Welsh Journals

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Auntie Lil Thomas A Short-Short COLM ST JOHN JONES AUNTIE LIL was there. Uncomfortable. Standing by the boat deck. Didn't like travelling on a Sunday. Didn't like paddle steamers. She blamed me. 'Where is it?' she said. Large, grand, unmanageable; my mother's sister, Auntie Lil Thomas. 'I'll make enquiries, Auntie Lil.' I found out: 'You'll have to go through the Saloon.' 'Saloon?' she said. I knew what she was thinking. Saloon drink temptation. debt. RUIN 'You'll have to go through,' I said. 'I'll manage,' she said. But she couldn't. Not the martyr type. We went down below. I went first, pushing. Could have done with a cutlass. Auntie Lil came behind, tut-tutting. We went past the Bar. A man fell out, staggering. Had a very red face, liverish look, neat blue suit. Auntie Lil noted it. 'Dressed nice,' she said. 'Come from a very good home, no doubt.' 'No doubt,' I said. The man sat on the deck. Out. In the Saloon, Auntie Lil nodded: 'What I thought!' 'Holiday,' I told her. 'Letting themselves go on a boat trip.' 'They have gone long ago, my boy.' She went. Coming back between the tables and the drink, she held herself close together so that she touched nothing. There was a band in the comer. Of sorts. Three men around a drum, making a noise. 'Tell me,' Auntie Lil pointed. 'What is that?' 'Orchestra, Auntie.' 'Orchestra?' 'Orchestra.' 'Orchestra, my gracious!' Auntie Lil said. We went out past the Bar again. He was still there. In his neat blue suit. Still out. We stepped over him. Auntie said nothing.