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One miserable Saturday I learned the soul-destroying bitterness of disappointment.

The house where I was born was a large terrace house at the top of Fitzwilliam Street,

directly opposite the end of Wentworth Street, which is why it was called Wentworth View.

That legend was painted on the plaque above the shared passage way between our house,

121, and the Barratt’s house, 123.

Entrance to the house was by the back door. Only ladies, gentlemen, and Doctor 

Hanratty used the front door. In fact, ladies and gentlemen never called on us, so our Irish

 physician was the sole ingressor through that hallowed portal. Lesser, therefore, ineligible

mortals who knocked on the door, were brusquely directed to the back door. Nanny had been

in service for many years, and knew a thing or two about protocol.

We used the back door for all purposes. When I was older, friends who came to see

me would be admitted just inside the back door. Actually, Peter West was my only friend,

 but if I had had others, they too would have had to wait inside the back door. The only

children who ever got in the house were my cousins. They did not come often enough, butwere good, friendly, happy children.

Three-fourths of the way through the pasaage way was the cole chute. This was a

round hole cut in the huge sandstone slab that paved the pasageway and formed the roof of 

the coal place in the cellar living room. It was closed by a round cast iron lid with leaf shapes

cut out in a roundel, almost star like. This balanced precariously on a narrow ledge that ran

all around the top of the hole. The regular coal man would drop bags of coal with a hundred

weight each down the hole into the keepiong cellar. We would count the bags, since coal

men could be dishonest, letting one bag go down with a pause halfway so that the

householder counted two bags for aone. When taking in ten bags or so, it would be hard tpo

tel if there was one short by looking at the mountain of coal in the coal ‘ole.

When I was about six or seven, I was told that my father was coming to see me and

take m e out. My sister Rene was not invited. He did not accept that she was his child,

although he had married my mother during a moment when he had thought he must surely be.

This inconsistency was typical of everything I remember of my father’s later years.

My step-father was referred to as “your dad” and my biological father as “your 

father,” usually with an accompanying adjective that was not designed to flatter.

Someone washed and dressed me, stuck my hair down temporarily with corporationhair oil, and sent to wait outside since father was not welcome inside the house.

It was a beautiful day. The sun shone almost audibly, making a shimmer rise from the

stone paving slabs, and the gas tar, in which the cobblestones of Fitzwilliam Street were set,

 bubble out into shiny exotic-smelling pools of irresistible liquid, adding to the enjoyment of 

the heady summer scent of June blossom and honey that hung in the air as if waiting for a

compliment. The glory of the day could be felt with every breath that warmed its way inside.

It was one of the longest days I have ever known.

Hour after hour, I stood in Fitzwilliam Street looking up and down for the arrival of 

this exciting and mysterious stranger that I hardly remembered. My frame quivered withanticipation at the prospect of a joyful reunion with someone who would surely love me and

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take me for a while, from the darkness, despair, and misery of that awful house with it’s

 bizarre population.

Hour after hour passed and an increasing sense of futility grew in my heart. He would

come; He had promised! I did not go in for my dinner for fear that I might miss him.

In the still light early evening, I was called from my futile vigil to go to my attic

 bedroom. I drew the blankets over my head to shut out the cruelty of life, curled into that

  position which provides comfort for all wounded souls, and cried myself to sleep not

understanding what it was that hurt or why. Promises to children are sacred pledges and must

 be kept.