ourselves) slightly
tonto
girl.
I spoke to the matron at her secretarial lodgings and was serenely told by her that Ursula would ring me back at the number I left the moment her class was finished. I sat at my desk with some coffee that Damon had limped out to fetch, unable to do anything until she returned my call.
‘Hello, Ginger. Are you happy?’
‘Of course not. Have you gone out of your mind? How are you?’
‘I think I’m all right. This place is jolly mad, though. How nervy are you?’
‘Very, I think. I hope I am. I don’t want to be any more nervous than I am now. How nervy are you?’
‘Lots.’
‘It’s a thing, isn’t it.’
‘We’d better meet soon, don’t you think?’
Yes, I do think. But I’ve got no advice for you. All I’ve got to tell you is: don’t grow up, if you can possibly avoid it. Stay down there, because it’s no fun up here.
Out of habit — and out of anxiety and shame and self-dislike — I asked my foster-sister to meet me at a bus-stop on the Fulham Road. I do this to girls (or to me) because if they fail to turn up you simply hop on a bus, as if that was what you were waiting for, as if that was all you had in mind, rather than standing on an exposed and lonely corner while the streets about you go soiled and ripped and dead. She came. She jumped off a 14 on the far pavement, and, her small body canted forward intently, like a well-trained child, ran across the road. We hugged awkwardly and separated to appraise each other in the streetlight. Half-fringe, large pale eyes, her incongruously strong nose reddened in the cold, a thin but open face, without much angularity; she looked pre-pubescent — non-pubescent; I felt that if I ever slept with her (thesethoughts wriggle up) it would cause some lingering and poignant hurt that would take me my whole life to nurse. (Does she fuck? I wonder suddenly, with a nauseous lurch. Nah. She probably doesn’t know about all that yet. And I hope no one ever tells her. Oh God I miss my sister. No one ever told her either. Well, that’s something. She may have got fucked up but at least she never got fucked. I’m
glad
.)
‘Come on, you look all right,’ said Ursula. ‘For a yob.’
We went to a noisy, conservatorial hamburger place I know some 200 yards further up the Fulham Road, a place where tall, handsome trend-setters go on as if they were your friends while they give you food and take your money. It’s popular there. We joined a short queue consisting entirely of couples, denimmed men and their far more flamboyant and varied-looking women. I don’t like couples, as you know (they’re like a personal affront), but Ursula and I pretended to be one, and within five minutes we were inside and within ten had secured two seats at an unoccupied table for four. Immediately a rangy young man with toothbrush eyebrows pulled up a chair opposite. I turned to him resentfully and he met my gaze. This guy wants a fight, I thought, until he said, ‘Hi. What would you like tonight?’ and produced a yellow pad from his top pocket.
‘Oh. Just some wine, while we think. Red. A bottle.’
‘I won’t be having any,’ said Ursula.
‘So what?’ I said.
The waiter nodded grimly and sloped off.
‘I wish they wouldn’t do that,’ I said.
‘What did he do?’
‘Sat down next to us like that. He’s a waiter, isn’t he? I don’t want waiters sitting down next to me.’
‘Come on, Ginger. He looked nice. He looked intelligent too.’
‘Oh yeah? Then why’s he dealing them off the arm in a dump like this?’
‘Chippy chippy chippy,’ said Ursula.
(Do you know what ‘chippy’ means, by the way? I think I do. It means minding being poor, ugly and common. That’s what
chippy
means.)
‘You bet,’ I said.
Ursula chose this moment to take off her duffle-coat; this was a thick, studently item and I knew that its removal would diminish her personal presence by about two-thirds. From her dark flower-patterned dress
tonto
girl.
I spoke to the matron at her secretarial lodgings and was serenely told by her that Ursula would ring me back at the number I left the moment her class was finished. I sat at my desk with some coffee that Damon had limped out to fetch, unable to do anything until she returned my call.
‘Hello, Ginger. Are you happy?’
‘Of course not. Have you gone out of your mind? How are you?’
‘I think I’m all right. This place is jolly mad, though. How nervy are you?’
‘Very, I think. I hope I am. I don’t want to be any more nervous than I am now. How nervy are you?’
‘Lots.’
‘It’s a thing, isn’t it.’
‘We’d better meet soon, don’t you think?’
Yes, I do think. But I’ve got no advice for you. All I’ve got to tell you is: don’t grow up, if you can possibly avoid it. Stay down there, because it’s no fun up here.
Out of habit — and out of anxiety and shame and self-dislike — I asked my foster-sister to meet me at a bus-stop on the Fulham Road. I do this to girls (or to me) because if they fail to turn up you simply hop on a bus, as if that was what you were waiting for, as if that was all you had in mind, rather than standing on an exposed and lonely corner while the streets about you go soiled and ripped and dead. She came. She jumped off a 14 on the far pavement, and, her small body canted forward intently, like a well-trained child, ran across the road. We hugged awkwardly and separated to appraise each other in the streetlight. Half-fringe, large pale eyes, her incongruously strong nose reddened in the cold, a thin but open face, without much angularity; she looked pre-pubescent — non-pubescent; I felt that if I ever slept with her (thesethoughts wriggle up) it would cause some lingering and poignant hurt that would take me my whole life to nurse. (Does she fuck? I wonder suddenly, with a nauseous lurch. Nah. She probably doesn’t know about all that yet. And I hope no one ever tells her. Oh God I miss my sister. No one ever told her either. Well, that’s something. She may have got fucked up but at least she never got fucked. I’m
glad
.)
‘Come on, you look all right,’ said Ursula. ‘For a yob.’
We went to a noisy, conservatorial hamburger place I know some 200 yards further up the Fulham Road, a place where tall, handsome trend-setters go on as if they were your friends while they give you food and take your money. It’s popular there. We joined a short queue consisting entirely of couples, denimmed men and their far more flamboyant and varied-looking women. I don’t like couples, as you know (they’re like a personal affront), but Ursula and I pretended to be one, and within five minutes we were inside and within ten had secured two seats at an unoccupied table for four. Immediately a rangy young man with toothbrush eyebrows pulled up a chair opposite. I turned to him resentfully and he met my gaze. This guy wants a fight, I thought, until he said, ‘Hi. What would you like tonight?’ and produced a yellow pad from his top pocket.
‘Oh. Just some wine, while we think. Red. A bottle.’
‘I won’t be having any,’ said Ursula.
‘So what?’ I said.
The waiter nodded grimly and sloped off.
‘I wish they wouldn’t do that,’ I said.
‘What did he do?’
‘Sat down next to us like that. He’s a waiter, isn’t he? I don’t want waiters sitting down next to me.’
‘Come on, Ginger. He looked nice. He looked intelligent too.’
‘Oh yeah? Then why’s he dealing them off the arm in a dump like this?’
‘Chippy chippy chippy,’ said Ursula.
(Do you know what ‘chippy’ means, by the way? I think I do. It means minding being poor, ugly and common. That’s what
chippy
means.)
‘You bet,’ I said.
Ursula chose this moment to take off her duffle-coat; this was a thick, studently item and I knew that its removal would diminish her personal presence by about two-thirds. From her dark flower-patterned dress
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