One of the ironies of the life of my father, Peter Coates, who has died aged 80, was that although, as a minister of the church, he had the title “The Reverend”, irreverence was one of his most prominent characteristics. He apparently decided at the age of eight that his vocation was to be ordained and work with the poor, and later chose the Methodist church after hearing Donald Soper speak.
He was born in Darlington during the second world war, and never met his father, Denis, who died on active service in Egypt. His mother, Ivy, remarried but not for some years and they struggled financially.
Peter trained for the ministry at Richmond Theological College in south-west London; he married Jan Hall in 1965, was made a probationary minister 1966-68, and then as an ordained minister worked in Greenwich, south-east London, and later Crystal Palace. He would visit parishioners on his motorbike, which earned him the nickname Skid-lid Vicar.
At home he kept a drinks cabinet concealed in the bottom of an old radio gramophone, its doors kept shut when the supernumerary minister visited. He loved telling how he was stopped by the police while driving a youth club minibus full of black teenagers. During the officer’s walk from his car, Peter had time to put on his dog collar and enjoyed seeing the man’s face fall at the sight of it. His study was lined with books, and he instilled in me and my sister, Jen, a love of reading which has never left us. The room also housed a wastepaper-basket of a size that was excellent for hide and seek.
When he and Jan split up in 1979, it led to a break with the church for Peter. He worked in prison and adult education, and then on projects sponsored by the EU. He married Kathleen Taylor in 1981, and they had two sons, Philip, who died in infancy, and Alister. Peter and Kathleen both became Roman Catholics, and – while working in Moldova in 2001 – he was ordained a deacon by the bishop of Chişinău.
In 2005, Jen took him to Cairo, where he saw his father’s grave. Peter gave all his children a love of good food, wine and social justice, as well as books. He was a charmer who made friends easily and taught his children that people are fallible, and goodness is not the preserve of the saintly.
Latterly Peter and Kathleen settled in Woodbridge, Suffolk. A Labour voter all his life, my father would have wanted me to mention the exemplary care he received from the NHS in his final illness.
He is survived by Kathleen, Jen, Alister and me, and five grandchildren, Fizzy, Henry, Evie, Toby and Alice.
