In memoriam: Jon Norton, a loyal Labour man but above all a fantastic Dad

By Henrietta Norton

My dad, Jonathon Paul Norton died last Tuesday morning at home in London.
Most people knew him as Jon, but for some reason since he died the ‘Paul’
bit in his name seems to mean more.

It feels more important than it did before. Before he died I never really
ever thought about the ‘Paul’ bit, but now I feel that all his names need
to be there – it feels like it adds weight somehow and helps emphasise a
little more all the different bits that made up my dad.

He was made up of lots of different conflicts, emotions and thoughts that I
am going to spend the next few weeks, months and probably years trying to
explain and convey.

Firstly for myself, and later when I have my children and they ask what was
our grandpa like – how am I going to begin to explain him?

My dad was a loving husband to the most extraordinary extreme. When his
second wife Mo Mowlam got sick with cancer he cared for her through the
darkest of her last months.

She wanted to be hidden and protected from the eyes of the outside world
and he did this and more. He was by her side throughout her colourful and
exciting years as Northern Ireland Secretary and would meet her in her
constituency every weekend or at Hillsbrough in Belfast.

He loved her unconditionally and supported and believed in her through all
the very best and exciting moments and through the darkest and saddest. His
heart was broken into a million pieces but his strength shone through.

He was brave to the end for Mo and for us, his children. I am so sad that I
have to write this after his death in so many ways as I hope he knew how we
all recognised his intense strength, courage and love that he possessed and
that protected both my brother and I from the sheer horribleness of Mo’s
illness and death.

He was a spectacular dad, and over the past few days I have thought lots
about how his early death was tragically bought about by his compassion and
ability to love. He was by the end of his life a broken hearted and
terribly sad man. He tried to hang on but after Mo’s death, closely
followed by his father and mothers, he found life harder and harder to get
his head around.

When we were young he was a fantastic father. He always encouraged both
mine and Freddie’s passions and oddities. The way my friends all remember
and talk of him so fondly now we are all grown up emphasises for me how
involved and engaged he was in everything we did.

He was a great cook and he would throw huge dinners for his and Mo’s
friends while Freddie and I ran around the house with our friends. Everyone
was welcome at Cleveland Road.

He loved to entertain and to host. He was intelligent and thoughtful, he
was passionate and political and he cared about people and had an ability
to empathise. He loved life, dancing all night with the Rocky Horror show
cast in Belfast or simply on the terrace to the Kinks on holidays in
Glandore.

He rarely shouted or got cross and encouraged both Freddie and I to be
everything we wanted to be. He would spend hours taking me to art shops to
buy canvases and paints and just listening.

He was always there right up until the end and I will miss calling him to
vent my latest frustration or telling him my latest idea or scheme. Even a
week ago when I called him as I walked along Islington canal he didn’t let
on to me how ill he obviously was as I chatted away.

Dad was a great friend to many, I am realising now how many people loved
him. Friends who go back to his school days, his time at Oxford university,
his days in banking and from Bahrain where he lived for a few years with my
mum, his first wife.

He has friends in the Labour party, friends from Central St Martins College
of Art in London, friends from he met through his art work. The there were
the local kids in Islington who used to sit on his front door step and knew
him by name as he chatted to them, the only one who didn’t shoo them off to
find another step to sit on.

In fact in his last weeks he kept telling me how he wanted to work with
these kids maybe and help them realise a better future for themselves.
Dad was sad when he died and he was sick by the end. He couldn’t pull
himself out of the hole and he had lost that passion and excitement about
life, but he died with many plans and deeper down I really believe he still
wanted to do so much.

His death is a great tragedy and my brother and I have lost a wonderful
father. He was a truly rare man, he loved so intensely, he was faithful and
kind, he was vulnerable but excessively brave in the darkest times.
We will miss him more than any words can explain and I think I always will,
I just hope it gets a bit easier and a little less painful.