That’sall,really.

    I’vetriedtotellyousomethingabouttheworldbeforethewar,thewotasniffofwhenIsawKingZog’sheposter,andthecesarethatI’vetoldyounothiheryourememberbeforethewaranddoobetoldaboutit,oryoudon’tremember,andit’sellingyou.SofarI’veonlyspokenaboutthethingsthathappeomebeforeIwassixteen.Uptothattimethingshadgoywellwiththefamily.ItwasabitbeforemysixteenthbirthdaythatIbegaglimpsesofeoplecall‘reallife’,meaningunpleasantness.

    AboutthreedaysafterI’dseenthebigcarpatBinfieldHouse,Fathercameintotealookingveryworriedandevenmreyahanusual.Heatehiswaysolemnlythroughhisteaanddidn’ttalkmuthosedayshehadaratherpreoccupiedwayofeating,andhismoustacheusedtoworkupanddownwithasidelongmovement,becausehehadn’tmanybackteethleft.Iwasjustgettingupfromtablewhenhecalledmeback.

    ‘Waitaminute,Gee,myboy.Igotsuthingtosaytoyou.Sitdowamiher,youheardwhatIgottosaylastnight.’

    Mother,behindthehugebroot,foldedherhandsinherlapandlookedsolemn.Fatherwenton,speakingveryseriouslybutratherspoilingtheeffectbytryingtodealwithacrumbthatlodgedsomewhereinwhatwasleftofhisbackteeth:

    ‘Gee,myboy,Igotsuthingtosaytoyou.Ibeenthinkingitover,andit’sabouttimeyouleftschool.‘Fraidyou’llhavetogettoworknowandstartearningabitthometoyourmother.IwrotetoMrWickseylastnightandtoldhimasIshouldhavetotakeyouaway.’

    Ofcoursethiswasquiteacctopret—hiswritingtoMrWickseybeforetellingme,Imean.Parentsinthosedays,asamatterofcourse,alwaysarrangedeverythiheirchildren’sheads.

    Fatherwentontomakesomerathermumb