hard he got to pulling it off, moaning for the stones, lantana smelling of cat piss and semen, the cold blue enamel of the sky. And lay wilting, not crying, it was sweat—or semen.
He had shrunk right into himself into a kind of guilty purity he had never experienced that he could remember. Wondering what Irene Sklavos would have thought. Why, for Chrissake, this Ireen, who was nothing to do with him. But might have been standing over him looking down, prissy lips pressed together, like she had just been not explaining the bleeding pneuma . Haunting him on this wasteland above the culvert.
He sat up presently, buttoned his fly, and started the walk towards Cameron Street. He felt drained. His legs could have been parcels of straw. As he brushed against the hedge of giant fuchsias, he was sprinkled with drops so cold and silver he shuddered for his own enormity. Were they eyes glittering amongst the foliage and fleshy tassels? What odds? She was nothing to him, another kid, a girl , a Greek reffo Lockharts said was her mother’s bastard.
* * *
When he got in there was no sound from the other side of her door. Must have gone to bed. He could see her lying on that ottoman like a queen on a tomb. He could hear the sounds of furniture and dry rot inside Ma Bulpit’s dunny.
His own room, under the warrant officer’s leaning portrait, was one big yawn tonight. Neither light nor darkness let him alone. He lay remembering forever all that he most wanted to forget. And Eirene Sklavos was advancing on him her plait trailing across the carpet behind her like a long black snake, its tail still had to enter the room when she had almost reached his bedside.
‘… running late … miss the bus if you’re not careful…’ It was Ma Bulpit’s voice twitching him awake.
To do him an extra favour she poured out his tea for him this morning. Her pink chenille had some egg in it.
Sklavos had had her breakfast. Her plate with the slops of crispies in it is standing on the table opposite.
‘Where’s Irene?’
‘Finishing something for school.’ The Bulpit had not yet put in her teeth, didn’t bother at that hour and for kids, her hair still had a sleepy look, she might have been rootling round in her head for something to start complaining about.
Finished his breakfast as quick as he could.
Ireen—she looked like Eirene this morning—was sitting at that table at the end of her room where the stored furniture thinned out and the empty space became hers. A clear light fell around her from the window. The ottoman-bed was already made. When she looked up she might have been suggesting he should have knocked, giving him the cold look of a grown-up woman.
‘What are you doing?’ he heard himself bleating as he advanced.
‘Work,’ she answered, colder than ever, and lowered her eyes.
‘You must have gone to bed early,’ he tried it out cautiously.
Had she smelled him out? The dry scales of it were rustling between his thighs.
‘What’s this?’
She sat colouring in the drawing of a spray of flowers. Beside the paper lay a fuchsia branch, the sap still fresh where torn off, the leaves only just beginning to wilt, tassels drooping.
‘We were set an essay on our favourite flower.’ The purple and cerise glowed deeper as she worked.
‘But a fuchsia can’t be your favourite flower! Nobody would ever think about the fuchsia…’
‘There are roses of course. You’ve never seen a Greek rose.’
He hadn’t but her voice conveyed proud blooms of a noble size.
‘You can like something all of a sudden,’ she said, returning to the flower she was giving life, ‘something you’ve never thought about before. Then you might forget about it.’
She got up briskly after that, gathered her drawing and the pages of her essay, and laid them in her case.
‘We don’t want to miss the bus.’
Her eyes seemed to have elongated, their whites glittered at him for an instant, as the light had through the
He had shrunk right into himself into a kind of guilty purity he had never experienced that he could remember. Wondering what Irene Sklavos would have thought. Why, for Chrissake, this Ireen, who was nothing to do with him. But might have been standing over him looking down, prissy lips pressed together, like she had just been not explaining the bleeding pneuma . Haunting him on this wasteland above the culvert.
He sat up presently, buttoned his fly, and started the walk towards Cameron Street. He felt drained. His legs could have been parcels of straw. As he brushed against the hedge of giant fuchsias, he was sprinkled with drops so cold and silver he shuddered for his own enormity. Were they eyes glittering amongst the foliage and fleshy tassels? What odds? She was nothing to him, another kid, a girl , a Greek reffo Lockharts said was her mother’s bastard.
* * *
When he got in there was no sound from the other side of her door. Must have gone to bed. He could see her lying on that ottoman like a queen on a tomb. He could hear the sounds of furniture and dry rot inside Ma Bulpit’s dunny.
His own room, under the warrant officer’s leaning portrait, was one big yawn tonight. Neither light nor darkness let him alone. He lay remembering forever all that he most wanted to forget. And Eirene Sklavos was advancing on him her plait trailing across the carpet behind her like a long black snake, its tail still had to enter the room when she had almost reached his bedside.
‘… running late … miss the bus if you’re not careful…’ It was Ma Bulpit’s voice twitching him awake.
To do him an extra favour she poured out his tea for him this morning. Her pink chenille had some egg in it.
Sklavos had had her breakfast. Her plate with the slops of crispies in it is standing on the table opposite.
‘Where’s Irene?’
‘Finishing something for school.’ The Bulpit had not yet put in her teeth, didn’t bother at that hour and for kids, her hair still had a sleepy look, she might have been rootling round in her head for something to start complaining about.
Finished his breakfast as quick as he could.
Ireen—she looked like Eirene this morning—was sitting at that table at the end of her room where the stored furniture thinned out and the empty space became hers. A clear light fell around her from the window. The ottoman-bed was already made. When she looked up she might have been suggesting he should have knocked, giving him the cold look of a grown-up woman.
‘What are you doing?’ he heard himself bleating as he advanced.
‘Work,’ she answered, colder than ever, and lowered her eyes.
‘You must have gone to bed early,’ he tried it out cautiously.
Had she smelled him out? The dry scales of it were rustling between his thighs.
‘What’s this?’
She sat colouring in the drawing of a spray of flowers. Beside the paper lay a fuchsia branch, the sap still fresh where torn off, the leaves only just beginning to wilt, tassels drooping.
‘We were set an essay on our favourite flower.’ The purple and cerise glowed deeper as she worked.
‘But a fuchsia can’t be your favourite flower! Nobody would ever think about the fuchsia…’
‘There are roses of course. You’ve never seen a Greek rose.’
He hadn’t but her voice conveyed proud blooms of a noble size.
‘You can like something all of a sudden,’ she said, returning to the flower she was giving life, ‘something you’ve never thought about before. Then you might forget about it.’
She got up briskly after that, gathered her drawing and the pages of her essay, and laid them in her case.
‘We don’t want to miss the bus.’
Her eyes seemed to have elongated, their whites glittered at him for an instant, as the light had through the
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