Eulogy for Robin Waddell
Robin's son, Nick Johnstone-Waddell, gave this beautiful eulogy at Robin's funeral on 21 May 2024:
Robert Erskine Waddell, or Robin as he was known across our pale blue dot of a planet, was a remarkable person and I'd go as far as to say a polymath of distinction. He was also my dad and I stand here before you today in awe of his intellect but also desperately yearning for just one more hug and one more game of Scrabble.
The biologist and thinker Richard Dawkins once said:
After sleeping through a hundred million centuries we have finally opened our eyes on a sumptuous planet, sparkling with colour, bountiful with life. Within decades we must close our eyes again. Isn't it a noble, an enlightened way of spending our brief time in the sun, to work at understanding the universe and how we have come to wake up in it?
That to me is how dad realised from a young age he wanted to spend his life - to cram in as much learning and knowledge into his head as he possibly could. He wanted to understand his place in the universe, how he came to be and how he could leave the world just a little better than when he entered it.
I believe he achieved all these things and should have been utterly proud of that fact. But, of course, everyone who knew dad also knew just how modest he was and how he hated pushing himself forward. He wore his intellect and knowledge so lightly. While he knew the answer to almost any question you could ever ask, he never made you feel inferior for asking the question, or for not knowing the answer in the first place.
I'm sure he could have won any TV general knowledge quiz show he cared to enter. But the very thought of having the studio lights and cameras on him would have been complete anathema.
I love the story of how he and mum met. They were at a party of a mutual friend (called Chris Kendall) in London in 1963 when my dad was just 18 years old and both took a moment away from the gathered throng to check on a crying baby in a side room. If it wasn't for that baby, I wouldn't be here now so thank goodness it was feeling grumpy!
Soon after the party, dad went to Abu Dhabi to assist Chris with a geological survey. The trip sounds very eventful and they had all sorts of adventures, including floods, health ailments and even a run in with the militia that resulted in dad getting a broken nose. He made his way back via Lebanon where he met a taxi driver who wanted a few days off and charged dad just £5 to give him a personal tour of the whole country. He then made it to Athens where he stayed for around a month and ended up selling his blood as he had no money. A woman called Aphrodite became so enamoured with him that she followed him back to London, though luckily it was mum who he had fallen for.
When he got back to England in early 1964, he still had no money and nowhere to stay so he walked across London and spent the night sleeping in an underground station in Lambeth near where mum lived. The next morning, he turned up at mum's flat at 6am, asking for money to buy cigarettes! Remember that they'd only met each other once before, some 9 months previously. Mum was about to travel to Ireland to stay with her parents who ran a hotel. So obviously she took him with her…
After arriving in Ireland they caught a bus to the hotel at Ardnagashel near Bantry in County Cork. At some point Ron, my grandfather, asked dad how old he was and mum was rather taken aback to find out that he was almost 4 years younger than her - she's spent the last 60 years joking about having a toy boy! Ron also apparently wasn't enamoured by dad's pointy orange suede shoes.
But despite the shoes, dad got on incredibly well with both of mum's parents. Many of you will know that Ron was an explorer and dad has spent the last couple of years organising many of the artefacts and diaries from his expeditions that hadn't already been properly written up. Just the day before he died, he and mum had spent a happy afternoon going through the contents of one of Ron's satchels and working out what they could take down to the Natural History Museum and Royal Geographical Society in London to donate to their archives. Dad also paid for Ron's remaining diaries to be typed up so he could publish them.
Mum and dad married in 1967 and moved to Norwich, then in 1969 went back to London so dad could finish his PhD. 1972 saw them move to Bristol where they bought their first house for the amazing sum of £3,000! In Bristol he was doing postdoctoral research which his supervisor said was probably more advanced than anyone else in the world was doing at that time.
I was born in 1975 and when I was growing up, he felt as much of an oracle of knowledge as a dad. It didn't matter what subject I needed help with, whatever question I had - be it on religion, literature, philosophy, science or maths - I could guarantee he'd know the answer. The only problem was that sometimes I just wanted to know the answer to slot into a piece of homework, whereas for the science-related topics dad wanted me to understand the subject in depth. This sometimes led to a bit of an impasse where he wouldn't want me to go to bed until I could explain the answer in my own words but as a teenager with competing priorities I sadly didn't always care as much as I should have done.
As I got a bit older, though, I went from a slightly dismissive attitude towards his encyclopaedic knowledge to one of awe and appreciation. I still vividly remember the pride I felt after starting at university when for the first time in my life I was explaining things to dad that he didn't already know! That I could know something he didn't almost took my breath away it was so unusual.
I think his slightly odd upbringing and somewhat emotionally aloof parents led to his lifelong perfectionism. I must admit that growing up with a perfectionist father could be slightly trying at times. I remember him drilling into me, for instance, how stamps had to be absolutely perfectly aligned on an envelope. And he sulked for several days when I didn't get 3 As at A Level. But in hindsight I can see that he just wanted me to do the best I could and not to settle for second place. While I now have a slightly more nuanced view and feel that sometimes in life, pragmatism should win over perfectionism, I'm thankful that he showed me that it's always possible to strive to be the best version of yourself that you can. I hope in some small way that I can instil that same belief in my own children.
The challenge for my mum, of course, was that dad's desire to do everything perfectly meant that it could take him 15 years to get round to putting up some shelves!
It also made me smile when mum and I were writing the notice of his death for The Times that she used an Oxford comma in his list of qualities. Apparently they'd been discussing this just prior to his death and he'd stressed just how important he thought it was. As a writer myself, I normally wouldn't use it but now I know dad was a fan I suspect it will be sneaking into my writing from now on.
We are incredibly lucky that after moving to Manchester he decided his new hobby to replace the fitness activities - which by then were becoming too challenging due to various health issues - would be documenting his life and interests on his website, Orna Verum. Orna Verum itself is the motto of the Waddell family and means ‘adorn the truth', though I think this slightly pompous phrase irritated dad as he saw truth as something that never really needed to be embellished or adorned.
Over the last 8 or 9 years Orna Verum has grown from a small website he initially envisaged would allow him to finally publish his academic research, to a gloriously sprawling treasure trove of information about his and my mum's family histories. It now consists of hundreds, if not thousands, of pages and even dad would sometimes struggle to find the thing he was looking for!
What it means is that many of the most interesting and enlightening parts of his life are documented in his own very readable, well-researched and wryly humorous words.
I would urge all of you to spend a happy hour - or even month! - exploring Orna Verum and finding out about dad's life - and the lives of many people in his wider family. I'm going to make sure that the website continues long into the future and will be adding a memorial section to dad in due course.
Reading it again recently I particularly enjoyed the section on our oft-mispronounced surname. It was from dad that I grew used to saying ‘it's w/a/double d/e/double l'. Over the years he heard every possible variant - reasonable and otherwise - of the name in written and spoken form. His favourite - if that's the right word - was ‘Wadle' (rhymed with ladle) and he sometimes answered the phone by saying ‘Wadle speaking' which could baffle people who didn't know his sense of humour.
Talking of his sense of humour, it could be gloriously off the wall at times. He once either read an article or saw a TV programme about early north American settlers who used corn cobs as loo paper. Without telling any of us, he replaced the loo roll in our bathroom with a corn cob he'd cut down to size! What made it even funnier was that that evening a religious missionary, after failing to convert dad to his brand of beliefs at the front door, asked to use the bathroom. He ran out again very quickly with a rather confused look on his face! I also loved the time he came home from work in a ginger wig which he'd hired for a regency ball organised by his work. He kept a completely straight face and didn't mention anything (it was in the days when he still had some hair!) and mum didn't notice at all…
Of the many things I've inherited from dad, one is my belief that it's the quality rather than quantity of friendships that matter. Especially as he got older, he didn't exactly become reclusive but I certainly got the sense that he wanted to spend his time with the people who really mattered. There isn't time here to list all the significant people in his life - obviously all of you here today were really important to him - but several stood out to me. John, who sadly can't be here today as he now lives overseas, was one of his closest friends throughout much of his adult life. John is also the webmaster of Orna Verum and has the vital task of keeping it running and shaping dad's content into beautifully constructed webpages.
John and dad discovered a love of jogging, way back before it was fashionable and people started showing off their runs on social media apps. During my teens, dad would be running a 5k, 10k, half marathon or even marathon almost every Sunday morning. His collection of medals and commemorative t-shirts is truly remarkable. He and John also went further afield, for instance running marathons in Reykjavik (I remember him telling me that they went on a tour where due to the lack of tree cover in Iceland the guide was constantly excited by the driftwood washed up onto the beaches) and Moscow, where KGB operatives lined the route to stop the runners engaging in espionage-related activities. Dad also ran the Dublin and Prague marathons.
His passion for running - and fitness in general - led to us referring to him as the ‘Iron Man of Tilehurst', in reference to the suburb of Reading where we lived. It was particularly impressive as of course he didn't really have the tall, slender physique of a typical runner. But he more than made up for it with grit and determination. He'd always start a race right at the back as he wanted to pass other people rather than be passed by them but he'd finish much further up the field than you might have expected. With his quiet determination and never-give-up attitude he really embodied the parable of the tortoise and the hare!
Of course, it wasn't just running that dad did. He was also a fantastic sailor, organising trips for work colleagues all around the world. He also rowed, scuba dived and even took part in dragon boat racing. He honestly never passed up an opportunity to try something new - even learning circus skills for several years.
Another friend was Quenton, who is here today. Their friendship has only got stronger in recent years after dad's cancer diagnosis. Quenton regular drives all the way from Devon to Manchester to visit my parents. His and dad's ‘boys days out' were also legendary, which they financed from their ‘fun and frolics' fund!
I think dad's closest friend and most meaningful relationship was with my mum, though. Despite some ups and downs, they were together for 60 years and married for over 56, which in this age of throwaway relationships is incredibly inspiring. While dad might have got occasionally frustrated by mum's habit of finishing his sentences, this showed their deep bond and instinctive understanding of each other. Dad might not have been the most demonstrative person with his emotions but he ensured that mum knew just how much she meant to him. In the last year he was making sure that all the things that needed sorting around the house were done as he didn't want mum to have to worry about anything after he was gone. And just the day before he died he went up to mum in the kitchen, put his arms around her and told her how much he loved her.
Dad was particularly appreciative of mum's cooking and the family joke when I was growing up was that after a meal he'd always say that the food was so good that mum could set up a little stall at the end of the road selling it to passing motorists!
One of the many things that I'm sure John, Quenton and everyone who knew dad would say is what a wonderful experience talking to him was. It's rare in these busy, self-centred times to find someone who truly, properly listens to you. But that's what dad did every time you had a conversation with him. He honestly made you feel that you were the only person he'd ever want to listen to and that everything you said was important. I'll really miss that.
Despite his amazing qualities, he was also a product of his generation. And that brought with it certain attitudes, for instance to LGBT people. The universe in its wisdom obviously felt that this presented dad with an opportunity for personal growth, though, and lo and behold dad had a gay son and trans daughter. I'll be absolutely honest and say that learning about who we were was a challenge for dad and we had some tears along the way. But I can also say that after those initial bumps, dad was open and gracious enough to change his perspective and became a huge advocate for LGBT rights and tolerance. I absolutely love the fact that he and mum have marched about 8 times in the Manchester gay pride parade, something I myself have not had the opportunity to do. He also welcomed my husband - then boyfriend - Phil into the family wholeheartedly and they developed a wonderful relationship, to the extent that Phil saw him as a second dad.
In terms of my sister Andrea, she and dad developed a very special connection after she became his daughter. They were both very similar and both very intellectual, which led to occasional friction but also an incredibly close bond. I still remember the last holiday we had before she died. We were staying in a gite in France and Phil got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night and found that they were still playing draughts, having been locked into an epic battle for about 6 hours!
His logical mind sometimes got him into trouble. In an RE lesson at school, he once asked the offbeat but entirely sensible question about what would happen if there was a race of intelligent cactus creatures on another planet and would Jesus have to be born as a cactus creature to enable them to be redeemed. His divinity master was furious at what he saw as a flippant and inappropriate question, which confused and upset my dad. I think it was incidents like this that made him wary of organised religion as although he was a bona fide man of science he was absolutely open to a universe still full of mysteries where spiritually and divine purpose could play a part. As Hamlet said, “There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
I always wanted to talk to dad about what religion meant to him, how it sat alongside his understanding of the scientific building blocks of life, like quarks and gluons, and what he thought happened after death. I'm sad that we never had that conversation. From what I saw in his last few years, though, there seemed to be a sense of peace in him and while I suspect he hated the thought of leaving all the things that he found interesting, beautiful and inspiring in this material world - and especially of course of leaving my mum - I don't feel he was scared of death. As someone who's spent my life worrying about what happens when - to return to Richard Dawkins' quote - I close my eyes again after my brief time in the sun - I find that deeply reassuring.
Despite having one of the most brilliant minds of his generation, it's comforting that some things baffled even him. I lost count of the number of times I tried explaining how the internet worked, for instance. His understanding of technology pretty much stopped with mainframe computers and FORTRAN programming. When I was little I'd love seeing the punch cards he'd kept from his university days in Bristol in the early 1970s where he'd be allocated just a few minutes of time each week for his computer programmes to run on the mainframe. As I got older it felt ironic that despite being at the absolute cutting edge of the digital revolution in the 1960s and 70s his technological skills had never really moved on and he was baffled by modern gadgets like smart phones and internet TVs. I love the fact that he refused to use software more recent than Microsoft Office 2003.
And despite the many times I've explained it to him, I don't think he ever actually understood what my job is!
In the early naughties he started getting double vision and headaches and after being a typical male and ignoring these symptoms for some time, he was eventually diagnosed with a pituitary adenoma, a benign tumour in his brain. Surgery followed in 2004, and then radiotherapy, which while successful left him needing to take all sorts of hormonal supplements.
He found it frustrating following this surgery that nominal aphasia slowed down and got in the way of his ability to discuss things in depth. Most of the time if you didn't rush him he'd eventually find the word, or an alternative, but occasionally he'd give up in a brief flash of exasperation.
I still feel angry that his lung cancer could have been caught so much earlier. Over a couple of years he was in and out of hospital with breathing problems and when the cancer was finally diagnosed it was unfortunately in a very advanced state. While a lesser man could have been very bitter about this, dad took it remarkably on the chin. I once heard him express frustration in the mildest of ways but other than that he just got on with life, despite the punishing routine of hospital visits, tests and treatment which the aggressive cancer entailed.
Over his last few weeks he'd been suffering from unusually severe side effects and for a while hadn't even felt up to reading, which as everyone will know is unprecedented for as serious a bibliophile as him! But mum tells me that the day before he died he was feeling so much better that he fell asleep reading one of his favourite maths textbooks. While for me - and perhaps many of us - that sounds like a punishment, for him it would have been an absolute treat.
On a side note, if anyone knows what mum and I can do with about 3,000 science and maths books that my dad had collected please do let us know…
So, dear friends, while I could continue talking for as long as there were people here to listen to me, I'm also aware that dad hated being the centre of attention and so I should probably draw this to a close.
- dad's love of classical music and how he could recognise almost any piece from the first few notes
- my disappointment that he never wrote the definitive secondary school maths textbook he always talked about
- how he no longer liked flying but told mum recently he'd be willing to go back to Thailand with her if she wanted to go
- just how much he loved and was proud of his 2 grandsons - Robert and Cameron
- and finally, he taught me through his example that it's entirely socially acceptable to do the world's loudest sneezes...
As many people have said since he died, he was a gentleman through and through. And while he saw life as a serious business and not to be treated flippantly he lived it with a twinkle in his eye, always ready for the next adventure.
I'm so sad that he didn't quite make it to 80, as we had so many things planned to make it as special as we did for mum. But I'm even sadder that we - and in fact the universe - have lost such a great mind and a man of compassion, wit, erudition, resilience, kindness, generosity, and respect.
I hate the fact that he's no longer here as I keep thinking of things I want to tell him or ask him. But we've all been so enriched by the time we spent with him and for that I'm truly thankful.
I was reading Orna Verum the other day and saw that dad said that in each generation of every family an effort should be made to continue the narrative for the benefit of all who follow on. I hope that this talk has in some small way continued dad's narrative. For as long as our stories are remembered by those who love us, we are never really gone.
