Page 72 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

He would seize a handful of grapes and sawdust or three
or four American apples and thrust them generously into
his grandnephew’s hand while the shopman smiled uneas-
ily; and, on Stephen’s feigning reluctance to take them, he
would frown and say:
—Take them, sir. Do you hear me, sir? They’re good for
your bowels.
When the order list had been booked the two would go
on to the park where an old friend of Stephen’s father, Mike
Flynn, would be found seated on a bench, waiting for them.
Then would begin Stephen’s run round the park. Mike Fly-
nn would stand at the gate near the railway station, watch in
hand, while Stephen ran round the track in the style Mike
Flynn favoured, his head high lifted, his knees well lifted and
his hands held straight down by his sides. When the morn-
ing practice was over the trainer would make his comments
and sometimes illustrate them by shuffling along for a yard
or so comically in an old pair of blue canvas shoes. A small
ring of wonderstruck children and nursemaids would gath-
er to watch him and linger even when he and uncle Charles
had sat down again and were talking athletics and politics.
Though he had heard his father say that Mike Flynn had
put some of the best runners of modern times through his
hands Stephen often glanced at his trainer’s flabby stubble-
covered face, as it bent over the long stained fingers through
which he rolled his cigarette, and with pity at the mild lus-
treless blue eyes which would look up suddenly from the
task and gaze vaguely into the blue distance while the long
swollen fingers ceased their rolling and grains and fibres of

72 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man