He came to fetch me from the holiday camp where I had been working as an instructor. My mother shouted yoo-hoo from a distance and then I saw them. My father walked with hunched shoulders, his head bent on account of the sun. His ears were pink, probably because he had just had his hair cut. On the pavement, in front of the cathedral, they stood bickering about the best way to get home. They looked like people who weren’t used to going out. In the car I noticed yellow stains at his temples, near his eyes. For the first time I had spent two months away from home, in a young, carefree world. My father was old, on edge. I felt I no longer had the right to go to university.

He started to feel uncomfortable after meals, something vague and indefinite. He took milk of magnesia, afraid to call the doctor. He finally had an X-ray and the specialist in Rouen diagnosed a stomach polyp which needed to be removed immediately. My mother complained that he was always fussing over his health. Also, he felt guilty because he was costing them money. (In those days, tradesmen didn’t yet benefit from the health care system.) He would say: ‘What a drag.’

After the operation he remained in hospital for as little time as was permitted and began his slow recovery at home. His strength had left him. He could no longer lift crates or spend several hours gardening, otherwise he risked opening up the wound. I remember the familiar scene of my mother rushing from the cellar to the shop or carrying the delivery boxes and the bags of potatoes, doing both their jobs. He lost his pride at the age of fifty-nine. ‘I’m useless now.’ He was speaking to my 60mother. This may have meant several things.

Yet he was determined to get the better of it and start a new life for himself. He grew fond of his little comforts. He listened to his body. Food became something formidable, either good or evil depending on whether it agreed with him or came back to haunt him. He would sniff a steak or a fillet of fish before tossing it into the pan. He felt repulsed at the sight of my yoghurts. He discussed his diet in the café and at family gatherings, exchanging comments on homemade broth, powdered soup, etc. All the people around us who were sixtyish held similar conversations.

He satisfied his cravings: a cervelat or a paper cone filled with brown shrimp. The glimpse of happiness they promised vanished after the first few mouthfuls. At the same time, he pretended he wanted nothing and kept saying, ‘Just give me half a slice of ham,’ or ‘I’ll have half a glass.’ He developed idiosyncrasies, such as splitting open his Gauloises, throwing away the paper – which he said had a bad taste – and carefully rolling himself new cigarettes with Zig-Zag.

On Sundays, so as not to become set in their ways, they would go for a drive along the banks of the Seine and revisit the piers where he used to work, in Dieppe and Fécamp. His hands would hang at his sides – fingers touching, palms facing outwards – or else they would be clasped behind his back. When he walked he never knew what to do with his hands. In the evening he would get back home exhausted. ‘Sunday’s more tiring than the other days of the week.’