Page 215 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

of the box, speckled with louse marks, and asked vaguely:
—How much is the clock fast now?
His mother straightened the battered alarm clock that
was lying on its side in the middle of the mantelpiece un-
til its dial showed a quarter to twelve and then laid it once
more on its side.
—An hour and twenty-five minutes, she said. The right
time now is twenty past ten. The dear knows you might try
to be in time for your lectures.
—Fill out the place for me to wash, said Stephen.
—Katey, fill out the place for Stephen to wash.
—Boody, fill out the place for Stephen to wash.
—I can’t, I’m going for blue. Fill it out, you, Maggy.
When the enamelled basin had been fitted into the well
of the sink and the old washing glove flung on the side of it
he allowed his mother to scrub his neck and root into the
folds of his ears and into the interstices at the wings of his
nose.
—Well, it’s a poor case, she said, when a university stu-
dent is so dirty that his mother has to wash him.
—But it gives you pleasure, said Stephen calmly.
An ear-splitting whistle was heard from upstairs and his
mother thrust a damp overall into his hands, saying:
—Dry yourself and hurry out for the love of goodness.
A second shrill whistle, prolonged angrily, brought one
of the girls to the foot of the staircase.
—Yes, father?
—Is your lazy bitch of a brother gone out yet?
—Yes, father.

215