Fred was a well known and loved parishioner of St Stephen’s over many decades, coming to live in Welling in 1952. Living a few doors down from the church, in Deepdene Road, he attended Mass almost daily when he was able. He was a keen member of the 11.30 choir and loved the little birthday parties held for choir members, particularly enjoying the home-made birthday cake. Fred was also a Eucharistic Minister and an active member of the SVP over many years.
The search for longevity is among the most eagerly subscribed of all human endeavours. Thousands of books offer guidance on the lifestyle choices that will extend our years beyond the allotted span. New drugs promise a few more chances to cheat the grim reaper. Hundreds of billions of pounds have been poured into the projects of tech entrepreneurs hatching myriad innovations to keep the mortal coil going.
My father, Frederick Samuel Peer Baker, didn’t need any of that. With no apparent effort on his part, he lived to within a few weeks of his 105th birthday, almost right to the end physically agile and, other than for a late, slowly advancing dementia, mentally sound.
He didn’t live quite long enough to score that rare British double – a 105th birthday card from the king to match the 100th he got from the late queen five years ago. Not that that would have impressed him much. A loyal subject for sure, but for Dad it was his faith to which he always owed his greater allegiance. In the words of St Thomas More, one of his favourite saints, he died “the king’s good servant, but God’s first”. The rest of us – the dozens of Dad’s descendants – can certainly be grateful that, unlike that English martyr, we Catholics get birthday cards from the monarch these days, rather than a sharpened axe.
I know I speak for all our family when I say how extraordinarily blessed we were to have as a father a man whose life was defined throughout by simply duty, service and love. As I recall my Dad I cannot – truly – remember anything other than a gentleness, selflessness, a constant benign presence throughout the joys and trials of our own lives.
Born in the immediate aftermath of the First World War, he left school at 14 to become a carpenter, then volunteered to join the army at the outbreak of the second world war and served over much of the globe for more than six years. Though as we know – and this became something of a family legend – he was fortunate to be assigned to a support unit that never actually saw much fighting. As our dear late mother Della, who herself lived through the nightly terror of the blitz – used to tease us about him: “War? He never saw an angry man!”
Still, I think we can all agree that after almost 46 years of a mostly happy marriage, Dad did take more than his fair share of friendly fire over the subsequent years. And he was certainly not lacking for bravery – he was remarkably, almost recklessly courageous at times.
One of my favourite stories was when he and his brother visited Paris for the first time together – well into their sixties. Travelling on the Paris metro, Dad had that not unfamiliar experience of feeling his pocket being picked by an enterprising young Parisian. Realising what was happening, he immediately set off after the young miscreant, chasing him along some long underground passageway. Evidently terrified at the spectacle of this elderly and probably mad Englishman bearing down on him, shouting in a foreign language, the kid took the wallet, threw it back to him and sprinted away.
He spent most of his career in government service and worked diligently to provide for us. But his greatest ambition, and to him his most important role in life, was to create and nurture a good family. He was a devoted and loyal husband and father to six children, one of whom, our brother Martin, was lost in a moment of unimaginable tragedy at just six years old. Our mother’s long heartbreak and our father’s calm stoicism shaped our family in the years afterwards.
His and mum’s posterity now number 19 grandchildren and 16 great grandchildren. He outlived our mother by almost 30 years but remained devoted to her memory for the rest of his life.
When I tell people how old my father was, I am often asked what his secret was to such a long life. Good genes, a temper of almost unnatural equanimity, everything in moderation – but with an appreciation for life’s many pleasures.
Pleasures like food, sport, reading, music – especially classical music. But his greatest pleasure throughout life was always his family. After our mother died his primary joy was spending time with his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. Visiting my brother Joe and his wife Margaret in France – and frequently, even in his advanced years, helping out with DIY work around their house; travelling all the way to Tokyo or Washington or New York to spend time with Sally, the girls and me. Above all, spending countless days at home with or visiting Mary, Catherine and Liz, simply content to spend precious time with the daughters he loved so much.
I think the biggest secret to his extraordinarily long and good life was that our father understood above all the importance of gratitude. He took nothing for granted, believed he was owed nothing – no entitlement or privilege. Every joy, every pleasure large or small, was just some new, undeserved bonus, to be greeted with a kind of surprised thanks. Every good thing in life was a gift. Every pain was merely the small price we pay for living.
All this, of course, came from his deep and unshakeable faith. His devotion to God and to his Blessed Mother, gave him to understand that life itself, however long or short, is a gift and that our most important obligation is to merit it. Dad would never have been so presumptuous as to think he was going to heaven, but I can certainly say I never met a stronger candidate.
And so, while we pray for the repose of his soul, we pray even more fervently that, reunited at last with Mum and Martin, he will intercede for his family here who are left with nothing but our own gratitude – for all he did and all he was.