coming each morning to room 604, Dynamo House at nine. She put on a little burner for coffee. She rode two hours on the train. Said it went over bridges and bridges and the salt water was covered all along the shore in ice. She told me how the workmen put boards on the train and it stopped at the middle of the bridge way out over the water and they climbed out in the wind, boards on their shoulders. And her house. Her little tiny bedroom. Wind whistled round it all the night. Heat came up in the morning with pipes creaking. And when very sad she would go down the street in the early morning along the row of empty boarding houses, grey and shuttered up and look out across the flat sea. To watch a sun red and cold coming up. Her ears would sting. Then get on the train, sit on the slippery seats, see the people get in. Same ones sometimes. Until it would get like sardines. Then climbing up out with a crowd, crossing the park by the ferry terminus and through the shadowy streets to the little world of room 604. And the grand dad clock would chime. And nine canes in the cane rack.
Now Miss Martin sits all forlorn. Her voice tired. The vein trembling across her wrist. Shaves the hair off her legs. Grey wool dress with short sleeves. She is twenty six years old. From there step down into years of waiting. For marriage. Light hair on her light skin. Her face up close, new born, all fuzz and peachy. Her lids and lashes lay down over her eyes as she thinks. Want sometimes to gather her up in my arms. Say, little girl you're safe while I hold you. And instead I ask her let's go out. Take a walk in the park.
George Smith leading Miss Martin across the lobby of Dynamo House. Past the great glass covering all the little names of firms right through the alphabet. And at S. There is George Smith, room number 604. Fourth Floor. And down the wide steps. Across the busy street. Passing the little cemetery by the church. Needle spire like a toothpick. Might have had a little plot in there had I been in time a hundred years ago.
Into the park by the barge office. Drizzling rain. Sky dark and heavy. Ferries squeezing along the greased pilings and clanging against the little metal bridge of shore. Cars start engines and off they come. Others go taking the people home to the lights across the water. And a monstrous ship passing down the river. Little circle of people on the fan tail. Two figures pointing and waving at the park. Hear the vessel's engines. Feel them on the soles of the feet, shaking the ground. Passengers1 streamers fall away and land on the water. Gay tidings in the mist.
"Miss Martin, a majestic sight."
"I'd love to go on a ship."
"Yes."
"Mr. Smith, it's letting off steam."
"Hooting bye bye. Takes you away from a lot of things."
"Mr. Smith, you say that so sadly."
"Come, Miss Martin and we'll get something to eat."
Two figures crossing the windy park. Miss Martin taking Smith's arm over the street. And inside where wieners were being turned on a hot skillet behind the steamed glass. Always wanted to have the constitution to eat these fearlessly, perhaps with a glass of orange. I know it will warm up Miss JMartin. Her ears, just showing out of her hair, tinged with red.
Mr. Smith and Miss Martin taking a table in this eatery. A cross section of humanity. One belching secretly over his decoy coffee. Two secretaries with side plates of buns they peruse. A waitress with black hair and large searchlights. Going round the restaurant straightening her hair, training her huge beams on the goggle eyed. The other waitress slipping out among the customers with a broom flashing among the legs. To scare up dust for hay fever and sprinkle debris on the cups of coffee. The chef roasting, slipping coins into an oversized trouser cuff.
And as George Smith stood at the counter to get his cups of coffee and plates of wieners in a roll, there was a hissing sound. Growing louder and louder in the coffee machine. Chromium steaming tank. Now starting to scream. Customers looking up. Counter boy deftly moving away as the sides of the tank were bulging. The quietest customer of all, huddled over a decoy cup