A FATHER’S VIGIL

Our father, Albert Church, was not a man of many words, but he spoke volumes in the way he lived his life—steadfast, patient, quietly devoted. He was, in every sense, a working-class man of integrity: a practical thinker, a provider, a doer. Born into a world gripped by war and raised under the enduring shadow of ration books and bombed-out streets, he was brought up by his grandfather—a blacksmith—who instilled in him the values of “make do and mend.” It wasn’t just a wartime slogan for Albert; it was a way of life. Waste nothing. Repair what’s broken. Hold onto what matters. And always take pride in your work, no matter how humble.

He attended Tottenham New School and grew up during times of great hardship. Like many of his generation, he learned early the value of work, responsibility, and loyalty—lessons not from books, but from life itself. Dyslexic in an era when such things went unrecognised and unsupported, driven by determination and a quiet dignity.

He worked for himself all his life—a tradesman, a horseman, a jack-of-all-trades who could turn his hands to just about anything. He didn’t complain. He didn’t waver. He simply got on with it. But beneath that stoic exterior was a deeply feeling man, a man who loved fiercely—especially his sons.

He and Keith were not just father and son—they were mates. For five years, they worked side by side, at least twice a week. Keith, always a bit more ethereal, an artist who liked the silence of the world at night, often worked through the dark hours. Albert would arrive the next morning, paperwork in hand, ready for a day’s labour. Keith, having barely slept, would slowly rise to meet him. But Albert never rushed him. He’d wait for hours if needed, sitting quietly in his old truck, doing his notes, sipping his tea, content just to be near his son. There was never impatience, only understanding. He knew Keith moved to a different rhythm.

I joined them on Saturdays—still at school, eager to be part of their world. It was hard work, but they made it feel like something more. There was laughter, learning, and an unspoken bond. Those days, looking back, were some of the most important of my life. They weren’t grand, but they were real. They tethered us together, three very different men united by family and toil and shared time.

And then came that night—the night everything fractured.

I still hear it. The knock on the door. The voice of the policeman. My father’s voice, in denial, “No… he’s in bed. But I have another son…” you could hear the realisation in his voice as he said it. That was the moment we stepped across a line we could never return from. A doorway through which grief entered and never left. My mother broke down. I stood in shock. Albert stood up. He had to.

He was the one who identified Keith’s body. I can’t imagine what that moment did to him, what it took from him—but he never let go. Not of Keith. Not of the memory. Not of the need to know the truth.

He searched, always. Sometimes with questions. Sometimes just with presence. After he retired at seventy—long past the age most would have rested—he took a job at an old-style petrol station, one where he still went out to fill cars manually. He could have worked with me. But he chose that little forecourt because in his heart he held onto hope. He believed that maybe, just maybe, one day someone would pull up, roll down their window, and tell him something—anything—that might lead to Keith’s killer. It wasn’t just about justice. It was about love. It was about unfinished business. He was a father holding vigil in the only way he knew how.

He worked there faithfully for over a decade, right up until the day he died at 81—still planning to go in, still hoping that someone might come forward, still carrying the unanswered question with quiet courage. That was Albert. Steady to the end. Searching to the end. Loving to the end.

And perhaps the most symbolic gesture of all—the cross on Keith’s grave—was pure Albert. That large oak post Keith had carried on their final day of work, intended for the stables, was repurposed by Albert into something far more sacred. He carved it into a cross. No fanfare, no expensive memorial. Just what he had, reshaped with love and loss into a lasting mark. It’s what he knew how to do. Make do and mend. Take something broken and turn it into something meaningful. For 43 years that cross has stood, slowly shrinking into the earth, its base gently rocking with time. Some might see only decay in that image. I see permanence. I see the last thing Keith carried. I see the first thing my father could build from heartbreak.

That cross was an act of remembrance. So too was every moment Albert waited. Every day he showed up. Every question he quietly asked. He wasn’t a man of grand pronouncements or eloquent speeches. He was a man of action. Of love shown in small, powerful ways. He carried the weight of Keith’s loss without fanfare, but he carried it every day, as only a father could.

Even now, I still picture him sitting in his truck, tea in hand, paperwork on his lap, waiting for Keith to emerge from the house—tired-eyed, paint under his nails, ready for another day. That memory is as sacred to me as any portrait. It’s where my brother and my father still live—in those quiet mornings, those shared labours, those small moments that meant everything.

And now, Albert and Patricia Church—my father and my mother—lay with Keith, reunited in rest as they were united in love and grief during their lives. The grave is no longer a place of one man’s loss, but a family’s stillness, marked by the memory of a life interrupted and the endurance of those who carried him in their hearts. Together, they rest beneath that old oak cross, still standing, still telling their story.

In remembering Keith, we also remember the man who loved him most. A man who stayed the course. A man who never stopped searching. A good man. Albert Church