The horses were going out for the second race, nervous and elastic against the rain. The little nervous snorts they gave as the jockeys caught them with their heels made you lean over the fence and hold on tight to your card. Vic Moriarty felt rather gay, high up on her heels and willowy at the waist, quite elegant in fact, in spite of her mackintosh and a felt. If only they had a band, like at Randwick where you walked up and down behind the stand and people said things about your dress, and sometimes if you were lucky someone was good enough for a dozen oysters and a glass of stout. But this was Happy Valley of course, and Ernest cranky at breakfast about that egg, as if you could know the history of an egg right the way from the hen, you said, or get inside and look, I like that, but nobody’s going to spoil my day not about a bloody egg. A jockey glanced down. She smiled just enough, at her card. If only there was a band, there was nothing like a band for making, even Ernest, went to the park and he held your hand and said there was almost enough for the ring as they played Carmen, it was Sunday, and Ernest had had his hair cut the day before. That was the sort of thing that made you feel sorry for Ernest, but you couldn’t spend your whole life feeling sorry and nothing else, because look what it landed you in, if only Daisy hadn’t pushed, and those stamps, it made you laugh, going into Moorang to read a paper on stamps. You go along, Vic said, stop talking about that egg, everyone’ll feel better when you get on to the stamps.
That was eleven o’clock. They had breakfast late. Because it’s a Saturday, Vic said, yawning out of the bed. He was going into Moorang in the afternoon to read a paper in the evening to the Moorang and District Philatelists’ Club. Ernest Moriarty on Perforations, it had come round on the circular. Though what anyone sees in a stamp, said Vic, spitting a mouthful of toothpaste froth into the toilet bowl. The bowl was festooned with roses, they were pink, the toilet set a present from Fred. Ernest broke his braces. Here give them to me, she said, what you’d do without me is something I’d like to know. Ernest stood in his underpants and watched her sew.
Ernest stood, no more than stand, his hands hung down, watched her hands irritated by a needle and thread. Vic, he wanted to say, Vic. He heard the postman knock again and letters on the hall linoleum, stooped again in the hall to pick them up, re-enacted what was painful many times. Then his braces snapped. Give them to me, she said. There were some bills and a circular. He put the other in an album in the sitting-room. He put it out of sight. Walking through the hall, the lozenges of light were yellow-green, pale and empty the linoleum squares where letters might not have fallen, only the rattle of the postman’s footsteps, and he had put it in the album in the sitting-room. The thread wove in and out the ink, words that said without date or signature or compromise, I don’t want to intrude, said ink, only there are some things somebody ought to know that everyone knows and Mr Moriarty it’s like this your wife far be it that I want to intrude have you ever opened your eyes to see even if it is painful but then it always is for the good of the town and your position if nothing else that Hagan and your wife that Hagan and your wife will forgive me for wishing you well.
You do look a sight in those pants, said Vic. Here are your braces. Now you can put on your trousers and cover them up.
Thank you, he said. Thank you, Vic.
Now what’s the matter with you? You’re not going to have one of those attacks?
No, he said.
Because I don’t want to have your pleasure spoiled. And you say you get some pleasure from stamps. I should think you’d better stay in there the night. There’s no use busting yourself, she said, getting back God knows when. We’ve got to think of your health.
Yes, he said.
Brushing out her hair, Vic had dimples in her back, where the shoulder-blades met above the camisole. I want you to meet my wife, he said to Berenger, whom Vic did not like because he had a harelip, and Moriarty’s wife they said, or Mrs Moriarty that clerk when they signed the register, she said, Ernest, can’t I sign mine, I love writing my name. He felt bones, flesh, and a little breath, thought he would fall perhaps, though as if it had nothing to do with him, he had nothing to do with himself any more. He went back to the postman, to the floor, and going into the sitting-room. It was in that album, only he didn’t want to look. Hagan said, leave her to me, as taking up her coat he held it out for Vic, holding the coat and Vic, poor Ernest, she said, I don’t like to leave, only you know what it’s like if you come in all this cold. Hagan said, Hagan said, Hagan said the pictures. Hagan said, your wife will forgive me for wishing you well. Ernest, putting on his trousers, bent down and looked at the floor, wished he could fall. But the effort was not his, he was doing this without effort, putting on the trousers was not his arm.
Gertie! called Vic, clucking her tongue. We haven’t forgotten those eggs, even if you have. What I have to put up with, she said. It’s a wonder I keep my patience at all.
He went into the sitting-room.
Ernest! she called. I’ll put your pyjamas in the bag. You can take a room at the Crown. I didn’t sleep a wink, she said, and I’m not going to lose to-night.
Gertie Ansell brought him an egg, sulking, she had not washed her eyes, and stove-black on her hands.
No, he said. No. I don’t want the egg.
She looked at him in surprise. Then she went out of the room leaving the egg behind.
Ernest Moriarty sat staring at an egg. The letter said, forgive me Hagan for wishing you well said take your pyjamas said just another case of anonymous adultery tapping her knee and laughing at a joke. This was Vic then, or not Vic, could not be Vic. He wanted to say this is not you, Vic, that the letter said. He wanted to say this. He sat in the chair groping at no word that came heard her voice singing in the next room, and the rattle of a tray as she shifted it off the bed. When he said, Vic, I want to tell you, in Daisy’s front room, all right, Ernest, she said, I know just how you feel, so just you take your time and he did not know what to say, when Vic held his hand, he could not see from his glasses, only Hagan and that gold tooth, and a smile, or Vic’s smile that was Hagan’s smile over on the music stool. Not this, he said, not this, taking up the spoon. He felt something come in his throat. He took up the spoon and beat the egg. It went chip chip chip chip, like that. Hagan laughed. Because it stank, the room was stinking like an egg.
Vic! he screamed. Vic!
She came tumbling into the room in her dressing-gown, it was half off, those big flowers, and her face looked a little afraid.
What on earth’s bitten you now?
She began to frown, was no longer afraid, as she looked at him trembling in the chair. He knew he was trembling. He had no strength to say.
Well, she said, what a way to carry on! Anyone’d think you didn’t know there was such a thing as a phoney egg.
It stinks, he said.
He could feel the glasses tremble on his nose.
Would you like me to go and talk to the hen? It wasn’t me that laid the egg.
She took it away then. Her dressing-gown opened up as she bent down and took up the egg. He wanted to put his head on the table and close his eyes, he wanted to stop his heart.