the distressing conditions that afflicted him in his last few years. Not only did the invasive cancer induce severe pain, but he had to endure the post-operative distress following each operation. He had managed to steer clear of hospitals for so many years but, at that time, he seemed to be in and out of them regularly.
For reasons that I am unable to explain, the melancholic feeling that descended on him in 1993 did not last long, and the final three years of his life were certainly not ones entirely of gloom. He acquired satellite television which proved to be a boon. He watched hours of sport – especially cricket, football and tennis – and, in addition, he was able to enjoy many of the old comedy programmes that were re-shown. His favourite comedians were a joy for him during his years of pain, and still managed to bring tears of laughter to his eyes.
Despite the dark rumbling clouds of cancer, his outlook on life remained generally very positive as he continued to occupy himself fully. The continuing barrage of fan mail certainly kept him busy and he tried to reply to all the letters that arrived at the house. He walked, gardened and read, just as he had done all his life.
His mind remained very alert and he continued to take an active interest in the world around him. Not only were his favourite newspapers read every day from cover to cover as he maintained his lifelong interest in current affairs, but he continued reading books almost until the end. When I went to see him a few days before he died, he was reading one of his all-time favourites, The Historical Romances of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.