Wings of the Morning by Julian Beale Read Free Book Online Page A

by any of these. He did know that it was straightforward commerce which sparked his
interest. He wanted to start something, nurture, build and sustain some form of enterprise which would remain a fascination to him. By the middle of November he was in London, dossing down with
friends, doing some interviews and trying to tighten up his thinking despite the attractions of much partying.
    He was conscious of going too slowly, and thought he might look for advice from his old chum Martin Kirchoff, with whom he had kept passing contact since they had met in Menton. Destiny,
however, intervened before he could make an appointment. His father Lawrence died, a heart attack which dropped him stone dead on the sparse turf of the school rugby ground in the middle of a match
for which he was the referee. He was just sixty-eight. David was surprised to find himself badly affected by his death. Father and son had become closer over the past year and as Lawrence had been
delighted with David’s degree, David had come to form a respect, if not a warm love, for his father. He admired how Lawrence had stuck at his role and responsibilities, but it was a shock to
discover the impoverished state of affairs which he had left behind. Finances had been strained by David’s time at university and this reality added sharply to his need to knuckle down.
    David also sensed that without Lawrence, there would be little further contact with his mother or his sisters. He did not blame them, especially not the latter with whom there had been such
scant connection since childhood, but he felt a finality when Esther announced to him shortly after the funeral that she intended, ‘after a suitable interval’, to go and settle in
France from where she would provide a point of contact in due course of time. From this cold announcement, David gathered that there was another man and another existence for her. It says much
about this emotionally dispersed family that he apparently did not enquire further and it seems likely that mother and son never met again.
    Approaching Christmas 1965, David was living very cheaply in a remote outpost of London’s western suburbs and pushing coins into a telephone box in order to make contact again with the
Kirchoffs. He received a warm welcome and was invited to visit Martin’s office one day in Christmas week. David travelled on the tube up to Bayswater, filled with an excited anticipation
which he could not explain to himself.
    At first sight, the business of Kirchoff and Son did not impress, being housed in a small, nondescript building sandwiched between two large Victorian houses which had been converted into flats.
Once inside, however, his opinion altered as he took in the planning and the style with which the single storey with mezzanine had been laid out to make the most of the space and the natural light,
such as was available on a December afternoon.
    Martin showed him around, introducing him to three girls at work at their desks spread comfortably around the open plan area, and then settled David in front of his own table which groaned
beneath telephones and files in piles. They had not spoken since David graduated so Martin was keen to hear details of the lifestyle after which he had yearned. Then David told him of
Lawrence’s death and the ensuing conversation underlined for both of them the gulf of difference between their respective family circumstances.
    As if on cue, the front door burst open to admit a great woolly bear of a man who interrupted them with a cry of greeting. Solomon Kirchoff was a real charmer and an enormous extrovert,
expansive where his son was diffident and as outrageous as Martin could be shy. The three of them settled to conversation, starting with a reminiscence of the original meeting in Menton when Martin
collided with David’s car. It seemed that the incident had caused Solomon huge amusement and he was still chuckling now as they sat together. David thought