Tom Sponson, at fifty-three, was a thoroughly successful man. He had married a charming wife and built himself a good house in a London suburb. His son, Bob, nineteen, was doing well at Oxford; his daughter, April, aged sixteen, who was at a good school, had no wish to use makeup, to wear low frocks or to flirt. She still regarded herself as too young for these trifling amusements. Yet she was gay, affectionate and enjoyed life. All the same, for some time, Tom had been aware that he was working very hard for very little. His wife, Louise, gave him a peck in the morning when he left for the office, and if she were not at a party, a quick kiss when he came home in the evening. Her life was completely filled with the children, her clothes, keeping her figure slim, the house clean and smart, with her bridge, her tennis, her friends and her parties.
The chidren were even more preoccupied-the boy with his own work and his friends, the girl with hers. They were polite to Tom, but when he came into a room there was at once a feeling of constraint. When they were alone together he perceived that they were slightly embarrassed and changed the subject of their conversation, whatever it was. Yet they did not seem to do this with their mother. He would find all three of them laughing at something and when he came in they would stop and gaze at him as if he had shot up through the floor.
He said to himself, "it isn’t only that they don’t need me, but I’m a nuisance to them. I’m in the way."
One morning, when he was just going to get into his car and his wife had come out to say goodbye, he suddenly made an excuse, saying, "Just a moment, I’ve left a letter" and went back to his desk, and then dashed out to the car and drove off, pretending to forget that goodbye had not been said.
Immediately he felt that he could not stand any more of this existence; it was nonsense. His wife and children did not depend on the business any more; it could be taken over tomorrow and it would support all of them in comfort. Actually he would miss the business; it was his chief interest. But if he had to give it up for the sake of freedom, a break in this senseless life, he could do even that. Yes, joyfully.
As he circled Trafalgar Square, only a few hundred yards from his office, he told himself that he could not go on. It was as if at that moment when he had dodged the customary goodbye a contact had been broken. The conveyor belt which was his life had been stopped.
An hour later he was in the train for Westford, a seaside place where he had once spent a summer holiday before his marriage. On the luggage rack was a new suitcase, containing pajamas, shoes, a new kit as for a holiday by the sea even new paper backs for a wet day.