Read Online The Red Door by Iain Crichton Smith - Free Book Online

talk.
    ‘I come here every day,’ she said. ‘Every day. I used to be a conductress in my younger days. I remember the days when the trams had no roofs on them. People used to grab at
the branches of the trees as we went past. That was at the time of the fair, you understand. My niece now, she’s a student teacher. Wouldn’t look at the pay of a conductress. But is she
any happier, is she? Do you think they’re any happier?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Harry. ‘I suppose they’re not.’
    ‘I used to scrub floors before that,’ she said, ‘and after that, too, during the Depression. We had seven of a family. The poorest of the poor, you could say. But my niece will
take me to a hotel now, and they charge you for rubbish. I know what they do. I said to one of the waitresses, “You bring me more beef than that.” And my niece was red in the face, but
I got it. They think if they stick a piece of cardboard in the middle of the table that they can charge you double. No honesty in anybody these days. No honesty. My son, the priest, he’s as
honest as the day is long. You should see what he’s done for the boys.’
    ‘What boys?’ said Harry.
    ‘The hooligans. The juvenile delinquents. He works with them, you know. And they think the world of him. Mind you, he doesn’t get much money, but he’s happy. And that’s
the main thing, I think.’ She added, ‘Look at the poor sailors, there.’ And true enough, there they were parading up and down in pairs following the giggling girls.
    In the distance, Harry saw Sonny walking along with his stick. The fool. He should have stayed at home instead of showing that all he had been saying about his son-in-law was a lie. But no! He
saw that Sonny had stopped at a café and was talking to a little bald man and a harassed looking woman who was probably his wife. A boy with a lollipop in his hand was dancing up and down
between the two of them. So they had come to see Sonny after all. But then again, perhaps they hadn’t gone to the hotel for their dinner, perhaps they had only been to the café, for
sausages and chips, tea, and pieces of stale soggy bread. And he was glad again till he saw them going into a small green car which was parked just in front of the café. So Sonny had been
telling the truth: he felt desolated.
    ‘I was saying that priests nowadays don’t get the respect they deserve,’ said the woman, ‘nor teachers either. My niece was telling me the other day about this little boy
who spat at her. Imagine it. He just spat at her. The wee hooligan.’
    Harry got up, and, excusing himself, limped down to the shore. There was no wood to be seen, just waves coming in across wiry seaweed. A little dog panted for a ball which his master held in his
right hand.
    Harry made his way along to the café and ordered a cup of coffee. There was a play on the TV set, but he couldn’t hear a word, he could just see figures gesticulating. It seemed to
be a western, set in a sandy desert. He toyed with his coffee for a long time, and nibbled a Blue Riband when he caught the waitress looking at him. Who was she anyway? This was his town, he had
lived here much longer than she had. He felt the anger rising in him as he looked at the café owner, that greasy Italian. Why was he making money hand over hand while he, Harry, a native of
this place, was destitute? After fifteen minutes he went into the lavatory and sat down.
    ‘Good afternoon, Mr Capaldi,’ he said as he was going out, but the florid proprietor, who was engaged in composing a slider, didn’t answer: perhaps he hadn’t heard. In
the far corner the coffee machine was hammering away.
    It was now quarter to five. He walked down slowly to the pub, making his way along the crowded pavement. He bought an evening paper at the corner from a man with a green bag, and opened it out.
The headlines were still about the fire, though it mentioned the visit of the Prince to the Fleet. It now looked as if