so long to bake it,
And I’ll never find the recipe again.
The kettle began its weird sighing.
‘Oh-o. No. Ohohoh,’ roared Freda behind the door. ‘Ohoho-oh-no-ohoh …’
She’s always thinking about food, thought Brenda unfairly. She felt obliged to tell Patrick why the tea was lukewarm.
‘You see, Freda’s got a friend in and I’m not supposed to be here.’
He looked at her over the rim of his cup and didn’t understand.
‘A man. She’s got a gentleman caller and she told me to go out.’
‘It’s your room,’ he said. ‘You’ve every right to occupy your own room.’
‘Well, it’s difficult. I quite see I’m in the way.’
She felt a bit foolish. She was conscious she was clipping the ends of her words and mimicking the way he spoke, as if she
too came from the bogs of Tipperary.
‘She expects you to leave your room if she has a fella in, then?’
‘It’s reasonable, I’m thinking,’ she said, and blushed.
‘You know,’ said Patrick, ‘I think a lot of you. No, honest to God I do. I don’t like to think of her making a monkey out
of you. Why, if I thought that, I’d throttle her – I would so.’
He had little freckles above the line of his upper lip so that the shape of his mouth was blurred. He put down his cup upon
the side of the bath and wound a length of string tightly between his clenched fingers.
Vittorio had sat on the edge of the bed now, because Freda, undulating her Amazonian hips and pointing one foot at him, was
moving more and more wildly about the room. He felt threatened by her size and the volume of her voice, and there was a rim
of dried blood along the cuticle of her big toe. He scuffed his suede boots beneath the iron frame of the double bed and kicked
a book across the carpet.
‘I read a lot,’ said Freda, coming to rest beside him, the halo of her washed hair fanning out about her rosy cheeks. ‘Poetry,
Philosophy, Politics. The three pee’s.’ And she gave a loud, moist giggle.
‘Such a lot of books,’ he said, moving his feet about and shuffling more volumes into view, and she found she was telling
him about Brenda and the way shecouldn’t bear they make contact in the night.
‘She puts them right down the middle of the bed. It’s frightfully inconvenient.’
‘The books down the bed …?’
‘Well, you know – she doesn’t want to run any risk.’
‘Risk?’ His eyes were wide with astonishment.
‘Oh, come on – you know.’ And she dug him quite painfully in the ribs with her elbow. ‘It’s like this,’ she said, speaking
very slowly, remembering the way Brenda talked to Rossi. ‘She is afraid of life. She does not want to communicate. Know what
I mean?’
The way he sat there so obviously not knowing what she meant, his handsome face solemnly gazing at her, filled her with irritation.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ she asked. ‘Why don’t you relax?’
When he smiled she noticed there was a gap between his front teeth. It gave him the look of an urchin and minimised the sensitive
modelling of his face.
‘You’ve got gaps in your teeth,’ she cried, and fell heavily against him.
He did kiss her then. He put his arm round her, and they thrashed about on the double bed. She clung to him and fastened her
teeth in the woolly shoulder of his polonecked jumper.
‘I have to go to the toilet,’ he said, struggling to his feet and striding to the door. She was left with a shred of wool
stuck to her lip, alone on the rumpled bed. Another little drinky, she told herself, lurching sideways to the floor and going
to the wardrobe to find the bottle of brandy. She didn’t want to be drunk. She didn’t like the way things were going; but
going they were, and sheunscrewed the cap of the bottle and took a swig of the alcohol and wiped her mouth with her hand. The peach he had brought
lay like a road casualty, squashed into the carpet.
When he returned she was aware that he was
And I’ll never find the recipe again.
The kettle began its weird sighing.
‘Oh-o. No. Ohohoh,’ roared Freda behind the door. ‘Ohoho-oh-no-ohoh …’
She’s always thinking about food, thought Brenda unfairly. She felt obliged to tell Patrick why the tea was lukewarm.
‘You see, Freda’s got a friend in and I’m not supposed to be here.’
He looked at her over the rim of his cup and didn’t understand.
‘A man. She’s got a gentleman caller and she told me to go out.’
‘It’s your room,’ he said. ‘You’ve every right to occupy your own room.’
‘Well, it’s difficult. I quite see I’m in the way.’
She felt a bit foolish. She was conscious she was clipping the ends of her words and mimicking the way he spoke, as if she
too came from the bogs of Tipperary.
‘She expects you to leave your room if she has a fella in, then?’
‘It’s reasonable, I’m thinking,’ she said, and blushed.
‘You know,’ said Patrick, ‘I think a lot of you. No, honest to God I do. I don’t like to think of her making a monkey out
of you. Why, if I thought that, I’d throttle her – I would so.’
He had little freckles above the line of his upper lip so that the shape of his mouth was blurred. He put down his cup upon
the side of the bath and wound a length of string tightly between his clenched fingers.
Vittorio had sat on the edge of the bed now, because Freda, undulating her Amazonian hips and pointing one foot at him, was
moving more and more wildly about the room. He felt threatened by her size and the volume of her voice, and there was a rim
of dried blood along the cuticle of her big toe. He scuffed his suede boots beneath the iron frame of the double bed and kicked
a book across the carpet.
‘I read a lot,’ said Freda, coming to rest beside him, the halo of her washed hair fanning out about her rosy cheeks. ‘Poetry,
Philosophy, Politics. The three pee’s.’ And she gave a loud, moist giggle.
‘Such a lot of books,’ he said, moving his feet about and shuffling more volumes into view, and she found she was telling
him about Brenda and the way shecouldn’t bear they make contact in the night.
‘She puts them right down the middle of the bed. It’s frightfully inconvenient.’
‘The books down the bed …?’
‘Well, you know – she doesn’t want to run any risk.’
‘Risk?’ His eyes were wide with astonishment.
‘Oh, come on – you know.’ And she dug him quite painfully in the ribs with her elbow. ‘It’s like this,’ she said, speaking
very slowly, remembering the way Brenda talked to Rossi. ‘She is afraid of life. She does not want to communicate. Know what
I mean?’
The way he sat there so obviously not knowing what she meant, his handsome face solemnly gazing at her, filled her with irritation.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ she asked. ‘Why don’t you relax?’
When he smiled she noticed there was a gap between his front teeth. It gave him the look of an urchin and minimised the sensitive
modelling of his face.
‘You’ve got gaps in your teeth,’ she cried, and fell heavily against him.
He did kiss her then. He put his arm round her, and they thrashed about on the double bed. She clung to him and fastened her
teeth in the woolly shoulder of his polonecked jumper.
‘I have to go to the toilet,’ he said, struggling to his feet and striding to the door. She was left with a shred of wool
stuck to her lip, alone on the rumpled bed. Another little drinky, she told herself, lurching sideways to the floor and going
to the wardrobe to find the bottle of brandy. She didn’t want to be drunk. She didn’t like the way things were going; but
going they were, and sheunscrewed the cap of the bottle and took a swig of the alcohol and wiped her mouth with her hand. The peach he had brought
lay like a road casualty, squashed into the carpet.
When he returned she was aware that he was
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