Show and tell

I am demob happy on my final day at work. Nobody is in, my boss is working from home and the list of things I have to do, while not getting any shorter, is starting to look a lot less important. Besides, it’s a red letter day because I am meeting my dad for lunch, something which never happens. He is between spells working out in the States and has realised - not a moment too soon - that he doesn’t live all that far from my office.

I get the call from him, rush down the stairs, scuttle out of reception and jump into his car. I feel a bit like I’m bunking off, though I successfully fight the urge to ask him to take me to the zoo. Lunch in a proper restaurant on a school day seems strangely decadent and we sit outside, even though it’s not strictly warm enough to do so, because we can. He orders a glass of red and I have a glass of rose, to get in practice for the holiday my brain is half on already.

“I brought my new toy to show you!” I tell him. This is true, I packed it in my bag specially, because he’s one of the few people I know who would appreciate it.

“Excellent, I thought I told you to. Let’s have a look at it.”

He coos over my new camera, raises it to his eye and enthuses. He’s always been a camera fan; I get that from him I think.

“You can see my latest toy too.” he says, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a fountain pen. My dad must have over fifty of these by now - fat ones, thin ones, ones with italic nibs, ones with oblique nibs, ones you fill with a pump, ones you fill by squeezing, solar powered ones, you name it. He’s never been one for doing anything by halves. I take the lid off, inspect the nib, try to look knowledgeable.

“How do you fill it up?”

My dad is beside himself with excitement at this stage.

“Twist the bottom of it!”

I do, and the nib slowly rises up out of the body of the pen, like an organ coming through the floor in an old-time music hall. The waiter, who introduced himself by name (“Hi, I’m Mark and I’m going to be your waiter today”) when we sat down and seemed a bit peeved that we were talking too much to show interest in the specials on his blackboard, must wonder what to make of us - two grown men getting excited about our new gizmos.

We talk about all sorts of things. My dad is impossible on the phone, he only rings you if he has information to convey and once it’s done you can’t keep him on the line however many questions you ask or tricks you try. But in person he couldn’t be more different; he’ll hold forth about anything. So we discuss his work, my work, my holiday, family and general gossip. This contract is the last one before he retires, and I can’t imagine what will happen then. My dad has worked hard all my life, somehow the image of him pottering isn’t one I can conjure up.

“What do you think you’ll do?”

“I don’t know. It was much easier a few years back when I had more stuff going on.”

“What, like the poetry?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

It’s a shame my dad stopped writing his magnificent poems. I don’t know whether he dried up, or gave up, or just got fed up. And the irony isn’t lost on me, that he owns all these beautiful pens but the words that come out of them are probably prosaic stuff - shopping lists, or notes of work meetings, signatures on cheques and letters. I can’t help but feel that they deserve better. It’s odd that he moved away from the act of creation and into the mechanics of the equipment. I suppose he’s never really stopped being an engineer.

“Do you think you’ll ever pick it up again?”

“I don’t know, I might do. I do try from time to time, but it’s not easy.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve been finding it difficult too.”

Instead my dad tells me that he can see himself fixing fountain pens when he retires, repairing and restoring them. I get an image of him squinting at a desk, looking at nibs and fillers by the light of an anglepoise lamp, and suddenly I can imagine my dad pottering after all. It is a very comforting thought.

“I suppose it’s the one time that the age gap between you and Tricia might be a problem, in that she’ll still be working.”

My dad makes a wry face, as if to say don’t be so stupid, kid.

“I don’t know, somebody’s got to keep making some money while I’m at home.”

I don’t think he means it.

The time passes much too fast, but there’s still enough of it for dessert. We make a pact that each of us will have dessert provided the other one does, and I have a sneaking feeling he’s using my gluttony as an excuse to indulge. I don’t mind, I’m happy to help him out. At the end he drives me back to the office, even though I don’t really want him to.

“I need to be back for this two o’clock call. If I’m not running it, it will just descend into anarchy.”

I never feel less like a convincing grown-up than when I’m talking to my dad about work. I wonder if he can tell.

There’s no big moral to this story, no magical denouement. We say goodbye in the car and I clamber across and give him a big hug. It may be months before I see him again. But later that afternoon I find myself thinking about how much things change. My dad was fearsome when I was a kid, then he was distant when I was a teenager, and now I’m an adult he’s something else, something I might struggle to describe. But when we sat in the sun, having lunch for the first time in as long as I can remember, taking a childish delight in one another’s gadgets, it was almost like we were eight year old friends.