In the evenings when I returned from my lecturing at the college I found him wandering around my bedroom, naked, admiring himself in the long mirror of the wardrobe.

David A. Johnstone

SHIPS THAT PASS

IN THE NIGHT

Have you ever met someone lots of times, in different places yet never known his name? I have, and this is my story.

In the past three years I've met my mysterious person at least six times. The first I remember was in a church, it was Easter and the church was full of primroses and daffodils. I saw him sitting opposite me across the aisle and noticed worriedly that he was crying. Not the noisy kind, but just a quiet weeping. This rather upset me as I have always been led to believe that men do not cry in public.

At the end of the service I pushed through the crowd around the doorway, busy congratulating the vicar, and caught up with him as he wandered between the pews. "Excuse me," I said, "but are you alright?" He turned to stare at me as if I were mad. Then his face softened and he smiled.

"Yes, of course, thank

you."

I apologized for the strangeness of my question but told him I had noticed him. crying during the service. This made him laugh out loud. "Oh that. Oh I always cry in church, I'm sorry if it upset you."

I was going to ask him his name, but his relations called to him and he hurried away, although I learned he was on holiday staying with his Grandmother. I never forgot his face though, so angelic and innocent. He must have been around nineteen then.

I met him again about six months later. It was during a "Ban the Bomb" sit down in Trafalgar Square. I was with some of my student friends from the college. Although I wasn't seriously a believer in marches and protest meetings, my young friends had managed to persuade me to swell their number. Sitting on the cold stones, I was feeling rather sorry for myself, wishing that I was back in the flat,

one

10