FullReads

MRS. TORRANCE.
‘I am not going to break down; but–but there is a photograph of Rogie when he was very small–‘

MR. TORRANCE.
‘Go to bed!’

MRS. TORRANCE.
‘I happen–to have it in my pocket–‘

ROGER.
‘Don’t bring it out, mater.’

MRS. TORRANCE.
‘If I break down, John, it won’t be owing to the picture itself so much as because of what is written on the back.’

She produces it dolefully.

MR. TORRANCE.
‘Then don’t look at the back.’

He takes it from her.

MRS. TORRANCE.
not very hopeful of herself, ‘But I know what is written on the back, “Roger John Torrance, aged two years four months, and thirty-three pounds.”‘

MR. TORRANCE.
‘Correct.’ She weeps softly. ‘There, there, woman.’ He signs imploringly to Emma.

EMMA.
kissing him,
‘I’m going to by-by. ‘Night, mammy. ‘Night, Rog.’ She is about to offer him her cheek, then salutes instead, and rushes off, with Roger in pursuit.

MRS. TORRANCE.
‘I shall leave you together, John.’

MR. TORRANCE.
half liking it, but nervous, ‘Do you think it’s wise?’ With a groan, ‘You know what I am.’

MRS. TORRANCE.
‘Do be nice to him, dear.’ Roger’s return finds her very artful indeed, ‘I wonder where I put my glasses?’

ROGER.
‘I’ll look for them.’

MRS. TORRANCE.
‘No, I remember now. They are upstairs in such a funny place that I must go myself. Do you remember, Rogie, that I hoped they would reject you on account of your eyes?’

ROGER.
‘I suppose you couldn’t help it.’

MRS. TORRANCE.
beaming on her husband, ‘Did you believe I really meant it, John?’

MR. TORRANCE.
curious, ‘Did you, Roger?’

ROGER.
‘Of course. Didn’t you, father?’

MR. TORRANCE
. ‘No! I knew the old lady better.’

He takes her hand.

MRS. TORRANCE
, sweetly, ‘I shouldn’t have liked it, Rogie dear. I’ll tell you something. You know your brother Harry died when he was seven. To you, I suppose, it is as if he had never been. You were barely five.

ROGER
. ‘I don’t remember him, mater.’

MRS. TORRANCE.
‘No–no. But I do, Rogie. He would be twenty-one now; but though you and Emma grew up I have always gone on seeing him as just seven. Always till the war broke out. And now I see him a man of twenty-one, dressed in khaki, fighting for his country, same as you. I wouldn’t have had one of you stay at home, though I had had a dozen. That is, if it is the noble war they all say it is. I’m not clever, Rogie, I have to take it on trust. Surely they wouldn’t deceive mothers. I’ll get my glasses.’

She goes away, leaving the father and son somewhat moved. It is Mr. Torrance who speaks first, gruffly.

‘Like to change your mother, Roger?’

The answer is also gruff. ‘What do you think?’

Then silence falls. These two are very conscious of being together, without so much as the tick of a clock to help them. The father clings to his cigar, sticks his knife into it, studies the leaf, tries crossing his legs another way. The son examines the pictures on the walls as if he had never seen them before, and is all the time edging toward the door.

Mr. Torrance wets his lips; it must be now or never, ‘Not going, Roger?’

Roger counts the chairs. ‘Yes, I thought–‘

‘Won’t you–sit down and–have a chat?’

Roger is bowled over. ‘A what? You and me!’