I took the children out for lunch the other day, and caught the tiniest glimpse of someone so like my father my breath caught in my chest. I used to love having meals out with my parents. It didn’t happen all the time, which made it all the more exciting, but at birthdays and on holidays and for special celebrations the five of us would go out for dinner. There would be the difficult decision of whether to have a starter or a pudding (rarely both), and the thrill of being allowed something fizzy to drink. My father – hard-working, often distracted – would be for that brief period totally focused on his family. Funny, interesting, irreverent. The arrival of the bill would spark a comedy double-take. ‘How much?’ he would say, far too loudly. He would clutch his chest and loll his tongue, as though the tallied figures had caused a seizure, and I would sink into my seat, mortified beyond words. ‘Don’t!’ I’d hiss, too embarrassed to look around the restaurant to see who might be watching, thinking we had no money and were refusing to pay. The pantomime was agonisingly elaborate and seemingly endless.
That was thirty years ago, and now I have my own three children, and no father. I miss him in an abstract way which underpins everyday life, and I often wonder what he would think of the choices I have made recently. Would he consider me brave, to throw away the secure future I had in favour of life as a writer? Or disappointed that I never realised the potential I was once told I had?
The children finished their meals and I asked for the bill. The man I thought looked like my father stood up and no longer bore any resemblance to him. I found myself grateful to this stranger for unwittingly reminding me of such a fond snapshot of my childhood.
I smiled and the children asked what was funny. ‘Oh, nothing,’ I said. ‘I was just thinking of something nice.’ I looked at the bill and fell back in my seat, aghast. ‘How much?’
‘Mummy!’ came the horrified cries, ‘don’t!’
But of course I did.