Chapter 5

The men chuckled discreetly. Zebedee, to show that he knew more than any of the younger ones about the pious improvidence of Jonas, laughed himself into a noisy fit of coughing. Andrew effectively shut off this racket by scowling at him, as if to say that if Simon wanted to jest a little about their righteous but unemployed father, that was his business; but there was no occasion for any comment from Zebedee, whose back always hurt him when there was anything to do.

Feeling now that his audience was neither sympathetic nor particularly interested in what he had been saying, John dug deep into his pocket, fetched up an awl, drew the edge of the old net across his knees and set to work.

‘Aren’t you going to tell us anything more?’ asked Simon.

‘Not at present,’ said John remotely. ‘I’d much rather not talk about it now. It’s too serious…It isn’t at all a laughing matter.’

‘But—please, Johnny!’ entreated James. ‘We will be quiet.’ Glancing about the circle, with his sober eyes coming to rest on his father’s smirk, he added, ‘My brother has an important story to tell if we will let him. I, for one, would like to hear it.’

Slowly pocketing his awl and giving James a grateful smile, John continued with his strange narrative—and the men listened.

How to find happiness: that was the thing. Few of us would ever be wealthy, no matter how hard we tried; no matter how greedily we grabbed things out of other people’s hands. And the possessions we got, whether by fair means or foul, would turn out to be encumbrances. We would always have to be on the lookout for thieves. We would be afraid to leave home, even if we left a watchman, for he might be dishonest. We would sleep with one eye open, and we would be suspicious of strangers. And it was not only the threat of theft that would keep us disquieted. Our possessions would be menaced by moths—and rust.

‘Surely he didn’t object to our having a bed and a couple of stools to sit on and a roof over our heads,’ commented Alphaeus.

‘First of all,’ John went on, undiverted, ‘we must stop fretting and complaining about our national servitude. Instead of flying into a rage when some gruff legionary imposes on us, we should quietly obey his orders, however unjust. If the soldier encounters one of us on the highway and hands us his pack to carry for a mile, let us take it and carry it for him—a mile—two miles.’

There was some subdued grumbling here, but nobody spoke up. Old Zebedee vigorously shook his grey head and made a sour grimace. Simon clenched a big fist and waggled it experimentally. The dirty camel-boy yawned.