SAM ROBERTS

Father’s Bar

My father owns a bar. He bought it when he left my mother and flew across the Channel to live with Delphine. The bar is on the corner of rue des Faures, an old part of the city close to the Garonne. If you look it up online, the first thing you’ll find is a photo of my father knocking out a punter.

He’d started to write me. Come and see your old dad, he’d started to say. And bring your new woman. Delphine will cook up a stew.

I’d always hated stew — we’d argued about it when I was a child — and I’d been with Fay for four years.

Fay told me her dad had started to change when he turned seventy. How the cold, demanding man from her childhood had started to say he loved her and was proud of her whenever he called. How he’d started to care about how she was doing when she lost her job and ask if there was anything he could do to support her. Maybe the same thing’s happening with yours, she said. I said I doubted my father had that in him but she told me to cut him some slack.

I told him I’d visit for a weekend. He suggested the summer, so we settled on July. I boarded a plane and picked up some flowers from the airport. Fay stayed at home so she could watch our Labrador, Bruno. I know it’s easier for you like this, she said. 

We sat facing the cafés on the other side of the square.

Are you good with the beer? he said. We’re known for the wine here. I’ve a bottle I’ve been waiting to open, he said.

I’m fine with the beer, I said.

Well, it’s good to see you, he said. The beard looks good on you, he said.

He’d brought me a shot to go with the beer.

Get that down you, he said. Father to son, he said.

We downed them. Mine tasted like Sambuca. It reminded me of college.  

Disgusting, I said.

Listen, he said. You’re old enough to know a few things.

It’s OK, I said.

I just want to be clear. When I left.

It’s fine, I said. I’d rather we didn’t.

He squinted at this big church in the centre of the square. They were fixing one of the buttresses and had put up a wall which was covered in graffiti.

I think you’ll like Delphine, he said. She’ll be back soon. She’s getting the supplies from a shop in Chartrons.

I’d told my mother I was going. She was seeing this new guy, Rob, who was six years older than me. Your choice, she’d said. Will you tell me if he’s fat? The last photo I saw of him he was looking really fat.

He had put on weight, which would no doubt please her. He was looking old. He had that red bloated look you get from too much wine.

We’d like to show you the city, he was saying. But I don’t know. Perhaps you’ve other plans.

You can show me the city, I said. Why not, I said.

You know, when I came out here, I never knew if things would last. All I knew is I had to get away. Delphine, it’s the longest I’ve been with a woman other than your mother. I’m happy you’ll finally get to meet her.

He drank his pink wine. His right hand shook whenever he lifted the glass.

Look, those last few years with your mother. Well, I’m sorry you both got pulled into that.

You don’t need to apologise, I said.

Your Auntie Claire told me everything, he said. About the baby.

I nodded. Drank my beer.

And your brother’s OK?

He’s OK. We don’t speak that much.

He nodded.

I remember when you wanted to be footballers. The only problem was I could never get you up on Sundays to play. Do you still like your sleep?

No, we get up now, I said. I’m thirty-eight and Ian’s forty-three. Tell me about Delphine, I said.   

He lit a cigarette, offering me a smoke.

I’m good, I said.

She saved me, you know. Delphine’s a good woman. I know you might not like to hear it but back in the day, I’d often sit on the sofa with your mother and just think, what am I doing here. And I knew she was thinking it too, even though I was the one that made the decision.

Maybe I’m prying here but on those boring evenings with Fay, when you’re lounging about with nothing else to do, I’m sure you still have that feeling that there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. Well, that’s what I have with Delphine.

An old French man without teeth walked behind my father, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Bernard! my father said. Bernard, c’est mon fils! Fresh from my loins.

I shook his hand. His face looked like it was falling into itself. He said something but I couldn’t work out if it was English or French. I nodded along with my father, who directed him to the bar.

That’s Bernard, my father said. He’s one of my best customers.

You don’t say. What does he do to be able to spend his whole time drinking? I said.

He’s retired but I don’t know if he ever worked. I don’t know if he’s ever had teeth, to tell you the truth.

It hit me that I didn’t much care for anything my father was saying. How I was just being polite. How I was soon to meet the woman who broke up our family and have to pretend I was happy to meet her.

It’s really good to see you, Son.

He got up and hugged me. It was strange but I hugged him back. It felt like the right thing to do. He was, after all, my father.

To think Delphine’s closer to your age than mine, he said. Hey, don’t try anything, he said. I might be old but you’ve got good genes in that department. Nothing to worry about there.

Listen, I’m going to get that bottle, he said. Special occasions and all that. You just wait, you don’t get wine like this anywhere else. You’re going to love it.

I watched him walk inside and looked out at the church. When I saw him disappear, I walked towards the wall with the graffiti. Then I kept on walking. Before long I was in another bar on the other side of the city.

 Sam Roberts is a writer living in London. He works for Granta Magazine.