Through a Glass Darkly

By John Myatt

Phil, an only child is finding his way through life. Girls confuse
but excite him. He discovers, as he grows that they, and boys
too, are more complex than expected. His growing up is hard
and painful. During Army service he serves in Kenya and kills. He
falls in love with the country and a local girl. They marry and he
farms in Africa. Anne, not all she seems, produces a life-threatening
crisis for him. The resolution of this crisis causes drastic action that
affects the rest of his story. The problem is not resolved until the
final pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Nov 18, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453585320

Book preview

Copyright © 2010 by John Myatt.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010914291

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4535-8531-3

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4535-8530-6

ISBN: Ebook 978-1-4535-8532-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The right of John Myatt to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

0-800-644-6988

www.xlibrispublishing.co.uk

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CONTENTS

Chapter      Title

1           Hindsight

2           A Change of View

3           Mum and Me

4           Market Day

5           A Meeting

6           Feelings of Guilt

7           Our Gang

8           Life Can Be Cruel

9           Under Attack

10           Teachers Can Care

11           The War Comes Closer

12           Widening Horizons

13           Reality Begins to Impinge

14           Diana Looks Different

15           Claire Is Unhappy

16           Pantomime Time

17           Things Are Changing

18           Permanence Is an Illusion

19           Lisa Shows Me

20           An Appendix Is Unnecessary

21           Diana Interferes

22           A Lot to Think About

23           A Blanket Bath

24           The New Diana

25           The Parting of the Ways

26           Tom’s Story

27           Before the Celebration Ball

28           Memories

29           Dancing in the Dark

30           Gin Can Be Red

31           I Learn the Truth

32           Diana in Control

33           A Coach Becomes a Pumpkin

34           After the Ball Is Over

35           The Morning After

36           The End of School Days

37           Home Is the Hero!

38           Love’s Young Dream

39           Going Foreign

40           Life Can Mean Death

41           Somewhere in a Foreign Land

42           Two Lost Souls

43           A Girl Like That!

44           A Common Need

45           Fate Takes a Hand

46           Death Is Never Far Away

47           Hands on Nursing

48           Diana Loses Faith

49           Cutting the Roots

50           Running Away

51           Cutting the Last Strings

52           The New Beginning

53           A New Lesson for Phil

54           Getting to Know You

55           Serious Talk

56           GoodNight!

57           Phil Makes a Decision

58           Learning about Kenya

59           The Club Dance

60           Wedding Bells

61           Learning Farming

62           Disaster Strikes

63           The Moment of Truth

64           Decision Time

65           Fighting for Life

66           Recovery Time

67           Frank’s Recovery

68           Discovery and Deduction

69           The Watu View

70           Wambui’s Opportunity

71           Development of Sara

72           Sara Gets a Tutor

73           Caroline Rocks the Boat

74           Phil the Invalid

75           A Disclosure

76           Time to Gather the Harvest

77           Sara’s Picture Is Hung

78           Caroline Makes Her Decision

79           Wedding and After

80           Jacob’s Wishes

81           Roberts Tries Again

82           Ready to Travel

83           Booking Passage

84           Roberts’ Move

85           The Water Gets Deeper

86           The Gloves Are Off

87           Phil Learns More Truths

88           Justice Will Be Done

89           The Trial

90           The Hearing Goes On

91           New Evidence Reviewed

92           Forensic Evidence

93           Legal Views

94           Closing Arguments

Part 1

When I was a Child

CHAPTER 1

Hindsight

My room is small and clean if sparsely furnished. I have a bed, a small table, a shelf, a cupboard, and a chair. The air is hot and sticky. The floor is hard and cold. The walls of the room are drab grey though the paint on them is fresh. It almost masks the graffiti put there by former occupants. I can still see the marks but cannot read any of the messages.

The room has a window and the sun shines in through my window most of the day. My window is high. Small clouds come into my view from time to time. Even if I were standing on my chair, I would see only things above the horizontal—just treetops swaying in the occasional breeze. I don’t like the heat much. It makes my skin itch, and the irritation is a constant annoyance. The doctor tells me he is treating it, but his treatment does not work. I guess his heart is not in it. The breeze helps.

I have little to do and too much time to do it in—time to think and to remember. The heat will be over soon. Soon it will all be over. A church minister came to see me today. I didn’t ask for him. I didn’t even know him. What good is religion to me now?

How did it all happen? How did I come to be here? It is a curious feeling—knowing that you are waiting to die. In a few days I shall no longer exist—I am sure of it. I am supposed to be frightened, but I am not.

It took a long time for me to realise that humanity is just another species of animal, fundamentally no different from any other. Like the others, it needs only four essentials for survival: sustenance, shelter, sleep, and sex. Our parents provide the first two and facilitate the third from birth. It is curious that we take on these responsibilities ourselves later than does any other animal species. The fourth comes naturally to most of us in due course. The first experience is often pure chance.

For me, the first realisation that procreation was a necessary part of living, an essential function, even a pleasurable duty, of all living organisms occurred when I was only a child. It was not, of course, a revelation conceived in an instant as a blinding light of truth. It crept upon me slowly, I remember. It had its beginning as a glimmer of an idea, a guttering candle flame viewed from a distance. Like the moth, I could not resist it, and in the end it serves me as it does the moth.

It was the differences that began it all. Maureen had a birthday and we’d decided to give her bumps. Maureen pretended to be scared when we started. Bob and Tom took an arm each. Diana, Tom’s sister, was too young to help. I had both of Maureen’s legs, really the easiest bits because there is not much weight in a leg. To start with, I was holding an ankle in each hand. This didn’t work well. Maureen, apart from being on the plump side, had long legs, and mine were pretty short. It was the geometry that defeated me—I couldn’t get her bottom off the ground—so in the end I tucked one of her knees under each armpit and just held on while the others lifted. As she bounced up and down, I noticed her knickers were not tight on her legs. I saw that her bum crack seemed to come right round to the front. Mine, of course, stopped where what my dad called my wedding tackle started. I knew vaguely about girls being different, yet, having no siblings, it hadn’t occurred to me that they might be physically so, nor had I had the opportunity to check before.

She hasn’t got any tackle! The thought came suddenly. I didn’t mention it then but decided to ask Maureen about this amazing discovery at the first opportunity. It was a few days before the opportunity came. ‘‘Course not!’ She laughed when I asked, as if it was something everyone knew. ‘Girls don’t.’ Her superior laugh made me cross.

‘Prove it!’ I said at once. The glimpse I had had was not sufficient. I needed to know for sure.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Easy! Show me!’

‘Why?’

‘Because that’s why!’

‘Haven’t you seen a girl’s bottom before?’

I had to admit it. Maureen looked at me with disbelief, and then she lifted her skirt and pulled the front of her knickers down until there was no doubt.

‘It’s true then! You really haven’t!’

‘I told you, girls don’t, stupid!’ She readjusted her clothing.

‘I didn’t know. How do you pee then?’ I said weakly. Maureen didn’t answer; she just gave me a superior look.

That first experience was pure curiosity. I even felt sorry for her. It was a surprise that explained a few things. I knew, of course, that girls were less clever than boys and couldn’t do boys’ things; everybody knew that! I knew they giggled a lot and had secrets. Girls couldn’t even throw a ball properly. They had longer hair, wore dresses or skirts instead of shorts or trousers, and had only short socks. I had not really thought about it before. The material of their clothes was more flimsy than ours. I had wondered if they got cold legs by being bare from ankle to bum. The bare bits of me were only a few inches, from the hem of my shorts to just below the knee where the top of my socks started. The uncovered leg bits were a problem since the inside of my thighs got red raw from the cold in winter. Girls were weaker than us, weren’t they? So how come they didn’t get sore legs?

Girls I had noticed were always touching each other. Some girls liked to touch boys too, particularly the older girls; I had seen that. I already knew boys weren’t supposed to touch girls at all—not anywhere. It was some kind of grown-ups’ rule. I’d noticed lots of the bigger boys and girls from the secondary schools broke the rule though. Boys hardly ever touched anyone, even each other, unless they were fighting. We were not allowed to fight girls.

Fighting was pretty common at my school. It didn’t amount to much. As often as not, the boys who were fighting would be friends again minutes after it was over and the audience would fade away. A fight changed though if girls were watching. Girls gathered round and joined the boys in cheering or jeering. When one boy started winning though, things changed. Girls would start to jeer at the loser. It was this that seemed to produce the anger, or tears, rather than any actual pain. It would often lengthen the fight, so someone was actually hurt. Girls didn’t often fight, and when they did, it was with nails and fingers rather than fists.

Teachers’ favoured girls—that was clear. They didn’t have to do messy or heavy jobs. Nor did they get the slipper on their bums and rarely even a ruler across the knuckles. I supposed it was because most teachers were women. I didn’t see why we shouldn’t have a few more men teachers to balance things up a bit. My mum had been a teacher, and she said men only did teaching if they couldn’t do anything else. Dad said that wasn’t true. It was just because there were not enough men to go round, because of the war.

The discovery of Maureen’s lack worried me. I could see it mattered. She wouldn’t be able to aim when peeing, for instance. I mentioned this to Tom who after all had a sister. He said they couldn’t do it standing up at all. They had to drop their knickers and sit down, like for number twos. I could see that would be a problem when you needed to go quickly and had to wait. After all, you can’t hold on to something you haven’t got.

It explained Lucy Pink. Lucy had worried me for a long time. She was the sort of girl who didn’t have much going for her. Her skin was coloured like fresh putty, and she had very pale, kind of glazed eyes, one of which wandered about all the time. She smelled of pee too. Maybe I should have felt sorry for her. If she hadn’t been sat so close I might have done. She shared a double desk with me, and she often wet herself. The bench seat of our twin desk dipped in the middle, and if I wasn’t observant, the first thing I would know was when the warm pee ran along our common seat and reached my bare leg.

Miss Reynolds wouldn’t let me change my place. ‘But, miss, she wets herself!’ Miss obviously already knew that. She said Lucy couldn’t help it. I had not seen why, until Maureen showed me, but it was not my problem. Now I thought I understood. I might even sympathise, if I could move my seat. Miss refusing to let me move was a mistake because it made me concentrate on Lucy more than lessons.

‘Miss!’ My hand shot up to attract the teacher’s attention. I had to keep the other elbow on the desk so I could lift my bum off the wet seat. ‘Lucy’s wet herself again!’ I would say it loudly to shame her. The other kids would laugh. Lucy would cower miserably and cry. It was my only revenge.

At the end of that term Lucy left. She was going to some special school, Miss said. I wondered if it was especially for kids who wetted themselves. One good thing was I was able to keep the twin desk to myself for a while. Maureen had offered to move and sit next to me. I would not have minded her, knowing her problem had somehow made a bond between us, but I knew I would be teased. I liked having my own double desk—it had made me special. Thus there was some benefit in having it. I was reluctant to lose this status.

CHAPTER 2

A Change of View

The next stage in my learning of this subject was the shift from mere curiosity to real interest. The change started when I was nearly eight. It happened when Claire arrived. Claire was new and joined our class in the middle of term, which made her a novelty we were all curious about. Miss Reynolds put her in Lucy’s old seat next to mine. It was the only empty one!

That first morning, the other children were watching her as they were watching me as the one nearest to the new girl. I didn’t want a new partner at my desk, especially a girl. Memories of Lucy were strong. Our Victorian two-person desks had bench seats that dipped a bit towards the middle. I sat as far from Claire as I could, keeping one cheek only on the high end and an eye open for the first signs. Lucy always wriggled before she leaked.

I could tell this girl wasn’t like Lucy. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. I liked what I saw despite my general dislike of girls. This girl was somehow different. Claire was thinner than Maureen and about as tall as me. She had pink cheeks and lots of dark wavy hair that shone with reddish glints. She had big green-brown eyes. It was her eyes that I noticed first. They were large and clear and very direct, and they were trying to make a contact, which I was avoiding. I kept watching carefully for the telltale signs. Eventually she noticed and glanced down at the bench to see what I was looking at. She caught my eye. ‘What’s the matter?’ she hissed.

Until then I’d thought Bob and I were the only kids who could talk without moving our lips. ‘Nothing,’ I muttered. The look from those big eyes was very direct and made me feel uncomfortable. I shuffled on the seat, partly from being caught out and partly because, sitting at the extreme end of the wooden bench, with only one cheek supported, I was beginning to get pins and needles in my bum. ‘It’s all right, really!’ I muttered.

‘Philip! Claire! Pay attention!’ Miss Reynolds always seemed to know when it was me. ‘There will be time enough for that at playtime!’ Several kids near us sniggered. Claire had given me a brief smile that was gone almost before it started. That smile had a strange effect on me. It was friendly and not embarrassed, conspiratorial yet questioning, and it was warm—above all, it was warm—like when the sun comes from behind a cloud; it made me feel warm inside, and I knew it had made my face red. I didn’t know what was happening to me. My stomach felt queer. The feeling almost made me sick.

That was the moment it happened. A girl had got me into trouble with a teacher. Worse, she had got me sniggered at by the other kids. Usually I would have been furious, yet this time I wasn’t. Doubts kept me close to my end of the bench until playtime, but I wanted to talk to her. I wanted desperately for her to like me too.

As I joined the tide of kids on the way to the yard, Bob elbowed his way up to me. ‘We’re going to play it! Are you coming?’

‘In a minute! You go on.’

‘Hey, what’s up with you?’ Bob checked his step. He and I had been friends forever; our mums had known each other since we were babies. Anyway, he didn’t miss much.

‘Nothing! I’ll come in a minute!’ I said again.

Bob shook his head. He gave me a puzzled, hurt look. It made me wish I could explain. ‘OK then!’ he said, brushing his carroty mop of hair from his forehead. He turned away and hurried to catch up with the others.

Bob was the same age as me but a bit taller. He had red-brown curly hair—a real colour, not just mousy like mine. His eyes were sharp. Even when he looked serious the eyes stayed merry. It was as if he were still smiling behind his face. He had the kind of smile that made you want to smile too. His cheekbones stuck out and always had reddish patches as well as the freckles on them. His nose was small and blunt. All the kids liked him. He was the kind of boy you would like as soon as you saw him. Even Miss Reynolds had to hide her smile when Bob grinned at her. I could have been cross that she would let him get away with things but not me; but I wasn’t. I was proud that he was my friend.

I felt sorry I’d snapped at him. ‘I’ll come soon, Bob!’ I called after him, trying to sound a bit friendlier. Bob stopped at the sound of my voice, turned and looked at me, and suddenly grinned and ran off. I felt better.

I hurried, slowly, without looking round. Claire was close behind. I could feel her being there as I moved along, letting myself be carried towards the playground with the mass of other children. She walked firmly, but not so fast that she should close the gap. I knew where she was without looking. Once we got out into the open, I slowed still more, thinking, She’ll either have to slow down too or catch me up.

‘What were you looking at just now in class?’ she asked as she came level with me. The question wasn’t unfriendly, but it had a directness to it that was unsettling. I didn’t answer at first. I had the sense to know that if I told her the truth she would be cross, so I played for time.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why do you sit so far from me? What are you scared of?’ I guessed she might have some ideas already. There was an edge to her words now—a slight shrillness in her tone that made me uneasy. I realised my lack of response was starting to make her cross. I had to say something. ‘Lucy Pink wet herself!’ It just came out! I was trying to be truthful, to explain, but hadn’t meant to say that! At least not like that. Certainly not aloud, but it was on my mind and just came out.

There was an implosion of breath beside me. ‘Who’s Lucy Pink? And what’s she got to do with me?’ Claire said, her face now tight. Her eyes glittered and bright patches of colour appeared on each cheek. Her lips were pulled back. I could just see her teeth. She was really angry. The anger both fascinated and terrified me. Usually making a girl cross would please me—it was part of the game—but this was different. I needed Claire to like me.

‘Nothing! Really! It doesn’t matter!’ I muttered.

‘Well, why say it then? I don’t wet myself! How could you think that?’ I noticed that the pink patches in her cheeks had little red flecks in them. Claire was angry, but she’d not gone away. She was waiting—giving me a chance to put it right.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said and meant it. Saying sorry wasn’t part of boys’ code. She couldn’t know it was the first time I’d said sorry to any girl. I said it now, however, with real conviction. She must have realised I meant it because her face softened a little. Some of the tightness went from her too. Then I wrecked it all. ‘I thought all girls did,’ I added lamely.

‘What? Wet their knickers? Why ever should they?’ The words exploded from her in tiny bursts of anger. Not real questions—more like bullets. Each one hurt me.

‘Not you! I didn’t mean you did!’ I protested quickly. It wasn’t going well, not a very happy conversation. I sensed, with panic, that she was about to go. I had to get away first. I was sure if she walked away from me now, I should never be able to talk to her again.

‘Come on, Phil! You’re ‘It’!’ Bob’s yell saved me.

‘Sorry! Got to go!’ Claire said nothing, just looked coldly at me. ‘Coming!’ I yelled back with relief, bounding frantically after Bob, before she could move.

The game had to stop when the bell signalled line-up time at the end of break. It couldn’t stop my thoughts. As I had raced about, I was aware of Claire standing still, all on her own, not talking to anyone, watching me but pretending not to. Had Bob seen us or even heard us? I wondered.

‘Why were you talking to that girl?’ Bob demanded, moments later.

‘What girl?’ I needn’t have bothered.

‘Don’t be daft! You know which one! The new one!’ He had me cornered as we stood waiting to be called in. This wasn’t like Bob. There was a sneer in the way he had said girl, drawing the word out. He wasn’t keen on girls at all, like me—not then he wasn’t. I was surprised at his obvious anger.

‘I don’t know.’ This was almost true. ‘Does it matter?’

‘You like her, don’t you?’ he accused. The bell went, and we were called to march in at that moment, so luckily I didn’t have to answer. ‘She looked as if she was going to hit you! What’s up?’ Bob hissed as we squeezed together through the door. I realised he had seen the argument and had only tried to help.

Back in the classroom, I sat with both cheeks firmly on the bench. I wanted to show Claire I really believed her. I wanted her to like me. It was more comfortable too. She gave no sign that she’d noticed, but I knew she had. I would not have to sit for long. We were off to the school hall to join Mrs Freer’s class for country dancing—the lesson I disliked most. Desk by desk we formed a double column in the corridor, waiting for Miss to march us there.

‘Find a partner for the Eightsome Reel,’ called out Mrs Freer as we arrived in the hall. This was my most-hated lesson.

‘Will you be my partner?’ Claire’s voice asked beside me. ‘I don’t know anyone else.’

I took it as a peace offering and wanted to accept but had to let her know the truth. ‘I can’t do it right,’ I warned.

‘I can! I’ll show you.’

‘All right,’ I conceded. ‘But I did warn you!’ I added, trying to be fair.

Dancing lessons were always my dread. My dad used to say I had two left feet. I could feel the warmth of Claire’s body as we crossed arms behind our backs. I had been that close to a girl before for country dancing, but this was suddenly different. She seemed so fragile that I was afraid I might damage her. I was bound to tread on her feet.

With Claire’s help, however, I managed to get by without messing up too much. I could not believe it, nor could Mrs Freer. She confirmed it with, ‘Well done, Philip. You are improving at last!’ I didn’t want to be noticed. Just to get by was enough for me. Claire winked at me. It was a friendly, conspiratorial wink, and it warmed me again.

At the end of school, I hurried to collect my coat without waiting for Bob—Claire followed me. If I didn’t go quickly, she might try to come with me. I wasn’t ready for that yet. It was Bob advancing towards us that sent Claire away. Both of us knew it was essential. ‘You’re improving at last!’ Bob mimicked Mrs Freer. ‘And we know why! It’s that blooming girl!’ he sneered at me. Claire had stopped and was watching us. Tom had joined Bob. He glanced at Claire but said nothing. He looked sideways at me and then across at Claire again.

Bob saw the look, and it was enough to set him off. ‘Phil’s got a girl! Soppy! Rotten! Girl!’ he grimaced as he chanted it, looking for my reaction. I felt my face glowing. I dare not look at Claire. I felt her rush past us, running towards the gate. Luckily none of the other kids seemed to notice. They were too busy racing to get out of school. Bob’s teasing hurt!

Tom had noticed. ‘Shut up, Bob!’ Both of them knew—though I had not yet realised it—that things would never be quite the same again.

CHAPTER 3

Mum and Me

When I got home, I went round by the side gate to the back door and directly into the kitchen. Mum heard me open the door. I could smell paraffin—she had been doing the lino with it again. ‘Wipe your feet on the mat! How was school?’ she called from the cupboard under the stairs from where she was getting out the ironing board. Wet washing hung from the airer over my head. The kitchen was steamy and damp; the window was open to try to reduce the dampness, but it wasn’t working. The coke stove in the corner roared as she sought to generate more drying heat. ‘Don’t leave that door open,’ she cautioned as I came into the hall. Why not? With the window wide open, it couldn’t make a difference.

‘Why didn’t you come straight home?’ she asked as soon as she saw me, without waiting for an answer to the first question.

‘Went with Bob and Tom to the camp, Mum.’ I had not meant to go there but had felt the need to re-establish myself with my two friends.

‘I keep telling you! You must change out of your school clothes before you go climbing in those woods. I don’t know what your father’s thinking of, letting you play there at all!’

I was pretty used to such grumbles. Mum looked tired. Friday was her busy day. She had been baking, and her sleeves were still floury. There was a plate of biscuits, still hot from the oven, on the side, and I started to take one.

‘Wait ’til teatime! Oh, all right, just one!’ A wisp of hair had slipped from under the scarf she wore, knotted on her forehead. Dad hated that scarf, but she always wore it when she did housework. The hair must have been getting into her eyes because there was flour on her face too where she had tried to wipe it away with the back of her hand. I wanted to hug her, just to let her know I cared, but knew that she would shrug me off if I did with, ‘Don’t be so soppy!’

Mum always baked on Friday for the whole week. She seemed to manage it as well as what she called her small wash. Her legs played her up, and she would have to put her feet up soon, but she would have the whole place spotless again first. I could smell the cakes in the oven. There would be hot bread for tea.

‘Go on! Get yourself washed and changed, and hurry up. Your father will be in soon.’ My being late at all upset her system. It was always ‘your father’ when I did something she didn’t approve of and ‘my son’ when she was showing me off to her friends. I preferred ‘your father.’ I hated being shown off like a new dress or a fancy hat. Dad was easier to deal with. He didn’t seem to mind me getting dirty. Mum said, ‘It’s only because he doesn’t have to do the washing—or find the coupons to replace the clothes you tear.’

Our hallway was covered with brown lino. Mum would wipe it over once a week with paraffin. It was to prevent cracks she had told me. When the paraffin was soaked in, she would polish it until it shone. The hall was often done out on Friday. ‘For the weekend,’ she would say. If we had visitors, it was always at the weekends. On Fridays, she would polish the brass plate on the doorstep too. If it rained on Friday nights, I would have to do it again on Saturday mornings. Wednesdays were her days for the kitchen floor; the red tiles there would be scrubbed with a hard bristle brush, using a green block of soap.

Using one of the slip-mats Mum kept in front of each room door, I slid over the polished lino towards the stairs. ‘Don’t do that!’ she called automatically after me. ‘Why do you call them slip-mats if they aren’t for slipping?’ I asked, hanging over the banister rail, but she only snorted.

In my bedroom, I took off my blazer and put it on the hanger on the back of the door then slipped my shoes off to wriggle out of my good, short, school trousers. These trousers were reserved strictly for school. Mum had put an older—‘home-only’, carefully darned, pair on my bed. I carefully folded and placed the school trousers under the mattress to put the creases back for Monday. I dressed quickly and struggled into a jumper.

‘Wash your hands! Don’t forget to hang up your blazer. Change into your slippers and bring your shoes down to clean,’ Mum’s voice called up to me. ‘Undo the laces!’ she added. Too late—I’d already kicked them off. ‘As soon as you’re done, wash your hands and come and have your tea.’

Better untie the laces before I go down, or she’ll only moan, I thought.

Next day was Saturday. Dad and I were having our breakfast porridge in the kitchen. On Sunday it would be bacon. Dad liked to eat the meagre ration all at once. ‘At least that way it makes a proper meal,’ he would say. Mum didn’t ever stop to eat at breakfast.

‘I’ve got to go into town. Do you want to come, Phil?’

‘Are you going to the market, Dad?’ I asked eagerly.

‘I expect so. Your mum’s bound to want some things there.’ She was ironing again with her back to us. He winked.

‘Don’t just daydream, Phil! Yes, go to the market with your dad! You’ll be out from under my feet. While you’re there, you can help get the veg,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a list.’

‘Can I have my pocket money, Dad?’

‘May I, not, can I! Get your cap!’ said Mum.

‘Have you done your jobs, son?’

‘Did them last night, Dad.’

‘He did too; more’s the miracle!’

I had guessed that if I had not polished my shoes, and Dad’s, and done my other Saturday chores, Mum might have made them an excuse for stopping me going with Dad.

‘That’s fine then. Come on!’ Dad winked as if he knew what I was thinking.

CHAPTER 4

Market Day

We had to wear our caps even out of school. I couldn’t see why and asked Dad.

‘So that you can raise them to show how polite you are, of course!’ said Dad. We caught the bus into town and walked down into the market. Dad gave me a sixpence, and an extra thrupenny bit to spend.

I loved the market. The sights, the sounds, and the smells of it filled me with excitement. Even now, it’s the smells that I recall most.

The Saturday Market lay in a narrow, cobbled street just off the main road. A few steps led down from the high street into it so no cars could get in from that end. With the stalls set up and all the barrows about, no cars could have got in anyway, though there weren’t many of those about then. Petrol coupons were scarce. Just behind the market was the brewery. The bittersweet smell of hops mingled with the market scents bound them into one delicious smell. I’d once asked Dad what the hop smell was. ‘That’s the smell of ruin, my lad,’ he said, grinning. When I asked why, he said, ‘Many a man, and any woman, could tell you,’ but he didn’t explain. Dad often seemed to answer my questions with riddles.

I knew the order of the stalls by heart. The slightly tart smell of crisp fresh cabbages, one or two cut in half with butter-yellow flesh shining with little beads of juice where the wound had bled. These came first. Next was a fruit stall. Now, in late summer, wasps battled with the stallholder for possession of the juicy, purple-blue, powder-dusted, rich-ripe plums. Shiny apples, some green and waxy, others crimson or dusty yellow, smelled of autumn. Then came two clothing stalls with their own special new-cloth smell. Then the hop smell from the brewery mingled with, but failed to hide, the slightly nauseous, stale-blood smell of the fresh meat stall. Lazy bluebottles added spots of evil metallic tint to the purpling flesh, as the butcher, with a flick of his gleaming knife, his bloodstained apron covering his ample belly, tried ineffectually to prevent the flies landing. Seeing them I was not sure if I could eat tomorrow’s roast; yet knowing that when Mum brought in the dish bearing her transformation of the beef, it would have me drooling. The cheese barrow followed with its pungent aroma—a mixture of subtle scents and some not so subtle. I could separate some; mature Cheddar (I called it manure Cheddar to Dad but not to Mum) made my nose wrinkle. Crumbly, milder Cheshire had a much gentler smell. Sometimes there was blue cheese with a furry blue mould. It had a pong that reminded me of Lucy Pink; how could anyone eat that? Remembering Lucy made me think of Claire.

Stallholders vied for custom. ‘Apples tu’pence-a-pound-pears! All-fresh-watercress!’ The words tumbled into each other blurring them into single, almost incomprehensible sounds. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure what they were selling. ‘Luvly bit o’ brisket, guvner. ‘Ow about a bit of rump? Fancy a bit o’ rump, do ya?’ He winked at Dad. His too-small straw hat wobbled on his balding head, and his huge bouncing belly caused the bloodstained apron to ripple and wave as the butcher shook with laughter. Dad smiled. I smiled too. The laughter was catching, but I didn’t understand what the joke was. Both meat and cheese needed coupons.

‘Luverly juicy tomatas. Tanner a pound! Why not take ‘ome a marrer for the missus? Savoy, guv’ner? I got the best in town. ‘Ow many would you like? Only one! ‘Ardly wurf it. ‘Ow about a brace f’r eightpence?’ He paused only briefly for breath, no matter if he got a reply or not—a bit like Mum, really.

Those street traders fascinated me with their silver-glib tongues and cheerful good humour. Except for my dad, they had more cheerful confidence than any other grown-ups I knew. The stallholders reflected their wares. All the food traders seemed to be fat and laughing. Those who sold clothing were snappy-dressers themselves, especially the man who sold silk stockings from a small attaché case. Both booksellers were thin and dusty looking, and the lady who sold decorated china had a painted face with fingernails to match.

One stallholder, who fascinated me particularly, sold pots, pans, and everyday crockery. He had china ornaments as well as cups and plates. A hand-rolled cigarette, seemingly glued to his lower lip, was always almost in his mouth. He talked very fast without opening his lips so that the cigarette wobbled violently up and down and spilled ash down his faded red waistcoat. He would bang the cups or plates against the wooden frame of his stall to show how strong they were. They never broke.

‘Not five bob, lady. Not even ‘arf a crown. Tell yer wot I’ll do! For the smile on yer face, missus, a tanner each to you. Tell yer wot! Tell yer wot I’ll do, luv. ‘Arf a crown for ‘arf a doz. ‘Ow about it? You’ll ‘ave a free ‘un to throw at the ol’ man when ‘e comes in late from the boozer. Can’t say fairer than that now, can I? Givin’ ’em away, I am. Givin’ ’em away! ‘Ow abart you, lady? Real quali’y they are. Real quali’y! Won’t get no better in ‘Arrods, Gamleys even!

‘Fank yer, darlin’. Fank yer! I can see yer know quali’y. ‘Ere’s a lady who knows quali’y. How abart you, missus? Wot can I do for you, missus? No! No, missus! Na then! Anybody else! Yes, missus. ‘Arf a doz.? Fank yer, darlin’. On’y one set left. Fank yer, ma’am. What about a teapot to go with ’em?’

The money taken, the cups and saucers would be wrapped in thin white paper—cup into cup, set round in a ring, sat on the pile of saucers. The pile slipped into a brown paper bag. Its corners swung in a closing twirl and handed over in a trice by his first assistant, the next delight being passed up to him instantly by his other helper—an incredibly thin, sad-eyed young man who never spoke—who always looked in need of a shave and a good meal, my dad said.

The seller would push his greasy, pork-pie hat to the back of his head and scratch his forehead before screwing the hat firmly back into position and survey the crowd briefly. It would be as if he needed to wind himself up for the next bargain. The patter then would begin again.

It was never rehearsed, never the same, even for the same article. He reacted to his audience. ‘Now ain’t tha’ a lovely teapot? Go well with them cups nice, it would. Why not make it a set, luv? I got plates an’ all! ‘Ow about you, missus? You could give the ol’ man a su’prise t’night!’ His eyes would twinkle, and the crowd round the stand would laugh. The lady would look uncomfortable.

‘Nah, missus!’ He would pause. ‘Don’t you listen to them. They’re rude! They are!’ he would say, pretending to be shocked.

The crowd would laugh again. He would turn to them. ‘Wot was you thinkin’ of? I’m talkin’ about ‘is tea, in this ‘ere pot. Perfick! You can chuck away the ol’ braan job. No, luv! Not ‘im! You can chuck yer ol’ pot away. ‘E can’t get rid of ‘is now, can ‘e?’

He would laugh at her discomfort, and she would grin sheepishly back. He would hold the pot out towards her. ‘Two bob an’ it’s yours. Luvly! Ta, darlin’. Now ‘ho’s next? ‘An’over one for the lady ‘ere, Joe. Bless yer gorgeous!’ He would see me looking at him and give an exaggerated wink. I would try to wink back. I can’t quite wink yet. Every time I try, the other one closes too, but I’m working on it.

I would sometimes wander up and down the stalls while Dad went for a quick pint at The George; I was supposed to wait in the porch. The George was Dad’s favourite pub. He said it was named after him, but I knew it was named after King George III, because a picture of him hung over the door. It was always a ‘quick pint’ for Dad, but it seemed to take quite a long time, long enough anyway for me to prolong my morning enjoyment.

When Dad first took me marketing, I would sometimes visit the second-hand bargain stall and buy something for Mum. The lady who ran it had a fur coat with several bare places where the hair was gone. ‘She looks as if she’s got the mange,’ Dad confided in me in a loud whisper. She wore a scarf wrapped round her head, tied in a knot at the back. She also wore woollen gloves with no fingers. She never so much as smiled or even tried to sell anything, just watched her stall and the people. She seemed to hardly trust anyone.

‘Don’t you touch it!’ she warned off a would-be buyer. ‘If you want to look at it—I’ll get it for yer. Oy! You! Keep yer ‘ands off! I know you!’ she would shout in her shrill voice.

She knew me too, but she never said ‘Keep yer ‘ands off’ to me.

It was sometime before I realised that Mum didn’t really like the things I bought. ‘Just flashy trash!’ I overheard her say to Dad once. I didn’t buy her anymore after that.

That day I had an extra thru’pence. I might get something for me, I thought. I wandered along to the stall selling magic tricks and jokes. I had tried some of them before. I looked at the Magic Bird Warbler—so realistic the birds will flock to you. Why did the one I had not bring any birds? The Chopped off finger, a red ink-stained appendage which could be made to jump across the room attracted me, but not for long. The Magic Slate—it never wears out!—The perfect jotter! This seemed like a good idea, but it cost a whole sixpence. In the end, I settled for a Seebackroscope—Look behind you without turning around!—Watch all the girls!—Heaps of fun!’

It proved to be a small, bell-mouthed, black tube with a hole in its side and a slanting mirror at the closed end. With some difficulty, I fitted it to my eye. I could only see a very small area, very distorted and more to one side than behind me. It was disappointing, but I didn’t like to ask for my money back. I thought, I would show it to Dad but had better not bother Mum with it.

Dad laughed when I showed him and said he hoped I would get as much fun from it as the writing on the box promised. ‘You’re a hustler’s dream, son,’ he said.

‘What’s a hustler?’ I asked.

‘Someone who sees you coming.’ He laughed.

CHAPTER 5

A Meeting

Sometimes if he is in a good mood (which is most of the time!), Dad will stop at The Swan for another quick one on the way home and would sit me in the porch with a bottle of lemonade with two straws and a bag of crisps. That Saturday, he was in a good mood. When we got to The Swan, I sat in the porch while Dad went to get my lemonade. ‘Here you are! You don’t have to sit here.’ He must have seen that I was getting cold. ‘Come on inside! Jo has a back room for kids, and there’s only one in it now, new neighbour of ours, as a matter of fact.’ Dad led me through the bar.

I hadn’t been inside before. It was a mixture of brown paint, shiny wood, and polished brass. It was lit by dim ceiling lights around which smoke wreathed. The room had three tall windows with greying net curtains. The glass was filthy, both inside and out, and little of the weak morning sunlight got in. The dirt didn’t worry me, but I wondered what Mum would do if she saw it. I bet Dad never brought her here!

There were a lot of men in the room who all seemed to be talking at once. There was a funny sour smell that I didn’t like much. What a noise! Standing behind a long counter was a lady with red hair and a very big chest, the only lady I could see. She winked at Dad, looked at me, and laughed. I smiled back. She seemed nice. I think she must have been Jo. A green cloth-topped table stood at one end of the bar. It had three quite bright lights hanging low over it in a roof-like, green painted, shade so that all the light fell on the green cloth. The edges were like little walls to stop balls falling off. Two men were poking at the red and white balls with long sticks. Every now and again, a ball would drop into one of the white string nets that hung on heavy, polished brass rings at the corners and middle of the table. I had never seen such a game before.

‘Billiards,’ Dad replied to my question. ‘Here you go! In here! You’re not supposed to be in the bar.’ He nudged me towards a door at the far end of the room.

‘Here we are, Pete! This is my lad, Phil.’

‘Say, hello to Mr Stenning—or I should say, Captain Stenning, Phil?’ The man was tall with dark hair and twinkly green eyes. He was wearing an officer’s uniform.

‘Hello, Mr . . . err . . . Capt . . . Stenning,’ I got out. Dad hadn’t seemed sure.

‘Hello, Phil. I wish it was mister, but that won’t happen until Jerry’s dealt with. I expect you know my lass.’ He grinned at me and sounded quite friendly. I hadn’t noticed Claire until then. She was sitting in a corner, hidden behind him. She was looking at me, but it was difficult to guess what she was thinking.

All the paintwork in here was brown, as in the bar. The walls were papered, with a curly, stand-up pattern, twining roses, in red that looked like velvet. Dad called it flock. The floor was bare, grey, uneven slate, except for a long, black rubber mat. On the wall at one end above the mat was a very old and tatty dartboard. Over it, a small spotlight was the only source of lighting in the room other than what came through the dirty windows.

Claire’s corner, under the window, was in slight shadow, but the light coming from the high window behind her made her hair glow. The window was tall and narrow. It didn’t look as if it could open except for a small section high up. It had criss-crosses of sticky tape stuck to the glass. This, like the green netting stuck to bus windows, was supposed to stop broken glass from coming into the room and cutting people if a bomb landed nearby. The tall window and the high, dingy ceiling made Claire look very small. She had a glass of lemonade in front of her but didn’t seem to have drunk anything. She was wearing a red velvet dress; it was almost the same red as the wallpaper roses. The dress had a white collar that matched her socks. The dress matched the walls so much that it almost made her a part of the room. ‘Yes, she’s in my class, sir!’ I answered the captain. ‘Hello, Claire.’

I hadn’t seen her out of school uniform before. Her face slowly became clearer as I got more used to the dim light. She looked uncomfortable. Her eyes looked directly at mine. She didn’t speak. I didn’t know what to say next.

Reviews for Through a Glass Darkly

[mrsrk-1 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Interestingly the review doesn't state the very important fact that Thomas and also his brother Arthur were expelled from their order, because their deep involvement with communists. Thomas' wife, Margarita (also expelled from her order) was involved with the Fuerzas Armadas Rebeldes, the military wing of the Guatemalan Labor (communist) Party. They joined a group of expelled clergy, communist sympathizers. The group wanted to join other Guatemalan guerrilla movements, but ended up back in the US, where, from DC, they continued to spread their communist views. Margarita even became a teacher of "Latin American Issues," beginning the indoctrination of young minds. This is pure communist propaganda.