More Pricks Than Kicks by Samuel Beckett Page A

and they shot forward in Hollywood style. Mrs Tough might have been waving to Lot for all the response she received. Was the cut-out by way of being their spokesman? Ruby's parting gird, “Expect us when you see us,” echoed in her ears. On the stairs she met Mr Tough descending. They passed.
    “There is something about that young man” called down Mrs Tough “that I can't relish.”
    “Pup” called up Mr Tough.
    They increased the gap between them.
    “Ruby is very strange” cried down Mrs Tough.
    “Slut” cried up Mr. Tough.
    Though he might be only able to afford a safety-bicycle he was nevertheless a man of few words. There are better things, he thought, going to the bottle, there are better things in this stenching world than Blue Birds.
    The pup and slut drove on and on and there was dead silence between them. Not a syllable did they exchange until the car was safely stowed at the foot of a high mountain. But when Ruby saw Belacqua open the dicky and produce a bag she thought well to break a silence that was becoming a little awkward.
    “What have you got” she said “in the maternity-bag?”
    “Socrates” replied Belacqua “the son of his mother, and the hemlocks.”
    “No” she said, “codding aside, what?”
    Belacqua let fly a finger for each item.
    “The revolver and balls, the veronal, the bottle and glasses, and the notice.”
    Ruby could not repress a shiver.
    “In the name of God” she said “what notice?”
    “The one that we are fled” replied Belacqua, and not another word would he say though she begged him to tell her. The notice was his own idea and he was proud of it. When the time came she would have to subscribe to it whether she liked it or not. He would keep it as a little surprise for her.
    They ascended the mountain in silence. Wisps of snipe and whatever it is of grouse squirted out of the heather on all sides, while the number of hares, brooding in their forms, that they started and sent bounding away, was a credit to the gamekeeper. They plunged on and up through the deep ling and whortleberry. Ruby was sweating. A high mesh wire fence, flung like a shingles round the mountain, obstructed their passage.
    “What are all the trusses for?” panted Ruby.
    Right along on either hand as far as they could see there were fasces of bracken attached to the wire. Belacqua racked his brains for an explanation. In the end he had to give it up.
    “God I don't know at all” he exclaimed.
    It certainly was the most astounding thing.
    Ladies first. Ruby scaled the fence. Belacqua, holding gallantly back with the bag in his hand, enjoyed a glimpse of her legs' sincerity. It was the first time he had had occasion to take stock of those parts of her and certainly he had seen worse. They pushed on and soon the summit, complete with fairy rath, came into view, howbeit still at a considerable distance.
    Ruby tripped and fell, but on her face. Belacqua's strong arms were at hand to raise her up.
    “Not hurt” he kindly inquired.
    “This foul old skirt gets in my way” she said angrily.
    “It is an encumbrance” agreed Belacqua, “off with it.”
    This struck Ruby as being such a good suggestion that she acted upon it without further ado and stood revealed as one of those ladies who have no use for a petticoat. Belacqua folded the skirt over his arm, there being no room for it in the bag, and Ruby, greatly eased, stormed the summit in her knickers.
    Belacqua, who was in the lead, halted all of a sudden, clapped his hands, spun round and told Ruby he had got it. He was keenly conscious of her standing knee-deep in the ling before him, grateful for a breather and not bothering to ask what.
    “They tie those bundles to the wire” he said “so that the grouse will see them.”
    Still she did not understand.
    “And not fly against the fence and hurt themselves.”
    Now she understood. The calm way she took it distressed Belacqua. It was to be hoped that the notice would have better