After he had gone—and he went slowly, I remember, with heavy steps like an old man—she stood talking to me while I filled my hot-water bottle from the kettle on the stove. She was a great gaunt old woman—they don’t all run to fat—with a shock of grey hair and a Shakespearean manner.
‘There’s death there,’ she said. ‘You won’t see him again.’
I was sharp with her.
‘He’s all right. He’s only got a cold and he’s fed up because his girl’s married somebody else.’
She looked at me sharply with her little black eyes.
‘ “A scratch, a scratch, but marry ’tis enough,” ’ she said. ‘You won’t see him again.’
She was right. I didn’t. I never saw Lorn again. I heard about his death long afterwards from some people who were in the same bill as Louie up north when Lorn collapsed. They were nice peop
