Everyone has been talking about how good The Queen's Gambit is on Netflix, so I just watched the first episode. It lived up to the hype and I'm looking forward to watching the rest. An old boyfriend (the one Mark was wildly jealous of) taught me to play chess years ago, but we only played a few times so it never really stuck. I've forgotten it all completely now.
My granddad used to play chess. He was brought up in an orphanage like the girl in the show. I think his mother died during or soon after childbirth and single fathers weren't a thing back then. I remember granddad had an 80's style hand held battery operated chess game that he played. Granddad was clever but never had any opportunities after the most humble origins. He was teaching himself French when he had the first of a series of strokes that eventually killed him. He taught himself to play violin as well. He joined the merchant Navy then married my granny and worked as a farm labourer and coal miner in an era when the mines were being closed down. It was a hard life.
My dad played chess too. Granddad taught him. Dad never showed me how to play, or my brother. We never even had a chess set in the house. When I was in my last year at primary school, aged eleven, one afternoon a week we had special activities. The class was divided into three, and one group went to the sports centre to played badminton. One third did sewing and made a gingham drawstring bag, and the other group went to the staff room and learned to play chess.
The school needed a volunteer from among the parents to teach chess though. I knew my dad could play and was thrilled and wildly proud when he said he would be the one to come to into school and teach my classmates. My dad was cool and funny and laid back. He made jokes and did funny voices and would encourage them to do the same. I was so in love with him. Your parents really are your first loves and set the tone for your future relationships.
I hated sports and found myself in the sewing group. It was fun and I didn't even have to leave my class room. I had a big scab on my left index finger at the time from when my brother was in a strop and shut the front door on my finger. I still have the scar now. I would pick at the scab with my sewing needle. Very satisfying. My friends in the chess group would tell my my dad was a fun teacher and would give them Polo mints. It made me happy to the roots of my hair.
After a few weeks the deputy head came to our classroom one day and asked to see me. This was always a nerve wracking experience. It usually meant trouble. I was a real goody two shoes but I was used to always being in trouble for something at home and was permanently scared. Mr Coutts took me out of the class and we stood in the corridor outside.
'I was wondering about your dad, Alice,' he began, hands on his hip. 'He hasn't been turning up for his chess class.'
My stomach dropped. I immediately went into defence mode. 'Oh but he works shifts,' I pleaded. 'He's not always available.'
'Yes, I realise that,' Mr Coutts went on. 'But will he be coming back?' he asked.
'But he works shifts.' I repeated in a high, begging tone. I didn't have any other response.
'Ok then Alice, we'll see if we can get somebody else,' said Mr Coutts. 'You go back to class now.'
I felt quite lost and confused by the whole exchange, just feeling the overwhelming need to protect my dad. I didn't really know what was happening. It was never mentioned again either at school or at home, and someone else's dad took his place. Maybe deep down I knew exactly what was going on but didn't want to admit it to myself. It wasn't until years later I finally realised, or came out of denial about what Dad really did.
He made a commitment to the school, but mostly to me his daughter, to teach chess for an hour or two once a week. The school was across the street from our house. It was no inconvenience. Dad did work shifts but so did most men in Pingley. It was what he did when he wasn't at work that was the problem. Dad always put beer, vodka and his friends first. He lived like a single man. He came and went as he pleased. He saw other women. He drank like a fish and blamed it on my mum. He never spent any time with his kids. Even when he made a commitment to them. Dad just wanted to go to the pub instead of honour the commitment to me and the school. He simply didn't bother showing up to the chess classes and didn't bother letting anyone know. He went out drinking instead. Mr Coutts knew it. Deep down I knew it too, it just took me a long time to admit it to myself.
He didn't care how ashamed I was, how he let people down, the ramifications it could have had for me at school. The playground can be a cruel place. It was just never mentioned again.
I'd like to say he never did anything like it again but that wouldn't be true. My older brother Owen was set on joining the RAF when he was old enough. He joined the local air cadets and went twice a week. He had a blue military style uniform and they did drill and learned about planes and I don't know what else. My dad was really into planes too and it was something they bonded over. Dad agreed to volunteer at Owen's cadets. It started off well and he was proud as punch to have his dad there. Dad was never involved with our lives and for him to take an interest in us, where all our friends could see was just the pinnacle for us.
Of course, dad couldn't maintain this. He started missing nights at cadets. Owen's friends would ask where he was and Owen could do nothing but laugh it off and say, 'He's drunk,' and pretend it was cool. I know he was dying inside. I die inside for him. The burning shame of having such a waster for a dad when all your friends come from pretty decent homes. The feelings of worthlessness and humiliation and being let down so badly by the person you trust the most. And just wanting your dad to be your dad. Why aren't you good enough for you dad to want to spend some time with?
Again, it was never mentioned at home. There was a special taboo about taking dad to task. Dad was the head of the house and we were children. We licked our wounds in private and carried our grief into adulthood.
As an adult I have perspective now. I don't blame myself anymore. I know it wasn't me who just wasn't lovable or good enough to maintain my dad's interest or his time and love. The blame is squarely on him. But still, having lost out on years of his interest and time and love has amounted to the same feelings of loss and emptiness. I still feel like I'll blow away in a stiff breeze, but it's because he is a flawed person and ill equipped to be a parent, not because I am unworthy of love.
My dad is been divorced twice now and has been living with a woman named Edith for quite a few years. She lived in a flat upstairs from us when I was in primary school and I was best friends with her daughter. It's funny how life turns out. They only live a few doors down from my mum now but I can't remember the last time I saw him. He has four kids but I don't know how many still speak to him. My brother hangs on his every word, but he kind of has to. Our dad's love is so conditional he needs to be continually adored or he will drop you out of his life without a second thought. I out up with this through my teens because I desperately needed to be loved. Then one morning I woke up angry. Just totally out of the blue. woke up pissed off with my dad. How dare he treat me like that. The spell started to break then. It wasn't overnight, but gradually I saw him for what he really was. After my parent's split up, any contact we had was left up to me, which is a big responsibility for a twelve year old. I asked him about it once, and he said he didn't want to call my number and have my mum answer. It was such bullshit. He never called me on my birthday or christmas. A father who cared would do those things.
We even had a couple of therapy sessions together. Once when I was still at school and the next when I was about nineteen. The outcome of both was that relationships are a two way street and he had to call me and be part of the relationship if it was going to work. He was always enthusiastic and positive and participated in he session at the time and said he'd reach out and we'd spend time together. I'd excitedly sit by the phone waiting for his call, and it never came.
So I stopped calling him. If he wanted to see me or have a relationship with me he knew where I was. And that was that. We had no huge fight or stepmother drama. He just didn't want to pick up the phone. Even after I moved out on my own and sent them a change of address card and my new phone number, it was just crickets from his end.
I got some self respect. He's not in my life any more and he's not ever allowed back in.