The Centre of the Green by John Bowen Read Free Book Online Page B

the wall, the Bernard Buffet lithograph over the gas fire in the living-room, the twin beds with Dunlopillo mattresses. Most of their landlord ’s own furniture had been moved downstairs to make room for theirs as they bought it. Consequently his half of the house was rather over-furnished. Not, as Penny said, that he minded at all; he was such an old sweetie, really no trouble to them. “I think he likes having us,” she would say. “He’s going to be terribly hurt, poor lamb, when we up with our traps and leave him.”
    The landlord was Albert Monney, Alfred and Betty’s father. He was a widower. His wife had died of pneumonia , following an attack of flu. Since it
was
only flu, there had been no reason for her to go to hospital, so shehad died in their big double bed, while Mr. Monney camped out on the sofa. After the funeral, Mr. Monney had thought of selling the bed, but he was used to it, and anyway it seemed wrong to sell to strangers the bed in which his wife had died. He had continued to sleep on the sofa during his period of mourning, and moved back into the bed when he left off his black. There were many times during the years that followed when Mr. Monney would wake, and feel an emptiness at his side, and he would lie in bed for a while on his back with his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling and missing his wife, until, if it were a cold night, his mind would be diverted to the need to empty his bladder, and he would get up, and pad off to the lavatory in his stockinged feet, and, returning, fall once more asleep with his arm round the pillow.
    Alfred had been eleven years old, and Betty twelve when Mrs. Monney died. At first, since there were no close kin to take them in, they had been sent to a Home, and Mr. Monney had lived alone. Then, after four years, Betty had been considered old enough to look after things, and so the family had been reunited. Mr. Monney gave up his domestic responsibilities to his daughter gladly; he had not enjoyed doing for himself. But he and Alfred didn’t get on. The Home had seemed to both children a betrayal, and although Betty grew to love her father again simply as one loves a pet—by taking care of it—Alfred had no such way of approach. He had wept when his father took him to the Home, and he had wept again when he was taken away. The Home which had taught his sister to be domestic, had taught him independence . There was no doing anything with him.
    Penny didn’t really care for Mr. Monney, old sweetie or not. She didn’t care for his teeth. Mr. Monney had given up smoking so as not to get lung cancer. He hadheard that not smoking was easier if one sucked sweets instead. Then he had discovered that he had a sweet tooth. Ordinarily he might have controlled his sweet-eating , but now he had an excuse for it. He sucked sweets for much of the day, and always had a tube of mints or gums or fruit candies in his waistcoat pocket. His teeth were rotten. Mr. Monney did not know why this was happening to him. “I’ve always brushed them night and morning,” he told Julian. “I used to have such good teeth. Never needed a plate. And now look. Old age catching up with me, eh? What do you think?”
    He would stand there, half up the stairs, half inside some door, half going in, half coming out, always on his way to somewhere else, but always ready to stop for a chat to pass the time of day. He was proud to have the Bakers for tenants. He liked to think that Penny and Julian were professional people, who gave tone to the house, tone to the street. He was not an educated man himself, but he knew the value of it. He liked a good play on the radio, but had taken against the idea of television. He read the
Daily Telegraph,
the
Sunday Times
and the
Reader’s Digest
(the Bakers took the
Daily Express
), and he found the Digest particularly valuable, because it was not only a good read in itself, but gave you something to talk about. He would never have thought of subscribing to