"I saw the two faces very clearly, like faces in a crucifixion crowd who represent the painter and his friend." The Black Prince/Iris MurdochAiring cupboard door half open, revealing too much, shelves piled haphazardly with clothes, towels and other folded items, stuffed in at angles.
Heavy wood polished floor. "I think it came from a gym somewhere."
Black and white photo of a wedding, in the 60s, she half hidden behind her parents, beautifully dressed in a coat and dress, large lapels, brooch on the lapel. He in profile, holding out his hands, talking, gesturing, more handsome than any Hollywood star.
"I don't look bad, do I?" he says, a bruise on his forehead, a beard as he has not shaved or let anyone shave him.
The rugby coach from Hayle clips the skin flaking from his swollen red feet and his thick yellow nails, curving in age and diabetes.
He holds up the bottle, silently, then says. "I'd like to share this with Susan." It is 1030am. "We thought you'd forgotten us.... Never forget your roots."
"The room had the rather sinister tedium which some bedrooms have, a sort of weary banality which is a reminder of death. A dressing table can be a terrible thing." The Black Prince/Iris Murdoch
