The Lying Days by Nadine Gordimer Read Free Book Online Page A

the flowered apron stationed at the tea urn—wife of a burly shift boss called Mackie.
    I read the books my mother brought home on her adult’s ticket at the library; gentle novels of English family life and, now andthen, stray examples of the proletarian novel to which the dole in England in the thirties had given rise. “It’s about the life of the poor in England—but it won’t do her any harm if she wants to read it.”—My mother was sometimes a little uncertain about these books. “I don’t believe a girl should grow up not knowing what life is like.”
    A young man and a girl went up on a refuse heap above an ugly city and kissed. There was a drunken father who was horrible in an indefinable way—but all drunk people were horrible, I should have died of fear if … but it could not even be imagined that my father could dribble at the mouth, vomit without knowing. At the same time I read Captain Marryat, Jane Austen, and to Omar Khayyam in its soft skin-feel cover I had added Rupert Brooke. “She’s like us,” said my mother, “we’re both great readers. Of course, George likes his heavy stuff, medical books and so on—and detective stories! I don’t know how he can read them, but I’ve got to bring them home for him every week end.” A book of Churchill’s speeches and another of Smuts’ found a place on top of the special little bookcase which contained the encyclopedia; my father had bought them. The clean-cut shiny dust covers slowly softened at the edges as Anna dusted them along with the other ornaments every day.
    There was a dance, I remember, when I was about sixteen—to raise money for a special comforts-fund that the Mine had inaugurated for ex-employees now in the forces. My mother said, blushing with pleasure, the almost tearful moisture that came to her eyes when she was proud: “Daddy, this’ll mean a long dress for your daughter. …”
    My mother was completely absorbed in the making of that dress; we were up together late every night before the dance, while she sewed and fitted, and I stood on the table with my head near the heat of the light in its beaded shade, turning slowly to show how the hem fell. Then before we went to bed we sat on the kitchen table, drinking tea and talking. I had taken over the care of my mother’s fine wiry hair, red, like my own: “You can have it set at the hairdresser’s on the Thursday before—then it’ll be nice and soft for me to do up for you on Saturday.” My mother thought a moment. “But on Thursday afternoon I’ve promised to bake four-dozen sausagerolls. I don’t want to get all steamy in the kitchen after it’s been done.” “Tie it up! Why can’t you tie it up!” I stacked the cups in the sink for Anna in the morning.
    Up and down the passage, in the bathroom, snatches of our talk continued until the lights went out.
    We dressed for the dance together. My mother had surprised me with a real florist’s corsage—they called it a “spray”—pink carnations and pale blue delphinium, and it was pinned to the shoulder of my dress with its silver paper holder just showing. Every time I turned my head I could feel it brush my neck.
    I danced with Raymond Dufalette in a blue suit with his hair so oiled that it looked as if he had just come out of the sea, dripping wet. He went to boarding school and had learned to dance the previous term; he brought me thankfully back to where my mother and father sat, ready with kindly questions about how he liked school and what he was going to do when he was finished. Then I sat, my back very stiff, looking straight before me. I was afraid I was perspiring the little organdy balloon that encased the lop of each arm. I was still more afraid that my father might ask me to dance to save me.
    I remember that just as I was getting desperate, a fair boy