the top and back. Geometric conversations with the sun. A slant on the holy rood. The sun’s angle angled, made into commerce. Taken down in shorthand. Don’t be deceived by deceptive reflections. Pneumonic irrelevances. There’s a glut on the market. Worse than a periphrastic conjugation. But the sun all shapes and sizes. Making mischief. Doubletalk on the roofs. Signlanguage. What’s that? A dihedron? Or who spat on the polygon? Throw me the mathematical ball. I’m inclined to believe it.
He leaned against the wall.
Light a cigarette and look normal.
Down brickless Valparaiso Bank the sun strained, lanced, stuck on the flagpole. Drawing smoke, Pete viewed the traffic-press, the grate and bout of noonday vehicles; the sinking figures in the glare, passing, stepping; the needleshiver in the sunstreet. A quick black arm pushed swerving past.
Look. Yes. Linseed and sealingwax. Stiffcollared puppy-dog. Lightweight. Bouncy on the balls of his feet. Rulers of a nation. The inside story. Masons and makers of the peace. Hot tips off the cuff. See you all right. Nothing but the best. Password and a nifty gin. What’s your name and number? Keep it.
Leaning, he surveyed the pacing street. The fitted buildings poised backwards, out of their incline. They halted between sun and sun.
Near siesta time. Flat out on the roofgarden. Lemontea and a canopy. In the shade of the old appletree. Out of the draught. Turn the globe and pick your teeth.
Hundreds of windows and not a face at any of them. Day doesn’t exist. Underground work. Getting on with the job. An eighthour day with no day in it. The working world. Where I labour and trespass. At whose direction? Who spoke, saying. Don’t believe a word of it.
Pete turned about, looked up. Valparaiso Bank windows winked anonymous glint.
Glinting from big toe to earhole. All done by anon. Depends if you have the tools. Plenty of work for all. But no permit without God’s grace. Frame it. Dust it in all weathers, all days.
Building wavering, and the next, and the next, along Thread-needle Street.
What’s this? Proudly tripping. Would she say no? Look at those flanks. Wim warn. Strap me and buy one. Wam wim. She’d ride a cockhorse. All the way to Dalston. Don’t doubt it. Been there before. Left by the frontdoor. Without my roe, like a dried herring.
- Peter Cox! Good lord!
Retribution.
- Well, well, well!
- Derek! Pete greeted, handgripping. Well, well.
- Ha-ha, beamed Derek, handpulling, well, well!
- Well, Pete smiled. What are you doing around here?
- I work here, laughed Derek, his face shining.
- No? said Pete. I wouldn’t have believed it. So do I.
- No? gleamed Derek, his face spreading. I would never have dreamt it. Well, well, well! Where?
- Where? Pete said. Oh, Dobbin and Laver. Round the corner.
- I’m your neighbour! rammed Derek, his face breaking, shoulderbanging.
- Well! said Pete. Well, well, well.
- You look in the pink, cheered Derek, his face folding. Haven’t changed a bit. Still got your curly locks, eh? How are you getting on? Good job?
- Oh, Pete skidded, shrugging, it’s - you know - not - bad - Derek, old man.
- Good grief! clamped Derek, his face shutting. It must be three years since we met! And before that, not since we left school.
- Yes, Pete said, there’s something in that.
- My God! snored Derek, his face foaming, it’s a century! What are you doing now? Lunch hour?
- Well, yes, huffed Pete, it is. More or less.
- What a bit of luck! hammed Derek, his face scalding. What about a drink?
- Well, actually, creased Pete, I’m rushing off to meet a bloke. Mark Gilbert. You knew him, didn’t you?
- Gilbert! Of course! mooed Derek, his face grinding. Went on the stage, didn’t he?
- Well, yes, Pete said, but you see, he’s got something on his mind, I think. Wants to have a quiet chat with me about it. You know how it is, Derek. You know these actors, eh?
- Women trouble, eh? parried Derek, his face flaking. I know what you
He leaned against the wall.
Light a cigarette and look normal.
Down brickless Valparaiso Bank the sun strained, lanced, stuck on the flagpole. Drawing smoke, Pete viewed the traffic-press, the grate and bout of noonday vehicles; the sinking figures in the glare, passing, stepping; the needleshiver in the sunstreet. A quick black arm pushed swerving past.
Look. Yes. Linseed and sealingwax. Stiffcollared puppy-dog. Lightweight. Bouncy on the balls of his feet. Rulers of a nation. The inside story. Masons and makers of the peace. Hot tips off the cuff. See you all right. Nothing but the best. Password and a nifty gin. What’s your name and number? Keep it.
Leaning, he surveyed the pacing street. The fitted buildings poised backwards, out of their incline. They halted between sun and sun.
Near siesta time. Flat out on the roofgarden. Lemontea and a canopy. In the shade of the old appletree. Out of the draught. Turn the globe and pick your teeth.
Hundreds of windows and not a face at any of them. Day doesn’t exist. Underground work. Getting on with the job. An eighthour day with no day in it. The working world. Where I labour and trespass. At whose direction? Who spoke, saying. Don’t believe a word of it.
Pete turned about, looked up. Valparaiso Bank windows winked anonymous glint.
Glinting from big toe to earhole. All done by anon. Depends if you have the tools. Plenty of work for all. But no permit without God’s grace. Frame it. Dust it in all weathers, all days.
Building wavering, and the next, and the next, along Thread-needle Street.
What’s this? Proudly tripping. Would she say no? Look at those flanks. Wim warn. Strap me and buy one. Wam wim. She’d ride a cockhorse. All the way to Dalston. Don’t doubt it. Been there before. Left by the frontdoor. Without my roe, like a dried herring.
- Peter Cox! Good lord!
Retribution.
- Well, well, well!
- Derek! Pete greeted, handgripping. Well, well.
- Ha-ha, beamed Derek, handpulling, well, well!
- Well, Pete smiled. What are you doing around here?
- I work here, laughed Derek, his face shining.
- No? said Pete. I wouldn’t have believed it. So do I.
- No? gleamed Derek, his face spreading. I would never have dreamt it. Well, well, well! Where?
- Where? Pete said. Oh, Dobbin and Laver. Round the corner.
- I’m your neighbour! rammed Derek, his face breaking, shoulderbanging.
- Well! said Pete. Well, well, well.
- You look in the pink, cheered Derek, his face folding. Haven’t changed a bit. Still got your curly locks, eh? How are you getting on? Good job?
- Oh, Pete skidded, shrugging, it’s - you know - not - bad - Derek, old man.
- Good grief! clamped Derek, his face shutting. It must be three years since we met! And before that, not since we left school.
- Yes, Pete said, there’s something in that.
- My God! snored Derek, his face foaming, it’s a century! What are you doing now? Lunch hour?
- Well, yes, huffed Pete, it is. More or less.
- What a bit of luck! hammed Derek, his face scalding. What about a drink?
- Well, actually, creased Pete, I’m rushing off to meet a bloke. Mark Gilbert. You knew him, didn’t you?
- Gilbert! Of course! mooed Derek, his face grinding. Went on the stage, didn’t he?
- Well, yes, Pete said, but you see, he’s got something on his mind, I think. Wants to have a quiet chat with me about it. You know how it is, Derek. You know these actors, eh?
- Women trouble, eh? parried Derek, his face flaking. I know what you
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