She leaned towards him and waved a skinny finger. “I ought to know,” she said, “I’ve buried ten, but they always loved the Punch . . . and that’s many a year back.”
How old was she, he wondered? He seemed, in this town, to be continually meeting people who had this quality of youth; Tony, Morelli, Punch, this old woman, they gave one the impression that they would gaily go on for ever.
“People live to a good old age here,” he said.
“Ah! it’s a wonderful town,” she said. “There’s nothing like it. . . . Many’s the things I’ve seen, the tower and I.”
“The tower!” said Maradick, looking up at its grey solemnity now flushing with the red light of the sun.
“I’ve been near it since I was a bit of a child,” she said, leaning towards him so that her beak of a nose nearly touched his cheek and her red hat towered over him. “We lived by it once, and then I moved under it. We’ve been friends, good friends, but it wants some considering.”
“What wants considering mother?” said a voice, and Maradick turned round; Punch was at his elbow. His show was packed up and leant against the wall; by his side was Toby, evidently pleased with the world in general, for every part of his body was wagging.
“Good evening, sir,” said Punch, smiling from ear to ear. “It’s a beautiful evening—the sea’s like a pome—what wants considering mother? and I think I’ll have an apple, if you don’t mind—one of your rosiest.”
She chose for him an enormous red one, which with one squeeze of the hand he broke into half. Toby cocked an ear and raised his eyes; he was soon munching for his life. “What wants considering mother?” he said again.
“Many things,” she answered him shortly, “and it’ll be tuppence, please.” Her voice rose into a shrill scream—“A-pples and O-ranges and fine ripe grapes.” She sat back in her chair and bent over her knitting, she had nothing more to say.