pump handle.
“What have you got for us to eat then, darling?” he asked Dian.
“He’s always afraid I’m going to starve him,” she said.
“She starves herself, not me,” said Luke to Janet. “Looks like there’s plenty on the table anyways. Why, that’s my gal, she don’ forget her ole man.”
“You don’t have to taste them, if you don’t want,” saidDian to Janet, “sweet potatoes and kidney beans, that’s what Luke likes, but I never touch ’em — it’s what you’re used to, isn’t it?”
Janet Cook, sitting bolt upright on the edge of her chair, nibbled at a paste sandwich and a piece of chocolate roll, and watched Luke as if he were some strange animal as he worked his way steadily through plateful after plateful. But at last he finished and began to talk. He had a soft warm voice.
“You like my matchboxes, honey?” he enquired.
“It must have taken you a very long time to collect them all,” Janet replied evasively.
“Ever since I was a little ’un,” said Luke, “I used to ask the sailors for them when they put in at the harbour. I was raised in Old Spanish Town and I were mad after the sea, went as a cabin boy soon as I were old enough, then got to be stoker — trading in bananas, we were, and everywhere we went I got them matchboxes. But one day come and I’d enough of wandering, was that the day I met my darling? Near enough. Then it was ‘East, West, home’s best’, wasn’t it, honey? But I kept my matchboxes.”
“Give us a song, now,” said Dian, “he sings lovely, as good as one of they pop guys any day.”
Luke took down his guitar and bent over it lovingly.
“Sing ‘To my donkey’,” ordered Dian, and he began crooning softly. It sounded like a foreign language to Janet. “Tie meh dongdey.”
“Now ‘Yellow bird’,” said Dian. The low rich voice crooned on and Janet Cook’s stiff little body relaxed. Then the song changed again.
“This is his favourite,” whispered Dian, “it’s ‘This is my island in the sun’”. Janet had never been out of England and had scarcely ever even seen the sea, but, as she listened, she felt as if she were lying by it — a very blue sea, with scarlet blossoming trees growing close tothe shore and brilliant yellow and green birds darting among them.
When Luke stopped singing Janet stood up to leave and Luke said he would see her home. “There’s no need for that, thank you,” said Janet, but Luke took no notice. Crossing the street he put his arm round her to steer her through the traffic. This made her feel queer and uncomfortable, and she was glad when they reached the Lotus House. Left alone she suddenly realized that she was tired and sat still doing nothing for a little while.
“Well, it takes all sorts,” said Janet Cook to herself. And then, “Perhaps I might take one of those coach trips down to the sea one day.” And then “Wouldn’t like all those matchboxes about, and the tortoises, rather her than me.” And then “Wonder what it’s like to be her, all the same.” She didn’t remember ever having been hugged and hardly kissed even, since those hurried embraces from poor old Dad years and years ago — you couldn’t call those pecks she and her mother exchanged “kisses”. “They say you don’t miss what you’ve never had — I liked the singing, though.”
She sat for a bit longer. Then, “Mustn’t be fanciful,” she said, and got up to take off her jacket and put away her bag.
The next morning brought a letter from her sister-in-law. Wonder what she wants, she thought. Contacts between them were usually confined to a picture postcard on holidays and birthdays and Christmas greetings. The letter said that Doris (now second mistress in the large primary school of the very respectable suburb where she and Henry had their home), had been asked to deputize for her headmistress at an important educational conference in the north where her parents lived, and she had obtained
“What have you got for us to eat then, darling?” he asked Dian.
“He’s always afraid I’m going to starve him,” she said.
“She starves herself, not me,” said Luke to Janet. “Looks like there’s plenty on the table anyways. Why, that’s my gal, she don’ forget her ole man.”
“You don’t have to taste them, if you don’t want,” saidDian to Janet, “sweet potatoes and kidney beans, that’s what Luke likes, but I never touch ’em — it’s what you’re used to, isn’t it?”
Janet Cook, sitting bolt upright on the edge of her chair, nibbled at a paste sandwich and a piece of chocolate roll, and watched Luke as if he were some strange animal as he worked his way steadily through plateful after plateful. But at last he finished and began to talk. He had a soft warm voice.
“You like my matchboxes, honey?” he enquired.
“It must have taken you a very long time to collect them all,” Janet replied evasively.
“Ever since I was a little ’un,” said Luke, “I used to ask the sailors for them when they put in at the harbour. I was raised in Old Spanish Town and I were mad after the sea, went as a cabin boy soon as I were old enough, then got to be stoker — trading in bananas, we were, and everywhere we went I got them matchboxes. But one day come and I’d enough of wandering, was that the day I met my darling? Near enough. Then it was ‘East, West, home’s best’, wasn’t it, honey? But I kept my matchboxes.”
“Give us a song, now,” said Dian, “he sings lovely, as good as one of they pop guys any day.”
Luke took down his guitar and bent over it lovingly.
“Sing ‘To my donkey’,” ordered Dian, and he began crooning softly. It sounded like a foreign language to Janet. “Tie meh dongdey.”
“Now ‘Yellow bird’,” said Dian. The low rich voice crooned on and Janet Cook’s stiff little body relaxed. Then the song changed again.
“This is his favourite,” whispered Dian, “it’s ‘This is my island in the sun’”. Janet had never been out of England and had scarcely ever even seen the sea, but, as she listened, she felt as if she were lying by it — a very blue sea, with scarlet blossoming trees growing close tothe shore and brilliant yellow and green birds darting among them.
When Luke stopped singing Janet stood up to leave and Luke said he would see her home. “There’s no need for that, thank you,” said Janet, but Luke took no notice. Crossing the street he put his arm round her to steer her through the traffic. This made her feel queer and uncomfortable, and she was glad when they reached the Lotus House. Left alone she suddenly realized that she was tired and sat still doing nothing for a little while.
“Well, it takes all sorts,” said Janet Cook to herself. And then, “Perhaps I might take one of those coach trips down to the sea one day.” And then “Wouldn’t like all those matchboxes about, and the tortoises, rather her than me.” And then “Wonder what it’s like to be her, all the same.” She didn’t remember ever having been hugged and hardly kissed even, since those hurried embraces from poor old Dad years and years ago — you couldn’t call those pecks she and her mother exchanged “kisses”. “They say you don’t miss what you’ve never had — I liked the singing, though.”
She sat for a bit longer. Then, “Mustn’t be fanciful,” she said, and got up to take off her jacket and put away her bag.
The next morning brought a letter from her sister-in-law. Wonder what she wants, she thought. Contacts between them were usually confined to a picture postcard on holidays and birthdays and Christmas greetings. The letter said that Doris (now second mistress in the large primary school of the very respectable suburb where she and Henry had their home), had been asked to deputize for her headmistress at an important educational conference in the north where her parents lived, and she had obtained
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