My Dad – Roger Toone

In the early hours of the morning, on Friday 16 September 2022, my Dad died. We received a phone call to come to the hospital quickly and as I sped through a quiet Northampton I feared the worst, but did not want to voice my fears whilst my Mum was sat next to me. I knew a life altering event had happened. He had just had a hip operation the week before and had taken ill a few days before his death. As a fit man it was sudden and unexpected and a huge shock to us as a family. As the healthcare professionals gave us the news, it didn’t really sink in and I immediately comforted my family as best as possible.

I went to see Dad lying in his bed in the hospital. He was in a ward with six bays of cubicle rail. My Dad, my brother and I all have this thing whenever we walk into a hospital, or school or somewhere like that; we immediately look at the curtains or blinds they have in the windows and assess whether they were put up by our family business. As I walked through I knew the cubicle rails were ones we’d installed. As I sat down I knew the vertical blind in the window was installed by us. I didn’t even have to look for our sticker. He died surrounded by products his company had put up. At the time it raised a weak smile and was oddly comforting.

I love my Dad and I know that he loved me. Soon after his death I worried that I hadn’t told him that recently. Then I remembered that during the summer we were performing together in Richard III. Due to the parts we were playing, we both had a lot of time backstage. I’d go and hide as I knew if I sat with the rest of the cast, I’d mess around and wouldn’t be focused, and I wanted to be on top form. He’d be sat with the rest of the cast, gently winding people up or telling funny stories. And he always hit his mark both on and off stage. During the second half, Dad and a good friend of his would sneak off for a quick early night cap. They thought they were being stealthy but everyone knew. He came and found me during the first performance. He told me how proud he was of me and that he loved me. I told him that I loved him and we had a big hug. Dad was a good hugger. He was always so proud of me when I performed onstage and I will always be proud that I introduced him to acting. He gave 100%, always.

The family have been overwhelmed by the love, support, messages and memories of Dad. And I want to thank everyone who has extended their sympathies. It is a great comfort to know how much he helped people and how many people he had a positive impact on. Someone described him as a legend, and that word gets used way to flippantly now, but fuck me, my Dad is a legend.

In memory of Dad, should you wish and please note you’re under no obligation, we’re proposing donations to two charities. Chance to Shine is a charity giving all children the opportunity to play, learn and develop through cricket. Dad was so passionate about playing and watching cricket. He played an adult Northants league match every season for fifty seasons. The Nationwide Association of Blood Bikes provides a professional rapid response medical transport service to the NHS, free of charge. Dad gave eighty-one pints of blood which he was immensely proud of.

My brother and I now run the family business. Dad would come in once a month (with Mum obvs) to discuss how the business was getting on and talk through any big decisions we had to make. He’d offer his support and an opinion or two, but mostly told us to keep going. He liked to have his say but was very good at not getting too involved and he understood that ultimately, we had to make the decisions. I’ll miss not having him at the head of the table, but Dad had a little saying that he stole from Winston Churchill. KBO – keep buggering on.