Free Father of the Man by Stephen Benatar Page A

prepossessing manners was apparent from that regard, excited in every breast, which held him forth as an Ornament of Social Life…’ Roger had thought a good deal about this inscription, speculated long—and no doubt inaccurately—on the reality which lay behind it; and because at some point he’d idly mentioned that one day he might go to make a copy, his father had beaten him to it, handed him a typewritten card shortly afterwards and clearly been gratified by the surprise it had occasioned—it was such small things as this Roger hoped he wouldn’t forget when his father was no longer around. In the meantime James Still, however romanticized, had come to be more than an ideal to him. He had come to be a friend. Not only was Roger now a stiff-kneed spectator from a window in Lamb’s Conduit Street, he was also a little boy in short trousers communing with a make-believe companion! Oh, Lord! But the thought of that old lady who, having once given him a warm and kindly smile, would presumably have done the same tonight if she had seen him passing, coupled with the thought of the young man who had died off Sierra Leone a hundred and sixty-eight years ago (“to the very day,” his dad had said, as he’d given him the card, “I’d thought that might appeal to you”), of Lieutenant James Still now standing here beside him at St Pancras, was unreasoningly a spring, as soon as the notion had occurred to him, of flooding reassurance. He felt glad to be related to watchfulness and gallantry and the best feelings of the heart—however tenuous or crazy the connection.
    The queue started to move.
    It was only ten-past-six; another twenty minutes till departure. He found a window seat in a non-smoking compartment facing the way they’d be going, placed his raincoat and neatly furled umbrella in the rack above his head, his briefcase and paper on the table in front of him, and hoped to heaven the other three with whom he’d most likely be sharing would prove sympathetic types; preferably, he thought, women. He retrieved his Yorkie bar and this time ate about half—his mother was always speaking about blood-sugar levels, usually his father’s—before deciding he couldn’t manage the rest of it. He turned to the back page of the paper (‘England sack Auckland Commonwealth Games athlete—“I was a silly boy,” he says after visit to a sex club’) and the quick crossword. Two women came and after several seconds’ worth of glancing round, sat down opposite him, and he wondered if their hesitation had been due to the fact they’d been hoping to see people whom they knew or to something quite different. Possibly they didn’t like the look of him? Or possibly it was just that they preferred to face forward. Before the first had fully eased along the seat he said: “If you’d rather not have your backs to the engine, I don’t mind changing.” This offer might have been practically spontaneous but he knew it wasn’t unselfish. He wanted to show the world he was a good guy. How could the heartless authorities single out for persecution Mr Wholesome, Mr Nice? But the ruse failed dismally, certainly as regards the pair it had been practiced on—perhaps other passengers, across the aisle, had heard and been impressed. Both women looked at him more as if he were Mr Here-I-Am-Girls-Must-Be-Your-Lucky-Day. The one still standing shook her platinum-blonde head. “No, you’re quite all right,” she said. The other, whose bottom was by now midway across the seat, didn’t bother even to reply.
    He looked down at the crossword, already felt he was about to blush. Furthermore, none of the first few clues seemed remotely solvable. Suddenly, not only did he want to pee: he wanted to shit.
    Again, though, he put this down to nerves.
    One of the young women, the one by the window, took out an emery board; started to file her scarlet-painted nails. Usually this would have pissed him off, the continual rasping sound, the