mother is back with the milk and toast that will be warm and soft in the middle. soon we will have to start looking for proper help.
and yet i like you in this apron. you look as you did when i first met you. you do not regret your old home at all. i mean the first one.
dont you miss one.
i am a hothouse plant. i was born in a bank.
that wasnt you it was your sister.
its true i had a soft landing. somebody had to keep his brains. i was being figurative.
cmon chick hurry up and get that down.
i am going to wear something. something. blue ribbon. if you call out in the bathroom there is echo. spit in the sink. a little more water. it is because we are so bare. one part water to two parts scrubbing is mothers way. cold. dad abhorred it. called it the dip but let her do it because he misunderstood and admired all her domestic contrivances. wash my knees. light bulbs. nice little shoes. lovely with straps. so long, dad in his hat and one of those fine tailored jackets rare these days. smell of what do you call it now, aftershave.
in the foyer coming out of the lift we were often caught up by mr george. well met mesdames. what a fortunate surprise. i was just stepping out for some of that hungarian coffee if it isnt too early. ill walk with you as far as the grocers. yes it is a charming frock. what have you been up to this morning. i have just read the most interesting news. you know a man in america has been given a license to make radio with pictures. like they do for the newspapers, i mean the other way around, to send pictures, but moving. truly. what do you think of that. imagine. you could see let alone hear the g.p.o. clock every morning. ha ha ha. and the miniature orchestra. ha. how miniature do you think they are. do you think they are miniature enough to see on the radio. ha ha. he swept off his hat and pushed the door open for us into the blinding light. her golden dress. the sun dazzled in the green trees across the street. i am the dame of acacias, the alley of camellias. i am mixed up. confused, no, what do you say, i am embarrassed. it is so beautiful here i forget myself. what were we discussing.
all manner of souls shuffling over the bright pavement. the tram clanged away down william street. i think. pigeons fluttering out of the coloured awnings of shops. ah yes, radio licenses. well it is a relief you will be able to buy them now free range. listen in on what you want, no need for licenses. thanks to that droll englishman and his comic opera. we are all in the good ship el publico nest pas. and the really fantastic thing is you can choose to listen to the channel with advertisements, which i find highly anglo saxon and gratifying. very informative and often amusing. well i leave you here and wish you a good day. do not stay out too long it is going to be frightfully hot. i think perhaps later i will take a plunge in the dom. see the ships. they come from all over the world now. they are laden with things for you my little one. have you ever seen them dock with all their tiny flags flying, the swollen rusty hulls and the ropes pulling them in. many are your own, you know. and the longest digital wharf in the world. if you dont mind you are making your mark, i say truly you are. do you remember when they made their first annual haul. it was not so long ago they went out packed with wheat and wool and came back from the factories full of wind up gramophones and edison records. cest un vrai conte. if only you were on garden island madame the day they sailed to fight the boers. in flammam iugulant pecudes. belle fin fait. pas des hommes. hats in the air, your upright faces on either side, such, how to say, bully. do you know how many changed their name to king on the first fleet. indeed it is the century of the new nations. you were there. well. at that time, i did not have the pleasure.
you dont believe it is really dangerous down this way do you mr george.
ah no, not for the likes of you. it is the reputation makes problems. they should have renamed the place twenty three years ago when they had the chance. in your herald it said, the old name, with its multitudinous vowels, has become synonymous with evil repute, and the modern resident craves for the final effacement of both with one pass of the sponge across the slate. but that is the past. thanks to god there is more than one newspaper, and that they did not call it palmersham! o woolloomoolethal no longer! o woolloomoolewd never more! when i give up the ghost, all the heavenly host i shall lead to your beautiful shore. on the woolloomoolittoral, fanned by the woolloomoolibertine breeze (bringing landlords who languish surcease from their anguish) well drink to the woolloomoolees; well be the woolloomoolucrative lodgers in woolloomooluxury vast, an eternitys stories shall tell of your glories to the infinite woolloomoolast! that was the bulletin. disgusting really, what you call funnies.
but we could not exactly say we were in woollamoola could we.
you wont get any letters addressed to queens cross. the post dont know it yet. better say you are in potts point.
but today, mr george, would you say it is safe. you understand my asking. five bullets in the back in darlinghurst. if you believe me the runners around here, they are just the showoffs.
i hope you arent speaking from too close an acquaintance, i mean for your own sake.
ah it is what one knows in general. it is what counts. i say the worst will blow over sooner or later.
we bought the vegetables at lo blancos so that we could get our hands on them first and make sure that they were good. crammed into those little shops with the windows under the awnings you could get flour from a barrel and sugar from a vat and bon ami with the chicken that said it hasnt scratched yet and old dutch cleanser with a scuttling woman with no face on the label and cod liver oil and castor oil and heenzo for coughs and colds and dr morses indian root pills and woods peppermint compound and treacle and stove polish and knife powder and oatmeal and kerosene. we did not go down to the water for fish that day. there were nets strung over the balconies of the town houses and men and women mending them in their shirtsleeves, calling out to one another.
where do they come from.
they have run away from mussolini.
when we get back to kingsclere owen has the doors open and is polishing the door handles. all of it is new then, the wide rooms, the soft smell of the place, the sound of our things dull on the new carpets, the days passing through the bay windows. that bygone parade of tilting furniture. it gets old, it settles. down we go. first thing i did on arrival was eat a watermelon. lovely insipid fruit. i spat the pips into dads rusty palm. he had been at the prow all morning with his hands on the railing. because he was nervous he put them in his pocket though we were standing at the edge of the wharf where the water lapped the trash around the pylons. the crowd and the gulls swarmed above. dad gripped me by the blouse. mother held him by his waist. the sun streamed down on us. we all sway in the flat. why is the ground so stiff i think i asked. dad said because you are still rocking with the boat. so am I. our things arrive. odd coming out of boxes into the light of the flat. dads old paintings, a chair put back together with copper wire, porcelain stuffed with newspapers. highland cattle. i want to move them myself, feel something familiar, but mother takes charge of handling the furniture. she arranges it as best she can though afterwards she will look at the room and say something is not right. so she lays things out reluctantly at first. dad fills the place faster than she does. he buys an upright piano and they play for his friends, sing paddlin madelin home and no, no nanette. mother makes friends with the girl opposite and they sit and chat in the olive chairs until dad rises in the elevator in the evening. on friday mother roasts a bird and people are invited to eat. afterwards miss fox plays the piano and dad sings. because i cant drink the liquor he gives me a shilling from his pocket. i ask him what has he done with the watermelon seeds. thats what they were, your watermelon seeds! why i threw them out the window. happily he slaps the piano lid and there is laughter round the living room. when my light goes out i count the unfamiliar cars that roll below the window. interruptions in the luminous bar beneath the door intrude upon the gloom and slip away. from your dust. there is music playing on another floor, a record going round, tinkle of sherry glasses. a stifled what. i press my face to the cold dark glass and it gives back my face and the city lights. soft toys are consoling, i can keep a cats tail in my crack till dawn.