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                                                                                                                                             17 December 1994

Dear Robert

I read recently of the passing of your wife. I understand that her death came suddenly; at least she did not linger. 

I sincerely hope that any children that there may be — I detected from the death notice that there may be a grandson — are too young to fully appreciate what is going on. I trust that you will see to his well-being. 

I understand that your wife must have been well liked by those who knew her. I did not know her. Those few occasions we met were, as you are only too well aware, strained and unpleasant. I say that without thereby intending any blame. 

In the event that I can assist in any way, allow me to do so. The medical costs must have been prohibitive: the best medical care is not inexpensive and I am sure that you would have wanted nothing but the best. I would hate to think of my grandchildren going wanting. 

Please contact me, at your convenience. The numbers have not changed since you left. 

Your Father

Francis 

                                                                                                                                            02 March 1995

Dear Robert

I have just received your reply to my letter. 

Whilst I understand that you might be under some emotional strain, I do not appreciate your remarks or your tone. Indeed, I was appalled by your antipathy towards me, let alone your complete lack of respect for me as your father. 

It would seem as though, in some concerns, things have changed very little and are unlikely to change at all. I am not prepared, at this stage of my life, to tolerate any longer this uncompromising and belligerent attitude of yours. 

I had been optimistic that, after all of these years and after I took the trouble to reach out to you, you would show some maturity; if for no other reason than for the sake of your son. I fear that, in these matters, history may have a habit of repeating itself and if Edward (I believe that is his name) is to have any hope of a normal upbringing, then he should be given every opportunity to do so. 

Whilst I am prepared to do my part in that, it seems as though I am the only one who feels this way. 

Frankly, your suggestions — that I am acting in any way out of selfish desires and that I am once again blaming you and diminishing your feelings — are the responses I should have anticipated. I despair of your ever growing up. Of your ever becoming a man.

The offer of money — for the benefit of Edward’s education, if nothing else — remains. It seems obvious, however, that you are too proud to accept it. I can do little more under the circumstances.

I wait, once again but this time I hope not in vain, for you to come to your senses.

Sincerely, 

Your Father

                                                                                                                                            05 April 1995

Robert, you leave me with no choice but to respond to the outrageous content of your letter.

Once again I see that it is futile for me to even attempt to reason with you or to appeal to your sense of responsibility. I should not have tried in the first place. Your note to me is evidence enough that it was not I that failed you, but rather you who have failed yourself. 

That being said, however, I am not going to stand back and let your remarks pass unanswered, whether you make good on your threat to return my letters unopened or not. You cannot — and I will not allow you to — abuse me in the manner in which you have. I will set the record straight once and for all:

First, I do not blame youfor your mother’s death and neither will Iaccept blame for it. The doctors confirmed at the time that there was nothing more I could have done for her. Whilst you were then too young to understand these things, the time came when we had to make some difficult decisions and I was the one that made them. 

I was not, as you so crudely insinuate, then “involved with” Linda; nor was my response to your mother’s illness designed to free me up. Your mother needed help that only the best doctors could provide. I resent in the strongest possible terms your casting aspersions upon my actions or my integrity. 

You accuse me of being distant. I do not accept that accusation. Yes I worked and often I worked long hours. But I did it for the two of you. I saw to it at the time that you and your mother had everything you could ever have wanted, but she wanted more; she wanted something that I could not give, that I do not think anyone could give. She wanted something that I could not give her or you whilst I was fulfilling my other commitments to the two of you. It is unfortunate that she has so obviously filled you with the same ideas despite the relatively short influence she had over you. 

After her death, of course, I had no choice but to continue my work: there were medical bills to pay, household expenses, and your care and upkeep to attend to — not the least of which, your tuition fees. Your education did not come cheap. And on top of that I was painfully aware that I had a young child and needs that had of necessity to be met.

Linda tried everything she could to be a mother to you. All she ever asked was that you show her a little affection and kindness in return, but even this was too much to ask. You rejected her every effort. Your conduct towards her was despicable and shameful and it is not surprising that she eventually reacted to you the way she did. In the end, I was once again left with little option but to do what I did: for my own sake as well as everyone else’s. 

I had hoped that sending you away to school would instil in you a sense of discipline and respect, which you so obviously lacked at the time. Apparently it did not work, but I will not permit you to fault me for having tried. At least your absence from my house removed from it the terrible tension and your hostility that you inflicted upon us all. 

Your complaint of a lack of affection on my part towards you and an inability to comfort you are, with respect, nonsense. I categorically deny that I spurned you in favour of my new wife. My decision to marry again was motivated in no small part by the desire to provide you with a maternal influence and the love and care that a young child needed. 

And yet, despite my best endeavours — and God alone knows how I tried, Robert, God alone knows — you showed absolutely no gratitude and not one scrap of respect. But, having said that, your mother was just the same. 

That is why, Robert, I cannot leave your letter unanswered. I cannot leave unanswered the things you so unjustly accuse me of. Not after all I did for you and for her. 

At the time, the only thing I ever asked of you in return was a little respect. But rather than respect, you heaped upon me your scorn and derision. Having reached out to you once again all I have received in return is more of the same.

I hope, for your sake Robert, that young Edward does not treat you in the way in which you have treated me.

I consider this subject closed. 

                                                                                                                                            11 April 1995

How dare you! How dare you accuse me. 

You forget, Robert, that everything that you have — your cleverness, your witticisms, the sarcasm, sophistication, elocution . . . . All of it is thanks to me. Even the classical allusions to funeral meats at wedding tables come at my expense. I have paid for everything that you are today and if you think that I am going to stand by while you treat me like dirt then you have another thing coming. 

I refuse to indulge you in your silly little games. I will no longer be blamed and I will never accept blame for your life and the course it has taken. 

I am not interested in the therapy that you have subjected yourself to or the lifestyle choices that you have made. Those choices were made by you and were not as a consequence of my care of you. 

Your reference to my refusal to attend therapy with you is yet another self-serving attempt on your part to renounce responsibility for your own life. I have never spent a day of my life in therapy and I’ll be damned if I am going to accept responsibility for or be party to your weaknesses — not now and not ever. 

Frankly, I have had enough of this charade and I refuse to indulge in it any longer. Let it be upon your conscience — mine is clear. 

                                                                                                                                            03 June 1997

Robert

I read your kind words in the newspaper. I realise now that you and your grandmother were close — in your own way, of course. 

After her death I went through her things and found your correspondence and the photographs you sent her. I did not read it all, but understand from it that you had visited regularly with her over the years and she with you. 

I am surprised to have known nothing about it. 

As you are no doubt aware, your grandmother and I had become reconciled towards the end of her life: the prospect of death seems to introduce a little humility in even the proudest of people – something you will one day discover. In spite of that reconciliation, she never discussed with me her relationship with you. It seems as though it may be easier to love a grandparent than a parent and she and I have certainly never enjoyed the closeness and the intimacy that you and her apparently shared. 

It was this relationship between you that was the obvious — but at first, to me at least, perplexing — reason why you attended with Edward at the funeral. I certainly had not realised, before reading your letters, that Edward knew his great-grandmother or that she knew him with any manner of the degree of intimacy with which she so obviously did. I would be lying to you if I said that I did not experience a feeling of sadness and regret on what you and I have missed out on — and, dare I be so bold as to say, perhaps even Edward. 

It would seem, from the contents of your Nana’s shoe-box and of what I saw of him so briefly at the funeral, that Edward is a lovely little boy. You have done me proud.

I saw little of him, but he is really quite big now and is the splitting image of your mother. Even more so than you. 

I had hoped to get the chance to speak with you and perhaps to meet him, but you disappeared very quickly and there were so many other people to greet and thank. There were so many flowers. We do not know what to do with all of them. It seems as though everyone loved your grandmother. She was a remarkable woman.

I was surprised to see you were alone — it has, after all, been more than two years now and I, of all people, know what a terrible thing loneliness can be.

Thank you, again, for coming.

Francis

                                                                                                                                            13 August 1997

Dear Robert

Thank-you for your reply to my letter even though it may not have been the response that I would have liked to receive. 

I enclose herewith the letters and other items of Nana’s that you asked me to return to you. As you can see, it is quite a bundle. I have kept one small picture of Edward — I am sure that you will not mind too terribly — I did not have the heart to send it back. No doubt you will know which one it is (I still find the resemblance uncanny).

It is difficult for me to accept that you will still have nothing more to do with me “at this time”. There is, of course, the hidden promise in your turn of phrase that there may be some time in the future when we can bridge the divide, but I fear that time is not on our side.

Still, I will respect your wishes and honour your request that I refrain from writing to you again until — and if — you invite me to do so. 

I thank-you for undertaking to keep me informed of Edward’s development and for telling me of his upcoming school concert — I shall certainly attend, it never being too late to become a school-theatre-goer (please do not become inflamed, the self-rebuke is genuine and heartfelt) and will abide by your stipulation that I approach neither him nor you.

There is much more that I wish I could write to you and much I feel I need to tell you. Not, you must understand, by way of attempting to excuse myself or to explain anything away; if I am honest, as I find I now must be, it is more for my sake that I need to do this than anyone else’s. Perhaps the opportunity may still arise. Until it does, I shall remain forever in your debt.

With sincere affection, 

Your father,

Francis

                                                                                                                                            28 October 1997

Dear Sir

I have been appointed executor of your Late Father, F.R. Bruce’s estate. 

Your Late Father left a will according to which the sole beneficiaries of his Estate are you and your minor son E.R. Bruce in equal shares. 

I must point out, however, that there is a competing claim in the Estate, for maintenance, which has been lodged by your Late Father’s widow, Mrs Linda Bruce. It is anticipated that, even if Mrs Bruce’s somewhat inflated claim is paid out in full, there will still be a generous surplus.

Kindly contact our offices in order that we can obtain your instructions with regard to the claim by Mrs Bruceas also so that we can commence preparations with regard to the requirements necessary for the transfer of his various properties into your names and the handing over to you of his remaining assets. 

In addition, I require instructions as to what to do with his personal effects and also his remains (your Late Father left instructions that he was to be cremated and was not to be buried alongside your late mother; he had requested that you dispose of his ashes).

I am anxious, as I am sure you are, that these matter can be resolved as speedily as possible and therefore request that you give this your urgent attention.

Finally, your Late Father left instructions that the enclosed letters, and the picture of your son, were to be delivered to you after his death. I take the opportunity to do so now.

I look forward to hearing from you in due course. 

Yours Faithfully 

Alan James Murgatroyd 

                                                                                                                                            23 September 1997

Dear Robert

That you are reading this letter means that my end has come. And how quickly it has come too.

I feel the time I have remaining is rapidly being sucked down the drain of my life. There is so much still to do and so little time left within which to do it. I am not a religious man and do not believe that a lifetime of failings can be absolved by a unilateral act of contrition. I have learned only too well that I am guilty of that single biggest failing of most men: too little too late.

I know that you had told me not to write again without invitation — a decision in which you must be even more firmly resolved since my failure to attend Edward’s concert — but I hope that you will allow me this one last indulgence. (Not entirely true, either, because you will already have noticed that I seek a further indulgence: that you allow Edward to receive and read the accompanying letter. You will know when the time is right for him to do so.) 

Some time back, I was diagnosed as having a small mass, which I stubbornly chose to ignore. It has gradually eaten its way into me and has invaded most of my organs. It is inoperable. For a time I tried various treatments, but these left me debilitated and unable to move freely (one of the reasons why I did not attend the concert; that and because I did not want Edward’s only memory of me to be as a dying man; even in death my pride denies my heart what it longs for). 

I do not tell you all of this because I am seeking your sympathy nor am I trying to soften your heart towards me. I tell you this simply because it is the truth and — while it may be a little late for me to start now — I am trying to live out what time remains being true to myself and, with even greater difficulty, being truthful to others. 

Some of these truths have been easier to confront than others and some, I fear, I may never confront. The overall picture is not a pretty one: I have wasted my life and my memories are, by and large, regrets. 

My single greatest regret, however, is not that I have wasted my own life, but that I have destroyed the lives of those around me, the lives that have had the misfortune of intersecting with mine along this miserable journey I have travelled. And of this regret, my antipathy towards myself, is felt most strongly where you and your mother are concerned. I failed both of you and no amount of remorse, no penance can ever undo that failure. 

Your mother was a beautiful and blessed person. She gave her all for me and I sucked her dry, demanding still more. Not content that she should love me, I also wanted her to give me that which I could not give myself: I insisted upon her unquestioning respect and undivided loyalty. She had no greater gift for me than her love and I, the proud and conceited fool that I was, was blind to the value of what she offered. 

I crippled your mother’s spirit with my self-hatred and, once her spirit was gone her life followed shortly thereafter. 

And therein lies my biggest failure with regard to you: not content with robbing you of your mother, I sacrificed you upon the altar of my own sorrow and loss and my inability to admit that I was at fault. I hated you while your mother was alive because I was jealous of you and of her devotion to you. I hated you after her death because you were her likeness — spiritually and physically — and every moment of your existence you reminded me of what I had done to her. You were your mother’s ghost: stalking my ramparts, tormenting my every waking hour, haunting my rash marriage, rubbing salt in the wound of my loss, a spot that I could not wash away. I could not stand the sight of you and neither could Linda. She knew what you represented in my life; she felt the pall that you cast across my marriage to her. 

And so I tried to drive you away and when that didn’t work then I sent you away and when that did not work then I chased you from my life and from my heart and now I find that I am a hollow vessel. The space that was left has remained empty. With no love to fill the gap, my hatred and pride festered until the one fed the other and by then it was too late for me. 

More importantly, it had become too late for you. I had become a canker upon your life: eating into you and threatening everything about you that was so good and pure. I gave you no choice: you had to cut me away, to cut me out from everything that you loved and held dear and wanted to protect or I would have infected you all with my hatred. I thank you for doing what I could never do for you: you protected yourself from me and at least when I die I will not die with your life upon my conscience — your life has been in spite of me and not because of me and you are richer for it. 

You will know by now that I am leaving everything I own to you and my grandson. 

I am not trying to buy your love back, I am not trying to make amends for what I have done. I would never insult your integrity by offering to buy your affection.

Everything that I have has come at your expense. The price that was paid for it is your childhood and your mother’s love. Your love I lost as a result of subsequent events. During all the years that we fought with one another I refused to acknowledge that what you were holding up before my face was not a caricature drawn from your hatred of me, but was a mirror which showed up my own flaws. 

I have nothing more to say except to say that I am sorry. I am sorry for everything that I have done to — or not done for — you and your mother. 

I am sorry most of all for the fact that I have never been able to tell you that I love you. 

Finally, your father,

Francis Bruce

                                                                                                                                            19 September 1997

Dear Edward

It seems a little strange to me, writing a letter to a grandson that I have never met, but I can only imagine that it is even more so for you receiving such a letter. 

The reason why I do not know you is my own fault.

I write to you as a man who has realised too late in his life what it is that he has lost. I am unable to offer you any grandfatherly wisdom, or leave you with some little homily to explain any of life’s great mysteries. I have not been wise in my lifetime and have gained little by its passing. I can tell you only this:

Your father is a good man. It has taken me a lifetime to realise that. He is a good man and his heart is filled with love. 

Do not think him weak because of it — that was my mistake with regard to both your father and his mother. Recognise that in love lies strength: strength of mind, of conviction, of purpose. 

If I could have my life over again I would ask for only one thing: that I might have accepted unquestioningly the love of your father and his mother, because had I done so I would not now be writing this letter as a stranger. 

I hope that my legacy frees you to live and love without fear and without compromise.

Your Grandfather