Free The Brooke-Rose Omnibus by Christine Brooke-Rose Page B

wood nailed along its top edge.
    The view to the right, if it were visible from this position at the right of the window, would be of the fig-tree. The view obliquely to the left is of the corner of the porch belonging to Mrs. Hans, who has the shack next to Mrs. Ned’s. The view ahead, if a view were available, would consist of innumerable shacks in small bare gardens where nothing grows very tall. At least, that is the view from the kitchen window over the sink, which faces the South East side of the Settlement, unblocked by Mrs. Ned’s shack. If Mrs. Ned’s shack were not in the way all the innumerable other shacks to the South and South West would be visible from this window also, unless they had been removed, or destroyed, in the walking distance between the fig-tree and this window. A periscope might perhaps reveal a scene of pastoral non-habitation.
    In the walking distance to the kitchen window, the shacks are innumerable. A rectangle of light ripples on the wooden table. The wrinkled wood inside the rectangle of light seems to be flowing into the wrinkled wood outside it, which looks darker. The wrinkled wood might be thought alive. But the rectangle of light is only a refracted continuation of an oblong on the red stone floor, made by an oblique ray of winter sun filtering through the hanging beads over the doorway and turning the red stone floor into a river. Soon the gruel will be served.
    Mrs. Ned’s kitchen, through the hanging beads in the imagination, is dark. The hanging beads are mottled and make a crackling sound. Mrs. Ned is standing by the kitchen window, staring at the innumerable shacks to the South East of the Settlement. Her thin mouth is slightly ajar. She is wearing a crisp white cotton overall with short sleeves. There is otherwise no explanation for the lack of the red framework or for the Colourless mottled face, with the untidy hair growing low on the brow. The staring eyes are hazel and strike two notes of expectancy. A stethoscope might perhaps reveal that her heart beat faster on seeing him appear round the East corner of the house. The mouth is thin but wet and welcoming, though the overall looks clinical, half hiding the goitre on the neck which, however, seems larger. The two white forearms hang limply but move up to unbutton the white overall down the front as the need is wordlessly transmitted and mouth meets mouth and the groin races into function.
    Sexual intercourse takes place on the kitchen chair. It is satisfactory. The woman is on top, carrying out the necessary motions, smelling of sweat, chopped-up onions and washing-up water. The crisp white overall is wide open over greyish underwear. She is a gaunt lady and moves in jerky rhythm, head thrown back on its thick mushroom stem that swells where the goitre is laid bare. Human beings do not make love. They make agreements to enfold each other briefly. The disintegration has come together again and there is thus no need to talk. A conversation, however, occurs, for the sake of civilisation. It is of no consequence.
    – Mrs. Mgulu gave me a very special message for you. Both verbal and written, in case I forgot one of them. Where did I put it?
    – Oh, Lilly! Well, what was the verbal one?
    – You might as well have your gruel now, since you’re here. I’ll warm it up. She was sorry about the Exchange, she should have known, she said, but there is a way out, if you really do keep to odd jobs. She rang them up again, do you know she rang herself, in front of me, and spoke to the Manager or whatever he calls himself, the top man. She said, oh, but it’s all a misunderstanding, I never intended to employ him in the garden, it is simply that my head gardener does all the interviewing for jobs outside the actual house. Building? she said, oh, no, though I do want a few potting sheds put up, he would only be trundling wheelbarrows, no, how did she put it, transporting material, ladders and such, you know, assisting here and there,