Free Boys and Girls Come Out to Play by Nigel Dennis Page B

living room and threw his arms around his mother’s waist. “Hello, honey,” said Lily in a feeble voice, patting his head and wearily drawing the belt of the bathrobe into a knot. “Max has got a boil,” said Art, looking up into her face proudly. “I know he has, Art, so don’t bother him too much, because boils hurt.” “I don’t think you have to give the child the impression that I’m at death’s door,” said Divver, looking up from the newspaper. “Come on, Artie,” said Lily, “and close the door and we’ll leave your father with his boil.”
    O.K. said Divver, holding the newspaper in front of his face. If she wants it that way she can have it that way. If she wants to get up when I want her to sleep, O.K. If she wants to be crucified, let her be crucified. She can spend her day any way she wants; I’ll not say another word. He heard from the kitchen the sound of frying bacon fat and Lily telling Art to put his own plate and own cup and own saucer on his own table and bring up his own chair. Maybe I should go in and just say something, thought Divver, feeling conscience-stricken suddenly and picturing himself putting his arm round Lily’s waist and kissing her softly. He decided that there was no good reason why he should; it was nothing but a matter of his wanting to.
    Art came, carrying a glass of orange juice at a steep angle. “Oh, thank you, Art, thank you very much,” said Divver withcourtesy, patting Art’s head. He then called loudly: “Sweetheart, you shouldn’t have bothered, really.” Lily left the kitchen and came into the bedroom. “I didn’t hear what you said,” she said: “do you want something? I’m trying to fix Art’s breakfast.” “I just said you shouldn’t have bothered, dear,” said Divver, rather impatiently. “Oh,” said Lily, and led Art back to the kitchen. “I want you to eat by yourself,” Divver soon heard her telling Art, “I’m going to eat with your father and I’ve got things I have to talk to him about.” “But it’s Saturday.” “I know it’s Saturday, but you can’t expect to have everything the same always.”
    Lily returned to the bedroom with a large tray. “I feel a louse, just lying here,” said Divver, taking his bacon and eggs. “Well, it’s silly not to eat if you can,” said Lily. “I guess I can eat, though this damn thing does hurt.” “They’re lousy things, I know,” said Lily. “Yes, they are: it’s not so much a sort of a sharp pain as the constant ache and not being able to find any position that helps.” “I remember my father getting them at least twice a year.” “I guess lots of people have them. I must be run down. I felt this coming on. I shouldn’t have stayed up talking last night. How about you?” “Well, not so hot. I somehow never seem to get my eight hours.” “Weren’t you in bed by eleven?” “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I slept. It was at least one before I dropped off, and then I had one of those nights where even though you sleep you’re not relaxed. When I woke up this morning I was just as tense as when I went to bed. Would you like a hot-water bag for your ear?” “That’s a swell idea, honey.” They kissed affectionately, but quickly, and Lily went out to the kitchen. “Are you through talking with Max?” said Art. “No,” said Lily, “I’ve only just started, so be a good boy and stay a while longer.” She returned to the bedroom and Art followed her in immediately. “I’m not going to do anything,” he said. “Well, sit on your own chair,” said Lily, “and don’t interrupt.” Art climbed on to the bed. Lily handedher husband the morning’s mail, which consisted of one letter from a press-clipping bureau.
    Divver leaned his head sideways, the hot-water bag wedged between his ear and the pillow, and opened the envelope. Inside was a half-column review, from a newspaper in Christchurch, New Zealand, of Divver’s last book, now two years old. “Not so