In the pauses of the game you waited; for the clock to strike ten, for
Catty to bring in the Bible and the Prayer-book, for the evening to end.
Old verses, old unfinished verses, coming and going.
In the long pauses of the game, when Mamma sat stone-still, hypnotised by the green and white chequers, her curved hand lifted, holding her pawn, her head quivering with indecision.
In dreams He has made you wise
With the wisdom of silence and prayer….
Coming and going, between the leap-frogging of the green figures and the white.
God, Who has blinded your eyes
With the dusk of your hair….
Brown hair, sleek and thin, brown hair that wouldn't go grey.
And the evening would go on, soundless and calm, with soft, annihilating feet, with the soft, cruel feet of oblivion.
III.
One day, when she came in, she heard the sound of the piano. The knocking of loose hammers on dead wires, the light, hacking clang of chords rolling like dead drum taps: Droom—Droom, Droom-era-room.
Alone in the dusk, Mamma was playing the Hungarian March, bowing and swaying as she played.