Page 162 of Undefined Terms

Brown coat. The one he’s had since I was ten. Carrier bag. Greggs this time, not M&S. The walk I’d know from a hundred metres because I learnt to walk by watching it.

Dad. At the site. In Manchester.

My hand stops writing. The pen on the clipboard. The gate between us, the mesh fence, the padlock. Behind me the pour’s curing on Block D and Gaz is hosing the mixer and Dean is stacking boards and nobody’s looking at the gate because why would they.

‘Ronan.’ The full name. Flat, South London underneath.

‘Dad. What are you doing here.’

He shifts the bag. The Greggs logo crinkles. ‘Your mum said you’re finishing up the job soon. Thought I’d have a look.’ He looks past me at the site. The scaffold, the new brackets. The concrete. His eyes move like mine. Checking plumb, checking line, reading the structure like a sentence. Trade eyes. The thing he gave me before he gave me anything else.

‘You took the train.’

‘The 8:10 from Euston. Changed at Stoke.’

Three hours. He sat on a train for three hours and changed at Stoke and walked from Piccadilly to Ancoats with a Greggs bag and the brown coat and he’s standing at my site gate on a Thursday and he hasn’t mentioned it. Any of it.

I open the gate. He steps through. I give him a spare hard hat, the yellow one, visitors’. It sits wrong on his head, too big, and he pushes it back with one hand, same gesture as mine, exact same, and my throat closes.

We walk, I show him the pour, the curing compound, the finish. He crouches, touches the surface with two fingers, the bricklayer’s test, reading the set by feel.

‘Good mix,’ he says. ‘Who’s your supplier.’

‘Hanson. The Trafford plant.’

‘Hanson’s alright.’ He stands, looks at the formwork, the steel, the east wall where Marek fell, rebuilt now, the new standards bright against the old ones. He doesn’t know about Marek. Doesn’t need to.

We walk the ground floor. He asks about the slab thickness, the rebar spacing, the waterproofing spec. Questions a bricklayer asks a foreman. Questions my father asks me. The language we share because it’s the only one we’ve got.

At the far end of the site, by the hoarding, he stops. Looks at the building. The whole thing, foundation to parapet. The thing I built. Part of—the part I’m responsible for.

‘It’s a good building, Ron.’

Ron. Not Ronan. The name he uses when the sentence costs something.

‘Cheers, Dad.’

He hands me the bag. The Greggs. Two sausage rolls, still warm. The ones he used to bring to the Rotherhithe site on Saturdays when I was seventeen and doing work experience and didn’t know what a theodolite was and he taught me by standing behind me and adjusting my hands on the eyepiece without saying a word.

‘For your lunch,’ he says. ‘Don’t know what you eat up here.’

‘Same as down there.’

‘Right.’ He looks at me. The eyes, mine, the same brown, the same shape. The eyes that go six inches left when the words aren’t there. Today they stay. Three seconds. Four. The longest he’s looked at me since the hallway in Lewisham with the records and the box of tins and the hand on the gate.

He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t say Celyn, doesn’t say both of you, doesn’t say I’m trying. Doesn’t say he sat on a train for three hours to look at concrete he didn’t need to see and bring sausage rolls to a grown man who can buy his own lunch.

‘Train’s at two,’ he says. ‘I’ll walk back.’

‘I’ll drive you.’

‘You’re working.’

‘Dad. I’ll drive you.’

The hard hat comes off. He hands it to me. The yellow one, visitors’. His hair’s thinner than the last time. Grey at the sides where it used to be dark, my dark, the Carrick dark.

I drive him to Piccadilly in the work van. The radio’s on, someone’s phone-in about the football, and Dad listens to it like he listens to everything, fully, without comment. The opinion forming behind the face where nobody can reach it.