Page 322 - sons-and-lovers

The poem was finished; he took the bread out of the oven,
arranging the burnt loaves at the bottom of the panchion,
the good ones at the top. The desiccated loaf remained
swathed up in the scullery.
‘Mater needn’t know till morning,’ he said. ‘It won’t up-
set her so much then as at night.’
Miriam looked in the bookcase, saw what postcards and
letters he had received, saw what books were there. She took
one that had interested him. Then he turned down the gas
and they set off. He did not trouble to lock the door.
He was not home again until a quarter to eleven. His
mother was seated in the rocking-chair. Annie, with a rope
of hair hanging down her back, remained sitting on a low
stool before the fire, her elbows on her knees, gloomily. On
the table stood the offending loaf unswathed. Paul entered
rather breathless. No one spoke. His mother was reading
the little local newspaper. He took off his coat, and went to
sit down on the sofa. His mother moved curtly aside to let
him pass. No one spoke. He was very uncomfortable. For
some minutes he sat pretending to read a piece of paper he
found on the table. Then—-
‘I forgot that bread, mother,’ he said.
There was no answer from either woman.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s only twopence ha’penny. I can pay
you for that.’
Being angry, he put three pennies on the table and slid
them towards his mother. She turned away her head. Her
mouth was shut tightly.
‘Yes,’ said Annie, ‘you don’t know how badly my mother

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