Now that three of the five children were married and my youngest brother was working as an apprentice in an aircraft factory in Yeovil, life was very quiet at home with just the three of us left. Mummy's youngest sister Phyllis was living close by and she had a little boy, then about 4 years old and they helped to fill the lonely gaps in the family. Binky the dog felt so isolated in the emptying house that he took to coming to school and sitting under my desk; I suppose he was anxiously keeping an eye on me in case I should disappear as the others had done. At first I tried to make him go home but he stuck his ground and in the end the teachers tolerated his silent presence, maintaining that he was better behaved than most of us girls.
Candy and Eric had decided that they should spend Christmas with Eric's family "because it will probably be Grandma Phair's last Christmas". (Happily, she lived to enjoy many more). Dorab as a doctor found it difficult to get away - doctors in those days were dedicated to full-time duty in the practice and did not think in terms of days off. Even when he went to friends or to a local cinema, he always left a phone number where he could be reached if he were needed. Beram and Mair were then living in Leicester and I think they spent that Christmas on their own. Kaikoo was home for a brief holiday just to enjoy the festivities of Christmas; but he spent most of his time with Eileen his girl-friend or other friends - at 20 a young man does not sit around in the family home.
On Christmas Day, Mummy and I were in the kitchen preparing the lunch when Father proposed that he and I should go for a walk in the snow. We went up West Hill and to the Holly Lodge Estate and it all looked most beautiful in its unfamilar whiteness. Now that I'm older and (I hope), wiser, I realise that Father should not have been climbing the steep hills of Highgate. But we both enjoyed that quiet walk together. It was to be our last.
In the afternoon we had been invited by one of Father's Indian political admirers to tea in his house in Chalk Farm. Since there were no buses running we walked there. The house was hot and we were plied with too much food and there was a good deal of small talk and Father kept dropping off to sleep. Our host insisted on calling a taxi to take us home - an unusual event for us. I remember Mummy scolding Father for being so rude as to fall asleep in someone else's house. But he was far from well, though we did not realise it at the time.
Soon after Christmas, Candy had to undergo minor surgery in the Hospital for Women in Soho Square. During the holiday the three of us went into town, to visit Candy in hospital. On our way home we passed a Lyons Corner House with its elaborate Christmas decorations in the window and we stopped to enjoy them, Father, as always, holding Mummy's arm. There were alot of fancy gateaux on display and Father said to Mummy she should not bother to make a cake for his coming birthday in March but she should this once buy a cake from Lyons; they even started choosing which cakes they would have. They were planning to have all the married children and Kaikoo home for Father's birthday celebration. But that evening as the three of us stood gazing at the cakes and the two of them were making plans, I had an uneasy feeling and wished they would not make such detailed arrangements so far ahead. I don't claim it was a premonition or anything as definite but I just felt a bit unhappy about it. A few days later Candy came out of hospital and stayed at home with us during her convalescence.
During the summer I had had a completely unexpected success at a speech competition held in Oxford University and Father had, as a reward, arranged for me to go to The London School of Broadcasting in Bond Street. Thus encouraged, I had applied for a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art and during those first days of January I had presented myself for an audition. Mummy came with me and we left Father alone in the house. Looking back now I realise that he probably felt very insecure on his own for, although he made no concessions to his illness, he could not help but be aware of it. Just before we set out he picked a silly quarrel because Mummy complained that the water came out of the kitchen tap too slowly. We left him looking sullen and unhappy.
On the 15th January, Father was giving a lecture to students in the Marx Memorial Library on 'The Basis of Socialism' and my Mother accompanied him,in spite of having a nasty cold. The lecture lasted for two hours and it was quite late when they got home. Father was quite nervous and said to Mummy, "Oh, dear, Candy will scold me for keeping you out so late!" He was quite right; Candy met them at the door and rounded on Father for keeping Mummy out in the icy night air when she had a chesty cold. Father went sheepishly past her to the dining room and, after a hot drink, they all went off to bed. (Earl Winterton had never managed to subdue Father but my sister certainly succeeded where he and many other astute politicians had failed. She of all of us was most like Father and there had always been skirmishes between them and, even in infancy, she frequently got the better of him. Now she was a mature, married woman, Father was aware that he had at last met his match!)
The next evening, the 16th, Mother and Father were to go to dinner with Dr and Mrs Gotla. After being chastised by Candy the evening before, Father decided that Mummy should stay at home and that I should be her understudy and accompany him to the Gotlas. It was to be my first formal, adult dinner party and I was feeling most apphehensive about it and wished with all my heart that I did not have to go.
That morning, an Indian journalist and long-standing member of the League Against Imperialism called Mr Yajnik came to see Father in time for breakfast. They were discussing politics and we didn't bother to listen. I went off to school, came home for lunch and found Father still arguing with Mr Yajnik, sometimes quite heatedly. Mother told him not to get so excited as she feared it would bring on another of his now frequent heart attacks. When I returned from school in the afternoon, Father was seeing Mr Yajnik off at the gate but they were still arguing and back they came into the house. Apparently one of the subjects they were discussing was cremation - Father was all in favour of it, of course, and at one point said, "Well, when I die, I hope the dust-bin men will simply take my body away with the rest of the rubbish!"
At last, the visitor left and we all sat down to tea, Mother, Father, Candy, Phyllis and her baby son, Kevan. Mummy produced a marsh-mallow cake and Father teased little Kevan; he cut off a tiny slivver and told Kevan that that was his share; then he took the whole of the rest of the cake on a plate and claimed that as his own. Then he stopped laughing and said to Mummy, "No, seriously, Sehri, haven't you some of your home-made cake instead of this rubbish!".
I left them all having tea and set off for my lesson at the London School of Broadcasting. Father was to collect me at the school and we were then to go together to the Gotla's in Victoria. When I came out of the studio into the reception hall I was told there had been a telephone messsage for me - I was not to wait for Father but was to go straight home as usual. What a relief! I was, after all, to be spared the embarrassment of the dinner-party. When I came out of the tube station at Kentish Town, the air was frosty and fresh, and snow was falling. I felt supremely happy. A flower-seller was sitting on the pavement with bunches of snowdrops. By way of celebrating my release from the dreaded dinner-party, I bought one. I took the tram and then almost danced my way home from the terminus. But all my lightheartedness fell away when I reached the gate. Dr Gotla was just coming out, eyes full of tears. He threw his arms round me, tried to speak but could say nothing and left me. At first I felt horribly guilty because I had not bothered to ask why the dinner had been cancelled; my first thought was that something must have happened to Micky, the doctor's young son. But when I got to our front door, Aunty Phyllis opened it. I don't remember that she had to say anything - her sadness and the solemn and unfamiliar silence in the house told me that it was Father. The hall was already full of pressmen. Father had been in Manchester a few days before addressing meetings in the area and had arranged to meet someone from the Manchester Guardian. This journalist had phoned only minutes after father had died and Phyllis had told him the news. So the press knew within minutes of Father's death.
At about 7 o'clock that evening Father sat down at the dining table to write a letter of congratulation to Kaikoo who had apparently been given an unasked-for rise and had written triumphantly and jokingly to Father to tell him the good news. Father got no further than, "My dear Kaikoo, ..." when he collapsed and cried out for Mummy. Candy and Mother came running from the kitchen and they both realised at once that this was a more serious attack than usual and Candy phoned Dr Gotla and also Matron from the local nursing-home. Mummy stayed with Father - as did little Kevan and also Binky. Matron arrived within minutes and cleared everyone away except Mother but there was nothing she could do. By the time Dr Gotla reached the house,, Father had died. My mother was always convinced that Father knew the end had finally come after threatening him so often in the past; she said she was sure he was trying to say goodbye but could not speak - but he looked into her face and squeezed her hand. Well, he had had many rehearsals in the last few years and may be he recognised that this time it was the real performance. But he did not have to suffer the knowledge for long because the curtain came down almost at once.
It is said that those whom the Gods love, die young. But I think that those whom the Gods love die quickly, be they young or old. And Father died mercifully quickly.
At 16, death is remote and baffling - perhaps even a little embarrassing. But the grief-filled house, my Mother, white and tearful and the air of crisis and sadness are memories that survive. Harry Pollitt came round first thing the following day and tried to comfort Mummy and Binky attacked him as soon as he touched Mother. There were streams of comforting callers, the house filled with flowers. Daddy had been lain in his bed - a grand affair of heavy mahogany ornamented with brass - a relic of the Second Empire. Parsi ladies came and lit a fire of sandal-wood in a bowl on a table at the foot of the bed. The air was full of incense-laden smoke and the murmur of prayers. Father was placed in a coffin but we could still see him. I remember thinking how he must hate all the incantation, as he lay there, still, with closed eyes, suddenly silent and powerless to stop everything going on around him. During those terrible days, I dreamt that I was in a coffin and people were all filing past me, peering in at me and I wanted above all things to stop them but could neither move nor speak. Father had always been in complete command and suddenly he could command no more. But Candy stepped competently into the breach and took everything in hand. When poor Beram went in to Father he broke down and sobbed and said, "O Daddy, what have I done to you!" - still feeling guilty about the manner of his marriage - though I am absolutely sure that Father had forgiven and probably forgotten. Dorab, always tender-hearted, stayed constantly with Mother. It was the practical and strong Candy who bustled about and with Phyllis's help ran the household, greeted the callers, answered the telephone and generally coped with everything. I am ashamed to say that I did nothing - except probably get in the way. But no doubt our presence helped Mother through those dreaded days. We all surrounded her. It was the only time I had ever seen her beaten. Nothing would induce Mummy to eat and the ever-devoted Binky refused to leave her and he did not eat either. Everything was so unfamiliar - I think I was more bewildered than sad.
Needless to say, Father's expressed wish to be thrown into the dustbin was ignored - how indignant he would have been to have his wishes flouted in any other circumstances! The funeral took place at Golders Green Crematorium. There were hundreds of his admirers standing in the drizzly rain which had followed the snowstorms. The family and close friends drove from home to Golders Green but between the tube station and the crematorium there were people standing to see the cortege pass. The Chapel was full to overflowing and many people were left standing outside. The three Parsi priests who had officiated at our navjote conducted the prayers and rites according to the Zoroastrian faith. When the religious service had ended, the crowd, both inside and outside the chapel, burst into song with 'The International'. That was the moment when, for me, his death suddenly became a reality - at last I cried and was able to feel the sadness and grief I should have felt all those days before.
We were not brought up to believe in an after-life and none of us did. But I do believe that we all have a lasting influence on our families and on those we meet and love, indeed, even on our enemies and those who hate us. The influence of someone as loving, as commanding and as sincere as Father is indelible and is, within the family, passed on from generation to generation. Of course, he shaped all of us but he also helped to shape the thinking of friends, of comrades in the Party and even, to some extent, of his political enemies. His utopian dreams did not come true but the world will always be a better place for his having dreamt them.
I do not mourn his death but rejoice in his life. With such parents as I was blessed with, it has been child's-pay for me always to observe the Fifth Commandment.