Sunset on the Window-Panes by Walter Macken

Author:Walter Macken [Macken, Walter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

“That’s all,” said John Willie. “ He didn’t even sign his name.”

“Poor Bart!” said Breeda. “ Poor Bart!’’

Chapter Fifteen

“ALL RIGHT, JOHN Willie,” Luke said, “you can go in to your supper.”

John Willie was glad to see him. He was hungry. He had had a hard day. It was always the same on Christmas Eve. Nobody seemed to get what they wanted until the last minute. And it was a lovely frosty evening and the moon was on the wane. He thought, I will try and trick him into it later, when I get a look at the weather. It was mainly drink now, all the grocery business was finished with. Luke was slow in the shop. It took him a long time to count up change. Some of the customers would jeer at him for it. But Luke was very stolid and painstaking and jeers went away from him like water.

“Good man, Luke,” he said. “I’m glad to see you. It will make a good frosty evening, will it?”

“It will,” said Luke, “powerful.”

“Could you wait a biteen after,” John Willie asked, “if I was to run up for a shot?”

Luke smiled.

“I will wait,” he said.

“Ah, good man,” John Willie said and went, rubbing his hands. His place was set at the table. Martha was over at the other table. She was stuffing a goose. Outside the light was not gone. In fact the descending sun was shining into the kitchen through the window. It was getting big now though. He had the time gauged nicely as he looked out at it.

“The fry is on the hob,” Martha said.

“Thanks,” he said, and went to it. The plate was resting in the pan covered by a tin lid. It steamed when he took off the lid. Chopped onions fried in butter with two eggs. Pity it’s a fast day, he thought, a rasher would go nice with that. He put the plate on the table and brought the teapot with him. The cake was cut. He buttered it thickly. “ You make bloody nice cakes, Martha,” he said.

She stopped her sniffing to look over at him. “I’m glad you like it,” she said. He looked at her. Very thin tall figure, chest flattened. There were lines, deeply embedded, by the side of her mouth. The poor bitch, John Willie thought kindly. No life. No life worth much. She was a very silent girl. She would speak when she was spoken to, but that was all. Her eyes never lit up with emotion, her lips never poured out talk that might come from her heart. She hadn’t much of a life. Unless up in the big top room with Luke. That was the life. What did they talk about? Did they talk about the fact that there was no sign of a child? If they didn’t, then he hoped they hadn’t heard the heartless talk of people, a smile caught here, a word there, or a slow wink.

“I like Christmas,” he said through his food.

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