you might want to take your picture wif dem. I’m at liberty to tell you dat’s not my idea. Benjamin Maxine, luv. Benny to me mates. I don’t fink I’ve ’ad the pleasure.”
“Rena Morgan, Benjamin.”
“Benny to me mates.”
“Benny.”
They shook hands solemnly.
“No, that’s not my idea at all,” Benny Maxine said. “Not of no dream holiday it ain’t.”
“Have you been there?”
“What, the Wor -ruld? No fear!”
“Well, maybe you’ll be surprised. Perhaps you’ll like it after all.”
“Nah,” Benny said. “It’s some tarted-up Brighton, is all. Adventureland, Tomorrowland. The bloody Never-lands! Greasy great kid stuff is what I say!”
“The Netherlands?”
“What?” Benny Maxine said. “Oh. No, sweetheart. Ne v er- Land. You know, where Peter Pansy flies his pals in the pantomime. Not the coun try, not the place wif the wood gym shoes and all the boot forests. You don’t talk the bull’s wool, do you, luv? Not to worry. We’re all Englitch ’ere. Just little dying Englitch boys and girls. Which is why I fink we should ’ave been personally consulted, drawn into the discussions, like, before they shipped us all off to Florida and the Magic Kingdom to put us on the rides and expose us to the dangerous tropic sun.
(“Don’t look now, luv,” Benny whispered, and indicated with a gesture of his chin where Janet Order was sitting, “but that one could do wif a bit o’ old Sol!) I mean, how do they know where a poor little mortal loser like yours truly would like to take his dream holiday? No one sat on the side of my bed and listened to me talk in me sleep.”
“Where would you?”
“What, take my dream holiday?”
“That’s right.”
“What, if I had the whole wide world to choose from?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there’s no contest then, is there? I mean, look what we got ’ere. Africa, South America, Australia. Asia. You can’t forget Asia. There’s Mother Russia and China, too, in Asia.”
“Is that where you’d go, Asia?”
“Monte Carlo,” Benny Maxine said.
“Why that’s only in the south of France.”
“Monaco. It’s in Monaco.”
The little girl giggled. “And isn’t as big as Regent’s Park, I shouldn’t think.”
“A choice seafront property,” Benny Maxine said.
“What a queer place to choose,” Rena said. “Whatever would you do there? Get your postcards franked?”
“Yeah, that’s right. And send them off to you and Little Girl Blue over there in Mickey Mouseland. ‘Yours truly,’ I’d sign them. ‘The Kid Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo!’”
“You wi-ish!”
“Hey, you’re pretty lively for a snotnose, ain’t you?”
For her giggle had shaken loose some of the immense reserves of Rena Morgan’s clear, cystic fibrotic phlegm. Benny watched for a moment. “You got a bad cold there, luv,” he said, offering his big clean handkerchief. Which, shaking her head, she declined, opening instead a rather large and attractive flowered canvas drawstring bag which, or so it seemed to Benny, appeared to contain nothing but handkerchiefs, men’s handkerchiefs, bigger than his own, some of them already crumpled. She poked her hand into the depths of the bag, plunged her wrists past the wet linen, and withdrew an unused handkerchief. Then, taking hold of it by a corner, she flipped it once and the whole thing came unfolded, unfurling like a flag, rolled carpet, an umbrella. She didn’t press the handkerchief to her face, she didn’t even actually blow, but allowed it to pass under her nose in a continuous, unbroken movement, like someone sliding corn on the cob past her teeth, Benny thought, or like paper moving beneath the keys of a typewriter.
“Sorry,” Rena Morgan said, crumpling the now-drenched handkerchief and dropping it into her bag. She seemed quite recovered.
“That’s a great trick,” Benny said. “How you unfolded that hanky.”
“I secrete too much mucus. It’s disgusting,” she said. “I’ve
“Rena Morgan, Benjamin.”
“Benny to me mates.”
“Benny.”
They shook hands solemnly.
“No, that’s not my idea at all,” Benny Maxine said. “Not of no dream holiday it ain’t.”
“Have you been there?”
“What, the Wor -ruld? No fear!”
“Well, maybe you’ll be surprised. Perhaps you’ll like it after all.”
“Nah,” Benny said. “It’s some tarted-up Brighton, is all. Adventureland, Tomorrowland. The bloody Never-lands! Greasy great kid stuff is what I say!”
“The Netherlands?”
“What?” Benny Maxine said. “Oh. No, sweetheart. Ne v er- Land. You know, where Peter Pansy flies his pals in the pantomime. Not the coun try, not the place wif the wood gym shoes and all the boot forests. You don’t talk the bull’s wool, do you, luv? Not to worry. We’re all Englitch ’ere. Just little dying Englitch boys and girls. Which is why I fink we should ’ave been personally consulted, drawn into the discussions, like, before they shipped us all off to Florida and the Magic Kingdom to put us on the rides and expose us to the dangerous tropic sun.
(“Don’t look now, luv,” Benny whispered, and indicated with a gesture of his chin where Janet Order was sitting, “but that one could do wif a bit o’ old Sol!) I mean, how do they know where a poor little mortal loser like yours truly would like to take his dream holiday? No one sat on the side of my bed and listened to me talk in me sleep.”
“Where would you?”
“What, take my dream holiday?”
“That’s right.”
“What, if I had the whole wide world to choose from?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there’s no contest then, is there? I mean, look what we got ’ere. Africa, South America, Australia. Asia. You can’t forget Asia. There’s Mother Russia and China, too, in Asia.”
“Is that where you’d go, Asia?”
“Monte Carlo,” Benny Maxine said.
“Why that’s only in the south of France.”
“Monaco. It’s in Monaco.”
The little girl giggled. “And isn’t as big as Regent’s Park, I shouldn’t think.”
“A choice seafront property,” Benny Maxine said.
“What a queer place to choose,” Rena said. “Whatever would you do there? Get your postcards franked?”
“Yeah, that’s right. And send them off to you and Little Girl Blue over there in Mickey Mouseland. ‘Yours truly,’ I’d sign them. ‘The Kid Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo!’”
“You wi-ish!”
“Hey, you’re pretty lively for a snotnose, ain’t you?”
For her giggle had shaken loose some of the immense reserves of Rena Morgan’s clear, cystic fibrotic phlegm. Benny watched for a moment. “You got a bad cold there, luv,” he said, offering his big clean handkerchief. Which, shaking her head, she declined, opening instead a rather large and attractive flowered canvas drawstring bag which, or so it seemed to Benny, appeared to contain nothing but handkerchiefs, men’s handkerchiefs, bigger than his own, some of them already crumpled. She poked her hand into the depths of the bag, plunged her wrists past the wet linen, and withdrew an unused handkerchief. Then, taking hold of it by a corner, she flipped it once and the whole thing came unfolded, unfurling like a flag, rolled carpet, an umbrella. She didn’t press the handkerchief to her face, she didn’t even actually blow, but allowed it to pass under her nose in a continuous, unbroken movement, like someone sliding corn on the cob past her teeth, Benny thought, or like paper moving beneath the keys of a typewriter.
“Sorry,” Rena Morgan said, crumpling the now-drenched handkerchief and dropping it into her bag. She seemed quite recovered.
“That’s a great trick,” Benny said. “How you unfolded that hanky.”
“I secrete too much mucus. It’s disgusting,” she said. “I’ve
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