Jack Cox - Dodge Rose

its been musical chairs since the war, the woman was naturally confused. with loans moving into mercantile mutual and the post office chambers turned over to the savings department never mind about the chocolate box over the road. some of these old dames are highly irregular you know, like to keep it buried in the back yard. who knows the last time she was down here.

no, no, it wasnt that she knew very well what she was about. besides she was only of the opinion of most of the board, and myself.

seven against gibson hm.

and the postmasters.

and him upstairs.

were a couple of dodos arent we. whats in the telegrams.

governor and harvey agree borrowing conditions likely to harden. not much else you couldnt tell me yourself. new york lends on heavier terms. a baleful alliance. ah yes said if we chop and change well never get anywhere. anyway said we should make it a success in the true sense of the word but prospects not good. sentimentally unfavourable attitude on the part of investors.

what does mason say.

forty or fifty million.

and ewing.

no word yet.

where are lamont and anderson.

in italy and cuba.

id recognise dads pants anywhere. hes walking into the room between the spiky palms and i can hear his voice. hullo langland, whats the news.

mason is keeping us informed of present and prospective conditions.

sometimes i feel like i am travelling back and forth in time. hi what is this.

she wanted to surprise you.

come out mite you are found. where is her girl.

there beside you.

so she is. well. he stares over the receding ripple of his chins. you come carrying your worldly goods. we had our conversation. he took the box out of my hands and got his fingers under the rim of the lid prised it off and tipped the coins out on the table, then he stood me on a chair, put the lid back on the box and returned it. he ran his hand through the little heap, letting what he had gathered clatter back through his fingers. what do you think boys.

its a start.

dad nodded and helped me off, murmured you will have to be escorted to the other side madame, quite radiant, his finger to his lips like cupid fixing on money, smoothed his moustache down and explained to me how the commonwealth bank is supposed to work.

now we have all the words. x and i do our exercises together. she is working on super hard spelling. as many ys in syzygy as in twyndyllyng. i have found a book that sometimes has a lovely picture covers one page. i n i f l o r a. i am also trying letters and numbers. 1 + 1 = 1. our little idiot, dad. dont rub so hard youll put a. apparently if i dont get them in order before christmas, zwart piet will me. otherwise i get a kitten.

yes those long summer nights sleeping with cat or monkey are already a memory. the days advance. sometimes cat sometimes monkey depends what side comes up. x also takes me for walks in the park i intuit to be opportunities for escape her iron grip alone is causing me to miss. i would know where to go. the scrub not the dunghills i think. i am not sprung from a rockcleft even. bedroch. she takes me to a place where there are lots of people, the knees of their pants shiny. the smell. mother would say, they have a smell. they are pressing in around the doorway where a poster has been glued up on the wall of atlas on the edge of a cliff. inside there is a marionette the size of a man made of beaten scraps of metal and a boy already as tall as x is waving his hands in front of it. the breast and arms were of silver! his belly and thighs of brass. his legs of iron, his feet part of iron and part of clay. none of the men holding their hats around us spoke. eyes like plates. and a stone descended! an awful cushion whizzed down on a wire and the chord around the metal mans head went slack he crashed to the floor as the brown bundle flew into the wings. someone else. it was a family outfit. applause. they clapped so long x put my bonnet on again and we left. she said it was so i would know how to make the difference later.

no ice cream. but we go to a movie maybe. i like the ones with the show at the beginning. they would go out of fashion pretty soon. i can remember actors with boot polish on their faces come trooping out with a girl in a curly blond wig and a blue sash who falls spread eagle on a spring mattress she am dead! lordy, she am gone tuh heaven! someone two seats down starts making noises in her throat and her friend says put your hanky in your mouth.

walking home along the harbour we pass fewer people like us now the weather has turned but its busy enough half the way along the waterfront and stunning to look at, especially when the wind is up and theres not a soul to be seen you have it all to yourself and the gulls skimming over the gun metal waves and you can pretend. we dont go by mrs macquaries chair anymore since that figure in a ragged coat flapped out of nowhere in front of me and i made quite a scene according to x. they should block up those caves said mr harwood.

listless, i play with the bottles on mothers dressing table. a cretonne frock lying dishevelled on the bed, her necklaces strung over the mirror post. the apartment is very quiet. just the sound of x studying or doing the laundry. nothing from the street but the occasional plea from a passing vendor, charivari for pins and needles. the body is without horizon. o the things you get up to when you are out of your head with boredom. all deeds promiscuously done at all something. pluribus unum. havent caught me yet. incredibly perhaps the vagina strikes me as an optimal hiding place. no. unum. non omnis. o manibus. x has also taken over the greater part of the cooking. i help and so tasted of the ordeal of service. pass me that bowl. take it away. pass me that tellus again. actually you can put whatever you want in the bowl shell only throw it back in your face. with x the mot dordre in the kitchen is go canzicrans. one evening she tells me to help her with the fruit cake but five minutes dont go by before she is chasing me back into the living room her hands covered in flour. blind with fear i slam into the back of mr georges chair and almost lose my raisins.

chew chick!

mr george hollers, which is not exactly out of character. x is standing panting in the doorway brushing off her hands on the apron. quelle deconfiture! mr george eyes her admiringly. she certainly has the air of an ecoliere rolled out of the rue du fouarre plutot quune eleve dhenrietta town. je perds mon italien. and what did you do when you werent reading for the sisters.

i rang the bell.

ill watch her now, thank you, said mother, and x went back to the cake.

mr george winked. a fine. what do you pastors say. uncomeatable i am sure. how is your brother the flying farm mouse. i havent seen him here for weeks.

mothers fingers fell over my hair. well. planning his escape as always.

constance is managing a nest for him in town.

its only necessary. the dear is incapable of giving any amount of attention to that sort of thing. try to figure to yourself by what means the mere idea of upholstery might hope to enter the mind of someone who doesnt think of keeping his feet on the ground longer than the next week.

my wife has the eloquence of firsthand experience. her brother is running up more than one kind of debt.

i dont want you to think hes driving me. hes selfless is the problem. he simply hasnt the presence of mind. hed give it all away had he the slightest usucapionary notion. hell worry my father into his grave.

mr george had been preparing to leave. he has a certain chic, the pilot. i find it in excellent taste. today the aeroplane is the real measure of grandeur. they lift the vanes from the old ships, alors que le leviathan ne peut pas prendre la mer. a man like that will be many things to many people, never you fear. balzac as a child was forbidden to regard himself in the mirror. he kept a dog called mouche. so long in there! i hope you are taking the little one to visit i heard him whisper to mother in the corridor. one must respect that sort of attachment at her age. her playfellow. ah childhood is an anaesthetic. only after comes the pain and the sense of loss. the old story books. when did you first realise the pages were going to yellow in your lifetime. au revoir mr rose.