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knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Jolly old
woman. Lot of babies she must have helped into the
world. She knew from the first poor little Rudy wouldn’t
live. Well, God is good, sir. She knew at once. He would
be eleven now if he had lived.
His vacant face stared pityingly at the postscript. Excuse
bad writing. Hurry. Piano downstairs. Coming out of her
shell. Row with her in the XL Cafe about the bracelet.
Wouldn’t eat her cakes or speak or look. Saucebox. He
sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after
piece of kidney. Twelve and six a week. Not much. Still,
she might do worse. Music hall stage. Young student. He
drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his meal.
Then he read the letter again: twice.
O, well: she knows how to mind herself. But if not?
No, nothing has happened. Of course it might. Wait in
any case till it does. A wild piece of goods. Her slim legs
running up the staircase. Destiny. Ripening now.
Vain: very.
He smiled with troubled affection at the kitchen
window. Day I caught her in the street pinching her
cheeks to make them red. Anemic a little. Was given milk
too long. On the ERIN’S KING that day round the Kish.
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Damned old tub pitching about. Not a bit funky. Her pale
blue scarf loose in the wind with her hair.
All dimpled cheeks and curls,
Your head it simply swirls.
Seaside girls. Torn envelope. Hands stuck in his
trousers’ pockets, jarvey off for the day, singing. Friend of
the family. Swurls, he says. Pier with lamps, summer
evening, band,
Those girls, those girls,
Those lovely seaside girls.
Milly too. Young kisses: the first. Far away now past.
Mrs Marion. Reading, lying back now, counting the
strands of her hair, smiling, braiding.
A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his backbone,
increasing. Will happen, yes. Prevent. Useless: can’t move.
Girl’s sweet light lips. Will happen too. He felt the
flowing qualm spread over him. Useless to move now.
Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. Full gluey woman’s lips.
Better where she is down there: away. Occupy her.
Wanted a dog to pass the time. Might take a trip down
there. August bank holiday, only two and six return. Six
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weeks off, however. Might work a press pass. Or through
M’Coy.
The cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the
meatstained paper, nosed at it and stalked to the door. She
looked back at him, mewing. Wants to go out. Wait
before a door sometime it will open. Let her wait. Has the
fidgets. Electric. Thunder in the air. Was washing at her
ear with her back to the fire too.
He felt heavy, full: then a gentle loosening of his
bowels. He stood up, undoing the waistband of his
trousers. The cat mewed to him.
—Miaow! he said in answer. Wait till I’m ready.
Heaviness: hot day coming. Too much trouble to fag
up the stairs to the landing.
A paper. He liked to read at stool. Hope no ape comes
knocking just as I’m.
In the tabledrawer he found an old number of Titbits.
He folded it under his armpit, went to the door and
opened it. The cat went up in soft bounds. Ah, wanted to
go upstairs, curl up in a ball on the bed.
Listening, he heard her voice:
—Come, come, pussy. Come.
He went out through the backdoor into the garden:
stood to listen towards the next garden. No sound.
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Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. The maid was in the
garden. Fine morning.
He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint
growing by the wall. Make a summerhouse here. Scarlet
runners. Virginia creepers. Want to manure the whole
place over, scabby soil. A coat of liver of sulphur. All soil
like that without dung. Household slops. Loam, what is
this that is? The hens in the next garden: their droppings
are very good top dressing. Best of all though are the
cattle, especially when they are fed on those oilcakes.
Mulch of dung. Best thing to clean ladies’ kid gloves.
Dirty cleans. Ashes too. Reclaim the whole place. Grow
peas in that corner there. Lettuce. Always have fresh
greens then. Still gardens have their drawbacks. That bee
or bluebottle here Whitmonday.
He walked on. Where is my hat, by the way? Must
have put it back on the peg. Or hanging up on the floor.
Funny I don’t remember that. Hallstand too full. Four
umbrellas, her raincloak. Picking up the letters. Drago’s
shopbell ringing. Queer I was just thinking that moment.
Brown brillantined hair over his collar. Just had a wash
and brushup. Wonder have I time for a bath this morning.
Tara street. Chap in the paybox there got away James
Stephens, they say. O’Brien.
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Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Agendath what is
it? Now, my miss. Enthusiast.
He kicked open the crazy door of the jakes. Better be
careful not to get these trousers dirty for the funeral. He
went in, bowing his head under the low lintel. Leaving
the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash and
stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Before sitting down he
peered through a chink up at the nextdoor windows. The
king was in his countinghouse. Nobody.
Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper,
turning its pages over on his bared knees. Something new
and easy. No great hurry. Keep it a bit. Our prize titbit:
Matcham’s Masterstroke. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy,
Playgoers’ Club, London. Payment at the rate of one
guinea a column has been made to the writer. Three and a
half. Three pounds three. Three pounds, thirteen and six.
Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column
and, yielding but resisting, began the second. Midway, his
last resistance yielding, he allowed his bowels to ease
themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently that
slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope it’s not
too big bring on piles again. No, just right. So. Ah!
Costive. One tabloid of cascara sagrada. Life might be so.
It did not move or touch him but it was something quick
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