anyone.’
‘He’s gone now.’
‘Who? Colleoni?’
‘No, the kid.’
‘Oh,’ Ida said, ‘that boy,’ coming back to the bar, drinking up her port.
‘I bet he’s worried plenty.’
‘A kid like that oughtn’t to be mixed up with things,’ Ida said. ‘If he was mine I’d just larrup it out of him.’ With those words she was about to dismiss him to turn her attention away from him, moving her mind on its axis like a great steel dredger, when she remembered: a face in a bar seen over Fred’s shoulder, the sound of a glass breaking: ‘The gentleman will pay.’ She had a royal memory. ‘You ever come across this Kolley Kibber?’ she asked.
‘No such luck,’ the barman said.
‘It seemed odd his dying like that. Must have made a bit of gossip.’
‘None I heard of,’ the barman said. ‘He wasn’t a Brighton man. No one knew him round these parts. He was a stranger.’
A stranger: the word meant nothing to her: there was no place in the world where she felt a stranger. She circulated the dregs of the cheap port in her glass and remarked to no one in particular, ‘It’s a good life.’ There was nothing with which she didn’t claim kinship: the advertising mirror behind the barman’s back flashed her own image at her: the beach girls went giggling across the parade: the gong beat on the steamer for Boulogne: it was a good life. Only the darkness in which the Boy walked, going from Frank’s, going back to Frank’s, was alien to her; she had no pity for something she didn’t understand. She said, ‘I’ll be getting on.’
It wasn’t one yet, but there were questions she wanted to ask before Mr Corkery arrived. She said to the first waitress she saw, ‘Are you the lucky one?’
‘Not that I know of,’ the waitress said coldly.
‘I mean the one who found the card—the Kolley Kibber card.’
‘Oh, that was
her
,’ the waitress said, nodding a pointed powdered contemptuous chin.
Ida changed her table. She said, ‘I’ve got a friend coming. I’ll have to wait for him, but I’ll try to pick. Is the shepherd’s pie good?’
‘It looks lovely.’
‘Nice and brown on top?’
‘It’s a picture.’
‘What’s your name, dear?’
‘Rose.’
‘Why, I do believe,’ Ida said, ‘you were the lucky one who found a card?’
‘Did
they
tell you that?’ Rose said. ‘They haven’t forgiven me. They think I didn’t ought to be lucky like that my first day.’
‘Your first day? That
was
a bit of luck. You won’t forget that day in a hurry.’
‘No,’ Rose said, ‘I’ll remember that always.’
‘I mustn’t keep you here talking.’
‘If you only would. If you’d sort of look as if you was ordering things. There’s no one else wants to be attended to and I’m ready to drop with these trays.’
‘You don’t like the job?’
‘Oh,’ Rose said quickly, ‘I didn’t say that. It’s a good job. I wouldn’t have anything different for the world. I wouldn’t be in a hotel, or in Chessman’s, not if they paid me twice as much. It’s elegant here,’ Rose said, gazing over the waste of green-painted tables, the daffodils, the paper napkins, the sauce bottles.
‘Are you a local?’
‘I’ve always lived here—all my life,’ Rose said, ‘in Nelson Place. This is a fine situation for me because they have us sleep in. There’s only three of us in my room, and we have two looking-glasses.’
‘How old are you?’
Rose leant gratefully across the table. ‘Sixteen,’ she said. ‘I don’t tell them that. I say seventeen. They’d say I wasn’t old enough if they knew. They’d send me—’ she hesitated a long while at the grim word, ‘home’.
‘You must have been glad,’ Ida said, ‘when you found that card.’
‘Oh, I was.’
‘Do you think I could have a glass of stout, dear?’
‘We have to send out,’ Rose said. ‘If you give me the money—’
Ida opened her purse. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll ever forget the little
‘He’s gone now.’
‘Who? Colleoni?’
‘No, the kid.’
‘Oh,’ Ida said, ‘that boy,’ coming back to the bar, drinking up her port.
‘I bet he’s worried plenty.’
‘A kid like that oughtn’t to be mixed up with things,’ Ida said. ‘If he was mine I’d just larrup it out of him.’ With those words she was about to dismiss him to turn her attention away from him, moving her mind on its axis like a great steel dredger, when she remembered: a face in a bar seen over Fred’s shoulder, the sound of a glass breaking: ‘The gentleman will pay.’ She had a royal memory. ‘You ever come across this Kolley Kibber?’ she asked.
‘No such luck,’ the barman said.
‘It seemed odd his dying like that. Must have made a bit of gossip.’
‘None I heard of,’ the barman said. ‘He wasn’t a Brighton man. No one knew him round these parts. He was a stranger.’
A stranger: the word meant nothing to her: there was no place in the world where she felt a stranger. She circulated the dregs of the cheap port in her glass and remarked to no one in particular, ‘It’s a good life.’ There was nothing with which she didn’t claim kinship: the advertising mirror behind the barman’s back flashed her own image at her: the beach girls went giggling across the parade: the gong beat on the steamer for Boulogne: it was a good life. Only the darkness in which the Boy walked, going from Frank’s, going back to Frank’s, was alien to her; she had no pity for something she didn’t understand. She said, ‘I’ll be getting on.’
It wasn’t one yet, but there were questions she wanted to ask before Mr Corkery arrived. She said to the first waitress she saw, ‘Are you the lucky one?’
‘Not that I know of,’ the waitress said coldly.
‘I mean the one who found the card—the Kolley Kibber card.’
‘Oh, that was
her
,’ the waitress said, nodding a pointed powdered contemptuous chin.
Ida changed her table. She said, ‘I’ve got a friend coming. I’ll have to wait for him, but I’ll try to pick. Is the shepherd’s pie good?’
‘It looks lovely.’
‘Nice and brown on top?’
‘It’s a picture.’
‘What’s your name, dear?’
‘Rose.’
‘Why, I do believe,’ Ida said, ‘you were the lucky one who found a card?’
‘Did
they
tell you that?’ Rose said. ‘They haven’t forgiven me. They think I didn’t ought to be lucky like that my first day.’
‘Your first day? That
was
a bit of luck. You won’t forget that day in a hurry.’
‘No,’ Rose said, ‘I’ll remember that always.’
‘I mustn’t keep you here talking.’
‘If you only would. If you’d sort of look as if you was ordering things. There’s no one else wants to be attended to and I’m ready to drop with these trays.’
‘You don’t like the job?’
‘Oh,’ Rose said quickly, ‘I didn’t say that. It’s a good job. I wouldn’t have anything different for the world. I wouldn’t be in a hotel, or in Chessman’s, not if they paid me twice as much. It’s elegant here,’ Rose said, gazing over the waste of green-painted tables, the daffodils, the paper napkins, the sauce bottles.
‘Are you a local?’
‘I’ve always lived here—all my life,’ Rose said, ‘in Nelson Place. This is a fine situation for me because they have us sleep in. There’s only three of us in my room, and we have two looking-glasses.’
‘How old are you?’
Rose leant gratefully across the table. ‘Sixteen,’ she said. ‘I don’t tell them that. I say seventeen. They’d say I wasn’t old enough if they knew. They’d send me—’ she hesitated a long while at the grim word, ‘home’.
‘You must have been glad,’ Ida said, ‘when you found that card.’
‘Oh, I was.’
‘Do you think I could have a glass of stout, dear?’
‘We have to send out,’ Rose said. ‘If you give me the money—’
Ida opened her purse. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll ever forget the little
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