The Poor Mouth_ A Bad Story About the Hard Life - Flann O'Brien [33]
–My, you’re early, she said in that charming husky voice.
I gracefully stepped into the hall and said it was nearly half eight. I showed her my watch.
–Your watch is crazy, she said, but come in to the fire. Will you have a cup of coffee?
–I will, Penelope, if you will have one with me.
–I won’t be a moment.
Wasn’t that a delightful little ruse of mine? So far as I could see, we were alone in the house. Silly ideas came into my head, ideas that need not be mentioned here. I was the veriest tyro in such situations. Into my head came the names of certain voluptuaries and libertines of long ago, and then I began to wonder how the brother would handle matters were he in my place. She came with a pot of coffee, biscuits, and two delightful little cups. In the light her belted dress was trim, modest, a little bit mysterious; or perhaps I mean enchanting.
–Well now, Finbarr, she said, tell me all the news and leave nothing out.
–There’s no news.
–I don’t believe that. You are hiding something.
–Honestly, Penelope.
–How is Annie?
–Annie’s in good order. She never changes. In fact she never changes even her clothes. But poor Mr Collopy is crucified with rheumatism. He is a complete wreck, helpless and very angry with himself. He kept going out to get drowned in the rain every night a few months ago, and this is the price of him.
–Ah, the poor man.
–And what about poor me? I have to act the male nurse while I’m in the house.
–Well, everybody needs help some time or other. You might grow to be a helpless old man yourself. How would you like that?
–I wouldn’t fancy it. Probably I’d stick my head in the gas oven.
–But if you had very bad rheumatism you couldn’t do that. You wouldn’t be able to stoop or bend.
–Couldn’t I get you to call and help me to get my head in?
–Ah no, Finbarr, that would not be a nice thing. But I would call all right.
–To do what?
–To nurse you.
–Heavens, that would be very nice.
She laughed. I must have allowed true feeling to well up in that remark. I certainly meant what I said, but did not like to appear too brash.
–Do you mean to say, I smiled, that I would have to have a painful and loathesome disease before you would call to see me?
–Oh, not at all, Finbarr, she said. But I’d be afraid of Mr Collopy. He once called me ‘an unmannerly school-girl’, all because I told him in the street that his shoelaces were undone.
–His bootlaces, you mean, I corrected. To hell with Mr Collopy.
–Now, now, now.
–Well, he gets on my nerves.
–You spend too much time in that 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