The Garden Party and Other Stories

he asked after her grandson. Ma Parker stood on the doormat inside the dark little hall, and she stretched out h

bby dressing-gown and carried a crumpled newspaper in one hand. But he felt awkward. He could hardly go back to the warm sitting-room without s

ir?” said old M

r. She bent her head and hobbled off to the kitchen, clasping the old fish bag that held her cleaning things a

he said aloud, helping

n to take off her boots. To take off her boots or to put them on was an agony to her, but it had been an agony for years. In fact, she was so accustomed to the pain tha

on her lap in his button boots. He’d j

e made your gran’s skirt

nd her neck and rubbed

us a penny!

u; Gran ain’t g

you

I a

‘ave. Gi

g for the old, squashe

’ll you giv

. She felt his eyelid quivering against her c

it over to the sink. The noise of the water drumming in the kettle deaden

the tea leaves now and again into a jam jar set aside for that purpose, and if he ran out of clean forks he wiped over one or two on the roller towel

ve got, get a hag in once a week

dge. She pitied the poor young gentleman for having no one to look after him. Out of the smudgy little window you could see an immense expanse of

oor. “Yes,” she thought, as the broom knocked, “what with on

leaning over the area railings, say among themselves, “She’s had a hard life, has Ma Parker.” And it was so true she wasn’t

was born in Stratford-on-Avon. Shakespeare, sir? No, people were always arsking

“Mother always ‘ad ‘er side of bacon, ‘anging from the ceiling.” And there was something — a bush, there was — at the front door, th

an. She used to snatch away her letters from home before she’d read them, and throw them in the range because they made her dreamy . . . And the beedles! Would you believe it?— until she

or’s house, and after two years there, on the run from mo

onally he laid aside his tomes and lent an ear, at least, to this pr

r didn’t l

trade,” said

didn’t loo

handing the new loa

eat deal. We had thirteen little ones and buried seven of them.

!” said the gentleman, shudderi

mption. It was flour on the lungs, the doctor told her at the time . . . Her husband sat up

ck with white powder. Breathe, my good fellow!” And Mrs. Parker never knew for certain whether she saw

he hadn’t been there more than two months when she fell down a flight of steps and hurt her spine. And for five years Ma Parker had another baby — and such a one for crying!— to look after. Then young Maudie went wrong and took her sister A

ere cleaned with a piece of potato and finished off with a piece of cork. The table

curls he had, blue eyes, and a little freckle like a diamond on one side of his nose. The trouble she and Ethel had had to rear that ch

il was laid out for dead . . . After four bottils . .

ostal order on her way to work next morning. But it was no use. Nothing made little Lennie put it on. Taking

n’s boy from t

r to the smudgy window. And a little voice, so warm, so close, it half stifled her — i

of steps, and the literary gentle

arker, I’m

good

r half-crown in the

k you

ary gentleman quickly, “you didn’t throw away

irmly, “You’ll always tell me when you throw things away — won’t you, Mrs. Parker?” And he walked off very well pleased wi

tting, the thought of little Lennie was unbearable. Why did he have to suffer so? That’s what she couldn’t understand. Why sh

dn’t get rid of. When he coughed the sweat sprang out on his head; his eyes bulged, his hands waved, and the great lump bubbled as a potato knocks in a saucepan. Bu

s little scarlet ears. But Lennie moved his head and edged away. Dreadfully offended with her he looked —

’d kept herself to herself, and never once had she been seen to cry. Never by a living soul. Not even her own children had seen Ma break down. She’d kept a proud face always. But now! Lennie gone —

d on her hat, put on her jacket and walked out of the flat like a person in a dream. She did not know what she was doing. She was li

ked like scissors; the women trod like cats. And nobody knew — nobody cared. Even if she broke down,

beginning with her first place and the cruel cook, going on to the doctor’s, and then the seven little ones, death of her husband, the children’s leaving her, and all the years of misery that led up to Lennie. Bu

a hard life, indeed! Her chin began to trembl

ch anywhere; people would come arsking her questions. She couldn’t possibly go back to the gentleman’s fl

d stay as long as she liked, not disturbing anybody, and nobody worrying her?

cy wind blew out her apron into a balloon.