Read Online Loving, Living, Party Going by Henry Green - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Henry Green
Ads: Link
sideways was gazing up with one black white-rimmed eye. 'Get off,' she cried, 'I don't like none of you.'
'Quiet dear. It's likely his favourite.'
'Why what d'you know,' said Kate, 'she's not taken up with us at all at all, it's the buzzard above she's fixed on, would you believe.'
'A buzzard?'
'And if I said I didn't care.'
'No Kate you mustn't, don't strike her I said. You can't tell what might happen if he came to learn.'
'Oh Paddy,' Kate said, 'I'll bet he's well away after that dinner he ate. He'll never stir. But I shan't if you wouldn't rather.'
'She's his special I know,' Edith went on. 'I can't distinguish one from the other but there's something tells me. And who's to say if he is asleep in the dark?'
'You go on in to oblige me then,' Kate said.
'Not me I shan't. I couldn't.'
'Well I will at that.'
'Nor you won't either,' Edith said. 'You've made me frighted.'
'I will then,' Kate answered, raising the heavy latch. 'But love I'll never cause a sound even the smallest,' she said low. Edith plastered her mouth over with the palm of a hand.
'No,' she said muffled, 'no,' as O'Conor's life was opened, as Kate let the sun in and Edith bent to look.
What they saw was a saddleroom which dated back to the time when there had been guests out hunting from Kinalty. It was a place from which light was almost excluded now by cobwebs across its two windows and into which, with the door ajar, the shafted sun lay in a lengthened arch of blazing sovereigns Over a corn bin on which he had packed last autumn's ferns lay Paddy snoring between these windows, a web strung from one' lock of hair back onto the sill above and which rose and fell as he breathed. Caught in the reflection of spring sunlight this cobweb looked to be made of gold as did those others which by working long minutes spiders had drawn from spar to spar of the fern bedding on which his head rested. It might have been almost that O'Conor's dreams were held by hairs of gold binding his head beneath a vaulted roof on which the floor of cobbles reflected an old king's molten treasure from the bog.
'He won't wake now, only for tea,' Kate said. 'Because after he's had his he feeds the birds.'
'Oh Kate isn't he a sight and all.'
'Well come on we can't stand looking. What's next?'
'If I make a crown out of them ferns in the corner,' Edith said, 'will you fetch something he can hold?'
'You aim to make him a bishop? Well if I 'ad my way I'd strip those rags off to give that pelt of his a good rub over.'
'Don't talk so. You couldn't.'
'Who's doing all the talking?' O'Conor gave a loud snore. Both girls began to giggle.
'Oh do be quiet dear,' Edith said picking a handful of ferns and starting to twist them. Then they were arrested by movement in the sunset of that sidewall which reflected glare from the floor in its glass.
For most of one side of this room was taken up by a vast glass-fronted cupboard in which had once been kept the bits, the halters and bridles, and the martingales. At some time O'Conor had cut away wooden partitioning at the back to make a window into the next chamber, given over nowadays to his peacocks. This was where these birds sheltered in winter, nested in spring, and where they died of natural causes at the end. As though stuffed in a dusty case they showed themselves from time to time as one after another across the heavy days they came up to look at him. Now, through a veil of light reflected over this plate glass from beneath, Edith could dimly see, not hear, a number of peacocks driven into view by some disturbance on their side and hardly to be recognized in this sovereign light. For their eyes had changed to rubies, their plumage to orange as they bowed and scraped at each other against the equal danger. Then again they were gone with a beat of wings and in their room stood Charley Raunce, the skin of his pale face altered by refraction to red morocco leather.
The girls stood transfixed as if by arrows between the Irishman dead
'Quiet dear. It's likely his favourite.'
'Why what d'you know,' said Kate, 'she's not taken up with us at all at all, it's the buzzard above she's fixed on, would you believe.'
'A buzzard?'
'And if I said I didn't care.'
'No Kate you mustn't, don't strike her I said. You can't tell what might happen if he came to learn.'
'Oh Paddy,' Kate said, 'I'll bet he's well away after that dinner he ate. He'll never stir. But I shan't if you wouldn't rather.'
'She's his special I know,' Edith went on. 'I can't distinguish one from the other but there's something tells me. And who's to say if he is asleep in the dark?'
'You go on in to oblige me then,' Kate said.
'Not me I shan't. I couldn't.'
'Well I will at that.'
'Nor you won't either,' Edith said. 'You've made me frighted.'
'I will then,' Kate answered, raising the heavy latch. 'But love I'll never cause a sound even the smallest,' she said low. Edith plastered her mouth over with the palm of a hand.
'No,' she said muffled, 'no,' as O'Conor's life was opened, as Kate let the sun in and Edith bent to look.
What they saw was a saddleroom which dated back to the time when there had been guests out hunting from Kinalty. It was a place from which light was almost excluded now by cobwebs across its two windows and into which, with the door ajar, the shafted sun lay in a lengthened arch of blazing sovereigns Over a corn bin on which he had packed last autumn's ferns lay Paddy snoring between these windows, a web strung from one' lock of hair back onto the sill above and which rose and fell as he breathed. Caught in the reflection of spring sunlight this cobweb looked to be made of gold as did those others which by working long minutes spiders had drawn from spar to spar of the fern bedding on which his head rested. It might have been almost that O'Conor's dreams were held by hairs of gold binding his head beneath a vaulted roof on which the floor of cobbles reflected an old king's molten treasure from the bog.
'He won't wake now, only for tea,' Kate said. 'Because after he's had his he feeds the birds.'
'Oh Kate isn't he a sight and all.'
'Well come on we can't stand looking. What's next?'
'If I make a crown out of them ferns in the corner,' Edith said, 'will you fetch something he can hold?'
'You aim to make him a bishop? Well if I 'ad my way I'd strip those rags off to give that pelt of his a good rub over.'
'Don't talk so. You couldn't.'
'Who's doing all the talking?' O'Conor gave a loud snore. Both girls began to giggle.
'Oh do be quiet dear,' Edith said picking a handful of ferns and starting to twist them. Then they were arrested by movement in the sunset of that sidewall which reflected glare from the floor in its glass.
For most of one side of this room was taken up by a vast glass-fronted cupboard in which had once been kept the bits, the halters and bridles, and the martingales. At some time O'Conor had cut away wooden partitioning at the back to make a window into the next chamber, given over nowadays to his peacocks. This was where these birds sheltered in winter, nested in spring, and where they died of natural causes at the end. As though stuffed in a dusty case they showed themselves from time to time as one after another across the heavy days they came up to look at him. Now, through a veil of light reflected over this plate glass from beneath, Edith could dimly see, not hear, a number of peacocks driven into view by some disturbance on their side and hardly to be recognized in this sovereign light. For their eyes had changed to rubies, their plumage to orange as they bowed and scraped at each other against the equal danger. Then again they were gone with a beat of wings and in their room stood Charley Raunce, the skin of his pale face altered by refraction to red morocco leather.
The girls stood transfixed as if by arrows between the Irishman dead
Similar Books
