Three Brothers Read Free

playing football for his school team. He enjoyed the exhilaration of the dribble with the ball, the clever pass, and the sudden shot at the goal. He enjoyed the exercise of his own body—the exercise of his power in the world. He called out to his teammates, he shouted at the linesmen, he whooped with triumph at every goal his team scored. It was a world of expressive noise. The physical sensation of movement delighted him. He revelled in the wind and rain and sunlight as he ran across the pitch.
    In this, he was different from his brothers. Gradually the intimacy between them began to fade. Sam was left to himself. He spent many hours making elaborate contraptions out of wood and cardboard. Even though he did not know the word melancholy, he began to experience it. He would turn, head over heels, on his narrow bed in order to make himself dizzy and disoriented. He did not prosper at school. As a matter of course he was sent to the same secondary modern school as his older brother. He made no friends there, and Harry seemed to avoid him.

II
    The path is clear
    H ARRY H ANWAY left school at the age of sixteen, and was already eager to join the world. He was active, determined, and energetic. At school he had won popularity for his cheerfulness and bravado. He had become captain of the football team. He had retaliated against one notorious school bully by knocking him to the floor. He had his own recognisable phrases, which were instantly imitated. “How the heck are you?” was his standard greeting. He also said, in mock irritation, “What the heck?” So he became known as Harry Heck.
    “I don’t want to go to college,” he told his father as his leaving day approached. “I want to get a job.”
    “Say that again.”
    “I want to get a job.”
    “Just so you’re certain.” He looked away for a moment. “There’s nothing worse than a dead-end job.”
    It was a Sunday afternoon. Philip Hanway was about to leave for the City. He now worked seven nights a week in order to support his family. “I’ll come back with money, Dad.”
    “It’s not about the money. It’s about you.”
    “But what do you think, Dad, of the newspapers? That’s a good life, isn’t it?” Harry loved newspapers. He enjoyedthe appearance, and even the texture, of them. He liked their smell. He relished the size of the headlines and the neat rows of type. He was excited by the thought of thousands of copies despatched from the printing plant into waiting vans. In the evenings, after school, he flattened the Daily Sketch on the kitchen table and slowly turned its pages. Sometimes he read out paragraphs aloud, just like the news broadcasters on the wireless.
    “Newspaper boy?” Daniel was writing in an exercise book, but now looked up at him.
    “Dry up.”
    “I was only asking.”
    “Sod off.”
    “There’s no need for a fight,” Philip said. “We have to think about this seriously.”
    “I have thought about it seriously.”
    So Harry arrived at the offices of the local newspaper, the Camden Bugle , and asked if they needed a messenger boy.
    He was astonished to discover that the offices of the Bugle comprised two small rooms, one marked “Editorial” and the other marked “Advertising,” above a row of shops along the high street. Its premises were on the second floor above a barber, and the candy-striped pole could be seen from the desks of “Editorial.” The floor was covered with scuffed linoleum, and the interior needed repainting.
    The Bugle , quite by chance, did need a messenger boy, the previous occupant of that post having just handed in his notice in order to become a gentleman’s outfitter in Bond Street. The editor, George Bradwell, prided himself on making his decisions in an instant. And he reckoned Harry to be a lively young man. “Do you run or do you walk fast?” he asked him. He had a gruff voice that seemed to come from his chest rather than his throat.
    “I run, sir, when I see the path