Paul Willans was a man of few words, and most of those were offensive.
He had the kind of charisma that filled every room: a pint of wine in hand, a twinkle in his eye and some brilliantly inappropriate remark ready to escape his lips. Women adored him, men bought him drinks, and children were simultaneously fascinated and terrified. He wore his Navy tattoos like badges of a misspent youth, faded anchors telling stories of ports he had probably been kicked out of.
Emotional conversations were not his strength. He preferred sarcasm, dirty jokes and ridiculous nicknames. He never once called me Gemma. I was Woo, my eldest brother was Wally, and everyone else was “mate” or something I cannot print here.
He was shamelessly proud of his deplorable manners. I learned very early never to fall for the classic “pull my finger” trap. Not that refusing ever saved anyone. He would cock his leg with the precision of a sniper, unleash a fart capable of clearing a small village, then loudly blame me whilst cracking up at his own juvenile brilliance.
His approach to board games was no more honorable.
As the self-appointed Monopoly banker, he always won. During Trivial Pursuit, he would declare “Wrong!” even when you were right, then bury the card deep in the box before you could retrieve the evidence. He dominated Snap by shouting so loudly that nobody else stood a chance.
This was the man I adored.
When my parents divorced, I was twelve, and Dad and I became inseparable. I was his sidekick, his tiny adult and his unwitting accomplice. I tagged along to pubs, parties, building sites and various places where nobody seemed remotely bothered that a child was present.
Rules were optional and adult supervision was limited. My friends thought he was cool, and so did I. I loved what we had because I did not yet understand what was missing.
Children do not audit their parents. At twelve, freedom felt like trust. Being treated like an adult felt like closeness.
By fifteen, it was starting to feel more like nobody was paying attention.
One morning, I crept home at 5 a.m., just as the milkman was doing his rounds. Naturally, I brought the milk in from the doorstep and popped it in the fridge, as any thoughtful person would. Rebellious, but considerate.
That was how Dad discovered I had been gone all night: outed by a bottle of Gold Top.
Grounded for a month, surely. A stern telling-off, at the very least.
This did not feel like a win.
At eighteen, I moved to London, and later to the United States. From then on, our relationship existed mostly in hellos and goodbyes.
His long hugs always came with an “I love you, Woo,” usually whilst he fought back tears.
There were no regular calls or catch-ups. In thirty years, he visited fewer than five times and never once came to the United States. To my daughters, Granddad was a stranger.
My hurt was no mystery to him. I was asking for the bare minimum: interest in my life, regular contact and some effort with his granddaughters.
I told him. Repeatedly and bluntly. But the more directly I spoke, the further he retreated.
Eventually, trying to have a relationship with him became more painful than having none at all. So I stopped contacting him.
Once I stopped carrying the relationship, there was no relationship.
What made his absence so difficult to understand was how much he had to give to everyone else. Dad could make people laugh, make them feel welcome and turn an ordinary evening into a memorable one. He was hardworking, fiercely loyal to his friends and, by all accounts, a brilliant mate.
Unfortunately, I did not need a brilliant mate.
