Jam And Roses
“Assuming that he was still at his uncle’s in Dulwich, she went upstairs to her bedroom. How empty it seemed without Jimmy; it was always his steady infant breath that gave the room its life and its welcome for her. She gravitated towards his cot, smoothing the blanket and then patting it gently, as though he were still there. Her mother had called Elsie ‘her baby’. Perhaps children, whatever their age, were always their mother’s babies. If she felt as hollow as this after Jimmy had only been go...ne a week, what anguish must her mother be feeling now. All down to the old man.
She went to the window overlooking the back garden and pulled aside the net curtain. A full, pinkish moon, riding high in an indigo sky, washed the garden with a pale blush. On the white climbing rose, a few late blooms glimmered, like fat candles. Suddenly her eye was caught by the orange glow of a match, and a face flared into life. Bertie was standing beneath the roses, trying to relight his pipe. His shadowy face, briefly defined by the flickering match, looked different.MoreLess
She went to the window overlooking the back garden and pulled aside the net curtain. A full, pinkish moon, riding high in an indigo sky, washed the garden with a pale blush. On the white climbing rose, a few late blooms glimmered, like fat candles. Suddenly her eye was caught by the orange glow of a match, and a face flared into life. Bertie was standing beneath the roses, trying to relight his pipe. His shadowy face, briefly defined by the flickering match, looked different.MoreLess
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