Red Girl Rat Boy Read Online Free PDF Page A

outside the Chinese grocery, holding a turnip. “Jake, that Jennifer is in the building.”
    Clarification. Mrs. W has gone up to air out Miss N’s place, launder the lonely teatowel and undies in the wicker hamper. Saw the girl.
    “I’ve never liked that man’s looks. Trouble coming.”
    In she goes, to pay for her vegetable.
    She too sees types.
    If she met the old one?
    Scorn, first, for both. Prim proper, tough coarse. But they’d find links. Hard work, care for others, disapproval. Mrs. W used to be a crack typist.
    Looking up at Roy’s windows. That girl in his bed, bum and all. The mother alone.
    Telling should have happened then, right then. A word to the old one. To the women’s fraction leader, not that Ms. Loose Tits ever notices a cleaner’s work. To the O, even. Should, should. Telling is cleaning, but. But she was under The Sandringham’s roof, night after night. Close by.
    Wake, sense her. Once, up the carpeted stairs. Silence. Moon backlighting stained glass. The corridor still, by Roy’s. No vibrations.
    Some days later, he’s in the laundry room. Cross. Shoving sheets into the dryer.
    “Nothing but meddling old women here.”
    The couple find somewhere else. At night, the building’s different.
     
    N
     
    On Wednesday, tension coats the off-smell at the hall, tension like before a demo, or a bitter forum where everyone knows the TU coms will haul some yelling sectarian out. What though? There’s been no announcement.
    Kitchen today.
    After the big Friday suppers it’s late when the coms clean up, all are tired, the fluorescents cast distorting shadows. Mondays, bathrooms. Wednesdays: degrease. Sharp liquids force soft fats to huddle into little orbs, while hard ones slide off like scabs from counters, sinks, oven racks, shelving, baking pans, soup-kettles.
    The new spray foams go where a soapy rag can’t. Skin itches. Eyes sting. The old one reads aloud the cans’ contents, but she’s no chemist. Old cleansers are harsh too, for that matter. Over time, steel wool blurs fingerprints.
    Today the sink won’t drain. A wire hook fishes out carbonized macaroni stiff with tapioca cement. Still, water doesn’t rush down.
    Cut-off valve. Bucket. Hands and knees, j-pipe, wrench, open, scrape, but the foul blockage lacks any spoon, bottle-opener, pencil. No obvious blame.
    Back painful, twisted. The Gestetner can wait.
     
    N
     
    Work socks, cheapest at Army & Navy. Parcel in hand, out to sunshine, and on the corner a group of women. Not young, not libbers. The light’s hard on used skin, bare arms. A chocolate bar, shared. Laughter in the sun. The old one’s daughter waves her cigarette wildly in the air. More giggles, affection all round. Watching, a fellow on crutches. Once a logger? Skid row’s full of broken men. Coal dust ground down into every old miner’s cheeks, forehead, ears, into the eyelids’ red linings.
     
    N
    “Jennifer is eighteen.” the old one speaks through tight teeth. “A woman grown. Won’t listen, naturally. Little fool. As for him .” She goes on scalping potatoes.
    The big machine releases the coils of its hose.
    To run the vacuum is to be doubly invisible. From room to room the roaring goes, without a glance from coms rolling out paper table-covers, slinging cutlery, setting up chairs, lectern, lit table. Fridays aren’t as important as Sundays, but they do matter. Suppers and forums draw contacts.
    Pull the cord from one outlet, plug into another. The beast snorts up dirt.
    In the noise-gaps comrades go on talking loudly as they pin up the regular decorations, posters of screaming naked child, screaming kneeling woman, man shot dead in the ear, a president’s snarl, women holding sky.
    Talk talk. Someone surprised those two in Stanley Park. Movement in bushes.
    Not just someone. Marion. At the branch exec she made a scene.
    Jennifer wouldn’t listen to the old one, laughed at her mother. No, Marion slapped her daughter. True, both.
    Jennifer and Roy moved