game, however, because Mr Kandinsky came into the yard in his carpet slippers and quilted dressing-gown, blinking, his eyes still creased up from sleeping. He sent Joe up at once to get dressed, and put Africana back in his house until after breakfast at least. As he ran upstairs Joe felt his own face just below the eyes, but there were no creases. He guessed Mr Kandinsky had more skin to work with.
Joe’s mother’s boss, Madame Rita, was quite right: there was more work going in the millinery once the worst of the winter was over. Before the spring arrived, women, like the crocuses in Itchy Park, felt it near, and began to peep round at hats. They were already, during the short spells of sunshine, looking into the window of Madame Rita’s shop and saying that it wouldn’t really suit me, Sadie, it’s for a younger woman, and Sadie was saying but it would, Ada, it’s just your style. The next stage was, they came into Madame Rita’s and tried on the hats. They tried twenty hats with the brims up, then down, then sideways, then without the trimming, then with more trimming. Madame Rita watched them, his hands on his large belly, a soft smile on his face, a small black cheroot between his teeth. As they tried one hat after another, with or without trimming, he made little soft cooing noises. ‘Pardon me, lady,’ he would say eventually, ‘the brim up is more your style.’ With a push here and a push there he made the hats suit the faces they had to sit over. In the end the ladies sometimes bought the hats.
Consequent upon there being more work in the millinery, Joe’s mother was kept busier and busier at Madame Rita’s, putting on more and more trimming as fashion demanded, and though this is tiring, it is just what the doctor ordered for piece-workers. But they have in consequence to hurry over breakfast. The day spring came, Joe and his mother had boiled eggs, and before she had her coat on, Joe kissed her good morning and ran down to the yard so you can tell how he hurried if his mother hadn’t even left yet, and she in such a hurry as well.
The reason why Joe was in such a hurry that morning was that in his sleep he had thought of a new game and wanted to see if it would work. One of the things about games is that unless you keep adding to them and working out new ideas, they get dull – not the games really, but you get dull in the games, and then they seem dull. And games like the game called Africa are worth keeping fresh, you must admit, so no wonder Joe didn’t bother about such things as turning his egg-shell over and smashing the other side of it. Sometimes there are more important things to do in life than just playing about with egg-shells, and things like that have to give way to Africa. Anyhow, you can smash egg-shells anytime, but you don’t get a new idea every night you sleep.
When Joe’s mother was leaving, she looked in to Mr Kandinsky’s workshop to say good morning to him and tell him that she might be late, and not to worry. Mr Kandinsky pointed to the back window and nodded. Looking out, Joe’s mother saw Joe talking to Africana, and waving to someone a long way off. She thought how the back of his neck was still like a baby, delicate, with a little gentle valley down the centre, because he was, after all, almost a baby with everything yet to come. How much they had to learn, what a terrible lot they had to learn. She ran away to Madame Rita’s to trim spring hats for those who had already learned what suited them.
All that morning Joe and Africana played together in the yard, which, due to the dry rotten fencing, had become a ship, with old wooden walls. Joe was the captain and Africana on one occasion mutinied. He ran to the other end of the yard frightened by Joe shouting out, ‘Fasten your jibs and loosen your mainsails, you lousy lubbers,’ which is only what captains do say. That nearly spoilt the game, but they went on, after a pause for Africana to eat a cabbage leaf.
Joe’s mother’s boss, Madame Rita, was quite right: there was more work going in the millinery once the worst of the winter was over. Before the spring arrived, women, like the crocuses in Itchy Park, felt it near, and began to peep round at hats. They were already, during the short spells of sunshine, looking into the window of Madame Rita’s shop and saying that it wouldn’t really suit me, Sadie, it’s for a younger woman, and Sadie was saying but it would, Ada, it’s just your style. The next stage was, they came into Madame Rita’s and tried on the hats. They tried twenty hats with the brims up, then down, then sideways, then without the trimming, then with more trimming. Madame Rita watched them, his hands on his large belly, a soft smile on his face, a small black cheroot between his teeth. As they tried one hat after another, with or without trimming, he made little soft cooing noises. ‘Pardon me, lady,’ he would say eventually, ‘the brim up is more your style.’ With a push here and a push there he made the hats suit the faces they had to sit over. In the end the ladies sometimes bought the hats.
Consequent upon there being more work in the millinery, Joe’s mother was kept busier and busier at Madame Rita’s, putting on more and more trimming as fashion demanded, and though this is tiring, it is just what the doctor ordered for piece-workers. But they have in consequence to hurry over breakfast. The day spring came, Joe and his mother had boiled eggs, and before she had her coat on, Joe kissed her good morning and ran down to the yard so you can tell how he hurried if his mother hadn’t even left yet, and she in such a hurry as well.
The reason why Joe was in such a hurry that morning was that in his sleep he had thought of a new game and wanted to see if it would work. One of the things about games is that unless you keep adding to them and working out new ideas, they get dull – not the games really, but you get dull in the games, and then they seem dull. And games like the game called Africa are worth keeping fresh, you must admit, so no wonder Joe didn’t bother about such things as turning his egg-shell over and smashing the other side of it. Sometimes there are more important things to do in life than just playing about with egg-shells, and things like that have to give way to Africa. Anyhow, you can smash egg-shells anytime, but you don’t get a new idea every night you sleep.
When Joe’s mother was leaving, she looked in to Mr Kandinsky’s workshop to say good morning to him and tell him that she might be late, and not to worry. Mr Kandinsky pointed to the back window and nodded. Looking out, Joe’s mother saw Joe talking to Africana, and waving to someone a long way off. She thought how the back of his neck was still like a baby, delicate, with a little gentle valley down the centre, because he was, after all, almost a baby with everything yet to come. How much they had to learn, what a terrible lot they had to learn. She ran away to Madame Rita’s to trim spring hats for those who had already learned what suited them.
All that morning Joe and Africana played together in the yard, which, due to the dry rotten fencing, had become a ship, with old wooden walls. Joe was the captain and Africana on one occasion mutinied. He ran to the other end of the yard frightened by Joe shouting out, ‘Fasten your jibs and loosen your mainsails, you lousy lubbers,’ which is only what captains do say. That nearly spoilt the game, but they went on, after a pause for Africana to eat a cabbage leaf.
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