Father of the Man Read Online Free PDF

to know.”
    She sighed. The excitement had gone out of her. “It’s only over small things. Like when Oscar’s had one of those little strokes of luck he always does seem to be having. Don’t you remember when you said to me, ‘How is it that Oscar keeps finding things—like that Rolex wristwatch which nobody ever claimed—or discovers money in his account which was clearly put there by mistake but just as clearly nobody ever missed? How is it that every time, whatever happens, he comes up smelling of roses?’”
    “And you said he was born under a lucky star, that’s simply the kind of person he is.”
    Jean was wiping her hands down her flowered apron. “Anyhow, will you come to see Indiana Jones with me?”
    He shook his head. “Sorry. No. I can’t.”
    “Then I’ll go to write you that cheque.” Her voice had taken on something of the expressionless tone in which she had spoken about his father.
    “No, Mum. I don’t want one.”
    “All I’ll do is sign it. You’ll fill in the rest. You’d better take my card; for heaven’s sake don’t lose it.” This last bit was intended to be humorous.
    “But I don’t want them, neither the cheque nor the card.”
    “Don’t be naïve, Roger—please. I’ll leave them both on the sideboard. You’ve got long enough to consider it. I can’t do with two difficult men in this house at the same time.”
    Roger shook his head again. His mouth was set in a stubborn line. She had sometimes told him he had all the stubbornness of his father.
    “Because if you get a police conviction and completely ruin your prospects don’t think you can just run back to us to fix it. Oh, and by the way, the money’s a gift, not a loan. We’ll manage somehow; your father needn’t know.” She indicated vaguely the vegetable rack beside her; on Saturday mornings, in the market, she always stocked up on plenty of vegetables. “The only way I want you to repay me is by not making a mess of your life because of some adolescent idea about the way things ought to be. That might have been all right for Sunday school in the reign of Queen Victoria but after ten years of Margaret Thatcher I can tell you it absolutely isn’t !” There was a tremor in her voice. He was suddenly afraid that she was going to cry. She walked rapidly past him.
    There was a further question he had meant to ask but now realized he couldn’t. If it had been Oscar and not me…would your advice have been the same? Or do you think that he, born under his lucky star and able to talk his way out of practically anything, might still have come up smelling of roses?
    Though he wondered whether Oscar, caught in such a situation, would also have declined her proffered means of escape.
    One thing sure, however: his fears, when he next saw her, proved well-founded; it was clear she had been crying. Him? His father? She didn’t refer to it or to what had caused it but Roger naturally felt responsible. He knew this would have sounded corny but he really thought she must be among the best of mothers in the world.
    His father, too, remained very quiet.
    Yet somehow they all got through their supper, without anyone tempestuously leaving before it was over.
    He didn’t sleep well. Supposing I’d been an American at the time of Vietnam, he thought. Or old enough to be called up during the war? Supposing I’d been a dissident Chinese student only a few months back? Not much comparison, really: on British Rail no tanks nor bombs nor bullets. No napalm. Not even all that many sticks and stones.
    And words can never hurt me.
    He’d been awake before his alarm rang. About an hour later, on the train, he opened his briefcase and took out a packet of the sandwiches his mother had prepared the night before: every morning he found two such packets in the fridge, carefully foil-wrapped; also a banana, washed apple and some other piece of fruit. Occasionally a bar of chocolate. He’d considered waiting for his breakfast until the