When every day is father's day: Single fathers

Do single dads get a raw deal? Should they be seen as heroes for taking on a woman's role? Whether overpraised or overlooked, they can feel constantly on trial - even if they sacrifice their jobs, their friends and a life of their own. Yasmin Alibhai Brown meets four fathers who fought to keep their families together. Ken and Tom have eight children between them, and became mates through attending a support group for men. Malcolm and Tony struggled on without such help. But for all of them, the rewards are rich. They have no regrets

Sue can buy her things I can't afford

Tony Hopp lives with his 11-year- old daughter, Becky. He looks as if he should be advertising hard-man jeans or Southern Comfort. The living-room is scattered with cushions and rugs; on the wall is a poster-sized photograph of him holding a toddler. All very Nineties. But within minutes the cool image fades and his frustration erupts: 'I hate what she (his former wife, Sue) has done to my life. She wanted a baby, I didn't. I was a TV journalist, I travelled, I loved the fast life. But Sue became quite obsessive about having a baby. Then, when Becky was a year old, off she went to develop her career.'

Sue has now got into the fast lane in public relations work, while Tony has had to give up his job because his employers could not understand the time he had to take off. 'Just like Kramer vs Kramer,' he says. 'I now do the odd freelance job. It is so much harder to get sympathy from your employers if you are a man in this position. The child-minder would ring the office and say that she couldn't deal with Becky's screams. Becky needed me. I would cry at night to watch her pain, thinking only a mother could comfort her.

'Then I began to respond in more helpful ways. The first night Becky fell asleep in my arms after a nightmare I felt that I had helped her and confidence began to creep up on me. And I started to assert my own needs instead of being angry, wounded and afraid all the time.

'But I do feel I am a loser in all this. Sue made no contact in the first 18 months, and this was the hardest time for Becky because I was feeling too sorry for myself to help her and she was desperate. It was a neighbour who told me that instead of indulging myself I should deal with Becky's pain. I owe that woman a lot. She was an exception; the middle classes can be strangely cold and hard. We had all these friends, Sue and I. When she left, they just vanished. Not one rang up to ask if I needed any help.

'I once rang a couple to ask if they could have Becky, and they were very nice and said they would. But when I went to get her, they didn't ask me in, and the woman said something about a new service she had heard about for people who needed unexpected help with their children. I got the message.'

How does he feel now? 'I think it has made me less egocentric, more real and honest. I don't go out much and I am happy in myself. I learnt to enjoy things I would have scorned once - like those terrible school plays and recorder concerts. And I am proud that I coped, not only with the emotional side, but also the practical side. I made sure she was always well cared for so that nobody would feel sorry for us.

'Becky and I really know each other. She knows exactly how I am feeling and she can't hide anything from me.

'But there are problems. Sue is able to buy Becky things that I can't afford. She lives in this enormous house and last year she took her on a cruise, and now Becky often asks why she can't go and live with her mum. That really hurts. You feel helpless, without any value in the eyes of the child you are looking after night and day.

'Sue buys her clothes that are too grown-up and I find myself turning into a reactionary. Earlier this year, Becky started watching The Word and I told her to stop. She turned to me with this sneering expression and said: 'I watch it with mum. You are such an old bore'. I'd never give her up, though.

'I wish society would understand that blokes can suffer, too. You say we are hard and when we soften you despise us, so we can't win.'

Names in this article have been changed.

It certainly stopped me being selfish

Malcolm Rigg, a social researcher, brought up his son, Ashley, 19, from the age of seven. 'If you are a man doing this you get instant cred, whereas women are just expected to do it,' he says. 'I don't feel I am special, just lucky. Also lucky in that I had the money to make it easier.'

His ex-partner initially took Ashley with her, but then gave him to Malcolm, who feels a deep sense of gratitude: 'He was seven. She was desperately unhappy, I was, too, because I missed him terribly and he really wanted to live with me.'

Was he worried about what he was taking on? 'Not really. Perhaps I would have been more protective and worried more if I wasn't just so delighted to have him. Those weekly meetings left us both feeling completely ragged, it was killing us both. So I just felt joy.'

When he won custody of Ashley, Malcolm quit his job with a market research company and went freelance. The time that followed transformed him. 'It broadened my understanding, tolerance and stopped me going into myself - like feeling I had the right to switch off at the end of the day. There was no way I could do that any more, because here was someone totally dependent on me.

'I had to confront myself and the kind of person I was, and become the kind of person my child needed. He used to have these nightmares every night. Experiences like that make you learn to put your own emotions last. It certainly stopped me being selfish, the way we men find so easy to do.'

Malcolm feels that his new wife, Lesley, has played a key role in helping him to become more sensitive and cope with his ex-partner better.

'My ex-partner is a brilliant telephone mother, perhaps better than she would have been in the flesh. Of course there are difficulties. Most children have an incredibly idealised view of the absent parent and then realise that the person is not what they had constructed. They all want you to be together again, especially when they are young. There is all this defensiveness if you criticise the other parent - you can't even make a joke about them. But the bigger lesson you learn is to give your child a choice. I would never have stood in his way if he had wanted to live with his mother - though I would have been desolate.

'When Ashley had his tearaway days at 13 or 14, I was so worried he would go off the rails a bit. We went to the brink, but instead of support I got tremendous of flack from other parents. They treated us with deep suspicion and found it all desperately threatening, as if I was incapable of handling him myself and his behaviour could affect their children. I felt very isolated. I am so pleased he is such a well-rounded, mature person.'

Ashley finished his A-levels with three grade As and writes wonderfully affectionate letters to Malcolm and Lesley from the kibbutz where he is at present. Malcolm, of course, claims that he is glad Ashley and his mates are no longer around cluttering up his life and hogging the washing machine.

Men can be very protective, and a lot worse than a lioness

Tom O'Sullivan has been looking after his children, 13-year-old Donna, 11- year-old Rachel, 10-year-old Melissa and Thomas, five, for four years. He seems angry, even bitter.

'I was working for a metal firm as a supervisor, trying hard to provide for them, when another bloke appears and she leaves with my kids. I'm doing nights at the factory and he's covering for me doing nights in my bed. I had to fight to get custody. I knew I'd do a better job: if I could manage 30 blokes at work, I could look after my kids. I love them that much, I could have killed for them.'

He has had a rough time: 'They cut the electric off. I had a five-month-old son. I had to give up my job because I was worried that if I left them with someone else, my kids would have been taken into care. Just because I was a man. There was a single mother next door. Social services couldn't do enough for her.

'They told me to get back to work. I am 43 now, I have to accept that I will never make it in work again - who wants a man who has spent years being a mother? If a woman stays at home she is a housewife, but a man is unemployed.

'The stigma is terrible. I had lots of friends, where are they? What have we got in common? I can't go to football or a drink when I want and they don't want to hear about cooking or me saying, 'Oh, he's split his trousers again'.'

After this pent-up fury has been vented, Tom begins to relax and tells me with some pride how good he is at housework: 'Tonight I have cooked for six people, and it's all fresh food. I've done the washing, tipped it over my bed, so I know I have to sort it out before I can go to sleep. It took me two hours to iron the pleats on their uniforms before and I used to want to cry.'

But problems more serious than pleats worry Tom, especially as the girls are growing up. 'Men can be very protective and a lot worse than a lioness.'

But mothers are important, he says: 'I took their mother to court to get her to see the kids. At first we'd wait hours in the rain and she wouldn't come. And the kids would be that upset. She is better now and that helps us all. Donna said today, 'I am having pains, Dad, I should get some pads.' But I know that when she first thought she was going to have her period she told her mum, not me.'

Tom can hardly connect with the person he once was: 'Twenty years ago, I was very violent - did three years for robbery. I was the black sheep of my own family. Now I am a softie. The mums accept me as a woman. We stand around and gossip. I did try going out with one or two, because you need to, don't you? I mean, I am a normal man. But soon they'd start taking over my life, my kitchen. And only I look after my children.'

It is clear that the past few years have taken their toll on Tom. He looks exhausted and tense, as if he cannot let go for a single minute, in case 'they' take his kids away or their mother tries to reclaim them.

There are other hurdles: 'I have had so little help. Only one health visitor understood what I was going through. The primary teachers were patronising but sent a letter quick enough if one of them was misbehaving.

'I would go to Chris at the support centre for help or these two gay blokes round the corner, we can talk to each other. The senior school is better. Donna came second in the year for English. She's that clever, she's going to go to university. Look at us now, it's all water under the bridge. Love did it.'

Maybe they still need a mum, but I don't think about it a lot

Ken Coombes, a muscular man, with tattoos and a crewcut, opens the door to let me in and then scurries off to put on a fresh shirt. The tidy living room is festooned with photographs of his children, Christine, Ansel, Martin and Debbie, who are eight, seven, four and three respectively.

Ken, 37, used to work for Rover Cars at Longbridge. Three years ago he was made redundant and a few months later his wife left, leaving behind three children and a four-month-old baby. The marriage was already in trouble and money problems didn't help. He couldn't keep up the mortgage so he lost his house and is now living on income support. 'I'll go back into work though, once they're all at school full-time.'

He has not seen his ex-wife since winning custody. 'She hasn't been in touch. I don't know why. Perhaps she would find it too hard to hand them back each time. The kids don't ask now. Christine used to ask for her. I thought she would call at Christmas or ask the school how they were doing, but nothing. I didn't think women could do that. Maybe they still need a mum, but I don't really think about it a lot. I used to say 'she will come one day'. It's sad.'

This is the only lament Ken allows himself; he genuinely lacks any self pity or false bravado: 'It's OK really, it's great. I wanted my kids, I love them. I'm used to this, you see. My mum left my dad and I helped him to look after my brothers. The youngest was only three months old and I had to look after him.

'I was angry with my mum at first, but she explained why she did it and so now I understand. The housework and that, I've always done it and showing them my love isn't hard.'

There are unexpected perks, too, he tells me with a laugh. Women flock round to tell him what a good chap he is and how nicely turned-out the kids are. A couple of them would quite fancy moving in with him.

Such accolades must bemuse a man who says that he has not been an angel: 'I'd get into terrible fights at football matches and even spent time in a detention centre - mind you, that was a long time ago.

'You become softer and you have to change because there is no mum and you have to be both. I do it all just naturally now, not holding back, hugging them, getting excited when they are, that kind of thing.

'I remember when Christine used to cry, she missed her mum so much. I had to learn to listen, to be patient. That's all I could do and give her a cuddle. I sometimes have to turn to my mum when Chris needs help, I mean she is growing up and there are things a girl can't say to a man.

'Sometimes it's boring, but I try never to take it out on them. I take the little ones out, or go for the odd drink. The blokes have all been great. I have a best friend I can talk to if I have problems.'

Is he worried about how the children will turn out? 'I do worry about my kids. I want them to be good citizens and I hope there's something there for them when they grow up, and that their education is OK, and that, unlike me, they can get some good qualifications. But I'm not worried about anything else. I'm just doing my best.'

(Photograph omitted)