Chapter Eight
Daniel Westgate had been a tall, gaunt man; gangling and large boned, with arms too long for even his rough hewn frame. so that knobbly wrists were always exposed by sleeves too short to function properly and serving only to emphasize his shabby appearance. He always looked untidy, from his coarse, unruly shock of graying hair, to his massive, ill shod feet; he looked like a traveling stall from a church hall jumble sale. And it was from such places, in fact, that his wife acquired most of his clothes. But his appearance did nothing to detract from the aura of power and strength that surrounded the man. Indeed, in a curious way, it emphasized his magnetism; for, people would reason subconsciously, if a man could have an impressive presence whilst giving a fair imitation of a ragbag, that man must be something special. Daniel was not liked. He was loved or respected, but 'like' was far too insubstantial an emotion to apply to such a person.
For Daniel was of that rare breed of people, the ones who possess purpose. Passion glowed deep and fiercely within him. He not only believed in Justice and right and goodness, he physically reflected these beliefs. Totally honest, without deceit or malice in even their mildest form, he had devoted his life to God, his wife, his son, and 'the people’. And such an undertaking, awesome in its implications when viewed logically by people who realize the difficulties in complete devotion to the first subject, without the added distractions and temptations a cynical world would use to protect itself when faced with such devotion, was simply the easiest and most natural path Daniel could take through life.
When his wife died at an early age, Daniel simply kneeled and thanked God for the privilege of knowing her, the honor of loving a woman whom he considered far superior to himself. He wept, and even his tears looked large and awkward, he wept with joy that his Lord should show such regard for his wife that he had taken her to live with him. It only confirmed his opinion that he was second best of the partnership. He resumed his life and the only visible signs of his loss were an added gruffness in his voice at times, and a steady decline in his already deplorable standard of dress. But there was an aching loneliness inside him, a space that nothing or no one would ever fill.
Philip worshiped his father. And when the boy's mother died, this huge granite man simply expanded to encompass his son's loss, to become all things to the boy. Father and son were fortunate in that their personalities and mentalities were roughly similar. Both were indifferent to possessions, both preferred the mental to the physical world. In Daniel's case, poverty was a fact that accompanied the kind of life he led: There were more important things to do than strive for wealth. To Philip, who had always known poverty, it was a way of life. and there were more important things to learn than the knowledge of luxury. There was only one shadow in the man's life and, typically, his concern was not for his own future, but that of his son.
Daniel was aware that through the Westgate family there ran a streak of mystery. He thought himself fortunate that he had escaped affliction that brought a fascination for the darker side of life and he fervently prayed that his son might also be spared. But it became obvious in Philip's early years that the prayers had not been answered. The thing that Daniel regarded as a curse, and the other members of the Westgate family looked upon as a precious gift, was strong and active in Philip's nature. Many a night the boy would stumble tearfully into his father's bedroom to escape the whispering darkness, the vivid dreams that would eventually come to pass in reality; many an afternoon of bright sunlight had seen Philip fleeing to the safety of his father's arms, fleeing from things seen but which were not, should not have been, visible. And the big man, even in his sadness, was gentle and strong, his large, big knuckled hands held the boy safely away from the flickering shadows that would always be a part of his life.
Daniel explained as best he could to the child. He taught him how to control and, finally, how to subdue the interfering voices, the unbidden images, until the Westgate 'gift', its skills dulled by idleness, lay dormant in the boy. And Daniel now prayed that it would please God to keep his son that way.
Shortly after Philip's seventh birthday they moved to the dockland area of the city, to the crumbling hall that would be his father's church. It was evening as the boy held his father's hand and walked unsteadily over the dark, cobbled road surface. The oily, restless swell of a running tide glistened in the fading light as the river moved endlessly past the narrow street.
Daniel unlocked the hall door