This man, one of the truly great men of all time, died on Tuesday. None of you would have ever heard of him but he was, in his own way, the ultimate gentleman, an expert in his field and a totally unassuming, kind, friendly and passionate person. He was the only man I have ever known who I respected. I cared for and loved him as a second father which for some years of my life he was. He was my teacher, both in music and in life. At his kitchen table I grew up from a wild, disrespectful brat to a caring, considerate person who will give all and ask nothing: that is what he showed me and that is what he taught me. Even when too sick to get out of bed, he still taught me to play, to improve and to understand and feel the music. He taught me that it was not enough just to read the notes, you have to feel what is being played and play with your entire soul and being. He taught me the love of music and the love of teaching so that others could share in the wonder of this. I have never forgotten this and never will and if I am one hundredth the teacher he was I would be accounted fortunate.
I never used to care as a child, yet he made me. I play the bagpipes and he was my teacher. I once left my bagpipes in the back of the car all day in February 1978 - head and wood don't mix and when I went to his place and played, he knew and rounded on me with a 'You fag of a boy.' and wouldn't listen to my pipes that session. It was the only time I ever heard him angry at me, and it stopped me in my tracks and made me change. I vowed never more to disappoint him and tried my best to be the best I could in this and in everything. At that moment, I respected him and saw what he gave up for each and every pupil he ever taught, and taught for free. Not only that, but took each of them into his house, fed them and imparted knowledge and above all wisdom for all who cared to listen.
I was always a quiet person and would often sit on my chair between the fridge and the door – or occasionally the wall – and would listen as he taught others, and listen to each word he told me. Not just hear the words, but listen to them. I didn’t ask many questions because I didn’t have to – he knew and would pass on information. Sometimes I thought he was passing on his knowledge and skill to me to ensure that, when he died, his legacy would live on.
For six years I went to his house each Thursday night, learnt music there, ate meals there and slept there. For six years I never left without having learnt something, and without the feeling that I had disappointed him. Until one day in the last year of my time there when he was extremely sick and bed ridden. On that day I arrived for band practice and found that he was sick and was unable to go – but he and his wife, Val, wanted me to stay anyway. I did and was sitting on my own in the kitchen were we used to practice until my mouth was sore and my fingers about to drop off – good times! He asked Val for me to take my chanter and go and play to him. I did so and tried my hardest to make him proud. He lay back and closed his eyes, not saying anything. I played all the current tunes – about 40 minutes of work – for him and he just lay there. I didn’t know if he was asleep or not. When I had finished, he opened his eyes, turned to me, and said ‘Thank you’, then he went to sleep with a smile on his face. I felt as if I had won a Nobel prize. This was one of three times when he praised me beyond the normal ‘good’ or ‘that’ll do’ and each made the years of toil and all the heart break I have born worth while. The second time was when I played an air for him, long after I was his pupil. He stood there and listened and, as I finished, I saw a tear in his eye – the only time I ever saw him cry. He looked at me, shook my hand, and said ‘That was beautiful.’ The last time was the last time I ever saw him alive when I took a CD of my music composition around to him. He listened to it and smiled, then said that some of them were quite good. Mind you, some of them were not ‘my best’. He was sparse of his praise, but he also never criticized. If you played wrongly, he would ask you to repeat it, pointing out the part you did wrong and you played it and tried to fix the problem. If you didn’t fix it, you played it again. And again. I learnt to play well.
He went blind as he grew older, yet still taught. I went back to him on occasions to help me build up my confidence again and to bring me back into line and he was always the same patient, caring, considerate man whose love of Bagpipes was infectious – as was his smile and his wicked sense of humour. I learnt much about pipes and about people. I learnt patience, I learnt not tojudge people as many who came to learn under him were, to put it bluntly, not appreciative of him and I hated hearing how they belittled him behind his back. Yet he knew and with his ever-calm way, he kept on teaching them and never chastised them or blamed them.
Not that he didn’t have a temper - he did, yet it was over quickly and, after my episode with the hot pipes, I only ever saw it from outside. He never bore a grudge.
He loved Val, his wife, very much as he did his daughters. He was a proud father and would always share with me what his daughters were up to: I felt I knew Ruth, Helen and Joan before I ever met them. Val took me in, calling herself my ‘Bendigo Mother’ and made sure I was well looked after. She has a golden heart and it broke my heart today to see her as Fred was lowered into the ground. Fred used to stir her with a cheeky grin – like a young child – and she loved him the more for it. If he was patient with his charges, she must have been a Saint! I remember doing crosswords with her in the mornings before I had to leave for school. She even taught me to like potatoes. I have cooked them as she showed me ever since. I never properly said thank you to her for all her years of care: I thanked her each time she looked after me and ‘paid’ (to my mind) for their care by chopping wood and whatever else I could. It wasn’t until my last visit when I had written a tune for her and she cried as she thanked me with a hug that I realised everything that she had done for me and for others and she knew at that moment, how much she meant to me.
Every time I played my pipes in public I thought that Fred would be listening and always tried to play for him. When I made a mistake or something happened, I felt I had let him down. I guess he won’t be there behind me, waiting to catch me out any more. But he is still there, inside me, and I will not let him have worked for nothing.
He taught through love of the instrument, and love of the music, never charged, never complained (ok, he complained, but about other things), still kept playing until he was too sick to play any more. He was buried in the uniform he loved and, had I had my pipes there, they would have gone with him as a final tribute to the greatest man I have ever known.
Here’s to you Mr Roberts, tutor, Pipe Major, father and friend. Here’s to the years of happiness and joy you gave to me. Here’s to the skills you taught me and the care you gave me freely. I hope I can keep your legacy burning. Your place is impossible to take, but I will always stand guard by the door. I am happy that the pain you endured in the last years of your life is now ended and I know that your spirit will live on.
Davyd.