For family reasons, it always strikes me how many great men pushed the boat out to 82 before capsizing in a blaze of glory.
There was Sinatra, Tolstoy, Olivier, Caan, plus a few formidables not so easily identifiable by one name, such as Cary Grant, Ansel Adams, and my paternal grandfather Cyril Pafford who died thirty years ago this month.
Strangely, all four of the people I knew as my grandparents were Scorpios. One opposite M/F pairing were born a week apart in October, plus my maternal grandmother and paternal grandfather being born a day apart in November.
We were fortunate in being from a multi-ethnic and multi-class background, with the November two being from the posh officer class end of the family line. Polymnia, my Greek gran was born in Thessaloniki while my Welsh/English grandfather Cyril Edgar Samuel was born in the Merseyside area of Seaforth — originally Safforde “sea ford” — historically a Lancashire Conservative stronghold and now part of the Port of Liverpool.
Cyril Pafford‘s brother William happened to be born in Karachi, while their sister Cymraes (Welsh for ‘Welsh Woman’) hailed from Calcutta. The Paffords were a naval family, see, and were usually born in forces hospitals in port cities.
Cyril died just six weeks after I moved to London, and it was almost like the powers that be decreed that it was his time, and that it was fine because I’d be around to look after my grandmother.
Ironically, on his last night on planet earth I was at Bar Industria’s ABBA night in Hanover Street, run by DJ Fat Tony and MARRS man turned future Pet Shop Boys manager Dave Dorrell. I was woken up the next morning by the house phone ringing at the two-up two-down in Acton that I shared with Judi, who’d moved down from Buckinghamshire with me.
“Steve, it’s Jude.”
“Hi Jude, but why are you calling me? Where are you?”
“I’m at your gran’s in West Hampstead.”
“Eh? What are you doing there?”
“Er, your grandfather died last night.”
“What?!”
Cyril had had a heart attack at 82, the same age and cause of death that would claim Cary Grant and Frank Sinatra six years either side of my grandfather.
This was the first time I’d personally received news over the phone that someone had died, and a good eight years before I owned a mobile.
Naturally I felt terrible that this was all happening while I was out partying (to be honest, the ABBA night was a bit too teeny and Bruce and I didn’t go again). My gran had phoned the house for help and Judi, being the great friend that she was, rushed to her aid and ended up staying the night, waiting until I got there around 10am.
I wasn’t always the easiest housemate to live with, but I’m sure I thanked Judi at the time. And I’d like to again thirty years later. You’re one in a million babe x
Cyril Edgar Samuel Pafford 12 November 1910 — 21 November 1992
Steve Pafford
