He still lived at home with his parents. He didn’t earn enough to move out. Life at home never changed. His father, and now he, too, rose at seven in the morning, dressed in a suit for the city, and took breakfast in the breakfast room overlooking Gordon Square, served by the kitchen maid. The meal was taken in silence. His father read The Times, while Tom stared out the window at the passing trams and buses.
In the evenings his father retired to his study with his bottle of whisky. His mother would spend long hours in front of the mirror before setting off in a taxi for the Coliseum, where she sang in the chorus. She usually returned after they were in bed, and was never up for breakfast. Even on the evenings she was not working, she rarely spent time at home. It was an unspoken rule in the household that she was not questioned about her whereabouts.
Every six months, Tom went along to the Horticultural Halls in Victoria to take the next paper in the endless examinations it was necessary to pass in order to qualify as a solicitor. After five years he duly qualified. But he felt no joy at this achievement. What he felt instead was fear, an uneasiness, as if he had taken a wrong turning, and that his true life, the life that he should have been living, was somehow being played out in another dimension. He developed a dread of the passing years, of going to and from the city every day for the rest of his life like his father. He examined his face in the mirror daily, looking for signs of ageing, worrying that the years were creeping up on him while his proper life had not yet started. He felt stifled by his existence, but unable to step off this endless treadmill.
Then one day, in 1938, everything changed.
He was working at his desk one morning, when Arbuthnot called him into his office.
‘One of the clients has made a formal complaint, I’m afraid, Ellis,’ Arbuthnot began.
‘Formal complaint? About what?’
‘About the warranties in the share transfer document, in the takeover of Hills and Noble. You know, we did that transfer last year. Apparently the warranties misrepresented the situation, and the clients are now being sued.’
‘Yes, I remember the takeover, but I didn’t draw up the document. I didn’t draft that one. You did, sir.’
Arbuthnot shook his head vehemently.
‘Oh, no, no. I haven’t drafted one of those things for years, my boy. It must have been you, Ellis. You do them all nowadays.’
‘But I remember this takeover specifically. You drafted it as a special favour to Mr. Noble, because he is a friend of yours. You said that you wanted to deal with it personally.’
Arbuthnot shook his head stubbornly. It became clear to Tom that Arbuthnot was not going to take the blame. Tom was going to be the scapegoat, no matter what he said or how many years of faithful service he’d given the firm.
Tom stared at the man, at his little sweaty face that had smug satisfaction etched upon its every line. Something snapped inside him.
‘You know what, Arbuthnot? You’re a coward. That’s what you are. You would prefer to see me take the rap for this than stand up and admit you got it wrong. You’re a pathetic, grovelling little coward.’
Arbuthnot sat up straight. His eyes were snapping open and shut. He blushed.
‘How dare you insult me like that? I’ve never been spoken to like that in all my life. I’m afraid you’re going to have to be reprimanded, Ellis.’
‘Oh, reprimand me all you like. It won’t make a jot of difference. I’m sick of this damned place, and I’m sick of the mind-numbing activity that passes for work around here. And I’m sick of you and your self-satisfied partners. You can shove your job. I’m out of here.’
He collected his brief case and umbrella, and left the building. The last memory he had of the place was of Gerry’s startled face as he had swept out of the office.
Tom had headed straight home. When he had let himself in through the front door, he had found his house unnaturally quiet. He went through the hall towards the sitting room, but something made him stop before entering. He heard his mother laugh. She laughed as he had never heard her laugh before. It was a low intimate laugh, full of playful suggestion.
He opened the door, and she had jumped and looked round, startled. A flush began on her neck and quickly spread to her cheeks. She had been leaning forward and talking to a man in the other chair. They had been holding hands. Tom caught sight of his mother snatch her hand away as she turned towards him. The man was young. He could not have been more than thirty-five, but he had the appearance of a dandy, with his toothbrush moustache and his perfectly cut suit. After an imperceptible pause, the man carried the moment off perfectly, sat back in his chair as if completely at his ease.
‘Oh, this is Mr. Terry. He’s the stage manager at the theatre. Mr. Terry, this is Thomas, my son.’
Without a word Tom turned on his heel and left the room. In that moment what he had suspected for years became clear to him. He knew now why his father hid away in his study and took comfort in his whisky. He knew why his parents rarely spoke and why they slept in separate rooms. And in that same moment of revelation, came the realisation that he must leave. He must leave
