My dad, the bank robber

ANYONE in their mid-thirties with an ounce of rebellion in their soul will remember Daddy was a Bank Robber, by the Clash.

I can remember sitting in my bedroom, playing that single over and over again, memorising the words.

I was the adopted daughter of a law-abiding Dorset schoolteacher and how I craved the romance of it all.

I had no idea then, as a music and crime-obsessed teenager, that two decades on I would attend the funeral of a real-life bank robber, called Bobby King, and that I would be present at the funeral because he was my father.

I was 32 when I found out the identity of my natural parents. For years, they had simply been names in letters that my adoptive parents had received from the Children's Society.

My "putative" (such an insulting word) father's occupation was given as "painter and decorator". Presumably, it was considered potentially prejudicial to inform prospective parents that they were about to adopt the child of a criminal.

Like many adopted people, my origins were shrouded in mystery, secrecy and, worse still, misinformation.

Searching for birth parents is not an easy task practically or emotionally and it wasn't until my birth mother contacted the Children's Society that I had any success.

After finding her, it was relatively straightforward to locate Bob, his infamy certainly helped speed up the process.

One night, fuelled by a desperate need to know and rather too much wine, I rehearsed my words, found the courage and telephoned him. The emotional impact of hearing my father's voice for the first time was without precedent. It was such an absurd thing to be doing - phoning a total stranger to tell him that I was his daughter.

Getting the words out was an enormous struggle, all I wanted to do was to slam down the phone and forget the whole awful mess. I had no idea how he was going to react. By this time I was pretty sure of my facts but I was only too aware that if he decided to refute what I was saying, there would be very little I could say or do.

As I was soon to discover, his reaction to my garbled news was actually very much in character. He swore and said: "Are you sure"?

It was an extraordinary journey, travelling from Brighton to London to meet Bob for the first time.

Thankfully, most of us meet out parents long before we are 32. In most families, even if a mother or father is not there, evidence of them is. Bob's absence from my life had been complete - no photos, no family anecdotes.

All I had to go on was the brief, fabricated reference to him in my adoption papers, rather vague recollections of his criminal tendencies from my birth mother and one very fraught telephone conversation.

I was in such a state, I found it almost impossible to navigate the underground.

I remember staring at the tube map, clutching the directions Bob had given me over the phone.

I was on the verge of tears and convinced that if I had lost the ability to read, I certainly wouldn't be able to speak to a stranger who was also my father.

Despite the stressful journey, I arrived early at Bob's aptly chosen venue, a pub called the Starting Gate. It was an unusually hot day, which didn't help matters. I was horribly sticky, feeling sick and shaky.

Ordering a pint of Guinness was all I could do not to confide in the barmaid the reason for my distracted demeanour.

I chose a table with a clear view of the door, pretended to read a newspaper and thanked God that I hadn't yet given up smoking.

As neither of us had the foresight to plan how we would recognise each other, I was obsessed by the horrifying notion that I might accuse the wrong man of being my father.

Such a ghastly mistake would not have seemed out of place on such a peculiar day. It is perhaps hard to believe but as soon as Bob walked into the bar, recognition was immediate.

I watched him order his drink, walk towards me holding his tobacco - the same brand as mine - and his newspaper and I was certain, absolutely certain, that this was my father.

There was something about his posture and the shape of his face. Even before I heard him speak, he reminded me of myself. During the next four hours we entertained each other with stories of our lives and perhaps surprisingly, we liked each other.

It was a surreal experience, sitting in unfamiliar surroundings, opposite someone who was and was not my father, yet I remember it fondly.

We were both at pains to put each other at ease and initial fears gradually vanished. There was so much to tell. I had recently qualified as an English teacher but it had taken me rather a long time to get there.

Like my birth mother, I'd had my first child as an unmarried teenager but unlike her, I was able to keep my baby. The terrific support I had received from my parents enabled me to pass some A-levels and go to university. While studying for a degree in literature I further complicated things by having a second child at a ridiculously impractical time.

I described sitting my finals with a newborn daughter sleeping in her pram just outside the exam hall, nipping out to breast feed in between struggling with essays on feminist theory - the irony was not lost on Bob.

He was delighted that I had such great parents and was more than a little relieved to find that I had at least some understanding of going about life unconventionally.

Bob's tales of the crimes he had committed, his conviction for armed robbery and his ten-year stretch in prison were turned into comic routines as he beautifully imitated the voices of lawyers and social workers.

I was astounded by the extent of his involvement in the criminal world. He told me that in prison he had a choice, either become an obsessive bodybuilder or an obsessive reader. He opted for the latter and was delighted to find that I loved the same obscure books.

Imagined or real, I am still staggered by the common ground we discovered. On subsequent occasions, friends of mine met Bob and were equally struck by the uncanny resemblances, particularly by the mannerisms we shared.

Before finding my birth parents I had never really given much credence to genetic inheritance, always believing that environmental factors were of primary importance.

I am still struggling to understand how I could possibly have inherited characteristics from a father I had never known.

Long-held assumptions I had had about my identity and place in the world, were shifted in the space of an afternoon.

Not only had I met this most unusual man, I also discovered that he already had two sons. Having grown up as the eldest of two adopted daughters, I was suddenly also the younger sister of two half brothers.

Understandably, my fascination was overwhelming. Who were they? Where were they and what did they do? My head spun with questions.

Bob was happy to talk about my brothers, clearly proud of the fact that both had steered clear of crime.

Convinced that they would be as curious as I was, Bob promised to tell them of my existence.

Returning home that day I was elated and exhausted. I now had some understanding of the affair that had led to my birth, my origins had finally become less mysterious.

The following day I received a postcard from Bob; scrawled on the back was an extract from a poem.

I can wade Grief Whole Pools of it I'm used to that.

But the least push of Joy Breaks up my feet.

Perhaps Bob was better suited to the hardships of prison life than to the potential joys of fatherhood.

He could never be a father to me in the way my adopted father was. Meeting my birth father served to deepen the love and gratitude I feel towards my mum and dad.

The conflicting loyalties I experienced after the initial exhilarating rush of excitement at finding Bob were often agonising. I had absolutely no idea how to fit this man into my life. The emotional fall-out was enormous and finding any resolution was unfortunately hindered by Bob's habit of drinking large amounts at rather inappropriate times.

Contact became difficult and despite good intentions we gradually lost touch. Instead I found myself in bookshops searching the true crime section for his name.

I listened to him talking on radio programmes and learned about his involvement in films through newspaper articles.

The impact of adoption upon ordinary people is full of irony and paradox. I learned that I am the daughter of a man who successfully stole from a bank only two doors away from where my adoptive parents were then living.

Only months before finding out who he was, I had watched him in a TV documentary on violent crime describing how best to organise an armed robbery, totally innocent of the fact he was my father.

I have still to reconcile being the daughter of a man capable of demanding money from people by waving a shotgun and yet able to express himself through the poetry of Emily Dickinson.

No matter how much Bob deviated from the long-imagined fantasy father I invented as a child, I am glad I found him when I did. Hearing Daddy was a Bank Robber on a jukebox the other day, I was astonished to find that I can still remember all the words.

With a distinct sense of irony, I realised that the song I learned so very long ago still has the power to move me.