That's living

They sat in a coffee shop off Russell Square. Far off Russell Square, through the radii first of Starbucks coffee, and then the one of houses that served decent coffee. Practically King's Cross by now. The old man added three sugars to the cup; his son, nerves already jangling, had a decaf.

"I'm so pleased for you," the father said. "I can't believe it. I still can't believe it. You've been looking for a decent job for so long. And now you're working abroad too! It's almost like the Auf Wiedersehen, Pet!"

The son rolled his eyes. "I wish we'd never got you UK Gold, Dad. All you ever do is watch that stuff."

His father barked a laugh: "Ha! If you hadn't got it, I would never have come over here. What else was there here for me?" And he began laughing, too long and too hard. He was getting old. When he realized his son had stopped, he stopped too, and sipped his coffee. "There was you, of course. And your brothers. And," he added, "your mother. I missed her a great deal." I'll miss you again now, he thought. When would he next sit down with his son?

Unprompted, his son shrugged. "It's only a short contract, you know? But... maybe it will lead to something else. Somewhere else. They're quite good about that." They were both quiet again

Dad held his hands in front of him, as if on an absent knife and fork. To be always nervous around one's eldest son, one's pride and joy. Nervous because this boy had been taller than him for years now and no boy at all; nervous at how nowadays he carried all this misery on his manboy's shoulders. It was all her fault, that Samra.... The child he remembered was a curly-haired innocent who used to looked at him with full, liquid eyes as if there was nothing else in the world.

He looked at his son and wondered. Made an effort to smile, but suddenly saw the echo of those child's eyes and grinned despite himself.

"So," he began, but comfortably, "where are they sending you? Anywhere exciting? Anywhere sunny? Barbados, maybe?"

"Dad...!" his son admonished, smiling. "You can't come along. So stop fishing."

"Who's fishing? I'm just thinking that maybe this could be an opportunity for your father, not just yourself. I could see the world."

"What, you haven't seen enough just getting here?"

His father shrugged. "I'd like to see the nicer bits before I die, my boy. The sky over Austria is the same as the sky over Hawaii, but you can't get Pacific sand in Austria.... I wonder what Pacific sand feels like," he mused, chewing on his cheek and staring through his son. Then: "So. Where are they sending you, then?"

"It's not the Pacific. Maybe we'll go to the Pacific one day, though, Dad. Qamal moved out there, didn't he? Got a job in Silicon Valley, one of them dot-coms. I wonder how he's doing?"

"Yes, you used to be such good friends. Thick as thieves, yes? But they're not sending you there, are they?"

"No." The son stirred his coffee, although it didn't need it. He put the plastic stirrer down and rearranged himself in his seat. Looking at his coffee he said: "The job's out east."

"Eastern Europe? What, Slovakia? The Balkans? What a place! Oh, you'll regret going there, I tell you. I tried getting through the Balkans, you know. Estonia."

Perking up, son said: "You never told me that, Dad. Didn't you get through in the end?"

"No, it was pretty difficult. People there don't stay bribed, which is very unfair of them. And it was so bloody cold. But, wait, I lose track. Where was it you said you were going?"

"Eastish, maybe south-east."

"Russia?"

He shook his head; bit his lip; found the words: "Home, Dad. I'm going home."

His father's head shook a little. "No."

"It's not for long."

"No."

"Seriously. Dad. It's better than it was. It's changed since you left, you know, and-"

Bang, went his father's hand on the table, and coffee spilled onto the formica top. Air rattled through his father's mouth.

"Do you not see the news?" he whispered hoarsely to his son.

"Yeah, of course I do, but it's-"

"Do you not see the news? You think it's better? You think bombs are better? You think these things you can't predict are better, maybe one day fine, maybe the next, you're lying dead and we never hear? You think that's better? Better than him—that bastard, I'll grant you—but better than him?"

"It's getting better. Dad, come on." He squirmed in his seat. "Let it go."

The old man didn't want to, but could feel himself doing it. Who was this helping? What good did it ever do, raging and berating anything under the gaze of those eyes? "Does your mother know?" he demanded. His son looked at the table top, and said nothing. Father nodded. "Will you... will you be away long?"

"It's construction, mostly. It's good work."

"Mostly."

His son sighed. "I've got to go."

"Already?"

"My flight's in three hours. I've got to get to Heathrow." He scraped the chair back. "Thanks for the coffee, Dad. Take care, yeah? I'll ring when I get there." He swept round the table and was gone. His father looked straight ahead, and didn't watch him go.

The door closed and it was like a light had switched off. Father no longer saw the coffee shop, its yellow walls and brown seats. He saw a little kid, whacking a stone around with a stick of wood, having learnt the word "baseball" and saying it, over and over again. Play baseball. Do baseball. Baseball, baseball, and in the scene the old man could see himself, stood to one side, looking so young and so proud, fit to burst with pride. The boy hit the stone with the very end of the stick, with a long, determined swing that smashed it so far away from them that neither of them saw it land. In the dream his younger self started clapping and hugging his son. Back in the café he blinked again and again, his eyes couldn't stop blinking, but the vision would not go away.