Ghosts and indigestion 1
Ghosts and indigestion.
Today, I went to a 90th birthday party for one of my wife’s relatives. Does that sound exciting? As parties go, it was sedate and relaxed. BUT…
It was in the Royal Institution in London. One of the homes of science education, home to the annual children’s Christmas lectures, a place full of history and… my Dad.
Dad, who died in 2002, lectured frequently at the RI, and was professor of experimental physics there (an honorary post) for 12 years. I have only been back once since he died, and the place has been ‘tarted up’ since then.
First, I came face to face with an almost life-sized frieze of scientists in a playful style, with a digital crop (barely recognisable) of Dad’s head on an unidentified body. I thought ‘how awful!’ until I remembered his sense of humour. It’s the sort of trick he would try.
I walked along a book-lined corridor with portraits of Humphrey Davy, Michael Faraday, John Tyndall, Ernest Rutherford and co., each with a piece of their experimental kit in front of them: the RI has a wonderful archive. And next to Rutherford, there was an equally strange enlargement of that strange picture of Dad’s head with more 5 o’clock shadow than I ever remember. Pictures of musical instruments surrounded his head - he lectured on the physics of music. Below the picture was a MUSICAL SAW. Just an ordinary saw with a violin bow – Dad’s favourite party trick.
Two shocks in ten yards. I expected the odd photo, but this was weird, and I was meant to be socializing with party guests. In the room where we were meant to gather, there was a screen on the wall, running a loop of snippets from Christmas lectures old and new. And for two two-second clips, there was Dad again, once in 1972 and once in 1989. And he kept flitting across the screen as we talked. I tried to keep my back to the screen, but it didn’t work, because people kept asking me about Dad, and my focus kept drifting back to that screen. The meal was in the library, and I’m sure some of Dad’s books are there, so now my eyes were drawn to the rows of books… and no, I didn’t spot them.
Dad was not just a scientist. He was an all-round Renaissance man and a wonderful, gentle dad. To meet him in this strange way was both unsettling and lovely. Of all the scientists at the RI – including 14 Nobel Prize winners – Dad is the one who is represented by a wonky portrait and a musical saw. Dad loved entertaining kids, and even did science lectures in infant schools. His prized possessions included letters from children with questions such as, ‘What does a professor have for breakfast?’
And the indigestion… I’ll leave you to work that one out.
John
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15 Comments
I have taken my son to the RI for lectures a couple of times when he was small. It's a great place.
What a great, super-charged day it must have been for you.
Your father sounds like quite a man. How valuable it is to be be able to be proud of a parent.
I love the RI, even though I am painfully unscientific. My daughter invites me regularly for lectures which, despite the sometimes forbidding subjects, I find fascinating. Next time we go, we'll raise a glass to your father in that rather stylish but expensive bar!
PK
Yes, it is all a bit stylish, isn't it? The RI has many secrets – such as the hole in the lecture theatre floor. In the 19th century, a wooden rod was passed up through it and a Cello stood with it's spike on the rod. The bottom of the rod was resting on a piano – and those in the theatre heard piano music coming out of a cello! Dad once repeated that experiment, and found the original wooden rod in the basement! There are many more stories, and several reported ghosts. The lecturer for a friday Evening Discourse is traditionally locked in the ante-room before the lecture – because someone, I think it was Sir Humphrey Davey, got nervous and ran away.
It was a strange day, because all the thoughts going through my mind didn't connect with the people there: only a few of them knew Dad.
I have an awful confession to make, though. I've never been to the RI.
Your father sounds like he was a wonderful man - never be afraid to walk in his footsteps - he'd want you too. Perhaps there's a reason on a spiritual level as to why you needed to remember him and feel his presence? And perhaps this was the only way it could be done.. giving you those wonderful memories.. And thank you for sharing this experience with us.
I'll be sure to visit the RI, when I get to the UK - I love history..
Today, with the positive feedback from each of you, and comments from my friends and family, I feel much happier with the experience.
The impulse to start writing came after my parents died, Mum a year after Dad. There are some unusual bereavement experiences in my novel, but they are not all about death. Bereavement can be a beginning, and that is very much the mood of the novel. I just wish I could pick up the phone and share the excitement of writing with Mum and Dad. In my head, I still make those calls, and I know that my sister, who is an artist, does the same.
Dad was co-author of the Oxford Children's Book of Science. There would be all sorts of experiences that I could have shared with him if I had started writing before I was fifty!
John
It must have been surreal for you - I too would feel disorientated. What a legacy he left, both public and private. You talk of him with so much fondness that I'm sure he would be as proud of his children as you are of him. Thanks for this.
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