On Saturday mornings while mum was cleaning we walked along the canal, my hand holding on to one of his fingers. On the way back from the shops he would swing me up onto his shoulders so he could carry bags in each hand. Now I realise how I must have tugged on his hair but he was a quiet man.

Be sensible, son. I know you will be. I was eighteen and leaving home and did not know what sensible meant. Years later I began to understand and he did not judge. Stay as long as you need, son. This is your home. Stay as long as you want. A quiet man.

In the supermarket he gripped the trolley and his legs would not move. As we carried him to the car, he closed his eyes so others would not see his embarrassment. He was silent in the car and until he was safely in his chair in his new home. Thank you, son, he said and I started to tell him thank you for everything but he raised a hand. He was a quiet man.

For Sid, 1915-2008