It frightened her back for a moment into a state of almost control. Over on the mantelpiece an elephant’s trunk had begun to move.

If Elyot could see now, she felt. If Elyot. Because Elyot can see more, more than you like to feel, knowing, more than you like to admit.

Everybody laughed. It was the motor bike. Biddy told the one about the girl who lost her cami-knickers in the train.

Wally, said Mrs Standish.

She had to grope now, her words, his arm, her hand groping like a monkey’s along his sleeve.

Yeah? he frowned. What’s wrong?

Elyot mustn’t know, she said. Elyot must never.

You’re mopey, he frowned. Have another drink. Hey, Molly, give the Old Girl another gin.

Just when the party began to go, it made him mad, and nice and warm and matey, with a girl in hand, so many girls in so many hands, not that the Old Girl, gee, and a big blue bump on the side of her face.

Whatcha gone and done? he asked.

Nothing, she said. I don’t care. If only Elyot.

Am I telling this story, or aren’t I? Biddy asked.

I shall tell the story of my life, announced Mrs Standish.

We want new ones, Biddy groaned.

There is nothing new, said Mrs Standish. Or does that sound Chinese? Translated from the Chinese.

Listen, dear, Biddy said, I should just say plain Chinese.

You’re the one who drank the beer? Well, I shall tell the story of my life without standing on my head. There are a great many stories, but this is the one story, the authentic version. Even if it’s dull. Even if I’m drunk. Did, did you know, Wally, I’m drunk? You needn’t tell me because I know. I know all the answers before they’re made. Yes, even on the telephone. From sitting in a room. Have you ever sat in a room and heard your joints crack about five o’clock? Because that’s the story of my life.

Psssss! Biddy said. Throw out the body, someone, do.

Say, she’s sick, said Wally. Don’t take no notice. She ain’t well.

I’ve never been more lucid, said Mrs Standish.

Though she couldn’t pick up her voice. It lay a long way of among the crumpled sandwiches. She was the frayed end of cigarette, the greenish-yellow olive stone, these were the remains of Catherine Standish, if only they would cremate these, she felt. More desperate was the voice, that she couldn’t stop, it thrumped, it thrumped, the many stations passed by trains. And the sickness in her stomach.

I used to think, the voice groped – I used to think it would be un – unbearable to be lucid. Believe it? It was the men. They like the kind of things you say. They like to help you out. The number of hours I’ve spent listening wouldn’t fit on that clock. Oh dear, no. That was before, before anything happened. See my face? I’ll let you into a secret. That’s post-dated, she said.