PART Ⅰ-1
TheideareallycametomethedayIgotmynewfalseteeth.
Irememberthemwell.AtaboutaquartertoeightI’dofbedandgotintothebathroomjustioshutthekidsout.ItwasabeastlyJanuarym,withadirtyyellowish-greysky.Downbelow,outofthelittlesquareofbathroomwindow,Icouldseethetenyardsbyfiveofgrass,rivethedgerounditandabarepatthemiddle,thatwecallthebackgarden.There’sthesamebackgarden,someprivets,andsamegrass,behindeveryhouseinEllesmereRoad.Onlydifference—wheretherearenokidsthere’snobarepatthemiddle.
Iwastryingtoshavewithabluntishrazor-bladewhilethewaterranintothebath.Myfacelookedbackatmeoutofthemirror,andunderh,inatumblerofwateroleshelfoverthewashbasihthatbeloheface.ItwasthetemporarysetthatWarner,mydentist,hadgiveowearwhilethenewoneswerebeingmade.Ihaven’tsuchabadface,really.It’sohosebricky-redfacesthatgowithbutter-colouredhairandpale-blueeyes.I’venevergonegreyorbald,thankGod,andwhemyteethinIprobablydon’tlookmyage,whichisforty-five.
Makialobuyrazor-blades,Igotintothebathandstartedsoaping.Isoapedmyarms(I’vegotthosekindofpudgyarmsthatarefreckleduptotheelbow)aooktheback-brushandsoapedmyshoulder-blades,whitheordinarywayI’treach.It’sanuisathereareseveralpartsofmybodythatI’treaowadays.ThetruthisthatI’minedtobealittlebitoside.IdohatI’mlikesomethinginasideshowatafair.Myweightisn’tmuchoverfourteenstone,andlasttimeImeasuredroundmywaistitwaseitherforty-eightorforty-nine,IfetwhidI’mnotwhattheycall‘disgustingly’fat,Ihaven’tgotohosebelliesthatsaghalf-waydowntothek’smerelythatI’malittlebitbroadinthebeam,withateobebarrel-shaped.Doyouknowtheactive,heartykindoffatmahletigtypethat’sniamedFattyorTubbyandisalwaysthelifeandsouloftheparty?I’mthattype.‘Fatty’theymostlycallme.FattyBowling.GeeBowlingismyrealname.
ButatthatmomentIdidn’tfeellikethelifeandsouloftheparty.AnditstruckmethatnowadaysInearlyalwaysdohaveamorosekindoffeelingintheearlyms,althoughIsleepwellandmydigestion’sgood.Iknewwhatitwas,ofcourse—itwasthosebloodyfalseteeth.Thethingsweremaghewateriumbler,andtheyweregrinningatmeliketheteethinaskull.Itgivesyouarottenfeelingtohaveyumsmeet,asortofpinched-up,witheredfeelinglikewhenyou’vebittenintoasourapple.Besides,saywhatyouwill,falseteetharealandmark.Whenyourlastnaturaltoothgoes,thetimewhenyoukidyourselfthatyou’reaHollywoodsheik,isdefianend.AndIwasfataswellasforty-five.AsIstooduptosoapmycrutchIhadalookatmyfigure.It’sallrotaboutfatmenbeinguoseetheirfeet,butit’safactthatwhenIstanduprightIlyseethefronthalvesofmine.Nowoman,IthoughtasIworkedthesoaproundmybelly,willeverlooktwiceatmeagain,unlessshe’spaidto.NotthatatthatmomentIparticularlywantedanywomantolooktwiceatme.
ButitstruckmethatthismtherewerereasonswhyIoughttohavebeeniermood.TobeginwithIwasn’twtoday.Theoldcar,inwhichI‘cover’mydistrict(IoughttotellyouthatI’mintheinsurancebusiheFlyingSalamander.Life,fire,burglary,twins,shipwreck—everything),wastemporarilyindodthoughI’dgottolookinattheLondonofficetodropsomepapers,Iwasreallytakingthedayofftogoaewfalseteeth.Andbesides,therewasanotherbusihathadbeeninandoutofmymindforsometimepast.ThiswasthatIhadseventeenquidwhiobodyelsehadheardabout—nobodyinthefamily,thatis.Ithadhappehisinourfirm,Mellorsbyname,hadgotholdofabookcalledAstrologyappliedtoHorse-ragwhichprovedthatit’sallaquestionofinflueheplasonthecoloursthejockeyiswearing.Well,insomeraceorothertherewasamarecalledCorsair’sBride,apleteoutsider,butherjockey’screen,whichitseemedwasjustthecolourfortheplahathappeobeintheasdant.Mellors,whowasdeeplybittenwiththisastrologybusiness,uttingseveralquidonthehorseadownonhiskometodothesame.Intheend,chieflytoshuthimup,Iriskedtenbob,thoughIdoasageneralrule.SureenoughCorsair’sBridecamehomeinawalk.Ifettheexactodds,butmyshareworkedoutatseventeenquid.Byakindofinstinct—ratherqueer,andprobablyindiganotherlandmarkinmylife—Ijustquietlyputthemohebankandsaidnothingtoanybody.I’dneverdohingofthiskindbefoodhusbandandfatherwouldhavespentitonadressforHilda(that’smywife)andbootsforthekids.ButI’dbeenagoodhusbandandfatherforfifteenyearsandIwasbeginningtogetfedupwithit.
AfterI’dsoapedmyselfalloverIfeltbetterandlaydownihtothinkaboutmyseventeenquidandwhattospenditoernatives,itseemedtome,wereeitheraweek-endwithawomanordribblingitquietlyawayonoddsandendssuchascigarsanddoublewhiskies.I’djustturnedonsomemorehotwaterandwasthinkingaboutwomenandcigarswhentherewasanoiselikeaherdofbuffaloesingdowwostepsthatleadtothebathroom.Itwasthekids,ofcourse.Twokidsinahousethesizeofoursislikeaquartofbeerinapintmug.Therewasafranticstampingoutsideandthenayellofagony.
‘Dadda!Iwannaein!’
‘Well,you’t.Clearout!’
‘Butdadda!Iwannagosomewhere!’
‘Gosomewhereelse,then.Hopit.I’mhavingmybath.’
‘Dad-DA!IwannaGOSOME—WHERE!’
Nouse!Ikhedangersignal.TheW.C.isihroom—itwouldbe,ofcourse,inahouselikeours.IhookedtheplugoutofthebathandgotpartiallydryasquicklyasIcould.AsIopehedoor,littleBilly—myyou,agedseven—shotpastme,dodgingthesmackwhichIaimedathishead.ItwasonlywhenIwasnearlydressedandlookingforatiethatIdiscoveredthatmyneckwasstillsoapy.
It’sarottenthingtohaveasoapyneck.Itgivesyouadisgustingstickyfeeling,andthequeerthingisthat,howevercarefullyyouspoaway,whenyou’veoncediscoveredthatyourneckissoapyyoufeelstickyfortherestoftheday.Iwentdownstairsinabadtemperaomakemyselfdisagreeable.
Ourdining-room,liketheotherdining-roomsinEllesmereRoad,isapokylittleplace,fourteewelve,ormaybeit’stwelvebyten,andtheJapaneseoaksideboard,withthetwoemptydetersandthesilveregg-standthatHilda’smaveusforaweddi,doesn’tleavemu.OldHildawasgloomingbehieapot,inherusualstateofalarmanddismaybecausetheNewsiclehadannouhatthepriceofbutterwasgoingup,orsomething.Shehadn’tlightedthegas-fire,andthoughthewindowswereshutitwasbeastlycold.Ibentdoutamatchtothefire,breathingratherloudlythroughmynose(bendingalwaysmakesmepuffandblow)asakindofhinttoHilda.ShegavemethelittlesidelongglashealwaysgivesmewhehinksI’mdoingsomethiravagant.
Hildaisthirty-nine,andwhenIfirstknewhershelookedjustlikeahare.Soshedoesstill,butshe’sgotverythinandratherwizened,etualbrooding,worriedlookinhereyes,andwhenshe’smoreupsetthanusualshe’sgotatripinghershouldersandfoldingherarmsacrossherbreast,likeanoldgypsywomanoverherfire.She’sohosepeoplewhogettheirmainkilifeoutofforeseeingdisasters.Oydisasters,ofcourse.Asforwars,earthquakes,plagues,famines,andrevolutions,shepaysnoattentiontothem.Butterisgoingup,andthegas-billisenormous,andthekids’bootsarewearingout,andthere’sanotherinstalmeheradio—that’sHilda’slitany.ShegetswhatI’vefinallydecidedisadefinitepleasureoutofrogherselftoandfrowithherarmsacrossherbreast,andgloomingatme,‘But,Gee,it’sverySERIOUS!Idon’tknoe’regoingtoDO!Idon’tknowwherethemoney’singfrom!YoudoorealizehowseriousitIS!’andsoonandsoforth.It’sfixedfirmlyinherheadthatweshallendupintheworkhouse.ThefunnythingisthatifweeverdogettotheworkhouseHildawon’tminditaquarterasmuchasIshall,infactshe’llprobablyratherenjoythefeelingofsecurity.
Thekidsweredownstairsalready,havingwashedanddressedatlightningspeed,astheyalwaysdowhenthere’snocetokeepanyoneelseoutofthebathroom.WhenIgottothebreakfasttabletheywerehavinganargumentwhittothetuneof‘Yes,youdid!’‘No,Ididn’t!’‘Yes,youdid!’‘No,Ididn’t!’andlookedlikegoingonfortherestofthem,untilItoldthemtocheeseit.Thereareonlythetwoofthem,Billy,agedseven,andLorna,agedeleven.It’sapeculiarfeelingthatIhavetowardsthekids.AgreatdealofthetimeIhardlystickthesightofthem.Asfortheirversation,it’sjustunbearable.They’reatthatdrearybread-and-butteragewhenakid’smindrevolvesroundthingslikerulers,pencil-boxes,andwhogottopmarksinFrench.Atothertimes,especiallywhenthey’reasleep,Ihavequiteadifferentfeeling.SometimesI’vestoodovertheircots,onsummereveningswhenit’slight,andwatchedthemsleeping,withtheirroundfadtheirtow-colouredhair,severalshadeslighterthanmine,andit’sgivefeelingyoureadaboutintheBiblewhenitsaysyourbowelsyearn.AtsuchtimesIfeelthatI’mjustakindofdried-upseed-podthatdoesn’tmattertwopehatmysoleimportancehasbeentthesecreaturesintotheworldahemwhilethey’regrowing.Butthat’sonlyatmoments.Mostofthetimemyseparateexistencelooksprettyimportanttome,Ifeelthatthere’slifeintheolddogyetayofgoodtimesahead,aionofmyselfasakindoftamedairy-cowforalotofwomenandkidstochaseupanddowappealtome.
Wedidn’ttalkmuchatbreakfast.Hildawasinher‘Idon’tknoe’regoingtoDO!’mood,partlyowingtothepriceofbutterandpartlybecausetheChristmasholidayswerenearlyoverandtherewasstillfivepoundsowingontheschoolfeesforlastterm.IatemyboiledeggandspreadapieceofbreadwithGoldenarmalade.Hildawillpersistinbuyiuff.It’sfivepence-halfpennyapound,andthelabeltellsyou,inthesmallestprintthelawallows,thatittains‘acertainproportioralfruit-juice’.Thisstartedmeoff,iherirritatingwayIhavesometimes,talkingaboutralfruit-trees,wwhattheylookedlikeandwhattriestheygrewin,untilfinallyHildagotangry.It’snotthatshemindsmechippi’sonlythatinsomeobscurewayshethinksit’swickedtomakejokesaboutanythingyousavemoneyon.
Ihadalookatthepaper,buttherewasn’tmuews.DowninSpainandoverinatheyweremurderiherasusual,awoman’slegshadbeenfoundinarailwaywaiting-room,andKingZog’sweddingwaswaveringinthebalance.Finally,ataboutteno’clock,ratherearlierthanI’dintended,Istartedoutfortown.Thekidshadgooplayinthepublicgardens.Itwasabeastlyrawm.AsIsteppedoutofthefrontdooranastylittlegustofwindcaughtthesoapypatynedmademesuddehatmyclothesdidn’tfitandthatIwasstickyallover.松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
Irememberthemwell.AtaboutaquartertoeightI’dofbedandgotintothebathroomjustioshutthekidsout.ItwasabeastlyJanuarym,withadirtyyellowish-greysky.Downbelow,outofthelittlesquareofbathroomwindow,Icouldseethetenyardsbyfiveofgrass,rivethedgerounditandabarepatthemiddle,thatwecallthebackgarden.There’sthesamebackgarden,someprivets,andsamegrass,behindeveryhouseinEllesmereRoad.Onlydifference—wheretherearenokidsthere’snobarepatthemiddle.
Iwastryingtoshavewithabluntishrazor-bladewhilethewaterranintothebath.Myfacelookedbackatmeoutofthemirror,andunderh,inatumblerofwateroleshelfoverthewashbasihthatbeloheface.ItwasthetemporarysetthatWarner,mydentist,hadgiveowearwhilethenewoneswerebeingmade.Ihaven’tsuchabadface,really.It’sohosebricky-redfacesthatgowithbutter-colouredhairandpale-blueeyes.I’venevergonegreyorbald,thankGod,andwhemyteethinIprobablydon’tlookmyage,whichisforty-five.
Makialobuyrazor-blades,Igotintothebathandstartedsoaping.Isoapedmyarms(I’vegotthosekindofpudgyarmsthatarefreckleduptotheelbow)aooktheback-brushandsoapedmyshoulder-blades,whitheordinarywayI’treach.It’sanuisathereareseveralpartsofmybodythatI’treaowadays.ThetruthisthatI’minedtobealittlebitoside.IdohatI’mlikesomethinginasideshowatafair.Myweightisn’tmuchoverfourteenstone,andlasttimeImeasuredroundmywaistitwaseitherforty-eightorforty-nine,IfetwhidI’mnotwhattheycall‘disgustingly’fat,Ihaven’tgotohosebelliesthatsaghalf-waydowntothek’smerelythatI’malittlebitbroadinthebeam,withateobebarrel-shaped.Doyouknowtheactive,heartykindoffatmahletigtypethat’sniamedFattyorTubbyandisalwaysthelifeandsouloftheparty?I’mthattype.‘Fatty’theymostlycallme.FattyBowling.GeeBowlingismyrealname.
ButatthatmomentIdidn’tfeellikethelifeandsouloftheparty.AnditstruckmethatnowadaysInearlyalwaysdohaveamorosekindoffeelingintheearlyms,althoughIsleepwellandmydigestion’sgood.Iknewwhatitwas,ofcourse—itwasthosebloodyfalseteeth.Thethingsweremaghewateriumbler,andtheyweregrinningatmeliketheteethinaskull.Itgivesyouarottenfeelingtohaveyumsmeet,asortofpinched-up,witheredfeelinglikewhenyou’vebittenintoasourapple.Besides,saywhatyouwill,falseteetharealandmark.Whenyourlastnaturaltoothgoes,thetimewhenyoukidyourselfthatyou’reaHollywoodsheik,isdefianend.AndIwasfataswellasforty-five.AsIstooduptosoapmycrutchIhadalookatmyfigure.It’sallrotaboutfatmenbeinguoseetheirfeet,butit’safactthatwhenIstanduprightIlyseethefronthalvesofmine.Nowoman,IthoughtasIworkedthesoaproundmybelly,willeverlooktwiceatmeagain,unlessshe’spaidto.NotthatatthatmomentIparticularlywantedanywomantolooktwiceatme.
ButitstruckmethatthismtherewerereasonswhyIoughttohavebeeniermood.TobeginwithIwasn’twtoday.Theoldcar,inwhichI‘cover’mydistrict(IoughttotellyouthatI’mintheinsurancebusiheFlyingSalamander.Life,fire,burglary,twins,shipwreck—everything),wastemporarilyindodthoughI’dgottolookinattheLondonofficetodropsomepapers,Iwasreallytakingthedayofftogoaewfalseteeth.Andbesides,therewasanotherbusihathadbeeninandoutofmymindforsometimepast.ThiswasthatIhadseventeenquidwhiobodyelsehadheardabout—nobodyinthefamily,thatis.Ithadhappehisinourfirm,Mellorsbyname,hadgotholdofabookcalledAstrologyappliedtoHorse-ragwhichprovedthatit’sallaquestionofinflueheplasonthecoloursthejockeyiswearing.Well,insomeraceorothertherewasamarecalledCorsair’sBride,apleteoutsider,butherjockey’screen,whichitseemedwasjustthecolourfortheplahathappeobeintheasdant.Mellors,whowasdeeplybittenwiththisastrologybusiness,uttingseveralquidonthehorseadownonhiskometodothesame.Intheend,chieflytoshuthimup,Iriskedtenbob,thoughIdoasageneralrule.SureenoughCorsair’sBridecamehomeinawalk.Ifettheexactodds,butmyshareworkedoutatseventeenquid.Byakindofinstinct—ratherqueer,andprobablyindiganotherlandmarkinmylife—Ijustquietlyputthemohebankandsaidnothingtoanybody.I’dneverdohingofthiskindbefoodhusbandandfatherwouldhavespentitonadressforHilda(that’smywife)andbootsforthekids.ButI’dbeenagoodhusbandandfatherforfifteenyearsandIwasbeginningtogetfedupwithit.
AfterI’dsoapedmyselfalloverIfeltbetterandlaydownihtothinkaboutmyseventeenquidandwhattospenditoernatives,itseemedtome,wereeitheraweek-endwithawomanordribblingitquietlyawayonoddsandendssuchascigarsanddoublewhiskies.I’djustturnedonsomemorehotwaterandwasthinkingaboutwomenandcigarswhentherewasanoiselikeaherdofbuffaloesingdowwostepsthatleadtothebathroom.Itwasthekids,ofcourse.Twokidsinahousethesizeofoursislikeaquartofbeerinapintmug.Therewasafranticstampingoutsideandthenayellofagony.
‘Dadda!Iwannaein!’
‘Well,you’t.Clearout!’
‘Butdadda!Iwannagosomewhere!’
‘Gosomewhereelse,then.Hopit.I’mhavingmybath.’
‘Dad-DA!IwannaGOSOME—WHERE!’
Nouse!Ikhedangersignal.TheW.C.isihroom—itwouldbe,ofcourse,inahouselikeours.IhookedtheplugoutofthebathandgotpartiallydryasquicklyasIcould.AsIopehedoor,littleBilly—myyou,agedseven—shotpastme,dodgingthesmackwhichIaimedathishead.ItwasonlywhenIwasnearlydressedandlookingforatiethatIdiscoveredthatmyneckwasstillsoapy.
It’sarottenthingtohaveasoapyneck.Itgivesyouadisgustingstickyfeeling,andthequeerthingisthat,howevercarefullyyouspoaway,whenyou’veoncediscoveredthatyourneckissoapyyoufeelstickyfortherestoftheday.Iwentdownstairsinabadtemperaomakemyselfdisagreeable.
Ourdining-room,liketheotherdining-roomsinEllesmereRoad,isapokylittleplace,fourteewelve,ormaybeit’stwelvebyten,andtheJapaneseoaksideboard,withthetwoemptydetersandthesilveregg-standthatHilda’smaveusforaweddi,doesn’tleavemu.OldHildawasgloomingbehieapot,inherusualstateofalarmanddismaybecausetheNewsiclehadannouhatthepriceofbutterwasgoingup,orsomething.Shehadn’tlightedthegas-fire,andthoughthewindowswereshutitwasbeastlycold.Ibentdoutamatchtothefire,breathingratherloudlythroughmynose(bendingalwaysmakesmepuffandblow)asakindofhinttoHilda.ShegavemethelittlesidelongglashealwaysgivesmewhehinksI’mdoingsomethiravagant.
Hildaisthirty-nine,andwhenIfirstknewhershelookedjustlikeahare.Soshedoesstill,butshe’sgotverythinandratherwizened,etualbrooding,worriedlookinhereyes,andwhenshe’smoreupsetthanusualshe’sgotatripinghershouldersandfoldingherarmsacrossherbreast,likeanoldgypsywomanoverherfire.She’sohosepeoplewhogettheirmainkilifeoutofforeseeingdisasters.Oydisasters,ofcourse.Asforwars,earthquakes,plagues,famines,andrevolutions,shepaysnoattentiontothem.Butterisgoingup,andthegas-billisenormous,andthekids’bootsarewearingout,andthere’sanotherinstalmeheradio—that’sHilda’slitany.ShegetswhatI’vefinallydecidedisadefinitepleasureoutofrogherselftoandfrowithherarmsacrossherbreast,andgloomingatme,‘But,Gee,it’sverySERIOUS!Idon’tknoe’regoingtoDO!Idon’tknowwherethemoney’singfrom!YoudoorealizehowseriousitIS!’andsoonandsoforth.It’sfixedfirmlyinherheadthatweshallendupintheworkhouse.ThefunnythingisthatifweeverdogettotheworkhouseHildawon’tminditaquarterasmuchasIshall,infactshe’llprobablyratherenjoythefeelingofsecurity.
Thekidsweredownstairsalready,havingwashedanddressedatlightningspeed,astheyalwaysdowhenthere’snocetokeepanyoneelseoutofthebathroom.WhenIgottothebreakfasttabletheywerehavinganargumentwhittothetuneof‘Yes,youdid!’‘No,Ididn’t!’‘Yes,youdid!’‘No,Ididn’t!’andlookedlikegoingonfortherestofthem,untilItoldthemtocheeseit.Thereareonlythetwoofthem,Billy,agedseven,andLorna,agedeleven.It’sapeculiarfeelingthatIhavetowardsthekids.AgreatdealofthetimeIhardlystickthesightofthem.Asfortheirversation,it’sjustunbearable.They’reatthatdrearybread-and-butteragewhenakid’smindrevolvesroundthingslikerulers,pencil-boxes,andwhogottopmarksinFrench.Atothertimes,especiallywhenthey’reasleep,Ihavequiteadifferentfeeling.SometimesI’vestoodovertheircots,onsummereveningswhenit’slight,andwatchedthemsleeping,withtheirroundfadtheirtow-colouredhair,severalshadeslighterthanmine,andit’sgivefeelingyoureadaboutintheBiblewhenitsaysyourbowelsyearn.AtsuchtimesIfeelthatI’mjustakindofdried-upseed-podthatdoesn’tmattertwopehatmysoleimportancehasbeentthesecreaturesintotheworldahemwhilethey’regrowing.Butthat’sonlyatmoments.Mostofthetimemyseparateexistencelooksprettyimportanttome,Ifeelthatthere’slifeintheolddogyetayofgoodtimesahead,aionofmyselfasakindoftamedairy-cowforalotofwomenandkidstochaseupanddowappealtome.
Wedidn’ttalkmuchatbreakfast.Hildawasinher‘Idon’tknoe’regoingtoDO!’mood,partlyowingtothepriceofbutterandpartlybecausetheChristmasholidayswerenearlyoverandtherewasstillfivepoundsowingontheschoolfeesforlastterm.IatemyboiledeggandspreadapieceofbreadwithGoldenarmalade.Hildawillpersistinbuyiuff.It’sfivepence-halfpennyapound,andthelabeltellsyou,inthesmallestprintthelawallows,thatittains‘acertainproportioralfruit-juice’.Thisstartedmeoff,iherirritatingwayIhavesometimes,talkingaboutralfruit-trees,wwhattheylookedlikeandwhattriestheygrewin,untilfinallyHildagotangry.It’snotthatshemindsmechippi’sonlythatinsomeobscurewayshethinksit’swickedtomakejokesaboutanythingyousavemoneyon.
Ihadalookatthepaper,buttherewasn’tmuews.DowninSpainandoverinatheyweremurderiherasusual,awoman’slegshadbeenfoundinarailwaywaiting-room,andKingZog’sweddingwaswaveringinthebalance.Finally,ataboutteno’clock,ratherearlierthanI’dintended,Istartedoutfortown.Thekidshadgooplayinthepublicgardens.Itwasabeastlyrawm.AsIsteppedoutofthefrontdooranastylittlegustofwindcaughtthesoapypatynedmademesuddehatmyclothesdidn’tfitandthatIwasstickyallover.松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
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并不代表本站立场!本站亦无法严格审:Coming up for Air最新章节其版权归属。如您对Coming up for AirTXT下载持有版权方面的异议，请联系本站客服。我们将于72小时内处理。
Copyright (C) 2019 All Rights Reserved 版权所有：松语文学