The Princess and the Crab

It's hot. 

A typical burning Sydney summer afternoon. 

The heat from the sun hits me on top of the head with the force of a sledge hammer and drives me into the ground. But the reflection from the pavement catches me, and stops me from going right down. 

I hang suspended like a Christmas pudding in a steaming boiler. 

The 'slap slap' of my thongs vibrates through my body and sets the brain sloshing against the skull like a half set jelly. And the heat vapour rising from my body, past my eyes, makes the buildings sway like a mirage.

Hell! I'd give anything for a drink, filled to the brim with crushed ice. Suck it hard down your throat and hold the pieces of numbing ice between your gums and your cheeks.

But it's only a couple of yards to the beach. A billion gallons of cool, briny tang; refreshingly moist.

I hurry on, forgetting the heat for a moment; guard down. Then it hits again, twice as hard. My heart flutters a bit and my head feels light and the air coming up my nostrils is suffocating.

Milk bar.

I dive in between the cool glass doors and float into a booth.

I sort of drift off in a reverie, or something... I don't come back to full consciousness immediately. I am aware that my head is slumped sideways on the back of the bench and, as I open my eyes, I can see out onto the footpath. 

Kids in shorts and girls in bikinis and old men and women carrying their age like a burden wander past. Called to by the soft, cool breeze over the hill. 

I do feel strange. 

There's a man behind the counter, probably the owner. He looks like he would prefer to be somewhere else. But he's glad to have the customers, just the same. 

The ice has completely melted in the glass and the liquid is so cold I get a pain in the temples when I drink it. I move over to the counter to get a re-fill. One more drink should set me back on my normal feet. I can walk all right. 

Back in the booth. 

I sit with my elbows on the table top and my hands cupping the glass to my lips. Sip .. Ah .. sip. My eyes are closed. Half formed images flash into my somnolent mind; as if there is a projector inside my head with a hesitant operator at the controls showing a modern, abstract, meaningless short. It’s  not hard on the eyes, only restful on the brain. Soporific. 

They don't come on strong all at once. They come steadily into full focus gradually, like a television set fading in from black. Gently rolling waves moving softly to eye level and, as they turn back their magnificent power, a hundred sailfish appear on the horizon and come dancing towards me on their tails. Delicate colours shimmering on their pearly scales. 

They dissolve to a ballet corps pirouetting and diving into swirling mists on a cool lighted field. Round and round they go, an enchanted throng. Past the farmyard animals into the milking shed where the soulful eyes of the pretty faced Jersey milkers show their realisation that life, after all, isn't such a drag. This goes on until the images lose clarity and become vague, flickering semi-thoughts.

With a shiver I come to my senses. I have been staring at a female who sits, perched on a stool, at the counter. I've been looking at her for some time but not seeing her. Like when, sometime, you find yourself staring at something as if you are in a trance. I focus my eyes and attention on her.

Her head is bent as if drinking something with a straw. Lucky straw. Her hair is a helmet of wispy golden curls. A living halo. She is built slimly on elegant lines, I can see. The first thing I notice which arouses my interest to more than casual is the vision of sculptured splendour draped by the back of her mini-skirt. Shaped from the dimpled plain to the rise in symmetrical perfection. No 'seat' this, no 'bottom' either, certainly no 'backside' or 'bum'. Never. A derriere. The best name, with its connotation of flair and style and appealing impudence. A sight which would have had Rodin calling for his chisel and grabbing his mallet. A sight which would have had Norman Lindsay's brush ecstatically flicking a canvas. A sight which would make Picasso, in a fever of remorse, throw away his square and buy a set of French curves. A display which would have started Sappho's quill quivering. And, as she moved from the stool to the edge of the counter, something which gave me a yearning ache in the chest and a lump in the throat. 

I feel a small shock of recognition, even though I know I've never set eyes on her before. I've seen this girl before. 

I watch her stand there, moving from foot to foot, and my first sexual response melts, to be replaced by stuttering, uncertain delight and tender wonder. The same sort of thing that happens when I read the 'In Memorium' column in the newspaper. I start out to mock and ridicule and, after awhile, finish up feeling a deep pity and a gentle melancholy. 

I don't have to see her face, I know it will be perfect. It couldn't be any other way. She turns to leave and I see I'm right. Fine bony face surrounded by this shining cap. 

She walks past my booth to the door directly in front of me. Suddenly she looks around and stares straight at me. Oh hell! or Heaven! It seems a shaft of light comes out of those big, blue-green eyes and lights up my mind in full knowledge. I know who this is, what this is. And I'm going to follow. It is now. Here. I've been given the ghost of a chance. 

She is through the door and gone. I feel a surge of panic and bile. I get up, rush to the counter and payout. Through the door and I come out in goosebumps, but then I see her a few yards up the street looking in a shop window. I am so relieved I startle an old lady by smiling at her. 

The girl begins to walk away and I follow. She is going in the direction of the beach. I can see her shape now in all its beautiful entirety. And, although it doesn't matter, I'm pleased to see that she is fairly narrow across the top of the thighs. Unlike my old family favourites who look as if they've just given birth to a large, flat watermelon. It's a nice touch; cream on top of the jam. 

Until now I have not realised how interesting window shopping can be, although it is not so much the shop windows themselves as the reason I am here. She likes to stop every so often and look. Not with keen interest, absentmindedly, as if she is .. ha ha ha .. No, mate. Ridiculous. 

She has stopped once again and I am standing, waiting in front of a window. I become aware of people staring at me as they go past. I look around and discover, to my mortification and acute embarrassment, I am looking fixedly at a display of women’s undergarments. I blush, a woman 'Tut tut's', and two young girls snigger behind their hands. I must have looked a bit unusual. I did look a bit queer. I notice in a reflection that my eyes have a strange gaping look about them, as if I have been looking directly into the sun. Very weird. I move off quickly. 

We are over the hill now and walking down to the velvet sand. I take a deep, shuddering gulp of air and the prickly heat rash on my shoulders stops itching as I get a close look at the tumbling green water tossing off its frothy white spray. 

She takes up a position a few yards from the water's edge. 

Spreading herself out on a towel, and propping herself up on one arm, she seriously contemplates the sea. 

This is where I get nervous. Dare I approach her? If so, how? Will I lose any chance if I move too fast? What type of girl is she? I mean, how will she react? I only know one thing. I'm going to have a go, try. 

I walk past her casually, turn, and then walk back. 

Occasionally I curl a lump of sand into the air with a flick of my foot. She must have seen me. I've walked right in front of where she is looking. But she doesn't let on, doesn't move. Not even a flicker of an eyelid. Not a change on that serene, contemplative countenance. Can't even see me! Or won't. 

Nothing ventured, etc... 

'Hello.'  No response. I edge a bit closer. I'm shaking with nervous excitement. The last time I felt like this I was fourteen and my intentions were far less honourable. 

l sit with my knees drawn up under my chin. Thank God I put put a clean shirt on this morning. I surreptitiously lick a finger and rub at a mark on her side of my knee. 

'It's marvellous here, isn't it? On a hot day? Any day I suppose... The awesome power of the sea and the refreshing breeze? Makes you glad you're an Australian... I've often thought, well, sometimes thought how wonderful it would be to own a house around here,' I gesture with my arm, 'near the water... I'm Cancer the Crab... we  have a special affinity to water... Although I sometimes have nightmares about drowning.' I look quickly at her. Stare. She still doesn't look at me. She hasn't told me to clear off, either. Hope. 

'It's still very hot, isn't it?' Oh Lord! The gilded head slowly turns toward me. Her delicate jewel like lips move. " Yes " 

But, but... I hear no word. Just an emission of sound which strikes a fever In my brain. And I swing my legs out in front of me, turn my body to the rocky outcrop at the end of the beach, and let the sight of the crashing waves lift me up to the sound of a thousand Monteverdi trumpets. I sit, suffused with a feeling of spiritual voluptuousness. I feel like weeping, but instead, I say, 'Would you like me to get you a drink, or something?' 

'Yes, thanks.' 

I start to thank her, but stop myself. 'What would you like? Coke? Milk?... ?' 

'Anything please. As long as it's cold.' 

I try not to run to the kiosk, but half way there I look back and smile. She stretches her lips in magnificent benediction and I don't run, I fly. 

I have been infatuated now for exactly two hours and thirteen minutes. I have spoken with my love, or the girl I adore, for just half that time. She calls me 'Crab'. I have never known such a depth of feeling for someone as I do now. 

To be able to be with her has become, to me, justification of my existence. To turn this afternoon's encounter into something more permanent, giving me an overwhelming importance to living. 

'I'm a bright young man in the Public Service, Taxation Department,' I answer. 'What do you do?'

'Work in a dress shop.'

Mmf. Oh well, flowers grow in shit. I don't say that out loud, of course. 

How I wish this afternoon would never end, and yet, I know that I want more than I'm experiencing. Whether she likes it, or wants it, I know I am already emotionally committed, perhaps even irrevocably. But I also know, having tasted the few crumbs from this loaf of new life that this is not sufficient. 

There must be physical, mental, total commitment on both sides. Is this me thinking like this? Me? The intolerant, superficial lover boy? I can change like this in one afternoon? It seems I can, and have.

As we sit here on the beach I watch her mouth as she talks.

Lips, teeth and tongue. Her tongue is a soft shade of pink which darts about her mouth like a cheeky lizard and contrasts with the pearly translucence of her teeth. They fascinate me, those teeth. There seems to be a light of purity and innocence and truth coming from her soul and lighting up her whole mouth. So that when she speaks I'm not so much conscious of any sound in my ears, but more a steady continual response in my heart and my... um, belly. 

'It's getting ugly, Crab.' 

I look up and see the dark, swirling clouds; ugly menacing green. The sea is flat, quiet and subdued. If it doesn't move it mightn't get hurt. Like a timid dog caught up in a street fight. 

'We might go up and have a cup of coffee?' I say, as I help gather the stuff up. She agrees and we leave the beach. I'm not yet so sure of myself that I can touch her so I walk three paces behind her right shoulder, which, really, is only fitting. 

We are in the coffee bar. We sit facing each other. She sits as I did earlier in the day, with the cup held in both hands. We have something in common and, after all, it's the little things that count. 

The Princess is talking and laughing and with each passing minute I become more enchanted. Although, I admit, I feel a little uneasy, unsure. The closer we get the bigger the doubts grow. How can A Person like this ever find me? No! I mustn't think negative thoughts. It will only undermine our relationship. For my part we have a relationship. 

'Look. How would you like to come home with me and help me paint the kitchen?' 

Son, I want to tell you... Grandma went to heaven last night. I knew what he meant and what had happened but I didn't cry until a week later. 

That's what I feel now. I know what the words mean but I don't want to comprehend the implications. The first numbing shock disappears. An invitation like that! From her! I can't bear to think she is only one of 'them'. It is not true. It can't be true I don't want it to be true.

'It's not a very big kitchen,' she says. 

I cannot help feeling a sensation down my spine as if someone is pulling, hairs and all, long strips of sticking plaster off my back. I know I will go. I know I will try to make the most of the hint implied in her invitation. As much as I try not to, I cannot prevent this excitement from bubbling up inside me. 

Of course I shall be impotent. 

She must see something in my face for she smiles an amused smile. Exquisite, queenly torturing, beautiful bitch. No! Never a bitch. She could never be that. I've let her mean something to me, and that something wasn't a bitch. I've still got that feeling. It is almost worship. That's it. But I feel I can now handle her. Always with adoring gentility, like a priceless ornament, but handle her just the same. 

Profound disappointment. I had wanted to love from afar for a little while longer. To be able to touch so soon has destroyed something very precious. Now she is a bit like other girls. She's still unique, but not absolutely.  

'It's not far, the apartment. We could walk it in ten minutes.' 

'All right!' I smile and get up. 

We go to the door and see that it is raining. We run quickly past people huddled in doorways and under shop awnings. The touch of rain hitting my face and the refreshing coolness through my shirt makes me feel bold and, with one heart throbbing siezure, I take hold of her hand and swing her along with me. 

She turns her face to me and smiles. 

I feel like stepping onto the street and waving down a bus full of people to come out into the rain and pay homage to the Princess. I don't because I know it is only the product of a mind besotted with tender and extravagant emotions. I just squeeze her hand a little tighter, careful not to injure the ivory bones. 

I don't want to say that I am a man ten feet tall, but it's true. Not only do I feel that high, I also get the impression I'm walking feet above the ground. Funny. 

'How much further?' 

'About two blocks. Not far,' she says, looking even more spectacular through the misty rain. A beacon shining its' golden light out through an unhappy fog. 

We've come to a collection of buildings. One building, actually, but you can tell that they're a collection of individual and separate apartments. She pulls me off the footpath onto a covered stairway. 

'Here we are,' she says. 

'Where's your place?' 

'There' She points and pulls me after her with the other hand. Standing in the doorway she shakes her head like a clumsy pup and droplets of water hit me in the face. 

'I'll be glad to get out of these wet clothes,' she says with a shiver. Ho-hum-de-de-dum. 

Inside the door, I stop and look around. White brick and colourful Mexican rug covered walls and polished natural wood floors. Nice. I look at the woodcuts on the wall. 

'How much do you pay for this?' I swing my arm. 

A couple of hundred a week, a few years ago. Until we bought it. That is, until Mother bought it.' Money as well. And a mother. 

'Your Mother lives here, does she?' 

'Yes. She's away on holidays now.' She looks - or she says this with an unusual tone of voice. I haven't known her long enough to be able to understand it. 

'I'm sorry I can't offer you a change of clothes. There are no men’s clothes here,' she says, as she turns a switch on the wall. 'But the fire should dry you out, OK.' She moves to a doorway, bedroom. 'There's   stuff over there,' she points to a case set into an alcove, 'if you want to make yourself a drink. I won't be long.'

'Ta.'

I drag a pouffe up to the fire and sit down. I wonder what she'll have on when she comes back in? A diaphanous negligee would be a bit too obvious. Perhaps a house coat carelessly buttoned. No, a jumpsuit with a long zipper right down the front. She'd have nothing on underneath, of course. Yes that'd be it. Fantastic.

I go to the bar and open it. There's more grog in here than I've seen in a lot of pubs. I settle for a sweet sherry. I'm sitting down again and sipping the wine in front of the fire - oil heater to be honest - when she comes in.

'Here I am!' 

I jerk my hand a bit and a drop of wine lands on my knee. Through the steam rising from my clothes I see her standing in the doorway. My heart thuds and I am filled with joyous relief, tinged momentarily with disappointment. She is dressed in a pair of old sandshoes, faded jeans, top, and on her head is a flowered shower cap.

She must see something on my face.

'Well, what did you expect?' she asks.

'Noth... To paint your kitchen... Your kitchen... to... paint it.'

I drain the wine in one mouthful and the power grabs me by the glands.

'Wha... .. Wha... What colour?' I manage to squeeze out.

White, beige and gold,' she says. 'Are you dry yet?' I nod. ' We might get started then.' 

To be fair, at this time I'm not anything. I'm still basking in the warmth of the pleasant shock I just received. 

The kitchen. It looks all right as it is, I think. Too much green, though. A lot of natural wood in here, too. Teak mostly, or some other dark sort. The paint tins are on the table. Flat, semi-gloss and enamel. 

'You've got plenty of turps, I hope?'

 'Yes' 

'I always get this stuff all over me. But I do a good job,' I say. 'I'm often criticised for doing things too slow. But I reckon if a Job's worth doing then it should be done perfectly or not at all. That's what I think.' 

'So do I,' she says with the approving look of a school Ma'am. She arranges the paper on the floor tiles. She looks very appealing like this, down on her hands and knees. Not so awe inspiring, more human. I am beginning to feel much the same way as I did back on the beach. Exalted and exultant. Surely not everyone has the opportunity to paint a Princess's flat? 

Suddenly I have a glimpse, unexpected, into the future. I can see myself sitting at this very bench eating breakfast. Not in the morning, but some indefinite time in the future. I can see her, the Princess, standing at the end of the bench pouring out a cup of tea and hear her humming a little tune. I am warmed by this vision of domestic bliss. A strange idea that it might become fact. 

'We'll start on the ceiling,' she says.

'What colour?' I'm not too sure about colour but I know her choice will be perfect, she's that sort of person. Everything she'd do would turn out just right. An habitual winner.

'White. I'll start off and you can do the other half.'

'Where's... what are you going to stand on?'

'There's a step ladder in the laundry. I'll get it.' 

She leaves the room and I take the lid off the paint  and start stirring. 

She's been painting for half an hour and, as I sit here watching, I think that even though Michelangelo would have done a better job, he certainly wouldn't have looked so good doing it.

'Hold the ladder, will you Crab?' she says. 'This next part will be tricky.'

I am standing with both hands on top of the step ladder. My face is level with her thigh. And, as she swings her body around with each sweeping movement of her arm, the outside of her leg brushes my nose. Oooh. It is like taking communion, only extremely physical.

I am careful not to move an inch but it is very hard not to, the way my blood is pounding. It seems to shake my whole body. I try to keep my mind empty, waiting, holding on... to sanity and reality. I feel sickly. 

I lift up one hand and place it, palm open, on her h-hip. It amazes me. I amaze myself. 

'So you won't fall... ' 

Surely she can feel my hand trembling? I have to consciously study my breathing to keep it steady. But even so I am forced to drag in a lungful of air to keep myself from suffocating. I try to turn it into a yawn. 

'Are you tired?' she asks. 

'No. No. Not tired. Can't wait to get on with the painting.'

'I'll nearly be finished my half.' 

I cannot help myself. I have lost control. Although the pressure on my nerves and my breathing nearly makes me swoon, I cannot stop my hand from sliding round the coarse denim. I slowly but surely fan my hand out over the firm warmth of her... 

'I-I-I'm sorry!!'

She doesn't change her expression but calmly climbs down off the ladder. She places the paint and brush carefully on the floor and with a smooth movement which holds me transfixed, spears a clenched fist straight onto my nose. It stings and my eyes brim over with tears. It is all too much for me and this time I do go down. 

I swim up through swirling mists, as they say in the best private eye stories, to see the pendant light on the ceiling turned up laughing at me with fond ridicule. I smile back. 

There is a dampness on the side of my face. Blood! I wipe it with my finger. Just a drop of paint. 

There's a cushion under my head. I look around the kitchen with fearful eyes. There she is kneeling on the floor a few feet from me with a damp cloth in her hand and an anxious expression on her face. 

'Are you all right?' she asks. 

Bravely, 'Never better. Sometimes I faint. It depends on the... ' 

She nearly dies laughing and I join in. 

'Mad!' she says. 'Do you want a cup of coffee?'

 'I wouldn't mind one thanks.' 

She gets up off the floor and comes over. 'Was it the punch?' 

'Partly,' I answer. I look at her. It must be now. Surely a punch indicates some degree of intimacy? I think I can risk it. 'I think I can... I want to... imagine I am talking objectively, will you?' She nods, purses her lips. 'Well I think... I think I might be getting strong feelings about you... Um... I think I could be developing deep affection for you.' I smile. I beseech. 

She looks down steadily at me then comes down on her knees. 'I thought... you half-wit. You're mad!' She lowers her head and kisses me lightly on the forehead. I close my eyes in gratitude. 'Don't go off again.'

 'I won't.' 

We stare at each other silently with little smiles. She must see the love that is me. I know that she hasn't the depth of feeling I have, no normal person could have, but I can see she has some; enough. We can... 

'I'll make the coffee. How do you like it? White wasn't it?' 

'I think... any... way.' 

'You're not quite with us yet, are you?' 

' Oh yes,' I say, 'with you.' She grimaces. Pure corn.

 I feel marvellous lying here flat on my back looking at the half painted ceiling and listening to the sound of the jug gurgling and the cups being rattled onto the saucers. I'm a happy man, sir. 

'Do you believe in children?' I call out. 

'Under certain circumstances. Do you want sugar?' 

'No thanks.' 

' Stay as sweet as you are, my darling.' I sing. 'We'll have to get to know each other,' she says. 

'Of course. How long do you think that'll take?' I look at her and she shrugs. 'Where's the shop you work in?' I ask. 'In town. I don't think I told you. I do... My mother owns the shop. I manage it for her.' 

'That's a bit... you don't look the typical shop girl, somehow.' 

'What does a typical shop girl look like?' she asks. 

' Oh... I don't know... Not like you. That's a fact.' 

She laughs. 

I feel a little sure of myself now. Of the situation. 

The Princess brings my coffee to me. 

'Do you want anything to eat? A few biscuits?' 

'Please.' 

She goes to a cupboard and takes out a biscuit barrel. 

'Don't eat too many. I'll cook us something when we finish painting,' she says as she puts the barrel next to me on the floor. 

'My hands... They're a bit dirty. I'd better...

 'Wait,' she says, 'I'll get you a washer.' 

She comes back and hands it to me. 

'Don't think I'm naturally servile. There's still most of the kitchen to be done yet.' 

'Pity,' I say, 'I thought it was your generous nature.' 

The next few minutes is classified as the 'Getting to know you period'. Conversation, a few laughs, a hand, mine, lingering on her arm when I get a point across, that sort of thing. Very nice. Very enjoyable. 

'I'll help you rinse these.' 

There is nothing like washing up with someone to make you come close together. That is, if you want to in the first place. It's like working enjoyably as a team, combined against a common enemy. 

'We'd better go on, ' I say, 'if we're going to finish before dark.' 

'Yes, well you finish the ceiling and I'll start over here.'

 We are painting away. 

'Have you any brothers or sisters?' I ask. 

'No. None. What about you?' 

'I'm an only child too.' 

'Just as well.' 

'Thank you, dear.' 

I'm painting away with gusto. Great flamboyant strokes of the brush. I feel a sort of peace enveloping me now. I feel at ease, secure. The old order, the complexes, has been dealt a mortal blow. It is as if I have arrived home to warmth and comfort after battling through dangerous seas. Home at last. I have the same sense of relief and rejoicing that is expressed in the old Negro spiritual, 'Free at last, Oh Lord, we're free at last.' Except my time is very much here on earth. Of the present. 

'Your father... What... ?' I ask. 

'He died... six months ago... in a car accident.' 

She speaks with the same enigmatic intonation she used when speaking of her mother's absence. I don't want to press her. I can see she is affected by the mention of it. 

'That's too bad. I'm sor... ' 

'Yes.'

I look at the job. 'We've done a fair bit, you know.'

On we go.

We've finished the ceiling.

'I'll do this wall, you can do that one,' she says. 'Try not to get any paint on the finished wood, will you?' I salute.

'What colour?'

'Here,' she says and holds out a can. 'You can rinse the brush out in the laundry.' She can see I don't know where that is. 'Through that door on your left.'

'Your wish is my desire, Madam.' She puckers her lips. Oh well, I bet Michelangelo didn't have a partner like the one I've got either.

I've been painting steadily and I've done my half section of the wall.

'You know,' she says, 'I don't think we're going to be able to finish this tonight.'

'No worry. Can't I come over tomorrow and give you the helping hand?'

'I was hoping you'd say that,' she says.

'Mmmm. I'll just do this little... It's only about a yard square.' I continue speaking. 'Of course I was thinking... you know, I think I'd better sign my name down in the corner. I mean all the great painters do it.'

'All right,' she says, 'as long as you don't make a mess.' 

'Just my initials. Where is a pencil or something?' 

'There's one of those felt tipped things in the draw over there.' 

I start to put down my first initial on the dry paint and then think better of it, instead I draw a small crab. Something personal. 

'Hey Princess, come and have a look at this.' 

' What is it?'  

'Don't be offensive, you know quite well what it is.' 

'I know what it's supposed to be,' she says, 'but it looks more like a scorpion than anything else. No,' she says laughing,' you're very talented. But all the same, I'd put a 'C' under it.' 

'You know how to wound.' But I do it. 

We pack up the paint cans and brushes and take them to the laundry. She hands me a turps-soaked rag. 

'Wipe any spots off with this, will you love? And collect all the paper and bring it in here! I'll get the meal ready.' 

We are sitting in the living room drinking a glass of wine, two glasses actually. One each. I'm not going to tell you about dinner on purpose, some things are too private, too precious, to share. 

The weather has cleared and I can see, through the cracks in the curtains, stars shining in the night sky. The Princess politely yawns. 

' Tired!' 

'Mmm.' She smiles a slow relaxed smile and holds her hand dramatically to her cheek. 'A big day.' 

'I'd better be shoving off soon, anyway.' I stand up and go over to her. 'Listen,' I say with my head bent to her ear, 'what about that photo?' 

'Oh yes. Mustn't forget that. Unforgivable. I can't disobey rule and regulation twenty one in the True Love manual. How about that one there?' She points to a cupboard type thing in the corner. 

I walk over to it to have a closer look. The framed portrait is half hidden by a bowl of flowers. I pick it up. It is a head and shoulders shot and the photographer really appreciated his subject. It's a profile in the classical style. She looks for all the world like a Grecian or Roman lady; that type of classical. Her hair looks more like the men, though. The camera had also captured the life and the vitality. 

'He didn't charge you for this, did he?'

 She laughs. 

'I won't take it now. I haven't... I might drop it.' 

We make our farewells. She says good-bye. I can't wait for the morning. 

In the morning I wake up. 

I remember the evening before and I sit up quickly, wide awake. I'm in a bus shelter. Now it all comes back to me... How I wanted to be close to the Princess and, after phoning my parents, took up residence in the nearest shelter. I'm lucky I haven't been bothered by the police. 

The problem is, Where am I going to make myself presentable? Your friendly, helpful, courteous Service Station! Of course. 

I'm on my way now. I feel a bit of a fool walking along like this, with a gallon can of petrol in my hand. The lousy mongrels. 'The facilities are only available to customers.' The prissy twit. I should have shoved his biro up his... No, such thoughts are unworthy of a man like me. I can't be angry for too long. Not on a morning like this. Especially a morning like this. 

I don't know what she'll think of my being dressed in the same clothes as when I left her. Probably be proud of me when I tell her why. Braving the terrors of the night elements to be near my beloved. The only thing is, unfortunately, it was a mild pleasant summer night. Nevertheless, it's the thought that counts. I realise I'm prattling on, but it's the nerves, you see. I mean, it's all very well to know that everything is going to continue on from the night before, but in the cold light of the morning, the way things were last night, compared to my previous way of life, seems so dreamlike, so unreal. 

There are two young boys kicking a jam tin along the deserted Sunday morning street. Dribbling and passing, dribbling and passing. One boy gives the tin a hefty boot and dances about singing out, 'Goal! Goal!' 

'Well done, Johnny Warren,' I call out. They look over at me and grin. 

'I'm Abonyi,' the one who shouted says, ' he's Warren.' And they turn the corner, clattering the tin in front of them. Ahhh, the innocent pleasures of childish, careless youth. That's all behind me, now. I'm not sorry, just feel a little wistful. Definitely not sorry or regretful. 

'There could never be, a portrait of my love, for miracles are never seen, da dum, dum, dum...'  The words of an old song run through my mind. 

I'm moving on. 

I feel a strange, groundless fear coming in me, the closer I get to her apartment. It's ridiculous, I know, but I can't help it. I move even faster. I'm getting closer. I hum a tuneless, uneasy, nonsense song, 'Tell me where you were this morning, my love, when the milkos played their happy song. As sure as there're birds up above, I want to be where you... belong! Singing fey derry, derry fey derry derry do, singing fey derry derry derry do, do, do, do. I'm bound for my truelove's arms.' 

The houses look familiar... we're close. I drop the can of petrol. 'Get out of it! 'It's a dog running at me. I sidestep from the pavement onto the covered steps. 'Oh, mate!' I'm nearly bringing my heart up. I'm breathing like a marathon runner. Nerves. Terrible nerves. But there's nothing to be nervous about. 'For Christ's sake... sorry Lord. Don't bring any calamity down on my head. I didn't mean anything by it. You know how it is, sometimes you say things. 

Stress. Not now, not yet. All I want is peace of mind .. 'True light and everlasting Joy' .. Amen .. The stairway seems miles long. Hup two three, hup two three. Up we go... keep on keeping on. Huh! Paint. The smell of. I can smell paint coming through the door. It's shut. Why wouldn't it be? I put the dented can of petrol down on the floor. Tuck your shirt in, hair's OK, sure. I'm beginning to calm down a little now. Calmer. Well, I mean, nothing to be straining about is there? No, of course not. I'm surer, of myself and the night before. the delicious heat comes back, a portion, a potion, to my soul. I am going to knock on the door.

First tap. Hesitant, unsure. Tap, tap, more confident. 

Bang, bang. Open up my love. I have arrived. The door opens. 

'Yes? What is it' A face at the door. Not my face. The face I'm looking for. She's older for a start. The same coloured hair, though. blonde, slightly fuzzy. 

She has a similar look about her. A relative, perhaps. Her mother! Obviously. 

'Hello, I'm looking for ---. Would you tell her I'm here please? She's expecting me.' 

She looks straight ahead at me as if I'm talking in a foreign language. Strange woman. Try again. 

'You are Mrs ---.?' (For the protection of the innocent and the fool I am not using real names.) 

'Yes,' she answers. 'Wha..?' 

' You're home then. Princess said you were away. Where is she? Still in bed?' I laugh. 'Wou... Tell her Crab is here, will you please?' 

'I don't know what you're talking about. It's early. I might still be half asleep, but I don't know what...' 

'I told her I'd come back this morning and here I am. Always keep a promise.' Ha, ha. I know what she's doing. The Princess told her to have a joke on me. Ha, ha. 'Righto. I've been bamboozled. Tell her it was successful. Where is she? I'll give her joke.' 

She looks at me steadily, 'You're quite mad, aren't you? You've got the name right, somehow, but I've lived here on my own for the last six months. Now what are you playing at?'

'But...'

'For the last six months...' 

'But...'

'On my own...'

'But Mrs --- this is...  I came... the joke... you're not... tell her... ' 

But it doesn't feel like a joke. 

Not inside me, not from the expression on her face or the tone of her voice. I don't like it. Calm. Keep calm. 'You're the one who's joking?' 

'My dear boy, I've rarely been more serious in my life.' 

The whole world is going mad. Or I am. 

'Look,' I say, 'I think we are talking on different wavelengths. Nothing I say makes sense to you and nothing you say makes sense to me. Gould I come in? Please. I want to find...' The look on her face. 'I'm quite harmless, very harmless.' I say the last few words in my most reasonable voice. 

She looks down at the can of petrol then lifts her eyes to me, 'All right.' 

I go in the door. A big feeling of shock. I can see that it is the same apartment, brick walls etc .. , but the decoration is different. It is right at this point that I begin to feel panic and an overwhelming sense of something terribly wrong. 

'Sit down,' Mrs --- says as she waves an arm in the direction of a chair. Not one that was here last night. 

'Is... I'll start right from the beginning. The Princess should have told you this,' I say. 'Last night ---, I call her Princess, and I were right here in this room. I'm sorry, I said at the beginning. Well, yesterday afternoon I met her down on the beach. We got talking and later on went to a coffee shop. While we were there she asked me Would I like to come back here with her and help paint the kitchen? Well I thought, you know... We came back here, painted some of the kitchen and had dinner. I told her I'd be back this morning to help her finish. That's it. Here I am. Didn't she tell you any of this? Where is she?' 

I hadn't noticed through my explanation but now, as I look at her, expecting her to tell me where the Princess is, I notice that she has a strange anguished look on her face. A little bit frightened too. She speaks and her voice is strained. 

'Will you believe me if I tell you that I have been living here on my own? That there is no one else here? It's the truth. You can believe.' 

'Where is she?' I get up and start to the door which the Princess came out of after getting changed yesterday, 'In here'?' 

She speaks sharply, 'Sit down! Or get out! I told you I would talk to you... not going... I'll call the police!' 

I sit down quickly. She gets up and crosses the room. She takes a packet of cigarettes from the top of a cupboard type thing in the corner .. the same one! And on top of the cupboard! That's it. Now she'll see. 

'That photo... it's the photo of the girl I was here with last night. The same one. She gave it to me.' I feel a little better now, now she'll see. Now she'll stop this nonsense. She must be a psycho. Mrs --- comes back to where she was sitting. She looks hurt. The victim of some cruel person. Tired. She might be an alcoholic. 

'That is my daughter,' a catch in her throat, 'You weren't here with her last night, you couldn't have been. You weren't here ..' 

'I wa...' 

'What are you trying to do?' she looks distracted. 'When did you know her? I think you can be satisfied... you've caused me pain... you've had your fun... do you... want to burn down my flat? Do you want some... some more... sick fun?' 

'I'm not trying to hurt you, I entreat, 'I don't want to hurt anybody. I only want to know where the Princess is?  You understand? You know. You must tell me.' 

'Go away. Away, Go away. Please.' She is talking more to herself. 'Go away. I've heard about your sort. I didn't believe anyone could be so...'  

'Listen,' I say, 'what about the half painted kitchen? What about that, then? Eh?' 

'Friends. Surprise for me... Didn't expect me back so soon. Friends wanted to give me a treat.' She looks worried. 'Go away, please. Get out of my house. Go away now.' 

'Where is she?' I'm getting desperate. 'I've just thought... In the kitchen.' I get up and start to the kitchen, 'In here - I can prove.' She gets up and follows me. I speak in my most charming and persuasive manner, all the time trying not to lose my head. 'We have a little joke between us... she calls me Crab, you know, the Zodiac? When I finished a bit of this wall last night I told her it was so good I had to autograph it. I drew a small crab with a 'C' under it - a little joke.' Nerves of the throat seize up, 'Urrrlp!' 

I lead her over to the wall and bend down, 'There, you see? That little mark there? Have a look at it. It's the same as I said.' 

She bends down and looks, 'Yes,' she straightens up and looks at me, 'You know your way around all right. Did you break in?' 

I get frustrated and I shout, 'Look, I told you! I was here last night with ---, your daughter! Now where is SHE?!' 

She looks at me, mixed emotions. I can't read them, I'm too worked up. 

'There's only one way I'm going to convince you, isn't there? Sit down and wait.' She looks very, very sad. She turns away and leaves the room, 

I think - no I don't. I don't think. My mind is blocked and congested by too many thoughts. Not one of them can come above the others. I am, as is said, sorely troubled and in a state of great turmoil. 

I can hear Mrs --- in the other room. A sliding of a draw, a rustling of papers, low muttering. I push my fingers hard onto the surface of the bench as if I were playing a fugue on an organ. My feet even move a little bit. Waiting. 

'This might make you... ' She comes quickly into the room with papers in her outstretched hand. Her eyes are red. But she doesn't seem quite so worked up. 

'Ta." I take the papers from her. I ruffle them. I don't want to look. I fear I'm going to be the big loser.

The first one is a passport. The photo tells me it's the princess.

I carefully, painfully, open the second bit of folded paper.

It’s a death certificate. Six months ago. Accidental death. Multiple fatal injuries.

'The same accident as her father was... killed."

'Nnnoooooo?' I can't stop my voice from rising at the end like the cry of a lonely dingo.

I turn my face and look at Mrs ---. She sees my face.

'Do you want a cup of tea?' I nod my head.

Then the stupid tears come. I put my head down on my arm. It is hard and painful to cry. My throat seems to tear as the noise comes out.

'You're .. serious...' she says in a kind of wonder.' You really... you mean...' She comes to me and places her hand across my back. We hold this pose for a moment.

'I'll get the tea,' she says brokenly. You've got to tell me...'

'Y-Y-Yes-s-s.' I splutter. I groan.

_______________________________________________

© Robert Farley

The short story "The Princess and the Crab" won a literary award in National Bicentenary Literary competition - Short Story Category: one of ten nationwide winners.