“I don’t suppose we can, but can’t I have a little luxury occasionally, with my bad health?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, and what’s more, you don’t care, you don’t mind that you make your poor old Father uncomfortable. Where would you have been without me? . . . Don’t smile, shut that smile or I’ll knock it inside out.” He is streaming with sweat, it falls in blobs on to the table. She just didn’t care, didn’t care. He’d make her care soon enough. But what was it all for?
“Any gin left for me?”
“Don’t taunt me, don’t taunt me, don’t taunt me . . . don’t . . .” and his voice rises, and his face crinkles into funny lines. She was taunting him, taunting him. Just when he felt so ill, too. He did feel ill. And these rows were so thin. Ill.
He gets up and goes to the door of his room, dragging his feet.
“Where are you going? More gin?”
“Yes, more gin. Why shouldn’t I? Just one more.”
“But aren’t you going to finish your egg?—and then there’s the nice kipper and tomato sauce.”
“I tell you I can’t eat, I’m ill,” and he pulls to the door of his room.