Shortly after we moved house and a few weeks after he turned 18, my youngest son took himself down the road to the pub by the train station and applied for the job advertised on the sandwich board outside. He didn’t look old enough to be in a pub, much less work in one, but they hired him anyway; he remains their youngest employee by some margin.
I went in there once, just to see him standing behind the bar. It was both impressive and a little disturbing, like watching a monkey smoke a pipe.
A year later, on his 19th birthday, I am trying to find a present for him at a French airport. Celebrations are being delayed until my arrival home, unless a local air traffic controllers’ strike foils my plans. In the end, my flight is only 40 minutes late and I am back by lunchtime.
“Happy birthday,” I say, handing the youngest one an unwrapped package.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Olympique Marseille underpants,” I say. “It’s what everyone’s wearing.”
My wife informs me that lunch has been pushed back to late afternoon, when the middle one is due to arrive home from university. The oldest one is not available – he’s working – but his friend, Gabe, who has flown over from the States to sit an exam, is presently studying at our kitchen table.
“Then we’re all going to the pub,” my wife says.
“His pub?” I say.
“It’s what he wants,” she says.
Gabe’s industry shames me into going out to my office to catch up on some work. When the middle one comes out to find me an hour later, I am fast asleep in my chair.
It’s nearly 5pm when we set off for the pub in a straggly procession, with the dog on a lead and Gabe standing in for the oldest one. I am the last one through the pub’s door, so I am still outside when an enormous cheer goes up. Inside, the bar staff have their hands in the air.
“Happy birthday!” one shouts. “Twelve at last!”
The youngest one smiles and shakes his head at the floor. Customers call his name. A waiter hugs him.
A head in a hat pops out from the kitchen door. “How does it feel to be 14?” it asks.
“It’s great,” the youngest says. “Can we start a tab?”
We eat outside under an umbrella, the dog cowering under the table, while the youngest one explains the logistics of the pub’s new pink gin promotion. He has to break off from the disquisition frequently to acknowledge greetings from arriving staff, departing clientele, even passersby. People stop to offer to buy him a drink, or to insist that he buy them one. It is strange to think of my youngest son being so well known in this place where I know no one, so embedded in this neighbourhood that I haunt like a spectre.
Gabe fills in for the oldest one admirably by starting a debate that soon has the other two bickering. Within minutes, they are shouting over one another.
“Nicely,” my wife says.
A man, evidently a regular, pulls off his motorcycle helmet, walks up to our table and looks us over. “The whole family?” he says to the youngest.
“It’s my birthday,” the youngest one replies.
“Your birthday?” the man says. “What are you, nine?”
Afterwards, my wife insists that we go across the tracks to the funfair in the park. She offers to pay for us all to go on some kind of whirligig while she stands by with the dog and laughs at our misfortune.
“Are you kidding?” I say. “I just ate.”
Gabe also declines, but she manages to coerce the other two into a car, having already paid the attendant for it. As the ride starts, they look supremely awkward, then a little alarmed. At top speed, it goes a lot faster than I imagined it would.
I watch the pair of them go round side by side, 19 and 20 years old, their knuckles white as they grip the safety bar, laughing and turning green on alternate rotations.
I try to take a picture with my phone, but the whole thing is just a blur.
