About My Father
By Leonard Wibberley
First Published November 13, 1979
6/19/2020
If you have no serious objection, I would like to tell you something about my father who lived in the same house as myself for 16 years when one night, to his surprise, he died.
I have no doubt he is indignant about his death to this day and will continue so through eternity, for he was not a man who easily forgave an intrusion.
He liked to receive a decent and civil warning of any approaching event—but Death stepped in without so much as wiping his feet on the doormat, and that was the kind of behavior my father could not endure.
He regarded it as the part of a gentleman never to intrude unexpectedly on anyone, and for this reason all his life he refused to have anything to do with telephones.
We had one in our house in London, to be sure, but that was on the insistence of my mother and elder sisters. My father held that it was nothing but downright impertinence to cause a bell to ring in another man’s house and, in so doing, demand that he immediately drop whatever matter he had in hand and talk to the caller.
“No gentleman,” he said, time and again, “would, without invitation, interrupt another in the privacy of his home. The telephone, if it has any use at all, should be confined to commerce.”
It was useless to plead with him that matters of importance could be discussed and immediately settled on the telephone. If a matter was of any importance at all, he said, it deserved a thoughtful letter.
Equally, if it was of importance, it should not be settled in a moment but only after mature consideration.
There was a telephone, of course, in his office, but he never answered it. That he left to his secretary, who took down all the messages and presented them to him, in writing, at the end of the day.
Some time later, if he thought the questions raised of sufficient weight, he would reply—by letter.
I have said that my father and I lived in the same house for 16 years, but I must add that we never really knew each other. That is to say that I knew nothing of his fears, hopes, anxieties, successes and failures.
In fact, I would have been astonished if told that he had any fears or anxieties and, as for failure, it was preposterous to associate failure with my father.
He was a figure of authority and of strength; a ruler and guider of lesser men, though not in the slightest degree tyrannical or condescending.
His attitude towards automobiles was in keeping with his character, which was thoroughly Victorian. It was perfectly proper for a gentleman to drive an automobile; but, otherwise, he should have little or nothing to do with one.
Our car was kept in a garage in a mews (the word originally meant a place for housing hawks) at the back of our house. My father never went around to the garage to start the car and go to work. He had the garageman start the car, drive it around to the front of the house and warm the engine up ready for him to take over.
At his office someone else was designated to attend to these duties before he drove home.
Driving with him in traffic was a nerve-wracking experience, for traffic is an expression of democracy and my father was an autocrat. He took whatever side of the road suited him, and I spent quite a lot of time cowering on the floor in the back, anticipating imminent death.
Yet, he had few accidents, though I must attribute that to the skill of other drivers. Once, however, when my father, without the slightest warning, stopped the car suddenly in heavy traffic, we were rear-ended.
The driver of the car that hit us strode up full of wrath and shouted to my father, “Damnation, sir! Do you never look behind you?”
“Never,” replied my father, not deigning to give him a glance.
“And why not?”
“Because, sir,” replied my father, “whenever I do, I invariably see a bloody fool.”
With that he took the handbrake off, put the T-model Ford in gear, and moved away.
I never knew him to be at a loss for a reply, whereas I suffer from what the French call esprit d’escalier—I think of the appropriate remark when I have left and am walking down the stairs.
Once, lecturing on some obscure subject, he was constantly heckled by one man who complained that he could not understand a word that was said.
“You mistake my function,” said my father. “I am here to supply you with reason, sir. Only God can supply you with understanding.”
He died at the age of 50. I am in my mid-60s now, but can never think of myself as being older than my father. Were he to return to life (I would not put it past him, for he was a very determined man), I should still call him “Sir,” as I always did, and find myself a small, admiring and somewhat fearful boy in his presence.
THOMAS WIBBERLEY
Excerpts from A Mouse That Roared: The Life and Writings of Leonard Wibberley by Dennis Duffy
Leonard’s father, Thomas, was born about 1880 and grew up in Lancashire in west central England, the middle of five children in a family that divided its time between farming and coal mining.
Thomas became known as one of the foremost agricultural experts in the British Isles, even being praised as “the most courageous and revolutionary thinker about practical agriculture in these islands.”
He wrote nine books on farming, and his efforts led to improved methods for feeding livestock and the development of several strains of wheat particularly well suited for cultivation in the cool wet climate of the British Isles. The most notable of these was the Yeoman Master Wheat (or Wibberley Giant) that yielded fifty-six bushels of grain per acre as compared to forty-one bushels for other varieties.
He was appointed to the County Cork Committee of Agriculture, the Board of the Royal Agricultural Society of England, and the Agricultural Society of Scotland. Articles he wrote on agricultural topics appeared regularly in newspapers and journals throughout the British Isles.
Thomas Wibberley may not have been deeply involved in the day-to-day life of his children, but Leonard had pleasant memories of moments they shared, particularly walks together through the countryside. Often on these walks they would sing songs suited to a man and boy. One of their favorites was the traditional Christmas carol “Good King Wenceslaus.” The lines “Mark my footsteps well, my page” and “in his master’s steps he trod” from the song held special meaning for Leonard because of his feelings for his father.
When Leonard Wibberley was 40 years old he looked back on his childhood walks with his father and noted with fondness, “…that is the difference between a father and a buddy. A buddy walks beside you at your level. But you follow in the footsteps of your father.”
Read more about Leonard’s life here.
Sign up for Leonard's newsletter at:
http://bit.ly/LeonardNews and never miss one of his columns.
To read older columns, click here.
