By EMMA PARKER BOWLES
Last updated at 4:28 PM on 30th October 2011
Moving tribute: Emma Parker Bowles has written movingly of her life with her father and how his battle against alcoholism
One of my earliest childhood memories is of my father laughing himself sick as I ran around the garden as fast as my little legs would carry me, with one of my granny’s Pekingese dogs in hot pursuit. He loved to laugh, and laughed often. He was an extremely funny man, my dad. He could make me laugh until my cheeks hurt. It is what I will remember most about him. I loved making him laugh. It wasn’t difficult, but it made me feel amazing.
He was Dad to me, but he was also known as Richard Eustace Parker Bowles and was born into immense privilege at Donnington Castle House, the family estate in Berkshire. Like his brother Andrew, who went on to marry my aunt Camilla, the Duchess of Cornwall, he attended Ampleforth College and Sandhurst – for all of about five minutes – before embarking on a career as a bloodstock agent and becoming known as a popular and handsome man about town.
Yet he died, aged 63, on November 29 last year, an alcoholic who had been living in a sad little flat above a carpet shop in New Milton, Hampshire. Funny to the last, he left behind instructions for his funeral: ‘Don’t start without me.’ A year on, and I have only just been able to start grieving properly.
There are no reasons for my father’s problems with alcohol, but they started around the time I was born in 1974, although he was over the moon at becoming a father for the first time. As a consequence, his marriage to my mother, also called Camilla, was brief and ended when I was still a baby. She remarried, to Charles Wood, the Earl of Halifax. I lived with them and the other children they went on to have, my brother and sister, in London.
My dad went to live in Berkshire with my grandmother Dame Ann Parker Bowles, the Girl Guides leader who was nicknamed The Rhino because of her bravery and thick skin, and I used to visit him there.
All my childhood memories of time spent with my dad are joyously happy ones. When I was little, he was my hero. I remember sitting on his broad shoulders as he strode through Piccadilly Circus.
He always used to sing Puff The Magic Dragon by Peter, Paul and Mary, which captured my imagination and became our theme tune. (We were both indignant in later years at the suggestion that it was about marijuana.) He was Puff, I was Jackie Paper: ‘Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sail, Jackie kept a lookout perched on Puff’s gigantic tail.’
He was wonderfully irresponsible, but in those days ‘Nanny Parker Bowles’, the cherished nanny who had looked after him during his childhood, was always around to oversee proceedings.
He had a succession of bangers and named them all – The Hot Tomato, The Getaway Car. He stopped The Hot Tomato on a hill and, though my feet could barely touch the pedals, that is where he decided to teach me to drive. And then he roared with laughter as we barrelled backwards downhill.
One of my favourite memories is of us walking down a moonlit road, singing and dancing to songs from musicals. I was his little sidekick. He was Scooby-Doo, I was Scrappy-Doo. We were always getting up to mischief together. Admittedly, a lot of the memories involve pubs. And lighting his cigarettes for him. I smoked my first cigarette aged about nine when I decided to take a few puffs of one of his. All he said was: ‘I said light it, not smoke it.’ The taste put me off smoking for a very long time.
Loved and missed: Emma’s memories of her father Richard Parker Bowles, pictured in 1995, are one of an extremely funny man who was popular and handsome
The only time I ever remember him getting angry with me was when I first became aware of lung cancer; I took his Silk Cut cigarettes out of the packet, snapped them all in half and threw them out of the car window. Normally we had a system for my behaviour involving yellow or red cards, as in football. I had a great many yellow cards, but I never did get a red card.
At some point I started to realise that maybe he was a little too laid-back and irresponsible. Let’s just say there were a couple of potentially fatal moments. But I was very protective and loyal to my dad and never told anyone.
His career as a bloodstock agent having long since ended, he spent his days looking after my grandmother’s house until she died in 1987, when I was 13 and a boarder at Queen Margaret’s School in North Yorkshire. His elder brother Simon sold my grandmother’s house. Shortly afterwards, Dad’s close friend Elizabeth died. She had been the only woman in his life after my mother. I think something inside him broke and he lost the will to live a little bit.
Our whole relationship was based around drinking in pubs together, or long, drunken phone calls which were punctuated with ‘just hang on a minute’ as one of us went off to refill a glass.
Though I understand now that it was a very dark period for my dad which triggered a downward spiral into serious alcoholism, I did not at the time. When he stopped calling or inviting me to spend time with him during that period, I was devastated, especially when a nanny told me the reason I didn’t see more of him was because he didn’t love me any more.
At the time, I believed her. I can say this without an ounce of self-pity because I have an extremely loving and supportive mum, stepfather and brother and sister whom I adore. My heart did harden to him a little. That was my way of dealing with it.
He still called me without fail on my birthday and at Christmas, normally singing the Stevie Wonder song I Just Called To Say I Love You and then hanging up, which used to drive me mad. He would send me weird and wonderful gifts, like a £10 note in a mousetrap held open by Sellotape, or a funny postcard: ‘I have seen a very nice present in the shop for you. I will go back and get it under the cover of moonlight with a brick.’
In my rebellious teenage years, I practically dined out on his antics. It rather fitted in with my image as a misfit. When I was asked about my father I would gaze enigmatically (or at least so I thought) into the distance and whisper: ‘He is an alcoholic.’
Oscar Wilde said: ‘Children begin by loving their parents. As they grow older they judge them, sometimes they forgive them.’ And boy, did I judge my father, because I felt he wasn’t a father at all. There were times, when I was a teenager and his drinking was at its worst, that I was so mortified I couldn’t wait to get away. Depending on which point of his drinking cycle I saw him at, he was either just embarrassing to be with in public, or – towards the end of a binge – downright mean.
He tried to get sober. He went to Closereach House in Plymouth in 1992 and wrote to me during the treatment, a lot of which concerned the effect of his drinking on me. He admitted: ‘I was so busy chasing the next drink that I didn’t give a damn about anybody at all,’ and wrote of hating himself because of the damage he had caused. He promised to win his battle so one day I would respect him again.
Grieving: Camilla, pictured here with Emma, was Richard’s sister-in-law and took time out of her schedule to attend his funeral, along with many other mourners
I received his letter just before my A-levels but to my eternal shame I did not respond. He completed his treatment but the disease was just too strong, and he relapsed.
When I discovered the numbing effects of alcohol myself, being around him stopped being a problem. I was 19 when I developed an alcohol problem which I’ve no doubt I inherited from Dad. Our whole relationship was based around drinking in pubs together, or long, drunken phone calls which were punctuated with ‘just hang on a minute’ as one of us went off to refill a glass.
He’d find it hilarious when I’d tell him about my short-lived relationships. He called me ‘the Praying Mantis’ and once asked: ‘Why do none of your boyfriends make it into the paperback edition?’ We had a lot of nicknames for each other. He used to call me ‘Horror’ or ‘My Cub’.
I think because of his life-long struggles, his belief that he was a failure and the demons he wrestled with, he felt his life was not worth celebrating: a life wasted. He was wrong.
He was living in New Milton on the edge of the New Forest by now. He had only a few friends left, who never deserted him no matter how appalling his behaviour: his oldest and dearest friends, who remembered and treated him as the man they had always known, not the one they had last spoken to.
However, the more my alcoholism progressed and the more out of control my life became, the less I spoke to or visited him. I had become self-obsessed, self-pitying and selfish.
When I managed to get sober some eight years ago at the age of 26 (and by the grace of God, I am still sober) I began to understand that alcoholism is a disease and an addiction, not a lifestyle choice. I finally understood that it wasn’t because he didn’t love me, or wasn’t interested in me.
But for the first five years my sobriety was fragile, and the thing that threatened it the most was seeing my father. Now was the time that I abandoned him, and I will always feel guilty about that. I wrote him many letters saying I loved him and would support him if he could get sober, but he couldn’t handle it and would send them back.
When he died he wanted to be cremated. He is supposedly in an urn underneath his church’s altar, waiting to be buried. I think he is actually on a mantelpiece, near the drinks cabinet. Don’t blame me for the gallows humour: I inherited it from him as a knack of deflecting pain by making wisecracks.
In fact, he didn’t even want a headstone. I think because of his life-long struggles, his belief that he was a failure and the demons he wrestled with, he felt his life was not worth celebrating: a life wasted. He was wrong. He brought joy and laughter to the lives of so many. A packed church filled with his many, many friends at the memorial service was testimony to that. A church filled with broken hearts.
Appetite for mischief: Richard Parker Bowles enjoyed hearing about Emma’s quirks, idiosyncrasies and also was a big fan of naughtiness
Even my aunt, the Duchess of Cornwall, took time out of her strictly regimented schedule to attend. She always said he was the nicest out of the brothers (sorry Andrew). They used to spend hours doing the crossword across the kitchen table on Sundays.
She came, even though he disgraced himself when he was taken to the pub by a journalist who fed him drinks until he said mean things about her which were published in a newspaper. But she knows what everyone who ever met him knows: that he was kind, fiercely loyal and giving. If a friend in need called up in the middle of the night, he would leap straight into his car and drive across the country to be with them.
Even if you were a stranger, he wouldn’t just give you the shirt off his back, he would have cut out his own kidney if you needed it. Strangers really were friends he hadn’t made yet. He was interested in and talked to anyone and everyone.
He was also enormously intelligent, quick-witted and hilariously funny. And he was known for his letters: he was a writer, you see (much better than me), and they revealed his brilliant mind.
One of my favourite qualities about my father was that he was wonderfully non-judgmental. When I was arrested and put in jail for the night last year, I was allowed one phone call, and the person I most wanted to call was him. Not that he would have had the money to bail me out, but he would probably have laughed and said: ‘Hang in there kid, I love you,’ which would have got me through that long dark night.
I really am old enough to have got over that by now. But I had a father and I had some great times with him, which is more than some people, and for that I realise I am blessed.
It was only for a traffic violation that I had forgotten to go to court for, and when I went in front of the judge all charges were dismissed. But my dad would have loved hearing my story about my cellmates and the jailhouse bus. He was pretty unshockable and always made me feel better about my inadequacies and shortcomings. He appreciated naughtiness and had a great appetite for mischief. He celebrated my quirks and idiosyncrasies, and taught me that things are always a matter of perspective. The old goat was very wise.
Do I have some residual damage caused by my father? Maybe a little – a chronic fear of abandonment means I keep men at arm’s length, although at the age of 37, I really am old enough to have got over that by now. But I had a father and I had some great times with him, which is more than some people, and for that I realise I am blessed.
I was also blessed that I was able to say goodbye. When I arrived at the hospital, I did not recognise him. My dad was built like a rugby player, 6ft 3in with broad shoulders, but the man lying in the bed seemed little and shrunken. He was asleep when I arrived, so I sat next to his bed until he opened his eyes. He just stared at me as though he couldn’t believe I was there. And then his hand with its papery thin skin came out from under the sheets and he said: ‘I love you.’
For the next three days and nights, I lay at his side. The battle-scarred lion and his cub. When he died on the fourth night, it was in my arms. I know he is, at last, at peace. I just hope somehow he knows that I love him very, very much.
Al-Anon Family Groups gives support to those affected by others who drink alcohol. www.al-anonuk.org.uk