She gives me a ham sandwich with juicy slices of tomato and tea in a cup with little pink angels flying around shooting arrows at other lit- tle  flying  angels  who  are  blue  and  I  wonder  why  they  can’t  make teacups  and  chamber  pots  without  all  kinds  of  angels  and  maidens cavorting in the glen. Mam says that’s the way the rich are, they love the bit of decoration and wouldn’t we if we had the money. She’d give her two eyes to have a house like this with flowers and birds abroad in the garden  and  the  wireless  playing  that  lovely  Warsaw  Concerto  or  the Dream of Olwyn and no end of cups and saucers with angels shooting arrows. She says she has to look in on Mr. Sliney he’s so old and feeble he forgets to call for the chamber pot. Chamber pot? You have to empty his chamber pot? Of course I do. There’s a silence here because I think we’re remembering the cause of all our troubles, Laman Griffin’s chamber pot. But that was a long time  ago  and  now  it’s  Mr.  Sliney’s  chamber  pot,  which  is  no  harm because  she’s  paid  for  this  and  he’s  harmless. When  she  comes  back she  tells me Mr. Sliney would like to see me, so come in while he’s awake. He’s lying in a bed in the front parlor, the window blocked with a black sheet, no sign of light. He tells my mother, Lift me up a bit, mis- sus, and pull back that bloody thing off the window so I can see the boy. He has long white hair down to his shoulders. Mam whispers he won’t let anyone cut it. He says, I have me own teeth, son.Would you credit that? Do you have your own teeth, son? I do, Mr. Sliney. Ah. I was in India you know. Me and Timoney up the road. Bunch of Limerick men in India. Do you know Timoney, son? I did, Mr. Sliney. He’s dead, you know. Poor bugger went blind. I have me sight. I have me teeth. Keep your teeth, son. I will, Mr. Sliney. I’m getting tired, son, but there’s one thing I want to tell you. Are you listening to me? I am, Mr. Sliney. Is he listening to me, missus? Oh, he is, Mr. Sliney. 351