The Poor Mouth by Flann O’Brien, Patrick C. Power Page A

kitchen. You don’t go out enough. Do you ever go to a dance?
    –No. I don’t know the first thing about dancing.
    –That’s a pity. I must teach you.
    –That would be grand.
    –But first we’d have to get the loan of a gramophone somewhere.
    –I think I might manage that.
    Our conversation, as may be seen, was trivial and pointless enough, and the rest of it was that kind.
    Finally I got a bit bolder and took her hand in my own. She did not withdraw it.
    –What would you do, I asked, if I were to kiss your hand?
    –Well, well! I would scream the house down probably.
    –But why?
    –That’s the why.
    Uproar ensued all right, but it was in the hall. Jack Mulloy with two other butties had come in and were jabbering loudly as they hung up their coats. Alas, I had to disengage my excited mind and turn my thought to cards.
    Curiously, I won fifteen shillings that night and was reasonably cheerful over the whole evening’s proceedings, not excluding the little interlude with Penelope, as I made my way home. The route I took was by Wilton Place, a triangular shaded nook not much used by traffic. I knew from other experiences that it was haunted by prostitutes of the very lowest cadres, and also by their scruffy clients. A small loutish group of five or six people were giggling in the shadows as I approached but became discreetly silent as I passed. But when I had gone only two yards or so, I heard one solitary word in a voice I swore I knew:
    – Seemingly.
    I paused involuntarily, deeply shocked, but I soon walked on. I had, in fact, been thinking of Penelope, and that one word threw my mind into a whirl. What was the meaning of this thing sex, what was the nature of sexual attraction? Was it all bad and dangerous? What was Annie doing late at night, standing in a dark place with young blackguards? Was I any better myself in my conduct, whispering sly things into the ear of lovely and innocent Penelope? Had I, in fact, at the bottom of my heart dirty intentions, some dark deed postponed only because the opportunity had not yet presented itself.
    As I had expected, the kitchen was empty, for I had assisted Mr Collopy to bed before going out earlier. I did not want to be there when Annie came. I got notepaper and an envelope, went upstairs and got into bed.
    I lay there with the light on for a long time, reflecting. Then I wrote a confidential and detailed letter to the brother about, first, the very low and painful condition of Mr Collopy; and second, the devastating incident concerning Annie. I paused before signing my name and for a wild few minutes considered writing a little about myself and Penelope. But reason, thank God, prevailed. I said nothing but signed and sealed the letter.

14
    A REPLY was not long coming, taking the form of a parcel and a letter. I opened the letter first, and here it is:
    ‘Many thanks for your rather alarming communication.
    ‘From what you say it is clear to me that Collopy is suffering from rheumatoid arthritis, very likely of the peri-articular type. If you can persuade him to let you have a look, you will find that the joints are swollen and of fusiform shape and I think you will find that he is afflicted at the hands and feet, knees, ankles and wrists. Probably his temperature is elevated, and total rest in bed is most desirable. The focus of infection for rheumatoid arthritis is usually bad teeth and the presence in the gums of pyorrhoea alveolaris, so that he should order Hanafin’s cab and call on a dentist. But happily we have invented here in the Academy a certain cure for the disorder, provided the treatment is sedulously followed. I am sending you under separate cover a bottle of our patent Gravid Water. It will be your own job to make sure that he takes a t/spoonful of it three times a day after meals. Se to the first dose before you leave the house in the morning, inquire about the daytime dose when you get back from school, and similarly ensure the evening dose. It