By Craig Robertson (seventh born, fifth son).

WE each hope for and long in life for the love of our parents.

  My father (dad) never told me he loved me to the best of my recollection and to my eternal regret and likewise I never told him just how much I loved him, and just as importantly, how much he meant to me. But I hope he knew what he meant to me.

  Our parents make us in to what we are, and it is fair to say that my mother played a significant role in moulding me into what I am today. I recall less than ten occasions when I interacted with my father during my childhood, but they are the defining moments of that childhood.

  When I was ten years of age my dad took me to play in a chess tournament. It was the Kent Championship (under eleven ). I was an average chess player who had been taught to play either by my brother or my brother-in law ( depending upon the version of the story you believe !). In any event I could play the game.

  I do not recall why, at the time of writing , I am sure that my sister, Margaret will recall, but my dad and I drove down to Folkestone in a mini. The car belonged to my sister. The tournament started early in the morning and so we left Sidcup at an ungodly hour. I recall the car journey going down to Folkestone, the vagueries of the conversation. The one thing I recall clearly is my dad telling me to enjoy the day.

  My dad never really watched me play chess. I used to think that he wasn't that interested! Bearing in mind the vast number of tournaments he eventually took me to, that conclusion, in hindsight, was more than a little unfair. He couldn't handle the pressure!!!! Chess!!! I know, but that was my dad. This was the man who drove his family out of Nairobi on the day of an attempted 'coup d'etat 'in the summer of 1981. Still, he couldn't watch me play.

  In any event, I lost my first round match. The pressure was off, and again dad told me to "enjoy the experience." Only six rounds to go! Looking back, as a parent, I suppose one prepares for the disappointment of one's children, in circumstances such as these. The pattern would appear to have been set. I would lose and my dad would encourage me.

  Only I didn't lose...I began to win...Round 2 Win...Round 3 Win...Round 4 Win...etc...all the way through to the final round...Round 7. I was playing for a potential share in Kent Under Eleven Chess Championship! I really wasn't that good. I knew that, and my dad knew that, And what's more, we both knew that the other knew that! So what do you do? "Just enjoy yourself" goes out of the window! I had 5 wins out of 6.

  It is one of those times in life that you don't forget. The achievement is of little importance. The memory is all- important. My dad told me I could win. I believed him. Generally in life, reality steps in and crushes the dream..and this looked like being no exception. I did not play well. Dad did not stay for the game (pressure, and all that ). I was playing a lad called Brian Critchley (funny how names sometimes stay with you ) and I was getting soundly beaten.

  I firmly believe that in life that there are moments that define what you are and what you will be. In any event, as that game came to a conclusion I became aware that my dad was standing behind me. Shit! Then all of a sudden there was a realisation. To this day, some 25 years (plus) later, I recall clearly that realisation that it was not going to be Brian Critchley's day. I should never have won that game, but I did. A double pawn checkmate. I don't even know if my dad could play chess! It didn't matter. I had come second in the tournament and I will never forget the hand on my shoulder and the congratulations from my dad. The seven pound prize money seemed a fortune at the time too!

  The journey home to Sidcup could have gone on forever. I felt so happy that my dad was obviously proud of me. He talked so animatedly about that day. The fact that the lights on the car failed and we were lucky to get home alive, seemed of little importance.

  I do not recall my dad ever telling me that he loved me. I hope that I do not sound too conceited when I say that I have no doubt that he did. Years later, when I was fortunate enough to spend quality time with him, surprisingly enough sitting in a pub in the village in which I live, we talked about this day in Folkestone over a quarter of a century earlier. Dad, being dad, lionised it just a little! That doesn't matter to me. What I will always remember is the fact that he knew how important it was to me. I am one of nine children. I am my father's seventh child. That day in Folkestone, I could have been his only child. Talking about it all those years later the pride in his voice made me feel the same. William Swanson Robertson was a wonderful man. He was my dad.

 

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