Father and son

THOMAS BURKE

A slight incident in the life of a worldly young man who needed money and knew where to look for it

Sam Swote was hard up. When Sam Swote was hard up the very few scruples that composed the atom which served him as conscience got out of the way. He wasn't hard up as you and I are hard up; he wanted only a few shillings. But relatively his situation was as acute as yours when you need an extra hundred and can't find it on the credit side of your pass-book; and he had none of the instincts or training which enable you to put up with it and wait till things change. He couldn't put up with anything that interfered with his wants.

He wasn't wicked. He wasn't the kind of lad who, needing a few shillings, would go out with the smash-and-grab or hold-up boys. He was a jellied eel. His face at a passing glance in the street was a normal face, but if you took a long look at it you began to think of something out of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. He had no zest for goodness and no guts for evil. All he could be was mean and milky; mean and milky in his good tendencies and mean and milky in his rebellions.

He was rebelling against circumstance that afternoon, but there was nothing of the Cromwell in his rebellion, or even of the Hitler. His rebellion took the form, not of knocking things over but of slinking round them. He was looking, as he always did, not for a fight with circumstance, but for the Nearest Way Out. He leaned against a lamp-post at the street corner, interfering with the sunshine and doing his bit of rebellion. He needed a few shillings, and that ever-active atom told him that he mustn't even think of taking them. That was dangerous. He must justify and protect himself in getting them. He must earn them. He was not delicate as to the manner in which he earned them, but he barred all other ways of getting them. So he slumped against the post, blinking, and considered how he might earn them.

Of course, his father ought to have given them to him, but lately his father had Turned Nasty. He had begun to be reluctant in handing out shillings. He had begun to nag. He had told his son what he himself was doing at seventeen. From this it appeared that he was dissatisfied with his son. It appeared, too, that he himself had been the exemplar upon which numbers of men who wore honours and rolled about in Boyces had modeled their lives.

It appeared, most certainly, that it would he useless to ask the old man for those shillings. The old man was obviously getting slack in his duty to his son, and it seemed that his friends approved this slackness. When Sam made complaints to them concerning the old man and pocket money, he got no sympathy from them. But then, they were old men, like* his father, and would hardly understand. They had talked of Regular Work and Spongers and Pieces of Wet String. They referred to the old man's attitude to his son as unduly generous, while admitting that other people would have called it silly. They had trespassed beyond the bounds of courtesy by foreshadowing his probable fate had he been their son. They had left him feeling bad about things.

It was while he was brooding upon this that he remembered the talk there had lately been about the large amount of tobacco which was being sold in the neighbourhood. Sold, loo, so cheaply that, considering the current duty, only a philanthropist, anxious to lose money for the benefit of the poor, could have sold it at the price. Authority, he knew, was much concerned about this business, and wanted to interview this philanthropist. But it couldn't locate his address, and it was hampered in the search for it by being unable to quote his name.

Sam knew both. And Sam had read stories about the Secret Service, and about its splendid men who, at great sacrifice of reputation, served their country in this dangerous and difficult work. So, when the bars opened, Sam left his lamp-post, and went in and deliberated the matter over a lonely half-pint. It looked safe and it looked virtuous. It ought to be done. And it ought to be worth something when done. And it might lead to other things. Small beginnings ... as his father was always saying.

So when he saw the bottom of his glass he came to a decision. He would earn his country's gratitude, and anything else that might be going, by a virtuous piece of work. He put the glass on the counter, straightened his tie by the mirror, and set out to do it. There would be a girl at the corner tomorrow night. That was the source of his need of shillings; a man must have a few shillings in his pocket when he meets a girl. And he must do his duty as a citizen of a great city. So he went and did it.

They received him at the station somewhat coldly. But they listened to what he had to say, and when various questions brought some long-wanted details, they thawed. They admitted at the end of the interview that he had brought them something, and they returned the service. He went out to the twilit street with the clear mind which comes with a problem solved.

He was waiting at the corner next evening, in full ease of mind, for the encounter with the girl, when a constable came.

"You're wanted at the station."

"Who—me?"

"Ah. Won't take you a minute. Only a bit of identification."

So he went again to the station, and in the hall of the station he saw a sergeant; a constable; two civilians, looking somewhat awkward; and a third civilian, his father, sitting meekly on a bench. The old man looked up at his son, with eyes that registered nothing in particular and little flicks of a dozen different emotions.

The sergeant spoke. "D'you see the man you say does this tobacco business?"

"Yes. Sitting on the bench there."

"Ah. What name d'you know him by?"

"Joe Swote."

" M. Same name as yours, eh? Any relation?"

"My father."

"Your—" The sergeant's eyes registered something very particular. "Oh. . . . Really. That's interesting." He looked Sam over. Then he looked at the old man, sitting with drooped hands. Then he looked back at Sam. "All right. You can go." He put an emphasis on the word "go."

Sam hesitated. He hadn't seen it like this. He didn't like the sergeant's manner, and lie didn't like the half-grin on the face of the constable, or the hard eyes of the two civilians. They didn't seem a fitting reception to one who was serving his country. What difference did it make that the fellow was his father? Chaps can't choose their fathers. But as the sergeant was still looking at him, and the gaze was becoming almost hypnotic, he didn't say anything. He turned and slouched out. He slouched so heavily that he didn't notice the little threshold against which the doors fitted. He caught his foot in it; stumbled; and fell headlong down the steps.

Those inside turned to look, and in that moment the old man made a dash for the door. There were cries of "Stop. . . . Hold him. . . . Quick!" The constable dashed after him to seize him. But he over-ran himself. The old man had stopped abruptly at the doorway. He stood there bent, peering down into the half-darkness.

" 'Urt yehself, son? Did y'urt yehself?"