lock the gates and the bagpipes and
only captain Groves and father talking about Rorkes drift and Plevna and
sir Garnet Wolseley and Gordon at Khartoum lighting their pipes for
them everytime they went out drunken old devil with his grog on the
windowsill catch him leaving any of it picking his nose trying to think
of some other dirty story to tell up in a corner but he never forgot
himself when I was there sending me out of the room on some blind excuse
paying his compliments the Bushmills whisky talking of course but hed
do the same to the next woman that came along I suppose he died of
galloping drink ages ago the days like years not a letter from a living
soul except the odd few I posted to myself with bits of paper in them so
bored sometimes I could fight with my nails listening to that old Arab
with the one eye and his heass of an instrument singing his heah heah
aheah all my compriments on your hotchapotch of your heass as bad as now
with the hands hanging off me looking out of the window if there was a
nice fellow even in the opposite house that medical in Holles street the
nurse was after when I put on my gloves and hat at the window to show
I was going out not a notion what I meant arent they thick never
understand what you say even youd want to print it up on a big poster
for them not even if you shake hands twice with the left he didnt
recognise me either when I half frowned at him outside Westland row
chapel where does their great intelligence come in Id like to know
grey matter they have it all in their tail if you ask me those country
gougers up in the City Arms intelligence they had a damn sight less than
the bulls and cows they were selling the meat and the coalmans bell that
noisy bugger trying to swindle me with the wrong bill he took out of his
hat what a pair of paws and pots and pans and kettles to mend any broken
bottles for a poor man today and no visitors or post ever except his
cheques or some advertisement like that wonderworker they sent him
addressed dear Madam only his letter and the card from Milly this
morning see she wrote a letter to him who did I get the last letter from
O Mrs Dwenn now what possessed her to write from Canada after so many
years to know the recipe I had for pisto madrileno Floey Dillon since
she wrote to say she was married to a very rich architect if Im to
believe all I hear with a villa and eight rooms her father was an
awfully nice man he was near seventy always good