ridiculous,’ snapped Joseph. But he was worried. When he had suggested having Kidney to live with him, the doctor
at the clinic Kidney attended had asked him if there were any women living in the house. Joseph hadn’t mentioned Dotty because
he hadn’t thought of her as being a permanent fixture.
‘He was probably just cold,’ said Dotty. ‘I’d forget about it. If he was really bonkers – I mean, dangerous – he’d be in a
home.’ She stood up and turned the gas lower under the pan of bubbling rice. It still mystified her how Joseph had managed
to get permission to take care of Kidney.
‘He has been in a home,’ said Joseph. ‘Several in fact. Leave that rice alone.’
She did as she was told. The rice was almost done and with any luck it might stick to the bottom of the pan. She went and
sat on the settee at the end of the hut, feeling with the heels of her feet for the wicker basket, watching Joseph scrape
the cut onions and paprikas into the frying pan. When he turned his back to place the vegetables on the stove she leant forward
and put her fingers under the lid of the basket, trying to locate her bra. But she couldn’t.
‘Go and call Roland,’ bade Joseph, turning the contents of the pan with a knife. ‘And see if Kidney is at the back of the
barn with Tommy.’
‘Willie,’ corrected Dotty, going out into the field.
Joseph shook the pan about briskly, causing mushroom buds to fall among the paprikas and the pale rings of onion. He thought,
Degas or Delacroix or someone like that had made a work of art once out of an omelette. What a pity Kidney had given up painting.
Not that the results were all that stimulating – dull little fields with puffy clouds – and he himself had to spend such hours
clearing the mess up afterwards, the paint splashed on the wall and the smears of water on the table. It was a pity, but some
time soon, very soon, he was going to have to turn Kidney over to someone else. It would mean he might have to go into a home
again. But somehow, he’d lost interest. He could always visit the youth. ‘Lunch,’ he shouted, putting his head out of the
window, seeing Dotty and Kidney on the path. ‘Did you call Roland?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
When he came in, Roland ate the rice without complaint. ‘What’s that tree called?’ he asked his father. ‘The one beside the
barn?’
As usual, he received no reply, for Joseph was listening to the sounds made by Willie hovering outside the hut.
‘He’s waiting for his bloody tip,’ Joseph told Dotty, none too quietly, adding loudly for the benefit of the Welshman without,
‘Like a cup of Nescafé?’
Willie didn’t really want the drink. To tell the truth he was beginning to feel a bit peckish and regretful he hadn’t gone
home
for some breakfast, but he did want to be amongst them – the woman and Mr Joseph and the plump young lad. What the devil was
the lad doing along with Mr Joseph? ‘Come up from London too?’ he asked Kidney, removing his cap now he was indoors, wondering
where to sit himself.
‘Yes, from London too,’ said Mr Joseph. Not a peep out of the lad himself, sitting there at the table with his cheeks like
apples and his eyes shining. ‘Sit down, Bill,’ Mr Joseph told him, and there being no chair vacant he had to go to the end
of the hut to the settee. He hadn’t been called Bill since he was a boy and he sat very stiffly on the chintz settee with
his shirt very full in the front, giving him a breast like a pigeon, and his red hair pressed flat to his head after being
under his cap for so many hours. The girl looked as if she hadn’t had a decent meal for God knows how long, spooning the food
into her mouth, sitting with rounded shoulders. Mr Joseph had noted her shoulders. He was sitting very straight himself, in
the manner of Mr MacFarley.
‘Not at work today then, Bill?’
‘Oh God no, Mr Joseph. I’ve been retired these six years. Seven more like.’
‘Retired? Really.’ Fixing
at the clinic Kidney attended had asked him if there were any women living in the house. Joseph hadn’t mentioned Dotty because
he hadn’t thought of her as being a permanent fixture.
‘He was probably just cold,’ said Dotty. ‘I’d forget about it. If he was really bonkers – I mean, dangerous – he’d be in a
home.’ She stood up and turned the gas lower under the pan of bubbling rice. It still mystified her how Joseph had managed
to get permission to take care of Kidney.
‘He has been in a home,’ said Joseph. ‘Several in fact. Leave that rice alone.’
She did as she was told. The rice was almost done and with any luck it might stick to the bottom of the pan. She went and
sat on the settee at the end of the hut, feeling with the heels of her feet for the wicker basket, watching Joseph scrape
the cut onions and paprikas into the frying pan. When he turned his back to place the vegetables on the stove she leant forward
and put her fingers under the lid of the basket, trying to locate her bra. But she couldn’t.
‘Go and call Roland,’ bade Joseph, turning the contents of the pan with a knife. ‘And see if Kidney is at the back of the
barn with Tommy.’
‘Willie,’ corrected Dotty, going out into the field.
Joseph shook the pan about briskly, causing mushroom buds to fall among the paprikas and the pale rings of onion. He thought,
Degas or Delacroix or someone like that had made a work of art once out of an omelette. What a pity Kidney had given up painting.
Not that the results were all that stimulating – dull little fields with puffy clouds – and he himself had to spend such hours
clearing the mess up afterwards, the paint splashed on the wall and the smears of water on the table. It was a pity, but some
time soon, very soon, he was going to have to turn Kidney over to someone else. It would mean he might have to go into a home
again. But somehow, he’d lost interest. He could always visit the youth. ‘Lunch,’ he shouted, putting his head out of the
window, seeing Dotty and Kidney on the path. ‘Did you call Roland?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
When he came in, Roland ate the rice without complaint. ‘What’s that tree called?’ he asked his father. ‘The one beside the
barn?’
As usual, he received no reply, for Joseph was listening to the sounds made by Willie hovering outside the hut.
‘He’s waiting for his bloody tip,’ Joseph told Dotty, none too quietly, adding loudly for the benefit of the Welshman without,
‘Like a cup of Nescafé?’
Willie didn’t really want the drink. To tell the truth he was beginning to feel a bit peckish and regretful he hadn’t gone
home
for some breakfast, but he did want to be amongst them – the woman and Mr Joseph and the plump young lad. What the devil was
the lad doing along with Mr Joseph? ‘Come up from London too?’ he asked Kidney, removing his cap now he was indoors, wondering
where to sit himself.
‘Yes, from London too,’ said Mr Joseph. Not a peep out of the lad himself, sitting there at the table with his cheeks like
apples and his eyes shining. ‘Sit down, Bill,’ Mr Joseph told him, and there being no chair vacant he had to go to the end
of the hut to the settee. He hadn’t been called Bill since he was a boy and he sat very stiffly on the chintz settee with
his shirt very full in the front, giving him a breast like a pigeon, and his red hair pressed flat to his head after being
under his cap for so many hours. The girl looked as if she hadn’t had a decent meal for God knows how long, spooning the food
into her mouth, sitting with rounded shoulders. Mr Joseph had noted her shoulders. He was sitting very straight himself, in
the manner of Mr MacFarley.
‘Not at work today then, Bill?’
‘Oh God no, Mr Joseph. I’ve been retired these six years. Seven more like.’
‘Retired? Really.’ Fixing
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