My father’s life as a worker stops here.

There were several cafés nearby but his was the only grocery store in the area. The town centre remained in ruins for a long time and the smart delicatessens of the pre-war period had temporarily been set up in yellow huts. Now there was nobody to do them any harm. (This expression, like so many others, is inseparably linked to my childhood. Only by concentrating can I exorcise the suggestion of threat it carried in those days.) Unlike the working-class population in L—, the people from our neighbourhood were artisans, blue-collar workers employed by the gas board or by middle-sized factories, and old-age pensioners belonging to the ‘lower-income bracket’. The families here tended to keep to themselves. Stone-built houses separated by railings stood alongside low, single-storey tenements giving on to a 38shared courtyard. There were small vegetable patches everywhere.

It was a café for regulars, habitual drinkers who dropped in before or after work and whose place was sacred; gangs from the building sites, as well as a few customers whose position meant they could have chosen a less proletarian establishment – a retired naval officer and an inspector from the national health service. In other words, humble people. The Sunday clientele was different, with whole families rolling in for an aperitif around eleven, grenadine for the children. In the afternoon it was the old men from the hospice who had been allowed out until six. They were a merry, noisy lot and enjoyed singing popular songs. Occasionally, when they’d had one too many liqueurs, they had to sober up on a blanket in one of the outhouses before being deemed fit to be sent back to the nuns. Going to the café on a Sunday was like visiting family. My father was aware of the social role he played by offering a temple of freedom and rejoicing to those who, as he put it, ‘had not always been like that’, although he couldn’t exactly say why they had turned out that way. Obviously, for those who had never set foot in the café, it was just a ‘boozer’ where people drank themselves silly. The girls employed by the underwear factory next door would turn up after work to celebrate birthdays, weddings and departures. From the shop they bought packets of sponge fingers which they dipped into sparkling wine, bursting into peals of laughter, bent double over the café tables.

As I write, I tread a fine line between rehabilitating a 39lifestyle generally considered inferior and denouncing the feelings of estrangement that go along with it. These ways of living belonged to us and even brought a kind of joy but also marked the humiliating barriers of our social condition (we knew full well that ‘it wasn’t quite good enough at our place’). I would like to convey both happiness and alienation but instead I seem to be doing quite the opposite, constantly wavering between the two.

Although he is approaching fifty, he is still in his prime, his head held perfectly straight and a worried expression on his face, as if he is afraid the photograph will come out wrong. He is wearing a suit, dark trousers and a light jacket, over a shirt and tie. The picture was taken on a Sunday – during the week he would have been in overalls. Either way, photos were always taken on Sundays because there was more time, and smarter outfits. I am pictured beside him in a flounced dress, both arms outstretched, holding the handlebars of my very first bike, one foot touching the ground. He has one hand on his belt while the other is dangling at his side. In the background, the open door of the café, the flowers on the window sill and, just above, the plaque bearing the alcohol licence. It was customary to be photographed with your proudest possessions, in his case the business, the bicycle, and later the Citroën 4CV, on the roof of which he rests his hand, causing his jacket to ride up around his shoulders. None of the photos show him smiling.