Daddy. Who was not where? Beards at the kitchen table.
Dad. Ties styled wide to thin. A holiday in Somerset, golden evenings and tractors. A rainy motorway and shouting.
Father travels first-class now. Him and Vic. Vic Benson is important. An important name. To me. I went away. So did dad. Pinstripes blurred.
Dad took mum to Spain every year, drank wine and smoked cigars.
He came to my office once, chatted up Stella on reception. She said ‘enamoured’; I reddened.
Vic got jailed for fraud. Dad didn’t.
He grows veg now. I live closer, but father is further away.