From very early on I seemed to have mistrusted the normal and inclined towards its opposite; an unconscious refusal, perhaps brought about by my father's death. Not long after his disappearance and while snow still lay on the ground, the trumpeter arrived. It was late afternoon and a bright fire was burning in the grate. The tunes he played were slow and mournful. They had a cracked and funereal quality to them. I went to the window and looked down on a ragged man in a heavy greatcoat and an army cap. He noticed my appearance and so played on and on as if willing me to join him and I felt a dark helplessness that I was too young to understand.
Two years later, but this time in a semi-detached house on the outskirts of London, I was once more on my own. The door bell rang and I answered it. He was also ragged and wearing a heavy coat, even though it was midsummer. and his face was almost completely hidden by a thick black beard. I invited him in, offered him tea and added with a certain amount of pride and enthusiasm several slices of bread and margerine. I remember nothing of what he said but it was as if we instinctively understood one another. What impressed me most was was the way he folded the bread and dipped it in his tea and I watched with fascination as the sodden morsel vanished into that dark hole that was his mouth. Of course, when my mother returned he was immediately but tactfully ejected and I was sent to my bedroom in disgrace.
Did either of these men have footwear that matched my aunt's expectations?
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