, eating cornflakes - her favourite food. The creaking of the
ironing board, the crackle of cornflakes and
the occasional rustle of the newspaper were the only sounds. Mark
sensed a...
Pełen opis produktu 'Ginger You're Barmy' »
When it isn't prison, it's hell - or at least that's the belief of
conscripts Jonathan Browne and Mike "Ginger" Brady. For this is the
British Army in the days of National Service.
'This novel has the ring of complete authenticity ... the
mingling of horror and farce are all brilliantly evoked'
A N wilson in the Spectator
'Vivid, funny and with a compassion made all the more moving by
the harshness of its military setting'
Selina Hastings in the Daily Telegraph
p>Frowning, Mark went into the kitchen for his customary cup
of cocoa. It was late, but Mrs Mallory was still ironing, the line
of her mouth grim and purposeful in a face that was unusually tired
and unhappy. Mr Mallory was smoking behind a newspaper, sunk in the
depths of his armchair. Patricia was at the table in her
dressing-gown, eating cornflakes - her favourite food. The creaking
of the ironing board, the crackle of cornflakes and the occasional
rustle of the newspaper were the only sounds. Mark sensed a tension
that was like static electricity in the air.
'Hallo, Pat,' he said. 'Been working late?'
Patricia pulled a face behind her mother's back. 'No she hasn't,
the more's the pity,' rapped out Mrs Mallory. 'She's been roaming
the streets, worrying the life out of her mother and father.'
'I told you I went to the pictures,' said Patricia into her
cornflakes.
'I suppose you think that your father and I have scrimped and saved
to give you children a good education so that you can waste your
time and money down at the pictures,' said Mrs Mallory, pressing
down fiercely on a handkerchief.
Patricia's spoon dropped into her bowel with a clang, and she left
the room.
Mr Mallory flipped down the top half of his newspaper.
'You shouldn't have said that.'
His wife put down her iron with a thump.
'Now don't you start. I've had quite enough.' She stopped abruptly,
remembering Mark's presence. He shuffled awkwardly towards the
door.
'Well, it's getting late. I'll be pushing off to bed I think,' he
said, glancing at the clock and his watch. 'Clare's gone already.
She was feeling tired I think. Good night, Mrs Mallory. Good night,
Mr Mallory.'
'Wait till I get you a cup of cocoa, Mark,' said Mrs Mallory.
'No thank you, really.'
'But you always have a cup of cocoa.'
'Thanks, but I don't really feel like one tonight. Thanks very
much.' And he managed to make his escape He climbed the dark,
tortuous stairs heavily. A roar of falling water as a door opened
and closed indicated that someone had just emerged from the
lavatory. He hung back in case it was Clare. But it was one of the
twins, in fluffy pyjamas, who flitted across the landing like a
moth, eyes half-shut under the electric light. He had scarcely
closed the door of his room when there was a tap on it.
'Come in,' he called in a low voice, expecting Clare and steeling
himself for a long and exhausting reconciliation. But to his
surprise, Patricia slipped into the room.