I performed numerous calculations.
I tried to stretch the money inventively.
But it was like juggling disappearing
coins. After the rent was taken off,
there was this miserable sum, barely
enough for a mean tray of eggs, and
maybe a carton of milk. I felt like I was
going to explode. I didn’t want to busk
on the street. I couldn’t demean myself.
I thought of making a cardboard placard,
and begging for coins. I’d bring William.
We’d cut a sorry sight. Passers-by would
be moved. Our collection tin would fill
rapidly. The image lingered appealingly
for a while. Then I put on my boots. I
simply had to see Mrs Eames.