Father of the Man Read Online Free Page A

it had been adequate—bed, wardrobe, table, wooden chair—and, no, he had not been cold. But he hadn’t managed to make any friends and he’d hated having to return to London early every Sunday evening; had invariably been close to tears, the complete and utter milksop. He was a Cancer, a crab, just like his mother: a home-lover, not happy when he hadn’t got the things—or, rather, the people; things didn’t matter to him much—the people round him that he loved. He was a little boy. He was twenty-four years old and yet a little boy. When Mrs Whittaker-Payne had asked him on Friday why on earth he commuted he had felt ashamed, as though the truth were immediately self-evident: Because I miss my mummy and daddy .
    At the moment, however, even if he were a little boy he was an angry little boy. He’d spent over fifteen minutes in the queue and not simply had it seemed longer, far longer, but if he didn’t throw off his present bad mood he would probably waste more of his time when he got home. And he had no right to be in a bad mood. So much for trying to enter into the trials of the pair who’d been immediately in front of him! So much for asking God to shower his blessings down on them and to instil in himself a profound and lasting gratitude! (And at once Lord , he had meant, at once ! In both cases.) Besides, he had no right to be in a bad mood, not even on other grounds; the delay hadn’t been the clerk’s fault.
    And now, as he walked up to the window, he reminded himself of this.
    “I want to inquire about my season ticket,” he said. “I’m afraid it expired yesterday. Would it be possible, please…I mean, I think it is possible…to extend it by six days? By the six days I lost when you were all on strike this year.”
    The clerk replied: “Those six days will be added to your new season ticket, sir.” He was perfectly polite but he sounded bored; bored yet impatient. It was nearly as though he’d yawned or as though he’d looked over Roger’s shoulder and already said, “Next, please.” Making up for lost time. There were a couple more in line he could have been saying it to.
    “But I don’t want a new season ticket,” said Roger. “I only need those six days.”
    “No season ticket, no extension. But you can put in for a refund.” The young man rubbed the lobe that had no earring.
    To Roger this sounded like a typically bureaucratic way of saying the same thing. “Okay. I’d like to do that, please.”
    “Six pounds a day,” said the clerk.
    “Excuse me? I don’t quite follow. What’s six pounds a day?”
    “The amount of the refund.”
    “No, I’m sorry, I’ve explained myself badly. I’ve got to go to London just another six times, then I’m finished. So in a way, yes, I do need a new season ticket, but only one that’s going to see me through this coming week. Therefore all I need to ask you for—in place of an extension—is a six-day pass, starting from tomorrow.”
    “Fine,” said the clerk. “Ninety pounds fifty, then.” He seemed to be waiting for Roger to hand over that amount of money.
    Roger simulated laughter. “No, don’t forget this is a refund!”
    “Yes. A refund of six pounds a day. Making thirty-six pounds in all. Which means your weekly season will now cost you…” he hesitated “…only fifty-four pounds fifty.”
    “So the fare is roughly thirteen pounds a day,” said Roger, after a rapid calculation, “and you’re offering me back six?”
    “If you want to look at it like that.”
    “Do you think that’s fair?”
    “Nothing to do with me.”
    No, of course it wasn’t, but surely the man could have shown some glimmer of sympathy. They were approximately the same age. Yet, instead, his patience seemed as strained as it must have been when dealing with the soldier. “Sunday bloody Sunday!” he might say, when he was next in a position to unwind. “ What an afternoon I’ve had! You wouldn’t believe it!” And for a moment Roger