Last night my Dad died.
I know this isn’t the appropriate place to write, and I know it’s an abuse of my ability to do so, but I need to tell the world what it has lost.
Fred was my Dad. He was a constant in my life. I thought he’d live forever.
We had our ups and downs, although they are decades past, but he always loved me and I always loved him. He was Freddie Frog when we were little (which he didn’t like!) and ‘him‘ when I was a recalcitrant teenager. For many years he was “Inspector Fred, said” to my friends, due to his regularly expressed opinions in the local papers when he was Inspector Fred Overend at Brentwood Police Station (where the regular cub reporter asking the questions was a very young Richard Madeley, later of Richard and Judy fame).
Dad at 80 - complete with rotten hat!
He was always firm but fair, but under that sometimes authoritarian skin lay the biggest heart you could ever know. He rescued me and friends from many a scrape, without comment or admonition when we had dug a hole for ourselves through the impetuosity of youth. In later years he loved to start a sentence with “Do you remember when…” every time the Shadow Chief Secretary To the Treasury, Philip Hammond, popped up on his television screen, and Dad recounted what we’d done in our teens (Phil was a close friend at school).
He knew right from wrong, and instilled that in us. But he always had a mind of his own. I remember some thirty-odd years ago he recovered the Queen’s personal bible that had been stolen from Sandringham. He found out where it was and did a deal with the man who could access it. He had a blind eye turned to some petty crimes of no significance in return for the Bible. What he did broke the rules. His superiors where not amused. But Dad was unmoved. He did what he knew was right, even if he broke rules to do it. That is possibly the greatest gift he gave me – always question; always be true to yourself.
Dad had a zest for life. At 80 he demolished his garden sheds and built a new patio. Drove from Essex to Lancashire to visit his sister on her 90th birthday. We had a wonderful family holiday in a massively over-the-top house in Javea. He loved every minute. He enjoyed his computer and his camera club; visiting his family and enjoying a good meal. He loved his life. And he loved my Mum – she was his world. Probably the last properly coherent words he said, the day before he died, and in response to Mum asking “Do you know who I am?”, were “Yes, you’re my wonderful wife, and I love you”. Fit and healthy (with the odd hiccup) for 80 years. More in love with Mum with every year that passed. Children and grandchildren who adored him. He was blessed. But not as blessed as we were to have had him.
But he got ill last year and despite a huge fight, and a 6 month respite, it was finally one battle too far. His passing has left a great big Dad-shaped hole in my world which will never be filled. He made the world a better place, not just for us, his family, but for the countless people whose lives he touched, professionally and personally.
Fred was my Dad. Fred was my friend. Fred was my hero.
Tony Clarke says
I have just read your posting on this page – albeit the post was made some 8 years ago. I knew and worked with Fred in Rochdale Borough Police which I joined in February, 1958. I came to respect Fred and his ever ready help whilst I was a ‘rookie’ in the Force. Early on the n the 1960s, another Rochdale officer I knew – Geoff Crux – transferred to the Essex Police (strangely enough the County of my birth!) I think he and Fred were close for it wasn’t long afterwards that Fred too transferred to Essex Police. I was obviously saddened to hear of Fred’s passing for it closes a chapter in my life too. I send my best wishes to you and your family and hope you are all well. Tony Clarke.
Margo Overend Rees says
Fred Watson Overend was my Uncle Fred, my father’s brother, 20 years younger than he was. As a child, before emigrating with my parents and sister to Southern Rhodesia, I had a big crush on him, just ten years older than myself. He was so tall and handsome, and I vowed I’d marry him when I grew up! He was a big tease and must have grown weary of my many questions of where was he going when he was going out of an evening and we were living with his parents and sister, because finally in exasperation, he’d say in broad Lancashire, “I’m going on t’slates for a rag bone!”
On return to U.K. after turning 21, I enjoyed meeting his wife, Hazel, and two year old John, the writer of this beautiful salute to his father. Now, he was truly a chip of the old block, being another good-looking young man! I have happy memories of weekends with them and Uncle Fred buying Hazel and myself a bag of sweets to enjoy as we watched the telly while he went off on his policeman’s duties.
Through the years there have been all too few visits with me living in the U.S., but memorable ones were his great-niece’s wedding in ’97 and then his sister Elsie’s 80th birthday the following year. And finally, her 90th birthday last year, an all too-short visit, but very special with his wicked grin though looking very frail.
I know Aunty Elsie, his beloved sister, misses their Sunday morning chats, but has lots of happy memories of years gone by. He was indeed a very special Overend. I only wish I could have known him better. Thanks, John, for sharing your feelings. God bless you all. Love, Margo