chin.'
I laughed with her, in a way relieved that we weren't going to spend every second of the afternoon not mentioning it.
'I know all about it, thank you,' I said. And I did, too. That morning, man and spot had become one, indivisible. Now, it felt like a surgically implanted walnut. But Rachel didn't seem to mind, or was good at seeming not to. I would have minded.
I had read my notes so often that they had long lost any meaning they might once have had. So I tried some extempore stuff. Rachel did a good deal of the talking - by no means all of it nonsense. To save face, therefore, I ran through an edited version of the God Creating Adam speech, adapting it to the ghostly lighting effects of the lower gallery, rather than to the pallid flickers of the afternoon sun: with widened eyes and more oracular remoteness of voice. When I finished, Rachel looked up at me and spoke these words:
'See that little boy over by the stairs ? He's got his pyjamas on underneath his trousers.'
We stayed for two hours. On the way out I heart-rendingly bought Rachel a 3p postcard of Blake's Ghost of a Flea, offering it to her with boyish diffidence. She (quite rightly) kissed me on the cheek, just missing my spot.
Then she lost her thumb in the grinder at the factory,' Nanny was saying. 'She've got compensation of course, one hundred and forty-five pound. "Unsafe", they said it was. Pity, mind, because they can't employ her now. Lucky to've got the money, but... pity.' She beamed at us.
That's terrible,' said Rachel. 'She should've got hundreds —'
'No no,' said Nanny, shaking her head with pedantic calm. 'She got good money. I read in the Post only Friday, boy lost his right leg in the printing works down the Broadway. They said —'
I looked round the room. There was only the one door off it, and we had come in by that, so it was safe to assume that these four walls (or six: the bedsitter was L-shaped) bounded Nanny's existence - apart from sorties to some rancid bathroom, which would anyway have crap and catatonic Irishmen all over its floor. What happened when they got too aged and fucked-up to climb three flights of stairs every time their awful old bowels gave (surely most unreliable) signs of moving ? In the far corner was a sort of kitchenette unit: a sink, a one-ring electric plate, a tiny Fablon-decked table. There Dora Rees breakfasted on tap-moistened All-Bran, lunched on devilled tea-bags, dined on a mug of hot water into which she had cautiously dipped an Oxo cube. And the spread she had laid on for us. Two kinds of sandwiches, raisin cake, sliced ham, unlimited tea. I noticed that Nan wasn't eating, so, after a couple of sandwiches for politeness' sake, I laid off the food, claiming a heavy lunch whenever she pressed more on me: 'Have some more of next Wednesday's breakfast. Do try tomorrow's dinner.' The garrulous Rachel, however, ate as fast as she talked.
I began listening again. With Rachel in the lead, they were taking a roundabout stroll down memory lane, I supposed for my benefit. Rachel talked with volume and great freedom of association; Nanny Rees just stared at her besottedly, directing the odd appreciative glance at my big boy: every now and then she would say something like 'Yes, my beauty,' or 'And don't forget so-and-so, angel, he was —' before Rachel hectically resumed.
'That Sunday on the Heath when those boys from Camden Town wouldn't give me my hoop back and you chased them all the way down to the Vale of Health and one of them shouted —'
That sort of thing. I had to do a hell of a lot of laughing, and had also to maintain a stream of unbelieving Nos and You're kiddings, but I didn't mind. Rachel was looking so good; what did she think she was doing here with me?
'... I think we must be going, Nanny,' said Rachel, this announcement forming the coda of some oily tale about a pet frog Rachel used to have. It had crawled beneath one of the three wheels of a prowling cripple's car, apparently a
I laughed with her, in a way relieved that we weren't going to spend every second of the afternoon not mentioning it.
'I know all about it, thank you,' I said. And I did, too. That morning, man and spot had become one, indivisible. Now, it felt like a surgically implanted walnut. But Rachel didn't seem to mind, or was good at seeming not to. I would have minded.
I had read my notes so often that they had long lost any meaning they might once have had. So I tried some extempore stuff. Rachel did a good deal of the talking - by no means all of it nonsense. To save face, therefore, I ran through an edited version of the God Creating Adam speech, adapting it to the ghostly lighting effects of the lower gallery, rather than to the pallid flickers of the afternoon sun: with widened eyes and more oracular remoteness of voice. When I finished, Rachel looked up at me and spoke these words:
'See that little boy over by the stairs ? He's got his pyjamas on underneath his trousers.'
We stayed for two hours. On the way out I heart-rendingly bought Rachel a 3p postcard of Blake's Ghost of a Flea, offering it to her with boyish diffidence. She (quite rightly) kissed me on the cheek, just missing my spot.
Then she lost her thumb in the grinder at the factory,' Nanny was saying. 'She've got compensation of course, one hundred and forty-five pound. "Unsafe", they said it was. Pity, mind, because they can't employ her now. Lucky to've got the money, but... pity.' She beamed at us.
That's terrible,' said Rachel. 'She should've got hundreds —'
'No no,' said Nanny, shaking her head with pedantic calm. 'She got good money. I read in the Post only Friday, boy lost his right leg in the printing works down the Broadway. They said —'
I looked round the room. There was only the one door off it, and we had come in by that, so it was safe to assume that these four walls (or six: the bedsitter was L-shaped) bounded Nanny's existence - apart from sorties to some rancid bathroom, which would anyway have crap and catatonic Irishmen all over its floor. What happened when they got too aged and fucked-up to climb three flights of stairs every time their awful old bowels gave (surely most unreliable) signs of moving ? In the far corner was a sort of kitchenette unit: a sink, a one-ring electric plate, a tiny Fablon-decked table. There Dora Rees breakfasted on tap-moistened All-Bran, lunched on devilled tea-bags, dined on a mug of hot water into which she had cautiously dipped an Oxo cube. And the spread she had laid on for us. Two kinds of sandwiches, raisin cake, sliced ham, unlimited tea. I noticed that Nan wasn't eating, so, after a couple of sandwiches for politeness' sake, I laid off the food, claiming a heavy lunch whenever she pressed more on me: 'Have some more of next Wednesday's breakfast. Do try tomorrow's dinner.' The garrulous Rachel, however, ate as fast as she talked.
I began listening again. With Rachel in the lead, they were taking a roundabout stroll down memory lane, I supposed for my benefit. Rachel talked with volume and great freedom of association; Nanny Rees just stared at her besottedly, directing the odd appreciative glance at my big boy: every now and then she would say something like 'Yes, my beauty,' or 'And don't forget so-and-so, angel, he was —' before Rachel hectically resumed.
'That Sunday on the Heath when those boys from Camden Town wouldn't give me my hoop back and you chased them all the way down to the Vale of Health and one of them shouted —'
That sort of thing. I had to do a hell of a lot of laughing, and had also to maintain a stream of unbelieving Nos and You're kiddings, but I didn't mind. Rachel was looking so good; what did she think she was doing here with me?
'... I think we must be going, Nanny,' said Rachel, this announcement forming the coda of some oily tale about a pet frog Rachel used to have. It had crawled beneath one of the three wheels of a prowling cripple's car, apparently a
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