An End to Autumn by Iain Crichton Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

One morning Mrs Mallow had pointed out to her a dirty stain on her forehead and was greatly embarrassed to learn that is was in fact meant to be there as the day was Ash Wednesday. Still, the cheap green crib was not very attractive and its vulgarity slightly upset her.
    Mrs Murphy came in with two cups of tea and biscuits on a tray and sat heavily in the chair opposite her.
    “I didn’t ask you if you’d like any biscuits. Would you like any biscuits?”
    “No, no thanks,” said Mrs Mallow. “I was looking at the photographs of your sons.”
    “Yes. They turned out all right though they were little buggers when they were growing up. They were always shouting at each other and talking of nothing but football. I used to get sick of football. Nothing but football morning, noon and night. But I miss them now. The house feels empty. You find that too?”
    “I used to,” said Mrs Mallow, who was finding the tea rather sweet. “You never go to Ireland now?”
    “No. I’ve got one or two relations there but I don’t go. And anyway we lived in the back of beyond. Connemara. I don’t suppose you’ll know it? Nothing but big stones. I got out of it as soon as I could. No, the nights are long if your boys are away and you’re without a man. I go to Mass in the mornings and most of the day in the good weather I sit on the benches, after I’ve done my shopping. And I’ve got a TV though there’s nothing on it but rubbish.”
    “You’re right there,” said Mrs Mallow. “I’ve got TV but I never watch it.”
    “I’ll tell you something,” said Mrs Murphy, leaning back in her chair, “there’s nothing for us when we grow old. We just have to get through the day and that’s it. But I don’t worry about it. Don’t give in, that’s what I always say. Don’t let the buggers grind you down. Keep going, as long as you have your two legs. The people in this town are very snobbish, you know.”
    “Oh?”
    “Very snobbish. There’s the people up the hill, you know,” (Mrs Mallow thought that she probably included her own son among them) “and then there’s the people like us. We don’t mix. They’ve got their Round Tables and their Rotary Clubs and the rest of it, and they wouldn’t speak to you in the street. My son now isn’t like that though he’s a manager. And he’s been abroad too. He was in Czechoslovakia and Russia and all these places and he stayed in the big hotels there. But he’s friendly with his customers. It’s not like that here.” And she nodded her head decisively. “Would you like more tea?”
    “That was fine,” said Mrs Mallow. “I’ve had enough.”
    “There’s plenty in the pot, you know. I always use teabags because they don’t clutter up the sink. As I was saying there’s them and us. Anyway, what’s the point talking about it? I used to clean the stairs, that’s what I did for a while. I used to go to their houses, the people up the hill, and you could hear some things there, I can tell you. You’d hear them shouting at each other, and their language was terrible. It was an education. But then they’d come to the door sweet as anything and ask you how you were. They were very mean with their money though. They never gave you anything at Christmas. Have you noticed that? It’s the rich people who never give you any money. If you want help, you get it from the poor people, that’s what I always say. I’ve noticed that all my life. They hoard it all up and then they leave thousands of pounds, and what good does it do them? They get six feet of earth in the end just like everybody else. Oh, I know them.”
    Mrs Mallow realised that that was true enough. The rich never did give anybody money, you were more likely to get help from the poor, that had been her own experience and most especially when her husband had died. It was the poorer neighbours who had come to sympathise with her, not the rich people, his superiors, who had worked on the railway. She hadn’t seen