Remembering Graham Greene: A Look at 'Twenty-One Stories'

The leading 20th century English novelist Graham Greene died on April 3, 1991, but what he left behind was a legacy of deeply compelling works gazing directly into the heart of humanity. He is perhaps best known for works among his 24 novels, like The Power and the Glory and The Heart of the Matter, writing on themes of Catholicism, politics, and the general moral conflicts inside of mankind. And though he made a name for himself with his serious religious and more entertainment-based thriller novels, Greene was also an avid writer of poetry and short stories.

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In the short story compilation, Twenty-One Stories, Greene collected stories he wrote between 1929 and 1954. These quick tales wind through the devastating to the humorous, chronicling anxiety, conscience, and crime. From “The Blue Film” which follows a husband’s humiliation following the unveiling of his sexual indiscretion to “When Greek Meets Greek” which follows two conmen who hatch a scheme with unexpected results, these stories are captivating and poignant.

The short story “I Spy” was written in 1930, and is sampled in an excerpt from the collection below. In this story, a young boy attempts to stealthily pilfer a cigarette from his father’s shop, and instead finds an interesting insight into his family.

Read on for a look at one of Graham Greene's short stories from Twenty-One Stories, 'I Spy.'

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Twenty-One Stories

By Graham Greene

Charlie Stowe waited until he heard his mother snore before he got out of bed. Even then he moved with caution and tiptoed to the window. The front of the house was irregular, so that it was possible to see a light burning in his mother’s room. But now all the windows were dark. A searchlight passed across the sky, lighting the banks of cloud and probing the dark deep spaces between, seeking enemy airships. The wind blew from the sea, and Charlie Stowe could hear behind his mother’s snores the beating of the waves. A draught through the cracks in the window-frame stirred his night-shirt. Charlie Stowe was frightened.

But the thought of the tobacconist’s shop which his father kept down a dozen wooden stairs drew him on. He was twelve years old, and already boys at the County School mocked him because he had never smoked a cigarette. The packets were piled twelve deep below, Gold Flake and Player’s, De Reszke, Abdulla, Woodbines, and the little shop lay under a thin haze of stale smoke which would completely disguise his crime. That it was a crime to steal some of his father’s stock Charlie Stowe had no doubt, but he did not love his father; his father was unreal to him, a wraith, pale, thin, indefinite, who noticed him only spasmodically and left even punishment to his mother. For his mother he felt a passionate demonstrative love; her large boisterous presence and her noisy charity filled the world for him; from her speech he judged her the friend of everyone, from the rector’s wife to the ‘dear Queen’, except the ‘Huns’, the monsters who lurked in Zeppelins in the clouds. But his father’s affection and dislike were as indefinite as his movements. Tonight he had said he would be in Norwich, and yet you never knew. Charlie Stowe had no sense of safety as he crept down the wooden stairs. When they creaked he clenched his fingers on the collar of his night-shirt.

At the bottom of the stairs he came out quite suddenly into the little shop. It was too dark to see his way, and he did not dare touch the switch. For half a minute he sat in despair on the bottom step with his chin cupped in his hands. Then the regular movement of the searchlight was reflected through an upper window and the boy had time to fix in memory the pile of cigarettes, the counter, and the small hole under it. The footsteps of a policeman on the pavement made him grab the first packet to his hand and dive for the hole. A light shone along the floor and a hand tried the door, then the footsteps passed on, and Charlie cowered in the darkness.

At last he got his courage back by telling himself in his curiously adult way that if he were caught now there was nothing to be done about it, and he might as well have his smoke. He put a cigarette in his mouth and then remembered that he had no matches. For a while he dared not move. Three times the search-light lit the shop, as he muttered taunts and encouragements. ‘May as well be hung for a sheep,’ ‘Cowardy, cowardy custard,’ grown-up and childish exhortations oddly mixed.

But as he moved he heard footfalls in the street, the sound of several men walking rapidly. Charlie Stowe was old enough to feel surprise that anybody was about. The footsteps came nearer, stopped; a key was turned in the shop door, a voice said: ‘Let him in,’ and then he heard his father, ‘If you wouldn’t mind being quiet, gentlemen. I don’t want to wake up the family.’ There was a note unfamiliar to Charlie in the undecided voice. A torch flashed and the electric globe burst into blue light. The boy held his breath; he wondered whether his father would hear his heart beating, and he clutched his night-shirt tightly and prayed, ‘O God, don’t let me be caught.’ Through a crack in the counter he could see his father where he stood, one hand held to his high stiff collar, between two men in bowler hats and belted mackintoshes. They were strangers.

‘Have a cigarette,’ his father said in a voice dry as a biscuit. One of the men shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t do, not when we are on duty. Thank you all the same.’ He spoke gently, but without kindness: Charlie Stowe thought his father must be ill.

“Mind if I put a few in my pocket?’ Mr Stowe asked, and when the man nodded he lifted a pile of Gold Flake and Players from a shelf and caressed the packets with the tips of his fingers.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’s nothing to be done about it, and I may as well have my smokes.’ For a moment Charlie Stowe feared discovery, his father stared round the shop so thoroughly; he might have been seeing it for the first time. ‘It’s a good little business,’ he said, ‘for those that like it. The wife will sell out, I suppose. Else the neighbours’ll be wrecking it. Well, you want to be off. A stitch in time. I’ll get my coat.’

‘One of us’ll come with you, if you don’t mind,’ said the stranger gently.

‘You needn’t trouble. It’s on the peg here. There, I’m all ready.’

The other man said in an embarrassed way, ‘Don’t you want to speak to your wife?’ The thin voice was decided, ‘Not me. Never do today what you can put off till tomorrow. She’ll have her chance later, won’t she?’

‘Yes, yes,’ one of the strangers said and he became very cheerful and encouraging. ‘Don’t you worry too much. While there’s life …’ and suddenly his father tried to laugh.

When the door had closed Charlie Stowe tiptoed “upstairs and got into bed. He wondered why his father had left the house again so late at night and who the strangers were. Surprise and awe kept him for a little while awake. It was as if a familiar photograph had stepped from the frame to reproach him with neglect. He remembered how his father had held tight to his collar and fortified himself with proverbs, and he thought for the first time that, while his mother was boisterous and kindly, his father was very like himself, doing things in the dark which frightened him. It would have pleased him to go down to his father and tell him that he loved him, but he could hear through the window the quick steps going away. He was alone in the house with his mother, and he fell asleep.

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You won’t want to miss this collection of nearly two dozen short stories by one of the most iconic English novelists. Greene writes stories where love collides with hate, vengeance goes head to head with betrayal, and doubt gets tangled up in faith. Stories like the terrifying “The End of the Party” and the jarring “The Innocent” find a way to burrow right under a reader's skin.