as she spoke"--I might be wrong on one count, but I'm not altogether, I know that. And I'll tell you another thing: if you've got the idea into your head to stay home, I'm going."
"Good, you'd better look out for digs then, hadn't you?" Rosie turned from the small, bitter face and was aware, as she crossed the landing, that Karen was still standing staring at her, and she knew that her jaws would be working, viciously.
In her room she stood looking out through the small attic window at the white-coated roofs opposite. She had her arms crossed tightly about her, her hands pressed against her ribs as if giving herself support, and she stood like this until she heard her mother's voice calling from below, "Are you ready, Rosie? Rosie! D& you hear me? Are you ready?"
She did not swing round and grab up her things, but slowly she got into her coat and pulled on her hat, and when her mother's voice came to her again, calling, "Are you up there, lass?" she clenched her hands tightly before calling back, "I'm coming, I'm coming, Ma."
PART TWO
HUG HIE
hug hie was sitting in the back of the cobbler's shop. He was sitting in his shirt sleeves and wearing a pullover, and he looked at home, as he never did in Hannah's house. The little room had no window, and no light but that which came in from the shop through the half-glazed door. But it was extremely bright now, being lit by an electric bulb beneath a pink plastic shade, and the light was reflected from the rough mauve-painted walls. Along one wall was a narrow desk-cum
cupboard above which were shelves holding books. One step from the desk and against the opposite wall stood two chairs-- a straight-backed one and an old extending bed-chair. At the far end of the room was a shallow sink, with a table at its side holding a small grill, on which stood a kettle, now coming up to the boil. To the side of the sink a curtain hung from a rod, which was used to cut off the kitchen section of the tiny compartment'. On the floor below the sink was a rough mat, and a piece of carpet ran the length of the room to the far wall, where stood an oil heater. The tiny room gave off an air of compact
snugness, and had been Hughie Geary's real home for so long that now, when he was about to leave it, it tugged at him, saying.
Don't go yet, there's plenty of time.
But there wasn't plenty of time. There wasn't all that time left, for he was thirty-five. Already there was grey in his hair;
already the dreams of travelling that had haunted him for years were fading; at least they had. been until a couple of months ago when they had been pleasantly startled into life.
Before him now on the desk lay numbers of travel brochures;
there were dozens of them dating back for years. They had been part of his recreation; he knew every route on every map of every folder. He could have told you, without referring to the appropriate brochure, the route to Baghdad as easily as another man could have pointed out the route to the Lake District, yet never in his life had he been more than a hundred miles from Fellburn, never in his life had he had a holiday.
But then there was nothing so strange about that. As Hannah had said to him on several occasions, "Broderick and me have never slept away from home for a night," so if Hannah Massey didn't need a holiday, why should he?
He lifted his head and looked at the blank wall before him. How much could you hate someone and still live with them? How deep could the hate go before you wanted to kill the object of it? At times he
thought he could measure his hate for Hannah; it was so many inches long, and so many inches thick, and it was wedged tight within him.
But at other times he knew his thin body could not be measured from his chest to his backbone, for it was stretched wide with hate, hate for the woman who had dominated him since he was twelve years old; who had for a period from the age of fifteen put the fear of God in him, and who had stripped him of his
"Good, you'd better look out for digs then, hadn't you?" Rosie turned from the small, bitter face and was aware, as she crossed the landing, that Karen was still standing staring at her, and she knew that her jaws would be working, viciously.
In her room she stood looking out through the small attic window at the white-coated roofs opposite. She had her arms crossed tightly about her, her hands pressed against her ribs as if giving herself support, and she stood like this until she heard her mother's voice calling from below, "Are you ready, Rosie? Rosie! D& you hear me? Are you ready?"
She did not swing round and grab up her things, but slowly she got into her coat and pulled on her hat, and when her mother's voice came to her again, calling, "Are you up there, lass?" she clenched her hands tightly before calling back, "I'm coming, I'm coming, Ma."
PART TWO
HUG HIE
hug hie was sitting in the back of the cobbler's shop. He was sitting in his shirt sleeves and wearing a pullover, and he looked at home, as he never did in Hannah's house. The little room had no window, and no light but that which came in from the shop through the half-glazed door. But it was extremely bright now, being lit by an electric bulb beneath a pink plastic shade, and the light was reflected from the rough mauve-painted walls. Along one wall was a narrow desk-cum
cupboard above which were shelves holding books. One step from the desk and against the opposite wall stood two chairs-- a straight-backed one and an old extending bed-chair. At the far end of the room was a shallow sink, with a table at its side holding a small grill, on which stood a kettle, now coming up to the boil. To the side of the sink a curtain hung from a rod, which was used to cut off the kitchen section of the tiny compartment'. On the floor below the sink was a rough mat, and a piece of carpet ran the length of the room to the far wall, where stood an oil heater. The tiny room gave off an air of compact
snugness, and had been Hughie Geary's real home for so long that now, when he was about to leave it, it tugged at him, saying.
Don't go yet, there's plenty of time.
But there wasn't plenty of time. There wasn't all that time left, for he was thirty-five. Already there was grey in his hair;
already the dreams of travelling that had haunted him for years were fading; at least they had. been until a couple of months ago when they had been pleasantly startled into life.
Before him now on the desk lay numbers of travel brochures;
there were dozens of them dating back for years. They had been part of his recreation; he knew every route on every map of every folder. He could have told you, without referring to the appropriate brochure, the route to Baghdad as easily as another man could have pointed out the route to the Lake District, yet never in his life had he been more than a hundred miles from Fellburn, never in his life had he had a holiday.
But then there was nothing so strange about that. As Hannah had said to him on several occasions, "Broderick and me have never slept away from home for a night," so if Hannah Massey didn't need a holiday, why should he?
He lifted his head and looked at the blank wall before him. How much could you hate someone and still live with them? How deep could the hate go before you wanted to kill the object of it? At times he
thought he could measure his hate for Hannah; it was so many inches long, and so many inches thick, and it was wedged tight within him.
But at other times he knew his thin body could not be measured from his chest to his backbone, for it was stretched wide with hate, hate for the woman who had dominated him since he was twelve years old; who had for a period from the age of fifteen put the fear of God in him, and who had stripped him of his
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