William Haines ('47)

William Haines ('47)  

You were a gentle giant, and you died as you lived your life for 95 years: with gallantry and adapting yourself to those around. You were a gentleman in the true sense of the word, always putting others before yourself right up to the very end, and typically, you didn’t pass away until Angela, the love of your life, was at peace and also until after William and I had come and gone. We'd come to see you, in the vain hope of bringing some sort of solace to your broken heart. It was only once we had both gone back to our homes and there were no more loose ends to tie up, that you allowed yourself to go to your final resting place. You were known to everyone as a quiet man, mild in nature, a man of great integrity who stood back and let others shine. You weren’t one to moan or boast, you weren’t one to make a fuss and yet there was so much more to you than met the eye. I came to truly discover parts of your life over the last eight years of my regular visits to you at The Ferns. I came to realise how incredibly lonely you must have been for many years, with a fairly tragic childhood. I wonder how much of your sufferings you never told, you kept to yourself, not wanting to attract attention to yourself. 

You were born in Bangkok, Thailand, in 1929 to an “elderly couple” in their early forties: William and Rosamund. Your father William had been living there since 1911 managing a teak export business and he happened to meet your mother Rosamund on a trip to Bombay. Rosamund was Australian and was a nurse on ships that travelled between Australia and India. In 1935 they left Thailand (or Siam, as it was called then) to settle in Oxfordshire in England when you were six and it was there that your mother Rosamund died three years later, aged only 49. You were so young, just nine years old. I took advantage of these last years at The Ferns to grill you about your life; you were always very unemotional and factual about it. Im really sorry you didn’t receive from your parents the love that you deserved and, like any child, needed so badly. Apparently when you heard the news about your mother’s death, your first reaction was “will I have to change schools?” You loved school more than anything else in your childhood, and learning - particularly history - was your driving force. When your mother died, you did indeed have to change schools, as your father apparently “didn’t know what to do with me” and he packed you off to live and school with a governess, in Anglesey of all places. You didn’t enjoy it there as there was too much play and not enough learning for your liking. Happier years were to come, thanks to an Australian uncle who took pity on you and your father and saved you from dying of boredom in Anglesey. Off you both went to Australia where you finally thrived—in great part thanks to a wonderful teacher and Headmaster, James Wilson Hogg. Mr Hogg had a huge impact on your life, as he recognised your academic potential and persuaded your father to let you leave your small provincial school and instead enrol as a boarder at Trinity Grammar School in Sydney. It was Mr Hogg who helped you realise your ambition to follow in your father’s and grandfather’s footsteps and go to Oxford University. And loyal as you were, you remained in touch with Mr Wilson Hogg for many years and also made a lifelong and dear friend of his daughter Libby. The happy years continued in Oxford where you studied at the prestigious Balliol College, pocketing a degree in History and also enjoying playing Rugby. You then went on to the join the RAF where you learned to fly and developed quite a passion for small aircraft. One of your regrets later in life, you told me, was not to be able to go back and live in Australia after University and have a little cuckoo of your own to play around with. Instead, due to pressure from your stern and not very fatherly father, who had since settled back in England (remarried now to Kathleen, an Australian widow), you joined Shell and had a first mission in Brazil where you learned to speak Portuguese fluently, and also thoroughly enjoyed what the local life had to offer. You loved Brazil and had great stories about your time there. Your next expatriation to East Africa changed the course of your life forever, for it’s where you met our mother; and of course it’s thanks to both of you that my brother William and I are alive and kicking today. Over the years, due to your job as a management consultant for Unilever, you spent many years in various countries in Africa, but your love of Brazil and Australia was never equalled. You were a quiet but very kind Dad, not particularly demonstrative; you didn’t really know how to handle affection (how could you, you had received so little from your parents) but I remember feeling safe around you. I loved making you laugh—you were my best audience at home. You could be relied upon; you were like a rock, a much appreciated contrast to our unpredictable and volatile mother to say the least.  

But let’s move on… When you weren’t doing chores at home like washing-up, you were pottering around in the garden, doing garden-y things to become a really talented gardener, and right up until to your last week, you would ask me about my own garden and would pass on tips and advice for what to do and plant depending on the season. Schools, education and having qualifications were always a big thing to you and you did your absolute best, spending far too many pounds on schools to get us both “a good education” with “diplomas”. I’m not sure we got quite the qualifications you had in mind for us, but you wanted us to be independent, have good jobs and even during that last week I was with you, you asked me if I had enough clients and if business was good. 

 Thank you so much, Dad, for everything and yes, business is fine. It was the same-same for all your eight grandchildren, always asking who was doing what and if business was good. Always caring about others.  

Fast forward now to the 90s. Something I learned as I sat by your side in these later years: You were a great believer in synchronicity, that was introduced by a certain Carl Jung. And, as you used to put it, it was synchronicity that led Angela to sit in that empty seat next to you one evening when she arrived a little late for an evening history class. As one of your friends here described you both…you were like salt and pepper, Yin and Yang, the sun and the moon. You, so tall with your extra-long Daddy Long Legs, and Angela so tiny by your side. You, so calm and quiet, and Angela rather commanding: kind, but definitely the boss, which I suspect is what you needed and liked. Your love for each other was real—you looked out for and looked after each other. You shared the same passion for history, nature and gardening and you were both believers and very active churchgoers until it was no longer physically possible for you to attend. I’m so grateful that, thanks to another strike of synchronicity, Reverend Tim paid you an unknowingly timely visit, and prayed with you just a few hours before you passed away. This must have helped you on your journey. Heartbreaking as it all is, it’s also very beautiful as everything seemed to fall so beautifully into place just as you maybe quietly wished.  

Angela whisked you off to India 15 times and she in turn accompanied you to visit the places where you had your best childhood memories: Australia. Angela brought light, energy and life into your autumn years—this I know and am grateful for. The last years were certainly not the easiest as you lost your independence and had to give up your home, although you were both extremely well cared for by the staff at The Ferns. It was incredibly touching to witness your devotion to Angela even as her illness became more apparent as she slipped away. There was always classical music blaring away in your room because “it was good for Angela”. It’s important for me to thank all the exceptional staff at The Ferns Residential Home: Sharon, Bella, Leslie, Grace, Chloe, Paula, Julie – thank you all for caring so well and so beautifully for my father and Angela; you really made a difference to their lives. My father used to always say to me “the good thing is that we’re safe here”. And they were. Knowing this saved me years of sleepless nights. The last week I spent by your side, you were mourning. Lost, so sad and forlorn without Angela. The last morning I saw you, I popped by to give you a hug and say see you soon, and you were surprisingly chirpy, much chirpier than you’d been over the past week. You were looking forward to moving into that bright new room that had a lovely view of trees where you could observe the changing seasons. You also wanted to go back into the dining room to have lunch with the other residents—you wanted to see people, you even said "life must go on”. Were you trying to reassure me that you were fine? You never made it to the new room, but I’m so pleased you did have lunch one last time with the other residents. Well done, Dad. The following day, 95 and a half years old to the day, soon after Reverend Tim’s timely visit and prayers, your heartbroken soul left your tired body to join Angela.  

I’m so sad that this quiet, unassuming and kind man has left this world but at the same time, I can’t help feel that it couldn’t be better; he was so sad without Angela. So his beautiful soul is exactly where it should be. To be here with you all celebrating both of their lives, saying our last goodbyes to them together is a perfect ending and, sad as I am, I’m also so happy for my father that he found happiness with Angela—the happiness and love he truly deserved all his life. I’m going to miss him terribly—this quiet, self-effacing man took up a lot of space in my heart and my life—and I feel so thankful and blessed that this wonderful person, loved and appreciated by so many, was my dad. My Daddy Long Legs. May your soul rest in peace, Dad, may you both rest in peace together; and by the way, thank you for all the little signs you’ve been sending me over the last two weeks, they’re much appreciated.  

Helen Haines (Daughter of William Haines)