Night by Edna O’Brien Read Free Book Online

was a brusque affair. Not very au fait with the facts of life and bred on the melodrama, I began to get a touch of morning sickness even though it was bordering on midnight. I foresaw things, amplification of the event, cudgels, the ecclesiastical intervention and opprobrium from within the bosom of the family. So I decided to make myself scarce. I took a night boat to the land across water, to get cacodemonised as Lil would say if she were on earth, and asked for an opinion.
     

I don’t know anyone who hasn’t grown up in a madhouse…
    I don’t know anyone who hasn’t grown up in amadhouse, whose catechising hasn’t been Do this, Do that, Don’t do this, Do do it, I’ll cut the tongue out of you, How bloody dare you, D’you hear? I said don’t do it, Do do it, Sing, Vocalise, Belt up, Blow your nose, Stop picking that nose, Piss, Eat your pandy, Stop making that noise, Who farted? No farting, Don’t shit, you shit you.
    Â 

Among the foe.
    Among the foe. The Brits, the painted people. A land where the king has piles. Not much resonance to it. Sportsmen, huntsmen, sportswomen abound. Fanatic at following the hunt, these ladies chasing the bushy-tailed foxes, by no means genteel, by no means porcelain, not renowned for their cornucopias. Royalty make a big to-do about meeting at galas and regattas – a king, a queen, aunts, grandaunts, sons, and daughters, nieces, nephews, blood cousins, half cousins, ladies-in-waiting, occasional people, all nicely accoutred. I see photos of them. I like to study their hair styles and try out their deportment, I am very impressed with their deportment and their low starch diets which I read of in the magazines. These I read for free. There is a resting hall where I go and where I can lounge for hours with no one to evict me. Sometimes other people – natterers – try to start up a conversation with me about their boilers or the generation gap or the foul weather, but I pretend to be a Norwegian. I like that ruse, pretending to be a captain’s daughter, a captain void of feelings, always looking through his binoculars, looking out to sea and swaying on solid land. I can even avail of a little morsel for free because in the shopproper they are always plugging a soup or a pâté or a brand of biscuit and I take my place in the queue along with all the esteemed. Then back for another read or a daydream as the case may be. The only thing that mars the full bliss of it is that I am perpetually afraid that people are going to trip over me. I have the impression that there is some valuable inside of me that’s going to get dislodged and fall out if I am crashed into. It must be my jumping jack or my gut. In the photos the royalty are always exchanging handshakes and smiling, even though it is obvious that they have only just parted at their own portals. I am always home before the rush hour. Then I sit for a while, giving thanks. From the back window I have a view of four gas chimneys and in some lights they look yellow and threaten to taper into the air. The smoke that puffs out is as ambling as clouds. The clouds here are dull and hefty. They don’t roam the way they did in Coose. There are roses, winter roses, pinpoints, high on a bed of foliage, rusted, rotting, unkempt roses, still they bloom and are hanging on. I have even considered making a pot pourri. It will be a talking point if I invite people here, but I will need a utensil, a skull or a glass bowl, or a perforated pan into which to put these petals, and sepals and achenes, and ovaries and stamens and husks and calyxes and ovules and follicles and stipules, not forgetting the merry hips, the merry haws. The guests will smell, then dip their fingers or their snouts in, make little reshuffles, say exclamatory things, that is if I do it, and if I have guests.
    I used to know hosts of people. One in particularstands out – one Maurice P. Moriarty. Moriarty and I saw many a night through,