—­She got the things, she said.

He waited till she had laid the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a snug sigh.

—­Hurry up with that tea, she said.  I’m parched.

—­The kettle is boiling, he said.

But he delayed to clear the chair:  her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen:  and lifted all in an armful on to the foot of the bed.

As he went down the kitchen stairs she called: 

—­Poldy!

—­What?

—­Scald the teapot.

On the boil sure enough:  a plume of steam from the spout.  He scalded and rinsed out the teapot and put in four full spoons of tea, tilting the kettle then to let the water flow in.  Having set it to draw he took off the kettle, crushed the pan flat on the live coals and watched the lump of butter slide and melt.  While he unwrapped the kidney the cat mewed hungrily against him.  Give her too much meat she won’t mouse.  Say they won’t eat pork.  Kosher.  Here.  He let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her and dropped the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce.  Pepper.  He sprinkled it through his fingers ringwise from the chipped eggcup.

Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page and over.  Thanks:  new tam:  Mr Coghlan:  lough Owel picnic:  young student:  Blazes Boylan’s seaside girls.

The tea was drawn.  He filled his own moustachecup, sham crown

Derby, smiling.  Silly Milly’s birthday gift.  Only five she was then.  No, wait:  four.  I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke.  Putting pieces of folded brown paper in the letterbox for her.  He smiled, pouring.

    O, Milly bloom, you are my darling. 
    You are my lookingglass from night to morning. 
    I’d rather have you without A farthing
    than Katey Keogh with her ass and garden.

Poor old professor Goodwin.  Dreadful old case.  Still he was a courteous old chap.  Oldfashioned way he used to bow Molly off the platform.  And the little mirror in his silk hat.  The night Milly brought it into the parlour.  O, look what I found in professor Goodwin’s hat!  All we laughed.  Sex breaking out even then.  Pert little piece she was.

He prodded a fork into the kidney and slapped it over:  then fitted the teapot on the tray.  Its hump bumped as he took it up.  Everything on it?  Bread and butter, four, sugar, spoon, her cream.  Yes.  He carried it upstairs, his thumb hooked in the teapot handle.

Nudging the door open with his knee he carried the tray in and set it on the chair by the bedhead.

—­What a time you were! she said.

She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on the pillow.  He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat’s udder.  The warmth of her couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance of the tea she poured.