From the first, he had known it was a mistake. He did not belong here. His family name had got him through the door. Bad enough he had to pass his grandfathers every day, their painted eyes following him down the hall.
It was alright for old Larkin, he fit in here like a finger in a pie. Charlie had tried to explain, but they had dismissed it as a childhood fancy. "You'll grow out of it, Charlie boy, give it time," they had said. So Charlie had gone to the college, juggling schedules and lessons but always one step out.
His teachers were kind, but Charlie knew what they were thinking behind the faces they wore. How would his family react when he finally summed up the courage to tell them of his secret passion, of how he really wanted to spend his days?
When Charlie was younger, he and his dad were always clowning around, he had been able to talk to him about all manner of things: why was the grass green, the moon round, why carrots were so good for you, but Charlie dreaded facing him now.
He remembered his mother, egging him on. He had stumbled after her and she would catch him and they would roll on the floor, laughing. But Charlie knew he was different. Perhaps he underestimated them, maybe they would understand. He pictured the scene in his mind. Dad falling into a dead faint, mother tearfully wringing her hands and flinging herself in front of the first moving bus.
Stop being so melodramatic, Charlie admonished himself. He felt as if a live grenade had been handed to him, there was nowhere to throw it without someone being hurt.
Charlie pulled his suitcase out from under his bed and began to pack. The baggy pants he would leave for Larkin - he was in need a new pair. The curly wig he left for Davo but the hand tooled leather case embossed with the family crest, he packed carefully and snapped the suitcase shut. He recalled his father solemnly handing it to him, wiping a tear from his eye." Take care of it son and one day you might pass it on to your own son."
Another tear to be wiped away. Charlie sighed and began to practise the words. "Mum, Dad, I don't want to be a clown, I really want to be an accountant!"
It was alright for old Larkin, he fit in here like a finger in a pie. Charlie had tried to explain, but they had dismissed it as a childhood fancy. "You'll grow out of it, Charlie boy, give it time," they had said. So Charlie had gone to the college, juggling schedules and lessons but always one step out.
His teachers were kind, but Charlie knew what they were thinking behind the faces they wore. How would his family react when he finally summed up the courage to tell them of his secret passion, of how he really wanted to spend his days?
When Charlie was younger, he and his dad were always clowning around, he had been able to talk to him about all manner of things: why was the grass green, the moon round, why carrots were so good for you, but Charlie dreaded facing him now.
He remembered his mother, egging him on. He had stumbled after her and she would catch him and they would roll on the floor, laughing. But Charlie knew he was different. Perhaps he underestimated them, maybe they would understand. He pictured the scene in his mind. Dad falling into a dead faint, mother tearfully wringing her hands and flinging herself in front of the first moving bus.
Stop being so melodramatic, Charlie admonished himself. He felt as if a live grenade had been handed to him, there was nowhere to throw it without someone being hurt.
Charlie pulled his suitcase out from under his bed and began to pack. The baggy pants he would leave for Larkin - he was in need a new pair. The curly wig he left for Davo but the hand tooled leather case embossed with the family crest, he packed carefully and snapped the suitcase shut. He recalled his father solemnly handing it to him, wiping a tear from his eye." Take care of it son and one day you might pass it on to your own son."
Another tear to be wiped away. Charlie sighed and began to practise the words. "Mum, Dad, I don't want to be a clown, I really want to be an accountant!"