Epiphany, or Understanding Papa

Papa was my husband’s grandfather. He’d been a milkman all his life. By the time I met him, he was long retired; but he could still recite his old milk runs perfectly: Mrs Smith at number nine: 2 pints and a half of cream; Mrs Jones at number eleven: half a pint, no cream. And he could recite all the Melbourne Cup winners and place getters, and their trainers, jockeys and colours. He loved horse racing, and he spent Saturdays nipping up the back lane to place bets with the illegal bookie; or, later, at Moonee Valley gambling on the horses.


He had a short repertoire of stories which he told over and over and over again: like the fifth of the fifth, ’55, a day when a taxi didn’t come, he nearly missed the train to the Warrnambool races, and his mother-in-law went separately and surprised them in Geelong. He told that story regularly for the next fifty years. It was a good story the first time, but by the twentieth telling, I nearly chewed my arm off. Like the fortieth time he tested me to see if I knew which horse had won the Melbourne Cup the year I was born (1975: Think Big!); or who the neighbours were at the house next door (Mrs Hodder!).

Papa moved into his house the day World War II broke out and, in all those years, nothing much changed. Even the toilet stayed right where it was, nestled into the back fence for easy access for the night cart: although at some stage, it was connected to the sewer and equipped with a flush.

He liked everything to stay the same. We ate dinner with him every Monday, and it was mashed potato, mashed pumpkin, boiled peas and tomato sauce. Occasionally, if we were very good, or he was in a generous mood, he’d bring out Eskimo pies on a metal tray which celebrated the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II. Once a month, an older cousin joined us. One night, I asked the cousin how long he’d been coming for dinner; he said he’d had dinner at Papa’s monthly for 57 years.

Papa never talked about much beyond the racing results and the news, and he took everything literally. He didn’t cope well with change, and if something went wrong, he’d just call my husband or someone else and get them to work it out. He didn’t seem to understand much about us. He tuned out when the conversation went beyond the usual topics; he was puzzled when we were sad; he shut down when we got frustrated; and the world of emotions seemed a mystery to him. He didn’t have friends of his own; he mostly chatted with his family, the meals-on-wheels lady, his council cleaner, and the neighbours he saw in the street.

One day, I was reading an article. It was about something I’d never heard of before: autism. I learned that people on the autism spectrum can struggle in social situations. I read that they often have very fixed interests, and can show highly repetitive behaviours. They can find it hard to make friends, or to use their imagination, or to understand what others might be feeling or how they might react in different situations.

I started thinking about Papa. The passion for racing. The endless lists of racing statistics. The telling and re-telling of the same very few stories. The way he didn’t like change. The way he seemed confused by people or emotions. I called my husband over and showed him the article. It felt like a revelation; and it made Monday nights with Papa so much easier.

We didn’t mention it to anyone else; it’s not that sort of family. But some years later, my husband’s mother—Papa’s daughter—was dying. About a week before she died, we were visiting her in hospital. She told us she was absolutely ready. She’d been sick on and off for years. She felt she’d lived well; but now her body was riddled with cancer: it was time. She said she’d made her peace with the world … “except,” she said, “with my father. Why didn’t he ever tell me that he loved me? Why wasn’t he ever affectionate towards me? Not once. Not once. I just can’t understand it. And I can’t seem able to forgive him.”

There was a long silence. Then I said, very tentatively, “Maybe he has autism.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s a syndrome,” I said. Then I pulled out my phone and googled ‘autism.’ I read out the classic signs to her as she lay in her hospital bed. She listened carefully, intently, and then something suddenly gave. Her body relaxed, she let out a deep breath, and she began to smile and nod.

“That’s it!” she said, “That’s my father! That’s exactly what he’s like. So it wasn’t his fault? It’s just how he is? Well, that’s alright then. That’s alright. I can die in peace.”

And a week or so later, she did. Ω

I told this story on Saturday 19 January at Sanctuary's first yarn: a space for real people to tell true stories about their lives. The theme of this night was epiphany! Other people's insights are here; you can read about yarn here.