My father, Peter Owen, who has died aged 76, served as a shop steward, first for the Amalgamated Union of Engineering Workers during the 1960s and 70s, and then, after his colossal efforts at self-education led to an English degree and a white-collar job in the late 1980s, the National Association of Local Government Officers.
He was born Carl Zetterberg to Nellie Mae, an unmarried servant from Swansea, and was adopted and renamed at the age of two. Growing up in Enfield Lock, north London, Peter roamed the fields, swam in gravelpits and reconnoitred bombsites. His taste for exploring eventually led him to a school cupboard, which yielded two finds: the poetry anthology Palgrave's Treasury and a pile of art magazines. These opened doorways through which he walked, and towards which he led others throughout his life.
Never without a sketchbook, Peter drew with deft precision and won a scholarship to Hornsey School of Art, north London. With no family support, however, at 15 he began work as a labourer. At night, he crossed London to attend classes, and during the day he garnered a different sort of education. Socialism became Peter's engine and lodestar. Refusing national service, he served time in Wormwood Scrubs prison.
When he retired, by then an educational welfare officer for Waltham Forest council, Peter finally went to art school. By now, though, breathlessness was evident, and he was diagnosed with asbestosis. A year ago he and Sheila, his wife of 53 years, moved into a nursing home. Although his own world shrank to the dimensions of his bed, Peter remained engaged with global events. He met his decline with dignity and grace. Only when Sheila died in October 2010 did he waver. Gravely ill, but facing the situation with his usual clarity and courage, he took his own life. He is survived by my sister, Carel, and me, his three grandchildren, Ellenor, Rosa and Theo, and a great-grandson, Leon.