Mystery Man

On the anniversary of his death I've been thinking of Dad and his rages today.

Now that's a very strange sentence, and anyone who knew my Dad would tell you so. He was one of the most gentle, self-effacing of men and very, very rarely lost his temper. In all the time I knew him I can recall such a loss twice, hence the rages I refer to above. But these were real rages, as if something quite extraordinary had been unleashed in him.

The first time happened on the road outside our house at Haughton Green. Dad would have been in his forties, I think, and a much younger guy from up the road got funny with him. Dad didn't respond well and after a prolonged exchange of colourful words the guy ended up running away. I was startled, and pleased, to see my father clearly more than capable of sorting the youngster out: as the row concluded he was heading towards him and you just knew he wasn't going to stop. The second time the rage was aimed (quite rightly) at me (being snarkily insufferable.) Dad did stop, because I think he knew he'd really frightened me, even though I tried to save face and not back down. It was startlingly out of character, but I kind of guessed the capacity for such rage was part of who he was.

I mention this because it occurred to me today that my own capacity for extreme fury (thankfully much reduced and controlled in recent years) comes from Dad. I'd kind of assumed that, along with my propensity for being generally irascibly bad-tempered when things aren't going well, it came from Mum, but what's involved in such moments is something quite different - and much more disturbing. I don't know where Dad got it from or how he'd had to control it over his life. Which is a reminder of how much a mystery even those we are close to often remain. Indeed, it further occurs to me that I remain a bit of a mystery to myself in my own fragmented way.