Dad has lined up three coasters along the edge of the table. He flips and catches them one by one.
There’s Granddad, up to his old tricks, I think.
“Another pint, Dad?” I ask.
Dad sighs, as if he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Yeah, why not?”
I could answer this question. I could answer it at length. I don’t.
I get us some drinks and sit down. I’ve still got half my wine left. Fuck it. I’m going to finish it before moving on to the soft drink.
“What you got there?” Dad looks at my lemonade.
“G and T. Fancied something refreshing.”
Dad nods and sips his pint.
I feel weird drinking my wine. A pregnant woman on the sauce. I know that, technically, it’s not like pregnant women are banned from booze, but it does feel transgressive. Not in a good way. How much can it affect a baby at this stage, though? It’s not like the baby has taste buds yet. It’s not like the baby has a liver or a brain. Maybe it does. How many weeks am I now? I’m further along than I was with Lucy.
I put down my glass and glance at my pocket, making sure the test isn’t poking out. I can feel its presence as though it were red hot. I want to scream or be sick. I grip the table like it’s a cliff edge. “So, how are things with Reveka?” I ask.
Dad wrinkles his nose. “Reveka? Says I don’t show enough interest in her sprog. Wants me to go to this music recital he’s doing. Plays the bassoon, apparently.”
I don’t remember my dad coming to any of my choir performances when I was younger. I only really went to choir practise because Chris Fox was an alto. I’d have hated my dad to have seen me gawping at Chris as I sang cantatas. Or at least, that’s what I told myself, because Dad never came.
My jealousy must be written on my face, because Dad says: “Couldn’t stand all that stuff when you were little. Recitals and plays and whatnot. Sitting there on me tod, while all the other mums and dads played happy families.”
“I thought you didn’t come because of the ‘pomp and ceremony.’”
Dad throws a pork scratching into his mouth. “Yeah, that too.” He chews for a long time before swallowing, and then says: “You know, I got really down in the dumps last year. Remember when I said I couldn’t come to yours at Christmas? Told you I had the flu? I went to Wetherspoon’s for a turkey pie. Just me and my shadow. Didn’t feel like company. But then I met Reveka. She made me feel better. I haven’t treated her right. I never get it right.”
That’s not true, I want to say. It’s me that keeps messing up.
I listen to Dad as he discusses what went wrong with all his old carers, and why Reveka is different. I listen as he talks about women and how complicated they are for two more rounds.
After draining the dregs of his fourth pint, he looks at me, hazy-eyed, and says: “Not thirsty tonight, kid? Ah well. Fancy a moon walk?”
“Moon walk?”
“Yeah, you know. A night-time stroll. Clear away the cobwebs.”
“Oh, right. Sure, Dad.” My voice is softer and more childlike than it was earlier. “As long as we can get chips.”
My dad gets up unsteadily and ruffles my hair. “Blimey, Sol, when did you last wash this mop?”
We head out of the pub. The sky is layered with dusky pinks. The tiniest slice of moon is showing. It’s a waning crescent. In a couple more days, it will surrender into oblivion.
Dad whistles. “Impressive, innit?”
“Always,” I say, looking up.
“Red sky at night, I guess.”
We go around the corner and get ourselves chips in polystyrene cones, then start walking along the harbour.
“You probably don’t remember this,” says Dad, skewering several chips at once with his wooden fork. “But there was this one holiday we went on. Me and you and your mum. Your mum passed away that winter, but this was the summertime. You must have been two. Your mum, she let you have a battered sausage. It was at the beach, in Skegness. You picked up the sausage like this, with your fingers in pincers, and after licking it for a bit, you dropped it in the sand. You were so upset that—”
Dad does that awkward dance with someone for a few moments, where you’re trying to pass each other, but you keep looking like you’re about to butt heads. Finally, they pick different directions and walk on.
“People everywhere tonight,” he says.
There’s a group of women heading towards us, all wearing purple T-shirts saying “Night-Time Memory Walk” on the front. They’ve got purple wigs on, too, plus glow-stick necklaces and bracelets.
“Bet they’re cold,” says Dad.
“What happened after I dropped the sausage?”
“You buried it. Dug a grave in the sand so the seagulls couldn’t have it. Made me and your mum say a few words.”
I smile. “What did you say? Can you remember?”
“Oh, something like, ‘Goodbye sausage, you were loved. May you rest in peace. Mushy peace.’”
“Very funny.”
“It was sweet, though, seeing how much you cared. We asked if you wanted another and you burst into tears.” He puts a greasy hand around my shoulder and kisses me on the forehead with salty lips. “Love you, pup.”
We zigzag through the cobbled streets, towards home. There’s a group of women in purple T-shirts lighting candles and laying them down around a stone fountain. Some of them are clasping hot drinks. One or two of them are laughing. Many of the candles have photographs next to them.
“Dad?” I say, reaching into the bottom of my chip cone and collecting the crispy bits.
“Yes, Sol?”
“Thanks for looking after me.”
Dad squeezes my hand. He doesn’t say anything else all the way back home. When we get in, I see how tired he looks.
“I’d better hit the hay,” he
