Ted Elvidge: 31 December 1919-28 April 2015

I couldn't make it through mum's eulogy without choking up, and dad scolded me for it in her service. So, sorry, dad, if I do it this time too.

My strongest memory of dad is the many things he taught me.

He taught me a love for words, poetry, rhythm and meaning. We would go through the 'It pays to increase your word power' column in the Reader's Digest, seeing who could get the most. He would read poetry aloud, and loved to hear us read it too. Despite (or perhaps because of) having left school at 14, he would read the books we all studied at school and discuss them with us. He had a wonderful reading voice – one Christmas he read 'Christmas Carol' to us each evening as a nightly serial. However, when the bell tolled in the book and the phone rang in the hall we all leapt out of our skins.

Dad taught me about narrative and story. When we went to museums, he would tell me stories about the things there, explaining how things worked and what they were for, and if you looked around you would see a circle of people listening in, fascinated. He taught me that everyone has their own story, however humble. He also had a bit of a tendency to make stuff up, often adding 'as true as I'm riding this bike', so I guess that taught me scepticism too.

He taught me a love and respect for engineering, from beam engines to racing cars. I remember helping him service our car, including draining the oil into an old Rover biscuit tin, changing air filters, and resetting spark plugs. One open day he took me to the Leyland works and I remember seeing his bench. I also remember being overawed by the size of the building in which he worked as a toolmaker, and the bulk and noise of the machines that used the tools he made. He would bring home things he had made at work in his lunchtime, like the step stool for the caravan.

He taught me practical skills like planting runner beans, wiring plugs and making bread, and less practical ones like eating chocolate digestive biscuits whole (which I can still do), and doing the Harry Worth trick using a shop window.

He knew just how to embarrass me as a teenager, because every time he saw a stop tap on the pavement he would stop and tap it. As revenge, I could make him dissolve into giggles in church by leaning over at a serious moment, pointing to the vicar, and asking dad why that man was wearing a dress.

Dad also taught me about love – he comforted me when my A level results meant that I couldn't get into the university I wanted, and when my first marriage fell apart. He loved my second husband Tim, with whom he shared a passion for planes and cars. He adored my mother, and held hands with her every day until the day she died.

Just last month, at the end of April, I went on a very emotional trip to Germany. This was for the 70th Anniversary of the liberation of the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, where my mother nursed the survivors. I learned a lot about her by seeing just a fraction of what she saw, and I laid a yellow tulip for her at the foot of one of the mass graves. My dad was so proud of my mum, and I am so glad that I got to tell him I was going. He asked me to stand with Tim at Belsen for them, with my little finger hooked in Tim's, a gesture I saw mum and dad do so many times. Just a few hours after I got back from Germany, I got the call from the care home to tell me that dad was gone. And so, only a couple of weeks after the weekend of celebrating and remembering my mum, I am here celebrating and remembering my dad. Somehow, for me, that creates a kind of a completeness.

It seems right to close with the words of one of dad's favourite poets, Alfred, Lord Tennyson. But again, I'm sorry, dad. I don't think I will be able to keep the poem's promise.

​Sunset and evening star,
      And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
      When I put out to sea,
   But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
      Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
      Turns again home.
   Twilight and evening bell,
      And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
      When I embark;
   For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
      The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
      When I have crost the bar.