stood watching nearby and crying.”
Scotsman
, 19 December, 1970
REMINISCENCE (D)
You are killing your children.
THE LOVERS
With her chemise pulled up to her navel, Una Persson pressed her slim self to Catherine Cornelius who lay beneath her. Catherine’s clothes were neatly folded on the stool near the dressing table. Una Persson’s summer shirtwaist frock, stockings, drawers and corsets were scattered on the carpet. The bedroom needed painting. It was a bright summer afternoon. Sunlight crept through the tattered net and the dusty glass of the windows.
With passion Una said:
“My own dear love. My darling sweet.”
And Catherine replied:
“Dear, dear Una.”
She arched her perfect back, quivering. Grasping her buttocks, Una kissed her roundly in the mouth.
“Love!”
Una gave a long, delicious grunt.
“Oh!”
“Una! Una!”
Later the door rattled.
In stepped Miss Brunner, trim and prim.
“All girls together.” She laughed harshly. She made no apology because it was obvious she relished interrupting and embarrassing them. “We must be about our business soon. This place needs a tidy.”
Una rolled clear, directing a muted glare at Miss Brunner who was crisp in linen and lace, like an ultra-fashionable bicyclette.
“The new chambermaid’s arrived,” said Miss Brunner. She began to fold Una Persson’s dress. “She wants to clean in here.”
Catherine was puzzled. “There’s no need…”
“Come now,” said Miss Brunner, flinging open the door, “we mustn’t let ourselves go.” She revealed the maid, a huge, red figure in a green baize overall and a sloppy cap, a bucket in one hand, a mop in the other. Her hair hung down her face. “This is Mrs ‘Vaizey’.”
Una pulled up the sheets.
“Oh, my gawd!” said the cleaner, recognising her daughter.
Catherine turned over.
Mrs ‘Vaizey’ gestured with the mop and bucket. She was miserably upset. She looked ashamed of herself. “This is on’y temp’ry, Caff,” she said. She looked wretchedly at Miss Brunner, who was smiling privately. “Could I—?” Then she realised that Miss Brunner had known all along that her name hadn’t been Vaizey and, moreover, that Miss Brunner had known Catherine was her daughter.
Mrs Cornelius sighed. “You bloody cow,” she said to Miss Brunner. She glanced at the pair in the bed. “Wot yer up ter?” She remembered how she had looked like Catherine once. She recalled the money she might have had if she had not been so generous, so soft. Her heart went out to her daughter then. She dumped the mop into the bucket of water, pointing the handle at Miss Brunner. “You watch this one, love,” she said to Una Persson, since only Una Persson was now visible above the bedclothes. “She’ll ’ave yer fer sure if she gets a chance.”
“You’re not being paid for cheek, you know,” Miss Brunner replied somewhat feebly, striding towards the door, “but to clean the rooms. Your type, Mrs ‘Vaizey’, are ten a penny, as I’m sure you know. If you’re not happy with the position…”
“Don’t come it wiv me, love.” Mrs Cornelius began to splash about the linoleum with her mop. “Not everybody’ll work in a third-rate whorehouse, neither!” Her anger grew and she became proud. “Fuck it.” She picked up the bucket and threw the contents over Miss Brunner. As the starch ran out, the linen and the lace sagged and the Lily Langtry wave fell apart over her forehead.
Una grinned, sitting up with interest.
Miss Brunner hissed, clenched her hands, began to move with staring eyes upon Mrs Cornelius, who returned the stare with dignity so that Miss Brunner paused, dripping.
“Yore nuffink, yer silly little tart. I’ve ’ad too much. Caff!”
Catherine peered out from the bed.
“You comin’, Caff?”
Catherine shook her head. “I can’t, Mum.”
“Jest as yer like.”
Una Persson said: “I’ll look after her, Mrs Cornelius.”
Mrs Cornelius removed her cap and apron
Scotsman
, 19 December, 1970
REMINISCENCE (D)
You are killing your children.
THE LOVERS
With her chemise pulled up to her navel, Una Persson pressed her slim self to Catherine Cornelius who lay beneath her. Catherine’s clothes were neatly folded on the stool near the dressing table. Una Persson’s summer shirtwaist frock, stockings, drawers and corsets were scattered on the carpet. The bedroom needed painting. It was a bright summer afternoon. Sunlight crept through the tattered net and the dusty glass of the windows.
With passion Una said:
“My own dear love. My darling sweet.”
And Catherine replied:
“Dear, dear Una.”
She arched her perfect back, quivering. Grasping her buttocks, Una kissed her roundly in the mouth.
“Love!”
Una gave a long, delicious grunt.
“Oh!”
“Una! Una!”
Later the door rattled.
In stepped Miss Brunner, trim and prim.
“All girls together.” She laughed harshly. She made no apology because it was obvious she relished interrupting and embarrassing them. “We must be about our business soon. This place needs a tidy.”
Una rolled clear, directing a muted glare at Miss Brunner who was crisp in linen and lace, like an ultra-fashionable bicyclette.
“The new chambermaid’s arrived,” said Miss Brunner. She began to fold Una Persson’s dress. “She wants to clean in here.”
Catherine was puzzled. “There’s no need…”
“Come now,” said Miss Brunner, flinging open the door, “we mustn’t let ourselves go.” She revealed the maid, a huge, red figure in a green baize overall and a sloppy cap, a bucket in one hand, a mop in the other. Her hair hung down her face. “This is Mrs ‘Vaizey’.”
Una pulled up the sheets.
“Oh, my gawd!” said the cleaner, recognising her daughter.
Catherine turned over.
Mrs ‘Vaizey’ gestured with the mop and bucket. She was miserably upset. She looked ashamed of herself. “This is on’y temp’ry, Caff,” she said. She looked wretchedly at Miss Brunner, who was smiling privately. “Could I—?” Then she realised that Miss Brunner had known all along that her name hadn’t been Vaizey and, moreover, that Miss Brunner had known Catherine was her daughter.
Mrs Cornelius sighed. “You bloody cow,” she said to Miss Brunner. She glanced at the pair in the bed. “Wot yer up ter?” She remembered how she had looked like Catherine once. She recalled the money she might have had if she had not been so generous, so soft. Her heart went out to her daughter then. She dumped the mop into the bucket of water, pointing the handle at Miss Brunner. “You watch this one, love,” she said to Una Persson, since only Una Persson was now visible above the bedclothes. “She’ll ’ave yer fer sure if she gets a chance.”
“You’re not being paid for cheek, you know,” Miss Brunner replied somewhat feebly, striding towards the door, “but to clean the rooms. Your type, Mrs ‘Vaizey’, are ten a penny, as I’m sure you know. If you’re not happy with the position…”
“Don’t come it wiv me, love.” Mrs Cornelius began to splash about the linoleum with her mop. “Not everybody’ll work in a third-rate whorehouse, neither!” Her anger grew and she became proud. “Fuck it.” She picked up the bucket and threw the contents over Miss Brunner. As the starch ran out, the linen and the lace sagged and the Lily Langtry wave fell apart over her forehead.
Una grinned, sitting up with interest.
Miss Brunner hissed, clenched her hands, began to move with staring eyes upon Mrs Cornelius, who returned the stare with dignity so that Miss Brunner paused, dripping.
“Yore nuffink, yer silly little tart. I’ve ’ad too much. Caff!”
Catherine peered out from the bed.
“You comin’, Caff?”
Catherine shook her head. “I can’t, Mum.”
“Jest as yer like.”
Una Persson said: “I’ll look after her, Mrs Cornelius.”
Mrs Cornelius removed her cap and apron
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