ony to 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'd so much as untied
the laces. That over, she sat back with a sigh and softly rubbed her
knees...

"Gran! Gran!" Her little grandson stood on her lap in his button boots.
He'd 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 deadened her pain, it seemed. 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, cigarette ends. 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, "what 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, o