My Father's Hands

I remember well my father's hands. They were large and thick fingered, calloused and and scarred by the countless cuts and bruises incurred through hard manual labour. But he could do things with those hands. My childhood coincided with the years immediately following the Second World War, when toys were scarce. But my father made marvellous toys out of wood and tin and cardboard, and some of them were unusual things which he knew I'd like. For example, as a small child in my pram I was fascinated by street-lamps. So for my birthday there was a perfect model lamp post, the Victorian lantern type with two arms to rest ladders on. It had a switch and was powered by a torch battery. I had it as a bed-side light. And I remember a wooden lorry with real metal mudguards and headlights made of jam-jar tops. It was bright red and I thought it was the best lorry in the world.

But time takes its toll, and years later, when my wife and I had children for him to dote upon, arthritis had ruined those capable hands. He couldn't even pick the babies up or cuddle them properly, let alone make them anything with those painful twisted fingers. So, being too young to appreciate his problem, they didn't really like him. 'Grandad has horrible hands!' they would cry.

Those hands, which had enabled him to express his love for me so wonderfully, were now a barrier between him and his grand-children.