‘’Walk tall, Walk straight, look the world straight in the eye…..’’

Mitch trudged back home, stopping to mutter curses under his breath in the direction of the factory. It constituted part of the looming box-shaped skyline, each house, each go-down gloomier than the other. There were no lights where Mitch lived.

He swung his feet over the stile, walked on by the side of the stinking canal choked with stagnant water, until he reached the ghetto where he lived. An acrid smell of burning plastic filled his senses, but Mitch was used to such smells. He banged open the door of his miserable shack to announce his arrival.

Mitch’s house was the gloomiest place you could imagine. Everything in it seemed to have been whitewashed with liberal coats of grey. The living room was undecorated and furnished with two rickety chairs and a threadbare sofa. An old woman lay on it, clutching her hip and moaning slightly. A short grey figure came scuttling out of the kitchen, stopped short on seeing Mitch and then fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe her dirty face .The handkerchief was even dirtier.

“You’re back?” she said. Then turning to look at the old woman on the sofa, she said, “Mum’s not well.”

Mitch rummaged through his pocket and threw a strip of aspirin on the couch, then headed for his room.

“Supper’s ready.” she continued, but Mitch didn’t reply.“Don’t you want any food?” the girl cried.

Mitch looked pityingly at his sister, fished out a silver coin from his pocket and held it out to her. “I’m not taking it if you’ve stolen it!” she said. Mitch attempted to strike at her, but she fled into the kitchen in terror.

Mitch set off for work as usual the next day, jumping over the stile, swearing at the factory, glaring at the grubby little children who were laughing too loudly. As Mitch stared at it, a twisted smile formed on his face. Mitch had felt that his life had to revolve around the factory, ‘Bette’s Butter Factory’, the only source of stable income for miles around, especially for the people who came from the ghettoes. His father had worked there .A good honest man his father had been. But then, there had been a trade union strike. A scuffle had followed with the employer and his father had been killed. He had been twelve then. Ella nine.

Mitch pushed his hair out of his eyes.

“No,” he said to himself, “I’d better go or I’ll be late.”

In the dark alley, Mitch waited with bated breath. He flicked open his knife and quietly observed the gentleman. He was a well-dressed man in a suit. He pulled out a quarter from his pocket and paid the man at the newspaper stand. Then he began walking back to his car. In a flash, Mitch leapt onto him, his knife at the man’s throat. The man's warm blood spilt on the pavement even though he had only been nicked. Mitch tried to struggle against the man’s flailing arms and reach his pocket when…

“Dad!” screamed a little boy, from the back seat of the car. There was a look of pure terror on his face but he unlocked the door to run towards them.

“No Ryan…get out of the way!” gasped the man.

“Leave him!” said the little boy desperately, whirling around to Mitch. “Please, let him go! He's my only....I've just got.....” his voice shook till his body gave away to racking sobs.

The knife fell with a clatter and Mitch ran. He ran as he had never run before, away from the boy, the bleeding father, away from the dark alleyway …and from himself.

He heard the sound of singing, coming from St. Blaise’s church. The choir was singing for Thanksgiving. Mitch shut his eyes and the picture of a tall, brown-haired man with merry blue eyes, holding his hand, floated into his mind.

“Walk tall, walk straight, son, and look the world straight in the eye. Make an honest living, that’s what counts. Be the man God wants you to be.”

He burst into the church .The priest was speaking …

“Walk tall, walk straight, look the world straight in the eye. Don’t be afraid to do what is right. Cast your anxieties unto the Lord for He cares.” He pronounced the benediction. One by one, people filed out of the church and left.

Mitch sat alone, tears pouring down his face. He walked up to the old priest.

“Father, I have sinned. Forgive me.”

“The Lord will forgive you.”

“But can He?”

“He has already forgiven you.”

Mitch walked out of the church .His body felt lighter, his breathing was easy. Tomorrow, he thought, I’ll enroll in Bette’s Butter Factory. I’ll take mum to the clinic and give money to Ella, she’s been wanting to learn sewing for ages.

He walked back along the dirty canal and dark smelly streets, but there was a spring in his step as he jumped over the stile.

He was forgiven.