Coronet Among the Weeds

by Charlotte Bingham

  Anyway, after she’d hedged about a bit, I said,

  ‘Oh well, I suppose I’m in love with him, but it doesn’t matter, I’ll get over it.’

  She gave me a worried look.

  ‘Don’t you think it would be a good idea to try to forget him?’

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  ‘I could tell you why, but I don’t want you to be disillusioned.’

  ‘It’s all right, I don’t mind being disillusioned. I don’t like being in love.’ She paused then she said,

  ‘He’s going to marry that girl he’s acting with at the moment. She saw him off at the airport when he came to Paris, didn’t he tell you?’

  Then suddenly I could hear time rushing by me. Honestly, it sounds stupid, but I could hear myself talking and watch myself. You know like when you’re drunk sometimes.

  ‘You mustn’t be hurt, darling,’ she said, ‘men love young girls because they’re innocent and flattering.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I didn’t expect him to take me seriously. I just loved him. Stupid really.’

  I didn’t cry, I just went to bed. I didn’t mind about him going to marry that actress, I just minded about her seeing him off at the airport. Honestly, that was the only thing I minded about. It just made when he was in Paris seem like nothing. It probably was nothing to him. He was probably yawning his head off. But I remembered that I’d rushed into his arms and laughed and shouted and practically broke his hand holding on to it. I couldn’t believe it was him, for heaven’s sake. He probably gave that pottery thing we bought in Montmartre to his old actress. Honestly, you feel a fool when you think about things like that, because you really think they’re perfect. Just nothing wrong with them.

  I believed her though. My mother, I mean. But I still had to go and see for myself. I was pretty nervous because I always was when he was about. His flat was at the top of a long staircase, so when the maid let me in all I could do was pant. The room was full of sunlight, and he was in bed with ’flu or something, and there was another man there. I stood looking at them, panting and shading my eyes. He said hello and introduced me to the man. I sat on his bed and talked to them for a bit, and this other man kept asking him how he was every five minutes. He had a photograph of his old actress on the wall. She looked quite pretty. I didn’t mind. I just minded about him probably having given her that pottery face.

  I looked at him when he was talking to the other man, and he wasn’t perfect any more. Just a man in bed with ’flu.

  The other man went, and he said,

  ‘Can you see my cigarettes?’ I had a look around and couldn’t, then he said,

  ‘I think they’re under the bed.’

  So I bent to pick them up and my knees cracked. They always do, I used to lose five marks every ballet exam. Anyway, he pretended not to notice when my knees cracked, and I gave him the cigarettes and said,

  ‘I think I’d better go. I’m meant to be at a lunch.’

  And he said,

  ‘I’ll ring you up and ask you to a movie one evening.’

  And I said,

  ‘Yes, that’d be super.’

  And I walked out into Mayfair feeling rather relieved actually. He wasn’t perfect any more. I wasn’t in love any more. I suddenly realized I wouldn’t have to be nervous or feel like hell any more. Not ever again. Then I thought: What am I going to think about? What was I going to wish for? I couldn’t think of a thing.

  Perhaps you don’t understand, but you’ve got to wish for something the whole time when you’re seventeen. You’ve got to, or there’s nothing to live for. However impossible you’ve got to think you want it. It doesn’t matter if it’s a superman or a sports car, it’s got to be something. Or you want to commit suicide. When I couldn’t think of a thing I wanted I nearly did. I nearly stepped in front of a bus in Notting Hill Gate. I just happened to see a rather cheery dog on the other side of the road, so I didn’t.

  What with not having anything to think about and doing a secretarial course with all these normal people I was pretty depressed, I can tell you. But when you’re depressed I think you should start again. You know. Do corny things like changing your hairstyle, and getting a new lot of weeds. So I changed my hair. I had this enormous beehive. Well, the girl in the shop said it was a beehive, but my father said it was a bird’s nest, and I looked better before I went in. He said why pay good money to some old hairdresser, when he could do the same thing for free. He can be quite boring like that. I mean he thinks he’s being pretty funny, and my mother thinks he is too. I think he’s a bit feeble really. When he goes on like that, I mean. Most of the time he’s all right.

  When I’d changed my hairstyle and got a few new weeds, I still didn’t feel very jokey. So I thought, hell, I’ll have a go at being a beatnik. I knew it wouldn’t be easy because of being so normal. Also I didn’t know any beatniks. I just knew girls who were going to be debs, and they were no use. I didn’t look much like a beatnik either, in spite of the beehive. But then I thought I’d be dead cunning. I’d look so like a real beatnik that no one would find out that I was really normal. I knew if they found out I was normal I’d had it.

  So okay I’d got a beehive. Now I wanted a jumper. You only need one jumper if you’re a beatnik. If you change your jumper you lose your identity. I asked Migo about this jumper. She had a cousin who’d been a beatnik. Or had a boyfriend who’d been one or something. Anyway, she found one of her father’s gardening jumpers that he’d been through World War I in. It had a few bullet-holes, so you could tell it was genuine all right. It was very long. Down to my knees. And it had a collar you could pull over your face if you didn’t want to see anyone. With my tight jeans and beach shoes, I looked the real thing, I really did.

  There was a pretty drippy beatnik in my class at secretarial college. I stood her a coffee and a cheesecake a couple of times, so she’d help me join the Chelsea Set. It was worth it, because she arranged to take me to a Saturday-night party with a couple of male beatniks. She was really wet this girl, but you can’t pick and choose your beatniks if you only know one. She was a bit doubtful about whether I’d be all right, because I looked so normal at college. However, I spun her a great story about my mother hating me, and having to live at home because I’d no money.

  She lived in a flat with three other beatniks. She said she was looking for a man to live with. So far she’d had no luck. I’m not surprised actually, because she really was wet. I said why didn’t she live with a beatnik? She said it was too expensive. She couldn’t afford it. They ate such a lot. And besides, she didn’t know any that were house-trained.

  I was a bit nervous when I turned up at her flat for this Saturday-night party she’d asked me to, in case she’d tell me I looked too normal to come. I pulled my jumper up to cover my nose, so only my eye make-up could be seen, and rang the bell. I’d been practising this hop up and down that I knew beatniks did, and I started to do it when she opened the door. Then I sort of slid sideways up the hall corridor. She looked quite approving so I think I was quite good at it.

  These two male beatniks were in the drawing-room when we went in. They were sitting on the floor. At least one was sitting on the floor, and the other was behind one of the armchairs. Me and this girl sat on the floor too. Then she introduced me to the one sitting on the floor near us. He was called Webb and he wore these monk’s sandals. I don’t think he washed his feet. It didn’t look as if he did anyway. He didn’t talk much either, just sort of grunted. I don’t think he was in a talking mood. After a bit we crawled round to talk to the other one behind the armchair. He was called Spence. He wore these really round gold-rimmed glasses. He was much worse than Webb. And he was frightfully sweaty. I mean his shirt really stuck to him. I don’t swoon over men who sweat a lot, I really don’t. Nor does my mother. She’s always thanking God my father doesn’t sweat. She says she doesn’t know what she’d do if he did. You know, some men have only got to start talking to you and they start sweating and taking
out their hankies and mopping themselves every two minutes. This beatnik Spence, he was that type. Really sweaty.

  After we’d talked to Spence for a bit, we thought we’d go to this party. It wasn’t very far. Just round the corner from this girl’s flat, so we walked. It was terribly windy, which was maddening, because by the time we arrived I looked really healthy. Honestly, blooming and rosy. I nearly killed myself, because I’d spent hours putting on this green powder I’d bought. I mean, except for being normal, looking healthy is the worst thing that can happen to a beatnik. Even if you’re abnormal as hell and shaking with neurosis, if you look healthy no one’s going to believe you. Luckily I’d bought some dark glasses so I put them on and they covered most of my face up and my jumper covered the other half of it. So no one could really make sure that I was healthy.

  The party was in the garage of one of those small mews houses. You know the kind. It was pretty crowded by the time we arrived. I mean, people were beginning to stand on each other and things. They don’t usually start standing on each other till it gets crowded. Not usually. I crouched by the wall, while Spence went and got me a drink. That’s the first principle about being a beatnik: if you don’t know anyone you mustn’t let on. I mean you mustn’t look as if you don’t know anyone. If you’re alone you must look as if you’re thinking, or brooding about your mother, or something. Don’t for heaven’s sake look as if you’d like to talk to someone. Talking to someone, I mean sort of chit-chat about this and that, is strictly for the birds. So I crouched by the wall as I was saying, till Spence came back with the drink. I sunk my head right down, and twisted my legs in a faintly Yogi-type way. A little bit of Yoga or Zen Buddhism is very useful. I’d seen a programme on television about Yogis so I knew a bit about it.

  When Spence rolled up with a bottle of wine I pretended not to notice him. It’s quite a good thing not to notice people. Anyway, I pretended not to notice him, so he began to scratch. Honestly, I don’t know what his chest was like but he made a noise like a nutmeg-grater. Backwards and forwards, louder and louder, so in the end I raised my head and looked at him. He went on scratching with one hand and handed me the bottle of wine with the other. I gave him a sinister look through my dark glasses and took the bottle and drank. He took it back and had a swig himself. Then he said,

  ‘Man.’

  That really bored me. Him saying that. For heaven’s sake, talk about type casting. There is a limit. I stood up and leant against the wall and I groaned. I’ve got a good groan, so Spence looked quite taken with me standing and groaning.

  Then he said,

  ‘Let’s roll.’

  But I pretended not to hear and just went on groaning, so he took my hand and dragged me towards the other end of the garage where people were dancing. I really felt like groaning then. I told you he was sweaty; well, you can imagine it was no picnic dancing with him. He clutched me to his damp shirt and danced slowly up and down breathing heavily with steam rising from him. In fact he never made much progress because he kept on stopping and having to take his glasses off and wipe the steam from them.

  Then a girl started screaming. You wouldn’t have heard unless you were near like we were. They were really agonising screams.

  ‘What’s with her screaming?’ I said.

  ‘Her father’s just become a duke,’ Spence said.

  She was in a real state this girl, sobbing and shouting that her life was ruined and things. My father’s a corny old lord but I don’t let it ruin my life. I mean you’ve had it if you let things like that get you down.

  ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ I said.

  Spence scratched himself for a bit then agreed. So we crawled across the garage and up the stairs to the kitchen. There were a whole lot of bodies necking on the landing carpet, so it took a bit of getting into the kitchen. There was someone sitting in the sink reading a book and eating cheese. Quite a nice face I thought, but I didn’t say anything. I put a string of onions round my neck and lay on the floor. Spence lay on the kitchen table and ate a pear. Then someone came in and said,

  ‘Any of you booked for the bedroom?’

  Spence sat up and gazed down at me on the floor.

  ‘You booked?’

  I didn’t know what he meant, but I said yes, because he made me feel ill. Honestly.

  It turned out that the man who owned the house lent his bedroom, and you paid a quid to go in there with some type for half an hour. This really wet beatnik girl went in there about five times. I know I’m narrow-minded but honestly you might as well be a tart. I mean, for heaven’s sake, tarts get paid. She even went in there with old Webb and his monk’s sandals. Still I suppose I can’t judge. But Webb. Honestly, you should have seen his feet. Old Spence was a bit fed up with me so after he’d scratched for a few minutes he slid out of the room looking furious. I didn’t take any notice. I just stared up at the ceiling.

  When he’d gone the man in the sink said,

  ‘Have some cheese.’

  It was good cheese so I said,

  ‘This cheese is really mean,’ I said in a groany kind of voice.

  He agreed, and we went on like that for a bit. I got to feeling better as the evening wore on.

  He was really a good beatnik, that man. He was called Herb. And he knew about things. I mean he could read and everything. And he was quite conversational. He talked to you and asked you what you thought about things. Which is very unusual. We talked for a long time actually. He sat in the sink most of the time, and I sat on the draining-board. One thing he said. He said that when you died there were probably only about five people who were strictly really sorry. He said you’d be lucky if there were five. I think he meant other than your relations. He didn’t have any relations. Relations usually mind if you die because it means one less relation. It makes them feel better if they’ve got a lot of relations, even if they don’t particularly like them.

  After we’d talked about who would be sorry if we died he asked me to dance. I said okay and we went down to the garage. I tried to think about who’d be sorry on the way down to the garage. I mean I started counting them up. I know a lot of people, but I won’t tell you how many would be sorry. They’d all go to my funeral, okay, but they wouldn’t be sorry.

  Herb was a good dancer. I was enjoying dancing with him when old Webb appeared. He flipped towards us in his old monk’s sandals. He had a frightfully smug look on his face.

  ‘That bedroom is the most,’ he said. He was looking really silly. He looked like someone who has had a really good meal, then tilts his chair with a grunt and looks pleased with himself. You know what I mean. I’d hate it if someone looked like that after they’d made love to me. I really would. I’ve never slept with anyone. So I can’t talk. But a lot of people talk about sex to you. I mean quite old people who are married and things, and some of them make me feel very uneasy. I don’t think they can have loved anyone if they talk like that about love.

  Herb had a blank face. Not much expression or anything, but I don’t think he liked old Webb either because he started dancing again while Webb was still talking. Then I trod on Webb by mistake. So I turned round and said, ‘Like I hope your Webb foot’s all right,’ and roared with laughter. I thought it was a pretty funny joke. Actually I always think my jokes are funny; I’m about the only person I know who laughs when they tell a joke. Really, everyone else keeps a straight face. I don’t know when they’re making a joke so I spend the time laughing like a maniac in case they get offended. Webb didn’t think that joke was funny, so he walked off. Herb did though. You could tell he did, in spite of his having this blank face. He didn’t laugh or anything. But you could tell. You don’t find many beatniks who laugh actually. They shout and groan and sometimes one or two will make a joke, but it’s not often you see them laugh.

  We’d just started dancing again when old Spence steamed up. He was really sweating. I mean it was dripping off him.

  ‘Someone’s pinched my overcoat,’ he said, and he was s
haking up and down. All that beat stuff went west once he lost his overcoat. He was absolutely normal. It just shows you. Anyway Herb went off to look for it with him, and I went and asked a girl who was kissing someone by the door if anyone had left. She had these marvellous leather boots on with fur round the top. When I asked her she stopped kissing this weed and said, ‘What?’. So I said,

  ‘Where did you buy your boots?’ and she told me. She said they weren’t very expensive.

  It turned out that the only person who’d gone off in a black overcoat was someone in monk’s sandals. Good old Webb hitting back at Society again. Spence wasn’t surprised. He said Webb had been locked in a cupboard when he was four. His subconscious never recovered. If you ask me he was probably cold.

  Herb took me home about six o’clock. I got a fright when I did get in actually. My father was waiting for me. He was green. No kidding. Really green. I mean the colour of trees and leaves and things. He thought I’d been murdered or something boring. He was even more furious because I hadn’t been murdered. Honestly, it takes a lot to make him happy. Anyway he was so furious, luckily he couldn’t speak. It’s much worse when he can speak. He gets frightfully witty-witty. That’s much worse. Honestly, much.

  I went to a lot of beat parties after that. I didn’t have to go with that wet girl because of Herb. I got to know most of the beats around Chelsea. Not all of them but most. I couldn’t have stuck them if I’d had to go with that girl every time. As it was I had to go on having coffee with her at college. She was so boring. She just went on and on about how many men she’d slept with. I think she was a nymphomaniac. I don’t know how you qualify, but I think she was. She was damn boring anyway. I haven’t met many, but they usually are. Herb was practically the only person worth talking to at those parties. He was beat all right but he was worth talking to.