She regarded the old men at the other end of the bench.
“They’re nearly skelingtons anyway,” she said. “I shouldn’t think they’d want to see another one.”
He gave in.
I HAVE TO ADMIT THAT YOU ARE RIGHT ON THAT POINT.
“Why don’t you fall to bits?”
I DON’T KNOW. I NEVER HAVE.
“I’ve seen skelingtons of birds and things and they all fall to bits.”
PERHAPS IT IS BECAUSE THEY ARE WHAT SOMETHING WAS, WHEREAS THIS IS WHAT I AM.
“The apothecary who does medicine over in Chambly’s got a skelington on a hook with all wire to hold the bones together,” said the child, with the air of one imparting information gained after diligent research.
I DON’T HAVE WIRES.
“There’s a difference between alive skelingtons and dead ones?”
YES.
“It’s a dead skelington he’s got then, is it?”
YES.
“What was inside someone?”
YES.
“Ur. Yuk.”
The child stared distantly at the landscape for a while and then said, “I’ve got new socks.”
YES?
“You can look, if you like.”
A grubby foot was extended for inspection.
WELL, WELL. FANCY THAT. NEW SOCKS.
“My mum knitted them out of sheep.”
MY WORD.
The horizon was given another inspection.
“D’you know,” she said, “d’you know…it’s Friday.”
YES.
“I found a spoon.”
Bill Door found he was waiting expectantly. He was not familiar with people who had an attention span of less than three seconds.
“You work along of Miss Flitworth’s?”