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FreeLife of Ma Parker
Katherine Mansfield
Adapt
When the literary gentleman, whose flat old Ma Parker cleaned every Tuesday, opened the door to her that morning, he asked after her grandson.
Ma Parker stood on the doormat inside the dark little hall, and she stretched out her hand to help her gentleman shut the door before she replied. "We buried 'im yesterday, sir," she said quietly.
"Oh, dear me! I'm sorry to hear that," said the literary gentleman in a shocked tone. He was in the middle of his breakfast. He wore a very shabby dressing-gown and carried a crumpled newspaper in one hand. But he felt awkward. He could hardly go back to the warm sitting-room without saying something—something more. Then, because these people placed such importance on funerals, he said kindly, "I hope the funeral went off all right."
"Beg parding, sir?" said old Ma Parker huskily.
Poor old bird! She did look dashed. "I hope the funeral was a—a—success," he said. Ma Parker gave no answer. She bowed her head and hobbled off to the kitchen, clasping the old fish bag that held her cleaning things and an apron and a pair of felt shoes. The literary gentleman raised his eyebrows and went back to his breakfast.
"Overcome, I suppose," he said aloud, helping himself to the marmalade.
Ma Parker drew the two jetty spears out of her toque and hung it behind the door. She unhooked her worn jacket and hung that up too. Then she tied her apron and sat down to take off her boots. To take off her boots or to put them on was an agony for her, but it had been an agony for years. In fact, she was so accustomed to the pain that her face was drawn and screwed up, ready for the twinge before she had even untied the laces. Once that was over, she sat back with a sigh and gently rubbed her knees....
"Gran! Gran!" Her little grandson stood on her lap in his button boots. He had just come in from playing in the street.
"Look what a state you've made your gran's skirt into—you wicked boy!"
But he put his arms round her neck and rubbed his cheek against hers.
"Gran, gi' us a penny!" he coaxed.
"Be off with you; Gran ain't got no pennies."
"Yes, you 'ave."
"No, I ain't." "Yes, you 'ave. Gi' us one!"
Already she was feeling for the old, squashed, black leather purse.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-c4c34e48f61244f6895e2f1fdd15f4b1
# book_title: Life of Ma Parker
# chapter_id: 1-life-of-ma-parker
# chapter_title: Life of Ma Parker
# book_page: 1 / 7
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
When the literary gentleman, whose flat old Ma Parker cleaned every Tuesday, opened the door to her that morning, he asked after her grandson.
Ma Parker stood on the doormat inside the dark little hall, and she stretched out her hand to help her gentleman shut the door before she replied. "We buried 'im yesterday, sir," she said quietly.
"Oh, dear me! I'm sorry to hear that," said the literary gentleman in a shocked tone. He was in the middle of his breakfast. He wore a very shabby dressing-gown and carried a crumpled newspaper in one hand. But he felt awkward. He could hardly go back to the warm sitting-room without saying something—something more. Then, because these people placed such importance on funerals, he said kindly, "I hope the funeral went off all right."
"Beg parding, sir?" said old Ma Parker huskily.
Poor old bird! She did look dashed. "I hope the funeral was a—a—success," he said. Ma Parker gave no answer. She bowed her head and hobbled off to the kitchen, clasping the old fish bag that held her cleaning things and an apron and a pair of felt shoes. The literary gentleman raised his eyebrows and went back to his breakfast.
"Overcome, I suppose," he said aloud, helping himself to the marmalade.
Ma Parker drew the two jetty spears out of her toque and hung it behind the door. She unhooked her worn jacket and hung that up too. Then she tied her apron and sat down to take off her boots. To take off her boots or to put them on was an agony for her, but it had been an agony for years. In fact, she was so accustomed to the pain that her face was drawn and screwed up, ready for the twinge before she had even untied the laces. Once that was over, she sat back with a sigh and gently rubbed her knees....
"Gran! Gran!" Her little grandson stood on her lap in his button boots. He had just come in from playing in the street.
"Look what a state you've made your gran's skirt into—you wicked boy!"
But he put his arms round her neck and rubbed his cheek against hers.
"Gran, gi' us a penny!" he coaxed.
"Be off with you; Gran ain't got no pennies."
"Yes, you 'ave."
"No, I ain't." "Yes, you 'ave. Gi' us one!"
Already she was feeling for the old, squashed, black leather purse."Well, what'll you give your gran?"
He gave a shy little laugh and pressed closer. She felt his eyelid quivering against her cheek. "I ain't got nothing," he murmured....
The old woman sprang up, seized the iron kettle off the gas stove and took it over to the sink. The noise of the water drumming in the kettle seemed to deaden her pain. She filled the pail, too, and the washing-up bowl.
It would take a whole book to describe the state of that kitchen. During the week, the literary gentleman "did" for himself. That is to say, he emptied the tea leaves now and again into a jam jar set aside for that purpose, and if he ran out of clean forks he wiped over one or two on the roller towel. Otherwise, as he explained to his friends, his "system" was quite simple, and he couldn't understand why people made all this fuss about housekeeping.
"You simply dirty everything you've got, get a hag in once a week to clean up, and the thing's done."
The result looked like a gigantic dustbin. Even the floor was littered with toast crusts, envelopes, and cigarette butts. But Ma Parker bore him no grudge. She pitied the poor young gentleman for having no one to look after him. Out of the smudgy little window you could see an immense expanse of sad-looking sky, and whenever there were clouds they looked very worn, old clouds, frayed at the edges, with holes in them, or dark stains like tea.
While the water was heating, Ma Parker began sweeping the floor. "Yes," she thought, as the broom knocked, "with one thing and another I've had my share. I've had a hard life."
Even the neighbours said that of her. Many a time, hobbling home with her fish bag, she heard them, waiting at the corner or leaning over the area railings, say among themselves, "She's had a hard life, has Ma Parker." And it was so true that she wasn't in the least proud of it. It was just as if you were to say she lived in the basement at Number 27. A hard life!...
At sixteen she'd left Stratford and come up to London as a kitchen maid. Yes, she was born in Stratford-on-Avon. Shakespeare, sir? No, people were always asking her about him. But she'd never heard his name until she saw it on the theatres.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-c4c34e48f61244f6895e2f1fdd15f4b1
# book_title: Life of Ma Parker
# chapter_id: 1-life-of-ma-parker
# chapter_title: Life of Ma Parker
# book_page: 2 / 7
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Well, what'll you give your gran?"
He gave a shy little laugh and pressed closer. She felt his eyelid quivering against her cheek. "I ain't got nothing," he murmured....
The old woman sprang up, seized the iron kettle off the gas stove and took it over to the sink. The noise of the water drumming in the kettle seemed to deaden her pain. She filled the pail, too, and the washing-up bowl.
It would take a whole book to describe the state of that kitchen. During the week, the literary gentleman "did" for himself. That is to say, he emptied the tea leaves now and again into a jam jar set aside for that purpose, and if he ran out of clean forks he wiped over one or two on the roller towel. Otherwise, as he explained to his friends, his "system" was quite simple, and he couldn't understand why people made all this fuss about housekeeping.
"You simply dirty everything you've got, get a hag in once a week to clean up, and the thing's done."
The result looked like a gigantic dustbin. Even the floor was littered with toast crusts, envelopes, and cigarette butts. But Ma Parker bore him no grudge. She pitied the poor young gentleman for having no one to look after him. Out of the smudgy little window you could see an immense expanse of sad-looking sky, and whenever there were clouds they looked very worn, old clouds, frayed at the edges, with holes in them, or dark stains like tea.
While the water was heating, Ma Parker began sweeping the floor. "Yes," she thought, as the broom knocked, "with one thing and another I've had my share. I've had a hard life."
Even the neighbours said that of her. Many a time, hobbling home with her fish bag, she heard them, waiting at the corner or leaning over the area railings, say among themselves, "She's had a hard life, has Ma Parker." And it was so true that she wasn't in the least proud of it. It was just as if you were to say she lived in the basement at Number 27. A hard life!...
At sixteen she'd left Stratford and come up to London as a kitchen maid. Yes, she was born in Stratford-on-Avon. Shakespeare, sir? No, people were always asking her about him. But she'd never heard his name until she saw it on the theatres.Nothing remained of Stratford except that "sitting in the fireplace on an evening you could see the stars through the chimney," and "Mother always had her side of bacon hanging from the ceiling." And there was something—a bush, there was—at the front door, that smelt ever so nice. But the bush was very vague. She had only remembered it once or twice in the hospital, when she had been taken bad.
That was a dreadful place—her first place. She was never allowed out. She never went upstairs except for prayers morning and evening. It was a fair cellar. And the cook was a cruel woman.
She used to snatch away her letters from home before she had read them, and throw them into the range because they made her dreamy.... And the beedles! Would you believe it?—until she came to London she had never seen a black beedle. Here Ma always gave a little laugh, as though—not to have seen a black beedle! Well! It was as if to say you had never seen your own feet.
When that family was sold up she went as "help" to a doctor's house, and after two years there, on the run from morning till night, she married her husband. He was a baker.
"A baker, Mrs. Parker!" the literary gentleman would say. For occasionally he laid aside his tomes and lent an ear, at least, to this product called Life. "It must be rather nice to be married to a baker!"
Mrs. Parker didn't look so sure.
"Such a clean trade," said the gentleman.
Mrs. Parker didn't look convinced.
"And didn't you like handing the new loaves to the customers?"
"Well, sir," said Mrs. Parker, "I wasn't in the shop above a great deal. We had thirteen little ones and buried seven of them. If it wasn't the 'ospital it was the infirmary, you might say!"
"You might, indeed, Mrs. Parker!" said the gentleman, shuddering, and taking up his pen again.
Yes, seven had gone, and while the six were still small her husband fell ill with consumption. "It was flour on the lungs, the doctor told her at the time.... Her husband sat up in bed with his shirt pulled over his head, and the doctor's finger drew a circle on his back."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-c4c34e48f61244f6895e2f1fdd15f4b1
# book_title: Life of Ma Parker
# chapter_id: 1-life-of-ma-parker
# chapter_title: Life of Ma Parker
# book_page: 3 / 7
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Nothing remained of Stratford except that "sitting in the fireplace on an evening you could see the stars through the chimney," and "Mother always had her side of bacon hanging from the ceiling." And there was something—a bush, there was—at the front door, that smelt ever so nice. But the bush was very vague. She had only remembered it once or twice in the hospital, when she had been taken bad.
That was a dreadful place—her first place. She was never allowed out. She never went upstairs except for prayers morning and evening. It was a fair cellar. And the cook was a cruel woman.
She used to snatch away her letters from home before she had read them, and throw them into the range because they made her dreamy.... And the beedles! Would you believe it?—until she came to London she had never seen a black beedle. Here Ma always gave a little laugh, as though—not to have seen a black beedle! Well! It was as if to say you had never seen your own feet.
When that family was sold up she went as "help" to a doctor's house, and after two years there, on the run from morning till night, she married her husband. He was a baker.
"A baker, Mrs. Parker!" the literary gentleman would say. For occasionally he laid aside his tomes and lent an ear, at least, to this product called Life. "It must be rather nice to be married to a baker!"
Mrs. Parker didn't look so sure.
"Such a clean trade," said the gentleman.
Mrs. Parker didn't look convinced.
"And didn't you like handing the new loaves to the customers?"
"Well, sir," said Mrs. Parker, "I wasn't in the shop above a great deal. We had thirteen little ones and buried seven of them. If it wasn't the 'ospital it was the infirmary, you might say!"
"You might, indeed, Mrs. Parker!" said the gentleman, shuddering, and taking up his pen again.
Yes, seven had gone, and while the six were still small her husband fell ill with consumption. "It was flour on the lungs, the doctor told her at the time.... Her husband sat up in bed with his shirt pulled over his head, and the doctor's finger drew a circle on his back.""Now, if we were to cut him open here, Mrs. Parker," said the doctor, "you'd find his lungs chock-a-block with white powder. Breathe, my good fellow!" And Mrs. Parker never knew for certain whether she saw or whether she fancied she saw a great fan of white dust come out of her poor dead husband's lips....
But the struggle she'd had to bring up those six little children and keep herself to herself. Terrible it had been! Then, just when they were old enough to go to school, her husband's sister came to stay with them to help things along, and she hadn't been there more than two months when she fell down a flight of steps and hurt her spine. And for five years Ma Parker had another baby—and such a crying one!—to look after. Then young Maudie went wrong and took her sister Alice with her; the two boys emigrated, and young Jim went to India with the army, and Ethel, the youngest, married a good-for-nothing little waiter who died of ulcers the year little Lennie was born. And now little Lennie—my grandson....
The piles of dirty cups and dishes were washed and dried. The ink-black knives were cleaned with a piece of potato and finished off with a piece of cork. The table was scrubbed, and the dresser and the sink that had sardine tails swimming in it....
He had never been a strong child—never from the first. He had been one of those fair babies that everybody took for a girl.
He had silvery fair curls, blue eyes, and a little freckle like a diamond on one side of his nose. What trouble she and Ethel had to raise that child! The things they tried on him from the newspapers! Every Sunday morning Ethel would read aloud while Ma Parker did her washing.
"Dear Sir,—Just a line to let you know my little Myrtil was laid out for dead.... After four bottles... gained 8 lbs. in 9 weeks, and is still putting it on."
And then the egg-cup of ink would come off the dresser and the letter would be written, and Ma would buy a postal order on her way to work the next morning. But it was no use. Nothing made little Lennie put it on. Taking him to the cemetery, even, never gave him a colour; a nice shake-up in the bus never improved his appetite.
But he was Gran's boy from the first....
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-c4c34e48f61244f6895e2f1fdd15f4b1
# book_title: Life of Ma Parker
# chapter_id: 1-life-of-ma-parker
# chapter_title: Life of Ma Parker
# book_page: 4 / 7
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Now, if we were to cut him open _here_, Mrs. Parker," said the doctor, "you'd find his lungs chock-a-block with white powder. Breathe, my good fellow!" And Mrs. Parker never knew for certain whether she saw or whether she fancied she saw a great fan of white dust come out of her poor dead husband's lips....
But the struggle she'd had to bring up those six little children and keep herself to herself. Terrible it had been! Then, just when they were old enough to go to school, her husband's sister came to stay with them to help things along, and she hadn't been there more than two months when she fell down a flight of steps and hurt her spine. And for five years Ma Parker had another baby—and such a crying one!—to look after. Then young Maudie went wrong and took her sister Alice with her; the two boys emigrated, and young Jim went to India with the army, and Ethel, the youngest, married a good-for-nothing little waiter who died of ulcers the year little Lennie was born. And now little Lennie—my grandson....
The piles of dirty cups and dishes were washed and dried. The ink-black knives were cleaned with a piece of potato and finished off with a piece of cork. The table was scrubbed, and the dresser and the sink that had sardine tails swimming in it....
He had never been a strong child—never from the first. He had been one of those fair babies that everybody took for a girl.
He had silvery fair curls, blue eyes, and a little freckle like a diamond on one side of his nose. What trouble she and Ethel had to raise that child! The things they tried on him from the newspapers! Every Sunday morning Ethel would read aloud while Ma Parker did her washing.
"Dear Sir,—Just a line to let you know my little Myrtil was laid out for dead.... After four bottles... gained 8 lbs. in 9 weeks, _and is still putting it on_."
And then the egg-cup of ink would come off the dresser and the letter would be written, and Ma would buy a postal order on her way to work the next morning. But it was no use. Nothing made little Lennie put it on. Taking him to the cemetery, even, never gave him a colour; a nice shake-up in the bus never improved his appetite.
But he was Gran's boy from the first...."Whose boy are you?" said old Ma Parker, straightening up from the stove and going over to the smudgy window. And a little voice, so warm, so close, it half stifled her—it seemed to be in her breast under her heart—laughed out, and said, "I'm Gran's boy!"
At that moment there was a sound of steps, and the literary gentleman appeared, dressed for walking.
"Oh, Mrs. Parker, I'm going out."
"Very good, sir."
"And you'll find your half-crown in the tray of the inkstand."
"Thank you, sir."
"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Parker," said the literary gentleman quickly, "you didn't throw away any cocoa last time you were here—did you?"
"No, sir." "Very strange. I could have sworn I left a teaspoonful of cocoa in the tin." He broke off. He said softly and firmly, "You'll always tell me when you throw things away—won't you, Mrs. Parker?" And he walked off very pleased with himself, convinced, in fact, that he had shown Mrs. Parker that beneath his apparent carelessness he was as vigilant as a woman.
The door slammed. She took her brushes and cloths into the bedroom. But when she began to make the bed—smoothing, tucking, patting—the thought of little Lennie was unbearable. Why did he have to suffer so? That's what she couldn't understand. Why should a little angel child have to gasp for breath and fight for it? There was no sense in making a child suffer like that.... From Lennie's tiny chest came a sound as though something was boiling. There was a great lump of something bubbling in his chest that he couldn't get rid of. When he coughed, sweat sprang out on his head; his eyes bulged, his hands waved, and the great lump bubbled as a potato knocks in a saucepan. But what was more awful than all was when he didn't cough—he sat against the pillow and never spoke or answered, or even made as if he heard. Only he looked offended.
"It's not your poor old gran's doing it, my lovey," said old Ma Parker, patting back the damp hair from his little scarlet ears. But Lennie moved his head and edged away. Dreadfully offended with her he looked—and solemn. He bowed his head and looked at her sideways as though he couldn't have believed it of his gran.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-c4c34e48f61244f6895e2f1fdd15f4b1
# book_title: Life of Ma Parker
# chapter_id: 1-life-of-ma-parker
# chapter_title: Life of Ma Parker
# book_page: 5 / 7
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Whose boy are you?" said old Ma Parker, straightening up from the stove and going over to the smudgy window. And a little voice, so warm, so close, it half stifled her—it seemed to be in her breast under her heart—laughed out, and said, "I'm Gran's boy!"
At that moment there was a sound of steps, and the literary gentleman appeared, dressed for walking.
"Oh, Mrs. Parker, I'm going out."
"Very good, sir."
"And you'll find your half-crown in the tray of the inkstand."
"Thank you, sir."
"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Parker," said the literary gentleman quickly, "you didn't throw away any cocoa last time you were here—did you?"
"No, sir." "_Very_ strange. I could have sworn I left a teaspoonful of cocoa in the tin." He broke off. He said softly and firmly, "You'll always tell me when you throw things away—won't you, Mrs. Parker?" And he walked off very pleased with himself, convinced, in fact, that he had shown Mrs. Parker that beneath his apparent carelessness he was as vigilant as a woman.
The door slammed. She took her brushes and cloths into the bedroom. But when she began to make the bed—smoothing, tucking, patting—the thought of little Lennie was unbearable. Why did he have to suffer so? That's what she couldn't understand. Why should a little angel child have to gasp for breath and fight for it? There was no sense in making a child suffer like that.... From Lennie's tiny chest came a sound as though something was boiling. There was a great lump of something bubbling in his chest that he couldn't get rid of. When he coughed, sweat sprang out on his head; his eyes bulged, his hands waved, and the great lump bubbled as a potato knocks in a saucepan. But what was more awful than all was when he didn't cough—he sat against the pillow and never spoke or answered, or even made as if he heard. Only he looked offended.
"It's not your poor old gran's doing it, my lovey," said old Ma Parker, patting back the damp hair from his little scarlet ears. But Lennie moved his head and edged away. Dreadfully offended with her he looked—and solemn. He bowed his head and looked at her sideways as though he couldn't have believed it of his gran.But at last... Ma Parker threw the counterpane over the bed. No, she simply couldn't think about it. It was too much—she'd had too much in her life to bear. She had borne it up until now; she had kept to herself, and never once had she been seen to cry. Not by a single living soul. Not even her own children had seen Ma break down. She had kept a proud face always. But now! Lennie gone—what did she have? She had nothing. He was all she had gotten from life, and now he was taken too. Why must all this have happened to me? she wondered. "What have I done?" said old Ma Parker. "What have I done?"
As she said those words, she suddenly let her brush fall. She found herself in the kitchen.
Her misery was so terrible that she pinned on her hat, put on her jacket, and walked out of the flat like a person in a dream. She did not know what she was doing. She was like a person so dazed by the horror of what had happened that he walks away—anywhere, as though by walking away he could escape....
It was cold on the street. There was a wind like ice. People flitted by, very fast; the men walked like scissors; the women trod like cats. And nobody knew—nobody cared. Even if she broke down, if at last, after all these years, she were to cry, she would likely end up in lock-up.
But at the thought of crying, it was as though little Lennie leapt into his gran's arms. Ah, that's what she wants to do, my dove. Gran wants to cry. If only she could cry now, cry for a long time, over everything, beginning with her first place and the cruel cook, going on to the doctor's, and then the seven little ones, the death of her husband, the children leaving her, and all the years of misery that led up to Lennie. But to have a proper cry over all these things would take a long time. Still, the time for it had come. She must do it. She couldn't put it off any longer; she couldn't wait any more.... Where could she go?
"She's had a hard life, Ma Parker." Yes, a hard life, indeed! Her chin began to tremble; there was no time to lose. But where? Where?
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-c4c34e48f61244f6895e2f1fdd15f4b1
# book_title: Life of Ma Parker
# chapter_id: 1-life-of-ma-parker
# chapter_title: Life of Ma Parker
# book_page: 6 / 7
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
But at last... Ma Parker threw the counterpane over the bed. No, she simply couldn't think about it. It was too much—she'd had too much in her life to bear. She had borne it up until now; she had kept to herself, and never once had she been seen to cry. Not by a single living soul. Not even her own children had seen Ma break down. She had kept a proud face always. But now! Lennie gone—what did she have? She had nothing. He was all she had gotten from life, and now he was taken too. Why must all this have happened to me? she wondered. "What have I done?" said old Ma Parker. "What have I done?"
As she said those words, she suddenly let her brush fall. She found herself in the kitchen.
Her misery was so terrible that she pinned on her hat, put on her jacket, and walked out of the flat like a person in a dream. She did not know what she was doing. She was like a person so dazed by the horror of what had happened that he walks away—anywhere, as though by walking away he could escape....
It was cold on the street. There was a wind like ice. People flitted by, very fast; the men walked like scissors; the women trod like cats. And nobody knew—nobody cared. Even if she broke down, if at last, after all these years, she were to cry, she would likely end up in lock-up.
But at the thought of crying, it was as though little Lennie leapt into his gran's arms. Ah, that's what she wants to do, my dove. Gran wants to cry. If only she could cry now, cry for a long time, over everything, beginning with her first place and the cruel cook, going on to the doctor's, and then the seven little ones, the death of her husband, the children leaving her, and all the years of misery that led up to Lennie. But to have a proper cry over all these things would take a long time. Still, the time for it had come. She must do it. She couldn't put it off any longer; she couldn't wait any more.... Where could she go?
"She's had a hard life, Ma Parker." Yes, a hard life, indeed! Her chin began to tremble; there was no time to lose. But where? Where?She couldn't go home; Ethel was there. It would frighten Ethel out of her life. She couldn't sit on a bench anywhere; people would come asking her questions. She couldn't possibly go back to the gentleman's flat; she had no right to cry in strangers' houses. If she sat on some steps, a policeman would speak to her.
Oh, wasn't there anywhere where she could hide and keep herself to herself and stay as long as she liked, not disturbing anybody, and nobody worrying her? Wasn't there anywhere in the world where she could have her cry out—at last?
Ma Parker stood, looking up and down. The icy wind blew out her apron into a balloon.
And now it began to rain. There was nowhere.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-c4c34e48f61244f6895e2f1fdd15f4b1
# book_title: Life of Ma Parker
# chapter_id: 1-life-of-ma-parker
# chapter_title: Life of Ma Parker
# book_page: 7 / 7
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
She couldn't go home; Ethel was there. It would frighten Ethel out of her life. She couldn't sit on a bench anywhere; people would come asking her questions. She couldn't possibly go back to the gentleman's flat; she had no right to cry in strangers' houses. If she sat on some steps, a policeman would speak to her.
Oh, wasn't there anywhere where she could hide and keep herself to herself and stay as long as she liked, not disturbing anybody, and nobody worrying her? Wasn't there anywhere in the world where she could have her cry out—at last?
Ma Parker stood, looking up and down. The icy wind blew out her apron into a balloon.
And now it began to rain. There was nowhere.
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