Read Online The Holy City by Patrick McCabe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patrick McCabe
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Thatâs because she sings little songs about you, you see, she laughed, puckering her nose as she sipped her drink, crooning:
â Why this feeling? Why this glow? Why the thrill when you say hello? Mr Wonderful, I love you!
Whenever we had a disagreement she told me she didnât like me looking at her in that way.
â Donât do that, Mr Wonderful, she implored.
â I thought you liked Protestants, isnât that what you said?
â Not like that. Not all Protestants are cold and hard.
â The indifferent grey heart of Henry Thornton. What other kind of Protestant is there?
â Please donât shout, she said, it upsets me, I told you, when you look at me that way.
â OK, baby! I wonât, after all itâs the sixties and weâre supposed to be âreal goneâ, in âkooksvilleâ, having fun. So letâs put on the Troggs, OK? Yeah â
Waaahld thang
Itâs the new world, baby, roll over, Henry Thornton!
The light on the terrace was beginning to fail but the visitor and Mukti were still out front. When I looked again, though, they had disappeared around the side of the building. I followed them. They took a left turn past the prefab, indicating they intended to avail themselves of the available short cut, past the car park and then in through the kitchens. There was an open slatted door on rollers at the side of the building and through it came wafting the stultifying smell of pulped, boiling cauliflower.
The psychiatrist climbed up on to the concrete ledge and assisted his visitor, the two of them laughing as he climbed up and was hauled inside. I craned my neck but couldnât properly make out what they were saying.
There were some sacks of potatoes stacked up near the boiler, with two huge metal bins stuffed to the brim with soggy broken eggs, potato skins and other damp refuse. I slipped inside and didnât make a sound, crouching down out of sight behind the sacks. The two men had paused and were chatting amicably to the kitchen porter. Although I still couldnât hear them clearly I got the impression that the subject under discussion was football. Which surprised me a little â I hadnât been aware of Muktiâs interest in sport of any kind.
Clouds of steam were rising in great big warm puffs from an assortment of gleaming cooking vessels arranged on thehob, obscuring the clergymanâs face as he good-humouredly tilted backwards, rocking back and forth, nodding away there, on his heels. Whatever Mukti was saying to the porter it was clearly amusing. Perhaps he was telling him about his clever little plan â how he had taken over my case himself, and was making great progress, getting all the news about Marcus Otoyo. He doesnât even realise heâs telling me, poor old McCool, he was probably saying. But I thought no more about it. I had had it up to here, thinking about Indians. The whole disgusting farce had been exposed and that was all I needed to know.
Mukti was all ears now, leaning forward, hanging on his visitorâs every word. The puffs of steam dissipated, at long last providing me with a much clearer view. The clergyman had turned around, and I could see him now plainly in his charcoal-grey suit. Poor old Mukti â as I say, he had assumed it was some grudge I was harbouring towards Canon Burgess and perhaps the Catholic Church in general that had prompted me, conveniently providing my motivation. Which was utter nonsense, of course, as I have said. Visitors just didnât figure in the equation.
At long last they concluded their conversation and were preparing to say goodbye. Dr Mukti was waving as his visitor smiled and turned on his heel. Some chips were boiling in a tank, sunk deep in oil, with the handle of a wire basket protruding over the edge. It was convenient for me that the visitorâs departure had been temporarily suspended, what with the psychiatrist somehow having caught his
â Why this feeling? Why this glow? Why the thrill when you say hello? Mr Wonderful, I love you!
Whenever we had a disagreement she told me she didnât like me looking at her in that way.
â Donât do that, Mr Wonderful, she implored.
â I thought you liked Protestants, isnât that what you said?
â Not like that. Not all Protestants are cold and hard.
â The indifferent grey heart of Henry Thornton. What other kind of Protestant is there?
â Please donât shout, she said, it upsets me, I told you, when you look at me that way.
â OK, baby! I wonât, after all itâs the sixties and weâre supposed to be âreal goneâ, in âkooksvilleâ, having fun. So letâs put on the Troggs, OK? Yeah â
Waaahld thang
Itâs the new world, baby, roll over, Henry Thornton!
The light on the terrace was beginning to fail but the visitor and Mukti were still out front. When I looked again, though, they had disappeared around the side of the building. I followed them. They took a left turn past the prefab, indicating they intended to avail themselves of the available short cut, past the car park and then in through the kitchens. There was an open slatted door on rollers at the side of the building and through it came wafting the stultifying smell of pulped, boiling cauliflower.
The psychiatrist climbed up on to the concrete ledge and assisted his visitor, the two of them laughing as he climbed up and was hauled inside. I craned my neck but couldnât properly make out what they were saying.
There were some sacks of potatoes stacked up near the boiler, with two huge metal bins stuffed to the brim with soggy broken eggs, potato skins and other damp refuse. I slipped inside and didnât make a sound, crouching down out of sight behind the sacks. The two men had paused and were chatting amicably to the kitchen porter. Although I still couldnât hear them clearly I got the impression that the subject under discussion was football. Which surprised me a little â I hadnât been aware of Muktiâs interest in sport of any kind.
Clouds of steam were rising in great big warm puffs from an assortment of gleaming cooking vessels arranged on thehob, obscuring the clergymanâs face as he good-humouredly tilted backwards, rocking back and forth, nodding away there, on his heels. Whatever Mukti was saying to the porter it was clearly amusing. Perhaps he was telling him about his clever little plan â how he had taken over my case himself, and was making great progress, getting all the news about Marcus Otoyo. He doesnât even realise heâs telling me, poor old McCool, he was probably saying. But I thought no more about it. I had had it up to here, thinking about Indians. The whole disgusting farce had been exposed and that was all I needed to know.
Mukti was all ears now, leaning forward, hanging on his visitorâs every word. The puffs of steam dissipated, at long last providing me with a much clearer view. The clergyman had turned around, and I could see him now plainly in his charcoal-grey suit. Poor old Mukti â as I say, he had assumed it was some grudge I was harbouring towards Canon Burgess and perhaps the Catholic Church in general that had prompted me, conveniently providing my motivation. Which was utter nonsense, of course, as I have said. Visitors just didnât figure in the equation.
At long last they concluded their conversation and were preparing to say goodbye. Dr Mukti was waving as his visitor smiled and turned on his heel. Some chips were boiling in a tank, sunk deep in oil, with the handle of a wire basket protruding over the edge. It was convenient for me that the visitorâs departure had been temporarily suspended, what with the psychiatrist somehow having caught his
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