John Eddon, by Kate Eddon
"A waft of Swarfega or teak oil, cigarette smoke on a winter’s day can transport a memory..."
Kate and her dad on her wedding day
(T)editor’s note: I had a book published in 2022, a memoir called Paper Cuts. Chapter One - School’s Out - is all about my family emigrating from central London to a Parisian suburb when I was twelve, joining a massive local French school and feeling overwhelmed by homesickness and culture-shock. I describe the one beacon of light then, a British girl in my class called “Jane”, who we bid farewell to as she is being carried out of the woods behind the school on a stretcher after four of us spend the final day of the school year drinking rum to a ruinous conclusion.
In reality, Jane was called Kate. I last saw her five years later at a bus stop in West London in 1986, when our paths randomly crossed. She recently got in touch for the first time in decades to say that she’d read Paper Cuts and had no major notes about the chapter in which she features. I’d tried to clear the chapter with her before publication but she carries no Internet presence and I couldn’t track her down, so it was a relief to hear from her directly and not via a lawyer. She now lives in the US with her husband and daughter, and we’ve subsequently caught up via email: to be in touch with my now oldest friend has been without question the greatest part of having the book published.
The update she sent me about her life’s journey was so moving that I suggested that she may want to write something for this newsletter sometime. Kate sent me back this beautiful piece of writing, about her dad John…
Kate, right, in Paris, 1980, pre-Halloween party.
Daddy was many things: a linguist, a businessman, a mechanic, a tinkerer and in his own words “one of life’s enthusiasts.” He constantly sought out new technologies (which is how he carved out a career) and by the 80s he could afford the latest and greatest car phone or personal computer. In some ways it’s fortunate he didn’t live to experiment with social media or worse - Amazon Prime - he would have driven us mad with his obsession with all things new. He was Toad of Toad Hall, incarnate. Full of eternal optimism. A bon viveur with a work hard/play hard philosophy.
The Linguist
He’d grown up in Middlesbrough, but on the wrong side of town. Poor, proud and unsuitable, from my mum’s family’s point of view. His school was near her part of town and hers was in his, so their paths crossed on the daily commute. One day he’d said “Hello Jean!” which she considered cheeky since they hadn’t been introduced. But he’d done his due diligence in finding out her name and had the balls to try it out. The next day she returned the greeting. She was 13, he 15. They met covertly and often. Without money they generated their own entertainment: walks, reading poetry, testing each other on foreign vocab or doing IQ tests. He bought her a ring and inside, engraved in German so as to keep it secret, it read: For Engagement. They were so young.
A few years later, a shotgun wedding was followed by an infant death. It must have been hard to dream of a future under squalid damp conditions in an insufferably small apartment, working opposite shifts to pay the rent. They did it though. They moved south and started again.
He spoke French, German and toyed with Chinese as a distraction from his Russian degree. He had infinite knowledge of word origins (that I wish I could recall), attempted teaching us Latin and would quiz my sister and me on our French vocab. Just for fun. He’d make stuff up like “Lapin Sur” when Mum was rabbiting on or in Italy, he turned Buona giornata into “Have a good ice cream.”
He drove my sister and me from England to the French Alps each March to ski with him, until we were well into our 20s. It was Daddy/daughter bonding time; getting up ridiculously early for baguette, making hot schiwasser and being thrashed at contract whist. En-route we’d listen to his instrumental music (he was an expert whistler) and our favourite was a random album from the 1960s titled A Swingin’ Safari. It epitomized a jolly holiday.
One year we had parked on the ferry in an area labelled Whale.
“What’s that in French?” My dad asked. No idea.
“Guess!” he encouraged, but our linguistic skills weren’t up to it.
He was able to make the connection from baleen to baleine, recalling the most obscure of words. He relied on my sister Fe and me for the more pragmatic stuff because we’d learned French by firing squad. “If not duffers, won’t drown.” Not many whales in Paris. Difficult to work into a conversation. It was on par with the 80s textbook lesson on prepositions: Le singe est dans l’arbre. Very helpful. Years before Eddie Izzard’s skit, I had sent my sister a sample of my curtain fabric: black background with a gold jacquard animal print, monkey & branch included.
“Où est le singe, Fiona?!”
She replied immediately. Oh how we laughed. How Daddy would have too.
When we left our Savoie apartment for the final time, he detained us for a few minutes to walk to the end of the hallway and nick a sign. It was just a piece of paper stapled to the wall that had always irritated him. In a clumsy translation it read: Rubbish Shoot! Fe and I have made an on-going game of it, sending each other photos of grammatical flaws and spelling hiccups we come across: Apple’s & Pear’s at the market or The right choise in trucking, which I recently spotted blazoned across a 53 foot 18-wheeler.
Five years after we’d sent my dad to the afterlife, I was living in south Florida, returning to France after a hiatus. Historically, my birthday had always coincided with our ski trip, so I planned to celebrate my 40th on the slopes. The store was playing music where I was looking at new ski clothes. I froze in disbelief. It was Happy Trumpter from A Swingin’ Safari.
The Businessman
My dad’s idea of casual dress (when he wasn’t in a suit) was a white shirt, a sincere stripe tie, grey trousers and a navy blazer. There’d be a boarding card in his inside pocket. Passport, Dunhill Internationals and a gold lighter, ready at the door. If I could smell Aramis or shoe polish, I knew he meant business. He looked imposing, immaculate, invincible. I thought he could take on the world. I thought he’d live forever.
When we were very young, Fe and I used to sit at the top of the stairs late at night waiting for him to return home from the other side of the world. The house was still and dark and quiet. We waited and waited, straining to hear the clunk of a car door slamming, indication that the excitement would soon begin. Once the front door opened he descended with carefree laughter and chaos: luggage, duty free, souvenirs and unusual gadgets from The Far East. We’d listen to his adventures until we couldn’t keep our eyes open. He was a magical story teller. The timing of his punchlines always perfectly delivered. We would swan around the house in this sanctity wearing kimonos, digital watches and expensive perfume. We were privileged. We felt special. We were loved. He’d thought of us, even when he was a million miles away.
He never showed us his stress or exhaustion. Never took it out on us. I suppose that’s what you do for your kids. Stay up late to get it all done. None of us saw the imminent coronary. The suit was his armour and when he returned to us, it was quickly shed. He balanced work and play, reenacting a rugby kick to a make believe cheering crowd when his sales guys hit a milestone. They were one step closer to the Summit Club, a week in an exotic location for those who made their numbers. He loved people who loved life. “What a player,” he’d say with admiration. Someone had taken a risk or gone above and beyond. I hoped that I could live up to that and one day someone would say that about me. We had that expression engraved on a brick when they rebuilt the Twickenham rugby grounds, in memoriam.
His sales guys followed him from company to company because they liked being under his leadership. “E, double D, O, N,” they’d say. Like it was a mantra. Words to live by. He had a following because of his powers of persuasion and debate. I like to think he may have been a Roman orator in a previous life, or a lawyer or preacher. Not that he was a religious man per se, but he did believe in signs. If he saw a Monarch butterfly, he’d say it may be a family member returning to say hello. One flew into the house as we prepped it for sale, after he died. The three of us noticed it, none of us said anything, we carried on with tears in our eyes. He was helping us move on. Though you don’t truly move on when you love deeply. Not really. Death stays with you like a dusty ornament or a faded photograph.
The Mechanic
My dad experimented with photography and invested heavily in cameras and darkroom equipment. He tried his hand at bottling huge vats of French wine for friends and neighbours. He donned country tweeds and took up pheasant shooting. Much to my chagrin, I know what a well hung bird should smell like. It permeated the house for weeks until my mum was cajoled into plucking and dismembering. He played squash, darts, was a sailor, you name it. He’d switch gears when he was home. His real passion was cars. I was his runner; handing him tools or fetching sandwiches when he couldn’t tear himself away from the bowels of the motor. He’d leave behind a scattering of oily bread corners. Four of them. I never knew why my mum chopped our sandwiches into small, kid-sized bites, but it was because she’d spent so much of her life serving lunch under a car. I admired the way he knew how things worked. And if he didn’t know, he’d research.
“I never had any money to buy anything new,” he’d tell me. “I had to repair what I had. Improvise.” Necessity was the mother of invention. That summed him up. Even when he could now afford to buy new, he preferred to fix. There was never much time or place in which to play when you’re chasing your career around the world, so relocating disrupted his hobbies. Houses had been temporary. By the early 90s he was returning from the US; amalgamating that home, the London base and the rental into one property - a tall order. He yearned to be back in England for good, but the stacks of real estate papers had yet to yield a perfect fit. A substantial property in Sussex came on the market while he was abroad. It had a 9-car garage. And an inspection pit. He hadn’t even seen it.
“Just get it!” he told my mum. So she did. Toad Hall, perfect for Toad.
There was so much to do and sort through. I invited my new boyfriend to visit. When Mum picked him up from the station in the V12 Jaguar Sovereign, I could tell he was impressed. Then he looked a little uncomfortable when he spotted the second one in the driveway.
“It’s SO pretentious having two Jags,” he said. It annoyed me.
“Well it’s a good job my dad has THREE then, isn’t it?” That shut him up.
My dad had come from nothing and if there’s one word you couldn’t use to describe him - it was pretentious. He never pretended to be anything but himself. Enthusiastic? Absolutely. Indulgent? Playful? Always. He was a natural host, an entertainer, a sales guy, and could talk & bond with anyone from bin man to CEO. He’d lived all those lives and everything in between, but he was generous and shared his good fortune.
I eventually married that upstart boyfriend. Turned out he was alright after all, just needed taking down a peg or two and we were just the clan to do it. After countless “You Eddons” or “You lot” he finally got the hang of us. Plus my dad liked him, they went to rugby matches together and drank themselves into bushes. They played cars at the weekend, watched James Bond and rebuilt a summer house. I wasn’t sure if he actually came to see me or my dad. That’s how close they were. I wouldn’t have married him otherwise. We still give my husband a hard time to keep him in check and though he eventually became an integral part of our family, he knows his place, second to my dad.
Daddy died on the third of January 2003. We saw him off, wearing a toad tie and a Jaguar belt, looking dignified, but cold. Another adjective difficult to associate with him.
Of course, I don’t care to remember him like that.
The Tinkerer
I’ll remember him as a tinkerer. That was his form of relaxation. He’d take things apart to see how they worked. Toasters, kettles, washing machines…I have polished more brass clock parts than I care to remember. Meticulously. Only to find out they went INSIDE the clock. He roped me into stripping a sump pump once. Whatever that was. You got scooped up in his enthusiasm. And his projects. I’ve been taught how to splice a boat line, sat through talks on gearboxes, traipsed around car rallies, attended a chainsaw safety demonstration, a sailing course, could give you a blow by blow account of how a conch shell is formed. The list is endless and the subject didn’t matter. I was spending time with my dad.
The clock repairing phase lasted entirely too long. He once covered the kitchen windowsill in alarm clocks; everything ticking incessantly. He said it reminded him of the one thing he couldn’t buy any more of. I wonder if he knew he was going to die young. The grandfather clock they’d splurged on to mark their 25th anniversary has recently been serviced and I smile when I hear it chime on FaceTime calls home. He still leaves his mark.
He hung an old station clock in Toad Hall’s clock tower, frozen in time at ten to three. It was from a poem. Some inside joke with my mum. When she moved from that house I inherited a dozen mantle clocks which I display in my upper kitchen cabinets. All of them set at 14:50. In ten years, only one person has asked me why.
If Fiona was his Girl Friday and partner in crime when it came to trends, technologies & cars, I was his apprentice. We’d build furniture together. He relied on me to interpret operation manuals or anything that needed assembly. We put up countless pictures.
“Fifteen and three quarters minus two and five eighths.” Er…hang on.
He’d drill a hole and say, “Can you hand me a rawl—” I already had it ready.
“And a—” No. 8 japanned flat head screw? Yes, I know.
He bought me my first set of tools when I went to college. It was our thing. I was destined to marry another tinkerer. I’d been fully trained.
My daughter is following in his linguist path. She has a flair for language, a beautiful Spanish accent and a genuine interest in learning Latin. God, how he’d have loved her.
The three of us had stopped by Hadrian’s Wall one summer to see a Roman fort and reenact a 1974 photo Daddy had taken of his three girls. I took my mum’s place and my daughter took mine. We tried to mimic the original pose and while we made adjustments, my husband took a series of photos: smiling too much, not smiling enough, wrong feet position, Monarch butterfly, windswept, eyes shut, just right. Monarch butterfly.
One of life’s enthusiasts
We never traveled anywhere at Christmas, just bunkered down at home. It was a contrast from his jet-setting and sacred family time. My dad’s favourite time of year. He’d discover local shops, new wines and cook. Mainly curries packed with vile cardamons. The phone was constantly ringing and “John Eddon speaking” changed from effective efficiency to jovial warmth. People were welcomed with open arms, but we stayed in one place.
He traded the suit and tie for a chunky, cream aran sweater. This was my favourite dad, whistling In Dulci Jubilo, sipping sherry by the fire and listening to a joke I knew I’d heard countless times before, but could never remember the ending. The paramedics had to cut that cable knit jumper from him when he died in hospital. We divided it into three to treasure, for solace.
Being The Telegraph crossword junkie that he was, one year he’d written clues on our gifts. We had to guess the contents before being allowed to tear into the wrapping. Many were cryptic. There were anagrams, quotes, a pun… It took hours to open the presents, but we enjoyed it and the whole event became more about deciphering a code than the contents. The following year we all rose to the occasion, outdoing one another with our genius, and we continue his invention to this day. My teenage daughter has never known a Christmas without clues. When she began a second language, I bought a reference book of useful phrases and in 2019 we started our clues in Latin. The book is passed around frantically the night before and adds a whole new level of seasonal stress that I know Daddy would have revelled in. Sapere aude, Magistre!
“Education is largely do-it-yourself, “ he repeatedly told me and Fe. If we’d consulted with him for a quick answer for homework, we never ever got one.
“Let’s go back to basics,” he’d say. An hour later, with no end in sight, it dawned on me that he would never give up the answer. He made me figure it out and learn why, to the point my brain hurt. l did some home schooling with my daughter during the pandemic. Payback time! Well, pay forward, really. I was SO tempted to say it. But I refrained and smiled to myself instead. Nothing beats the sharing of knowledge. Those are some of my happiest memories when my dad was teaching me something. I’m not certain my daughter will reflect on Mommy Math with such nostalgia. Hers is a different world from mine and Google appears to have all the answers. I wonder what my dad would make of it. Or indeed the transition “they” took from being plural to singular.
We all miss him, husband included. A waft of Swarfega or teak oil, cigarette smoke on a winter’s day can transport a memory, but I don’t feel whole without him. A literal translation from “tu me manques” is “you are missing from me,” which feels more like the intended meaning of I miss you.
I miss his optimism, the way he could light up a room, his hearty laughter, the dazzle of his repartee. I miss his perfectionism, his love of symmetry, his rapport with a restauranteur, his quest for the next great thing. I even miss the dreaded cardamons (the pheasant paté, not so much).
Mum has survived on her own. She has an air of suppressed sadness. For 72 years he’s been the irreplaceable love of her life. He left behind a deafening silence (along with copious amounts of reference books, clock parts, matchboxes, cars…). Bit by bit she’s let go of the material things. The rest stays within. She continues to cut sandwiches into quarters and when Fe descends on her house for a long weekend, bringing with her all the mayhem of Daddy, she says, “Just like your father,” with both exasperation and endearment in her voice.
Kate Eddon is a house renovator and an artist who lives in Chicago, Illinois. Pheasant-free.
* This letter relies on contributions. If you’d like to be involved, drop me a line at farfromthetreeTK@gmail.com.