A smartly dressed 10-year-old boy approaches the bar with a menu in one hand and £30 in the other

Tim Dowling: the youngest is still bartending. It’s like Bugsy Malone

It is a hot Sunday afternoon, and my wife and I are returning from a weekend in the country. As we step off the train, both of us are thinking about the casual damage that may await us after leaving the house and its contents in the care of the youngest one and the middle one for 30 hours: appliances broken, leaks sprung, supplies decimated.

Outside the pub next to the station, my wife slows her step.

“Do you think he’s working today?” she says. She means the youngest one.

“I think he said he was,” I say.

“Shall we say hello?” my wife says. It would be, of course, the last thing he’d want: an unscheduled parental drop-by at his place of employment. He would be obliged, in the circumstances, to treat us like customers.

“Absolutely,” I say.

The tables under the umbrellas outside are full, but the pub’s interior is dark, cool and quiet. At the far end of the room, a big-eyed urchin is hard at work behind the bar, answering the drinking needs of the alfresco clientele. “It’s still funny,” I say.

“It’s true,” my wife says. “Why is it still funny?”

“Because it’s so incongruous,” I say. “It’s like leaving an eagle in charge of a newsagents.”

The youngest one is pouring a pint while simultaneously adding soda water to two glasses. As we approach, he looks up. His eyeballs make a brief, world-weary survey of the ceiling, then return to the pint glass in his hand. “You’re back,” he says.

“Oh yes,” my wife says, settling on to a bar stool. “Have we got time for a swift half?”

“I think we do,” I say. “What sort of ales do you have, barman?”

He looks along the range of taps, and then back at me. “These,” he says.

“Two, please,” I say.

“Is the dog still alive?” my wife says.

“The last time I saw the dog, it was alive,” he says, filling one glass, then another. He cocks his head in the direction of the next customer, taking another order.

“He looks taller in here,” my wife says.

“That’s because the floor behind the bar is six inches higher,” I say.

“That’s lucky,” she says. “Otherwise, he’d have to stand on a chair to reach the taps.”

“Here you go,” he says, setting down two halves without making eye contact.

“This is fun,” I say.

A smartly dressed 10-year-old boy approaches the bar with a menu in one hand and £30 in the other. The youngest one leans across the bar to take his order. For a moment, their heads are both bent in grave consultation. The youngest one points to something on the menu and raises his eyebrows. The boy nods sternly and hands over the notes. My wife turns towards me. “Have you seen Bugsy Malone?” she asks.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

Drinks finished, we head to the nearest shop to stock up on things we’re almost certainly out off: milk, beer, ice-cream. We walk the final leg of our journey home in blistering heat. “You know what?” my wife says. “Good on him.”

“Yes,” I say, not quite sure who we’re talking about.

“He’s had that job for nearly a year,” she says. “He works hard.”

“They all work hard, when they work,” I say.

“I suppose,” she says.

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“It’s possible all our children have discovered some latent sense of responsibility,” I say.

“Really?” my wife says.

“A discovery that, for obvious reasons, they prefer to conceal from us.” At the corner, I can see that our house is demonstrably not on fire.

“Do you have keys?” my wife asks as we reach the step. “Mine are right at the bottom of my bag.”

“We won’t be needing them,” I say.

When I open the door, the dog crashes into my knees. A minute later, the middle one comes down the stairs. “Yo,” he says.

“Are these yours?” I say, holding up a set of keys.

“Where were they?” he says.

“Sticking out of the front door.”

He smiles broadly. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he says.