Elsie One Friday Morning 1948

He has gone to work, she hears the door slam, his last words still hang in the air, violent and offensive.  She lights a cigarette and sits at the table, seeing the plate with dried up egg remains and limp toast, and the teapot with warm stewed tea. The baby is asleep in her cot, sleeping after a night awake most hours crying. His words fade away into the opening day. she hopes by dinner time he'll have brightened up and moan less and smile for once. She has no idea what he does at work or where he works, except in the West End some place. Sometimes he's late home and she imagines he's having an affair, but it would show in his manner, or some clue in a different perfume from hers, but she smells nothing of perfume, nothing at all. She sighs, inhales, watches coat trucks being shuntered across the road on the roof of the coal wharf. Live goes on, moves off unware or moving on without care. She hears baby cry and gets up and leaves the sitting room and goes to the bedroom where baby's cries erupt and take off into the air with her private wants and need of care.