Pure as the Lily Read Free

ah’ a bus stop. “
    “Maybe not; but neither did Robbie Burns.”
    That’s not it. Robbie Burns lived in a different age, and he had something to say. “
    “Well so have I, lad. I’ve got something to say an’ all. Listen to this.” He thrust his hand into an inner pocket of his shapeless top coat and pulled out a bundle of papers, but Alee flapped his hand backward at him, saying, “I don’t want to hear.”
    “Oh Da! Da.” Mary was tugging gently at his sleeve, her voice placating. Then she turned to her gran da
    “Go on, Granda,” she said, ‘go on,” and Peter, holding a piece of dogeared paper before him, said, “ I’m goin’ on, lass, it’ll take more than me thick-heided son to stop me. Listen this, it’s called “Value for money” “ He now tilted his chin upwards, slanted her eyes downwards and began:
    “We played ma’s and da’s Those years ago;
    Ma’s apron and skirt, Da’s shirt and old bowler.
    Round the top corner In the chimney breast We played at houses, In which the test Was Birth.
    Our Jimmy, Three years old, The bairn, New delivered into the house In the chimney breast, Yelled like any new flesh Feeling air upon its skin.
    But him, He yelled for taffie Which was his pay For playing the hairn That day.
    Now the day, he stands Shiverin’ Outside the bedroom From where he hopes His firstborn Will yell.
    No tame the day, No pay, Just sweating hell And dim surprise That from the dole queue, The gap, The Guardian’s food ticket, The corner end, The tip, The man somewhere in him not quite spent Has the vitality To earn the two bob Allowed for a baim By the Government.
    “There!” Peter nodded at his son’s back and at his granddaughter’s soft, tear-bright eyes.
    “I think it’s lovely, Granda.” There was a break in her voice. She bent in front of Peter now and, her tone loud, she said, T)a, I do, I do; I think it’s lovely, sad, but lovely. “ Her father turned slowly towards her and said heavily, “All right, all right, it’s lovely.” Since he was a very small boy Alee had listened to his father’s rhymes, and if his father had been able to keep them within the perimeter of the family he would not have minded, but his father was convinced that he was a poet, a poet of the people and, when given the opportunity, would read his efforts aloud. True, he would be able to put more into them than was in the written word because he was a bit of an actor when he got going, but as the years went on Alee found that he was more than a bit of an embarrassment, people laughed at him. And he didn’t want his father to be laughed at, he was angered by it, for at the bottom he knew that his father had something, something rare. Yet he felt that this something was a handicap, for even in the old days when there was work, he didn’t seem to be able to hold down a job. He considered that if his father had put as much effort into earning his bread as he did into his rhymes his mother would have weathered the slump for a number of years. But 2 i7
    anyway his mother had had one advantage over other people, she had learned a long time ago, as his father had just said, to stretch a penny to a shilling. There were times when he admitted to a deep feeling for his father. He did not give it the name of love, but that’s what it was; for who could help loving him, a man such as he was, a man who retained, in spite of everything, the joy of living.
    Alee now looked at Mary. Her eyes were pleading with him to be kind to his father. In a way she took after his father, she had the same kindness in her, and, like him, she was given to spurts of joy; only her joy didn’t run to poetry, thank God. He smiled inwardly and his eyes lingered on her. What would he do with his life if he hadn’t her?
    She was his one splace, his one joy. Some day she would marry and what then? Sufficient unto that day; let him enjoy her when he had her, for long or short. But from the way she was turning out he doubted