On a sunny day about forty five years ago my father took me to see a house close to where we lived.
As he lifted me up to a back window I looked in and saw a large empty room stretching off into the darkness. Although I didn’t know it, this house was where I was going to spend my childhood.
I don't have any pictures of the house when I was a child... maybe they existed but have just been lost. Maybe we just didn't take pictures of houses in those days. The first thing I remember about the interior was that on the walls there was layer upon layer of thick, brightly coloured wallpaper that over the first few weeks started to be stripped off and fill endless black plastic bin bags.
There was a long overgrown formal garden at the back. A line of clipped box and yew hedges separated the lawn from the vegetable garden beyond. This is where I was to spend a lot of my childhood building dens and creating ponds and my own gardens.
Within what seemed like a few months the place started to look pretty smart. There was a red wool carpet that covered the hall, stairs, and landing. This no longer exists, and why would it? It was over 40years ago.
The living room was large and spacious with modern furniture, a comfortable but itchy wool sofa, endless plants, and a glass table where I’d sit and sketch every evening.
All this seemed to happen as soon as we moved in, but I know in reality it probably took a long time for this house to truly feel like a home.
I felt like I didn’t see my father that much as a child and I remember feeling that we were worlds apart. He seemed to be interested in all the things I didn’t like or understand.
His job was beyond my comprehension and when he wasn’t working, he always seemed so serious and distant.
I guess the responsibility of being a young parent wasn’t something an eight year old could relate to… but I did admire what he could do.
I remember him working very late into the evenings and then coming home and working even longer on the house. He built our kitchen from scratch.
This was well before IKEA and I remember him building cupboard carcasses from plywood, making draws, cupboard doors, tiling work surfaces, and always sawing wood.
At the weekends he’d spend the mornings reading the newspaper and working on his electronics. He’d create me little lighting systems for the tiny houses I’d make out of old pieces of wood, lights for the Christmas trees I was obsessed with, and fantastically wonderful circuits that made things flash and sparkle.
Our family holidays were actually quite tough. My father, brother, and I would go hiking into the wilderness of the English and Scottish countryside. We’d go mountain climbing and caving, sometimes deep underground exploring potholes and subterranean caverns.
These trips were amazing looking back, but at the time I was often terrified and spent a long time wet and cold (the English weather never changes)
My father always worked so hard and it was often joked about that he wouldn’t know what to do with himself once he retired… well, when he finally did, nothing much changed apart from the house he lived, and still lives in.
I moved out of my father’s house when I was 19 and went to university in London, and over the years of coming back to visit, I’ve seen every conceivable change:
Extensions, redecoration, new furniture, new kitchens, family pets leave us and new ones arrive, even a tribe of squirrels moved into the dining room at one point while my father was on a business trip in Japan (don’t even ask!) There was always an air of jolly madness.
The way the house looks now is largely to do with my father’s girlfriend Dorothy’s creative eye, and their hobby of collecting more or less anything.
You could never describe the house as minimalist and every time I visit, there’s something new, something fascinating, something I’d happily take home with me if I could and they wouldn’t miss it! Every time I pop in Dorothy is reading a book about something obscure and my father's fixing something broken.
I love the combination of new, antique, designer, and random! It’s crazy, but it works. Looking at the types and quantities of objects and materials there, I’ve started to realise that my father and I probably have a lot more in common than I used to think.
Ever since I was a small child I’ve had phases - almost obsessions with things. These varied from butterflies, vacuum cleaners, vampires, ancient Egypt, to staircases, chimney pots, fabrics, castles… the list is endless.
And looking at what my father buys and collects, I see he is probably pretty similar. There are more than enough cast iron lanterns and some of them have fortunately made their way to No 19.
This also goes for the carved wooden mirror frames. Light fittings, beautiful fabrics, and vintage china, are placed in every corner. Cushions, throws, and blankets are stacked neatly and cover sofas and chairs.
Both my father and Dorothy love animals and it shows when they come to visit my family here. Smudge, their resident black cat keeps herself to herself.
But she has endless places to rest, sleep and have meals when she wants. Tables are set for grand dinners and yet I’ve never seen either my father or Dorothy eating there.
Now when I go and visit my father's house, it's a different place to the one I grew up in, but that's the nature and beauty of house: they change and grow with us.
There’s a wonderful sense of magic and fantasy there which, if I’m honest irritated me as a youngster, but the older I get, the more I realise I love it… maybe I’m doing the same thing here at No 19…
I’ve just spent a week with my father here at No 19 working on the house. It was wonderful. Not just what we achieved, but the time we spent together, the ideas we shared, and the heated discussions we had.
Maybe after fifty years and a lifetime of experience, I’m actually realising that I’m not that different from my father after all.
