Rishi Sunak’s early exit from D-Day memorial was disrespectful - Christa Ackroyd

Until the day he died his keys jangled from a D-Day commemorative key ring which I had brought home from a trip to the Normandy beaches more years ago than I care to remember.

It bore the date and so it was special to him not just because it was his birthday but because it was such a significant date in the history of our country. It was the day we had started to believe we could win the war, but at huge cost to human life.

When I bought it thousands upon thousands of veterans were able to make the trip to France to honour their fallen comrades. This year there were less than a hundred and by the next significant anniversary they will be gone. As my father is. But we will always remember all they did for us. And honour them the best we can. Or should do.

I can only imagine my father’s comments over the Prime Minister’s rude, disrespectful, ignorant decision to leave the 80th centenary celebrations. My father was a quiet man, not prone to anger. He thought before he spoke. And I never heard him raise his voice.

But I know he would have shared my sense of shame that while everyone was there from kings to world leaders, ours was not. And that told the world what Mr Sunak’s priorities were. Short term personal expediency had superseded duty.

Well they are not the priorities of the rest of the country. And he can apologise and dodge the cameras all he likes. His actions were shameful. And shamed us too.

My father’s response would have been reasoned and probably more measured than mine is today. He would have simply and quietly have said something along the lines of: “It is fortunate that the 150,000 men who stormed the beaches that day didn’t decide to duck out early too or life would have been very different.” And so it would have been.

Together we would have taken down the history books he kept on the shelf and discussed the significance of leaders representing so many countries who fought alongside us being there to honour all who landed in France that day when ours was so glaringly absent.

He would have no doubt pointed that of the 4,414 Allied troops who died in one single moment in history, almost half were American or Canadian. More than 73,000 Allied forces personnel died in the subsequent Battle of Normandy alone. 153,000 were wounded.

Twelve other countries took part in Operation Overlord. And yet our Prime Minister couldn’t stand shoulder to shoulder with those who were our allies then and now, but instead whined he had stayed for the British bits.

Remembering and honouring the past shapes our future. It reminds us that we don’t have all the answers. That people from yesterday lived and died for all our tomorrows. Even if they didn’t fight in any wars.

They were there when we needed them as we grew from childhood to adulthood. And they deserve our utmost respect. But some never got to live their lives, because they gave theirs so we could live ours.

Today is Father’s Day. I still wish every day I could pick up the phone and share moments in history with mine. But in a way I still can.

This week I have, quite by accident. I thought I knew everything about him. But that is what is so beautiful about looking into the past. If we seek it, it still informs our opinions, long after we are apart.

Regular readers will know I met my father at ten days old when I was adopted by him and my mum. Neither of us dwelled upon it. I had found my place. And he had found me. But the impact on him on him when I arrived in their lives I had never thought to ask.

He was a private man and I was never in any doubt of his love and pride. It was simply a conversation we never had.

Now thanks to a wonderful lady who saw my happy birthday post on social media this week I connected with him once more and celebrated how lucky we were to have found each other. Margaret worked in the traffic division of Bradford City Police Force.

My father was her Inspector. Her words are so beautiful and simple I want to share them with you as they were written. You will understand why they have moved me so much. It was the day his colleagues learned of my adoption.

She wrote: “It was a morning shift and I was sending and receiving messages from patrol cars. It was always a mad house in the control room. I was speaking on the radio when dad came into the room. He was a quiet man but was very well thought of by his men.

That particular day the door of the control room opened and in walked (your) dad as he did each morning. There was a large window looking out to where the police vehicles were kept. Dad went and stood with his back to the troops and gazed out if it. Most of us knew nothing about your arrival until someone said ‘Well what’s it like being a dad then ?’ There was a huge cheer and congratulations all round of course and a lot of banter between the men folk. It was all so exciting.

“Your dad was lit up like a lighthouse. He was strutting around like a peacock and continued to do so when you were ever mentioned. I remember dad proudly announcing to the team that you were to be called Christa and I thought what a lovely name.

"Very soon all of Bradford City Police knew that little Christa had arrived. He never made any secret of you being adopted, you were certainly much loved. You were so special to him and so it was such a special day. It had been the answer to a long awaited prayer I am sure.”

So thank you Margaret for an unexpected glimpse into a moment in time which reaffirmed all my father and I meant to each other, and one for which I will always be truly grateful.

Let us never say a shared past is not worth remembering and celebrating. Let us remember those who fought for us and made us in life, as in battle. Knowing the day I came home was so special for a man not given to showing his emotions has been incredible for me.

I didn’t need Margaret to tell me of the love we shared. But it was certainly uplifting to know that others there to witness that first day knew that for him it was a day he would never forgot either. Dad I am so proud that you instilled in me a respect for all those who have gone before and the sacrifices they made. And that includes you.

That you ‘lit up like a lighthouse’ on the day our worlds collided fills me with so much joy. Much missed but shining still, on Father’s Day. And every day. We will never forget. It is our duty to honour those who have made us who we are today. And we do.