Coronet Among the Weeds

by Charlotte Bingham

  She lived in this fiat in Fulham with three other girls. I went and had supper with them once or twice. They were a pretty funny lot. In fact the whole place was pretty funny. It had a funny atmosphere. It hit you when you walked in the door. Not only me. It hit Migo too. She noticed it as well as me. It wasn’t Chloë really, it was these other three girls. They prowled about all looking the same. They had this funny look in their eyes. Very nervous and as if they were waiting all the time for something. No really they did.

  Migo and I called them the waiting women. ’Course basically they were all just looking around for supermen, I suppose. Only more than most girls. They just didn’t think about anything else. Not one other thing. They were just waiting around for the telephone, or the door, or the post. They never actually did anything except wait around. I suppose that’s why they had this funny look in their eyes. Chloë was the only one that did anything like a job. I think it made her a bit po being among all those waiting women. She wasn’t po naturally. Stagey but not po.

  Two of those waiting women were frightfully morbid and nervy. The post was always not going to come, the telephone was never going to ring. It really got me down all the bells that weren’t going to ring. And the other one was frightfully smarty-smarty. One has one’s hair done at the Queen’s hairdresser, one’s writing paper comes from the Queen’s stationer, one’s weekends in Berks, Bucks, or Wilts, and one meets one’s girlfriends for lunch once a week at Harrods. And one swoons over teeny-minded weeds in Knightsbridge flats.

  One of those morbid girls told me about this man she was in love with. She was in love with him, for heaven’s sake. She actually told me she loved him, and then she said the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard about him. Honestly, I felt sorry for the man having her in love with him, even if it was true. When I told Chloë she just laughed and said if I knew the man I’d say the same thing. She couldn’t understand that it’s pretty warped to say things like that about someone you’re meant to be in love with. She was funny like that, Chloë. She really was.

  She used to tell me about this frightfully rich man. She said being in love with him was like diving into a deep pool. That’s what she said. I couldn’t understand her. I said I thought I’d been in love but I didn’t think it was like diving into a deep pool. She said I wasn’t mature. She said if I was mature I’d understand. Only mature people understood. She could be pretty boring like that. She used to get frightfully cross with Migo and I when we made jokes. ’Specially jokes about love. She said making jokes about love was immature.

  I went out to lunch with these girls and Chloë every now and then. They all sat in this coffee bar and talked about clothes and hair. That was all right. Then they’d start talking about other girls’ clothes and hair. That was really boring. You should have heard them. No one was all right. They always spoiled themselves. Honestly, I never heard them talk about someone who was all right all over. They always spoiled themselves with too much make-up or too short skirts, or they were too tarty or too dull. And if they were fat they should go on a diet, and if they were thin then of course men hated girls who were thin like that. And you wouldn’t know the poor wretch was a girl at all, if you saw her from behind, you’d think she was a boy. She was just a clothes-peg. And they’d all rather die than be like that. Men liked women to be women.

  There was one other thing they talked about. That was who was engaged or married or pregnant. That was pretty funny too. If the man wasn’t a drip, then she was getting married because she had to, and everyone knew why she had an Empire-line wedding dress. They’d sit for hours counting up how many months between when she got married and had the baby. And of course it could have been a seven months’ baby. But it was pretty funny because they were usually small and someone had seen it and it was huge. That kind of conversation is pretty sad.

  Anyhow they decided to share a party with Migo and I and hold it in their flat. We sent millions of invitations to weeds and drips all over London. And they all came. The waiting women were thrilled. It was the only thing they lived for, just to have millions of weeds to swoon over. It was going to be a weed feast.

  It was the usual sort of bodies-everywhere party that people give in Fulham. Bodies among coats, furniture, glasses, behind the dustbin, in the bath – everywhere. Routine types. I fell asleep in a cupboard half-way through because someone put something in my drink. I didn’t really care because it saved me the boredom of introducing more weeds to more drippy girls. Some girls are so drippy at parties it’s embarrassing. They either make straight for the food and stand stuffing their faces or sit about telling other girls how awful they think all the weeds are. Or they come looking beautiful and expect everyone to swoon up and talk to them because they’re beautiful. By the end you could strangle them. I don’t know why they come sometimes. Honestly I don’t.

  When I crawled out of that cupboard the party was practically over. It was pretty funny actually. I mean it’s not every day you wake up and find yourself surrounded by dresses and hangers. Then I couldn’t get the door open because some couple were having a passionate scene against it. They looked a bit surprised to see me crawl out. Then they just went on having their passionate scene. They weren’t the only ones. All over the floor these couples were having great scenes, and in the middle of them sitting up in bed with a nightie on was old Chloë. She had face-cream on and was putting curlers in her hair. It didn’t worry her all these scenes going on. She’s good like that. She was going to bed, and that was it. She’s very particular about her sleep actually. It really worries her if she doesn’t get her right amount. It makes her skin sag. Anyway that’s what she says.

  I went into the kitchen and found a little spotty man trying to light the oven. Well, turn the gas on anyway. I said, why did he want to turn the oven on? And he said he wanted to put his head in it. I said couldn’t he find something else to do, putting your head in the oven isn’t a swoony way to spend a party. Even a bad party. He said, no, he had to put his head in the oven, he’d promised someone faithfully that he would. He’d given his word he would. He never went back on his word. Never. I said I hated to make him break his word, but the oven didn’t work. So he burst into tears all over the kitchen table, and I gave him a dish-cloth to wipe his tears. Poor little spotty man. I forgot to ask him why he had to put his head in the oven.

  Chloë never saw her rich man after that party. So she went back to being bravely happy again. I preferred her being bravely happy to being in love. And the waiting women went back to waiting, and listening for their bells. Nutcase lot. And the awful thing is they’ll be worse when they’re married. Because when you wait around for something and never think about anything else you’re always disappointed. And disappointed married women are hell. They spend the whole time being just thirty, and having shoulder-length hair and reading historical novels. No, it’s true. Really. I know lots of women like that. They’re the end, they really are.

  10

  I’ve always been mad on the theatre. I suppose it’s pretty corny. My mother writes plays so it’s not surprising really. She’s been writing plays ever since I can remember. I used to go and eat kippers with my grandmother because she had to go to rehearsals. When I fell in love with that actor she used to blame herself for it. She said I wouldn’t have fallen in love with him if she hadn’t written plays.

  I don’t know a lot of actors. A few but not a lot. Mostly I think they’re more amusing than ordinary people. A lot of people still talk about them as if they weren’t being buried in holy ground for heaven’s sake. Especially my grandmother. She calls them ‘theatricals’. Anything she says about them she always says at the end, ‘What can you expect of theatricals?’ When I used to eat kippers with her she always said, ‘I hope your mother doesn’t bring any of those theatricals back with her.’ And when I said, ‘Why?’ she said they had filthy habits.

  My mother had a play on when I was at school. It was pretty exciting for me. And for the nuns too. They spent
the whole time praying it would be a success, but it wasn’t. It was very disappointing after all those prayers. What I said to one nun was, perhaps God didn’t like the play. You don’t know, do you? It just might not have been the kind of thing that made Him laugh. Not His sort of play.

  During my holidays my mother often used to take me to see actors and people to try and get them interested in her plays. Mostly they weren’t very swoony about them. One or two of them were, but not many. My mother said you couldn’t blame them. She said they only really had time to be interested in who was going to put them into plays. She said being an actor wasn’t funny. It was sad, really. Because of being out of work, and staying at home waiting for an agent to ring. Also hoping you could pay the phone bill.

  My father doesn’t swoon about actors. That one I was in love with was the only one he really liked. He looks a bit strange when they call him darling. And he tries to swoon when they tell him about when Bobby lost his wig and Geoffrey had to walk on with the book under the bedpan. But he can’t. It’s not really him. I don’t think he’d go to the theatre much if it wasn’t for my mother. Anyway he says he hates the intervals. That’s why he likes the movies better because there aren’t any intervals. He says it’s like someone telling you a story and then going off to the loo in the middle.

  He has one thing just like me, my father. If he goes to a movie he always comes out being whoever he’s seen. My mother doesn’t. She doesn’t understand a bit, she’s just going on being herself when she comes out. But my father, if he’s seen Hannibal, he’s being Hannibal for at least two hours afterwards. Or if he’s seen a war movie he’s being frightfully stiff upper lip, and I’m the same. If I see some huge sex symbol I’m a huge sex symbol, and if I see some playful sprite then I’m being a playful sprite. It’s pretty annoying when my mother goes on being herself though. I mean, if you’re being Hannibal, you don’t want to be asked to go and get someone’s slippers.

  Then someone bought another of my mother’s plays. And I used to stomp off to rehearsals with her. Watching rehearsals I decided I didn’t think I’d like to be an actress after all. I used to think it would be marvellous. I still think it’s all right but not marvellous. Everyone’s so nervy and smoky at rehearsals. I don’t think I’d have the guts to act away with everyone being nervy and smoky round me. For heaven’s sake, I can’t even type with people being nervy and smoky. No, honestly, I can’t. My fingers go all stiff.

  Also people seem rather shouty at rehearsals. They don’t just say rude words to each other – they shout them. I can’t bear people shouting at me. I don’t mind if they talk in a loud voice, but if they shout right at me my eyes go all watery and I can’t do anything. I get like that even when I’m on a horse. No, it’s true. If someone shouts at me when I’m on a horse my eyes go all watery and I nearly fall off.

  One of the actresses in my mother’s play had a daughter about my age. We often got left together and we used to have little chats, mostly about the theatre. She was very pretty. More than pretty actually, and more than beautiful. And very nice. Nervous but very nice. She was the only person who was sympathetic when the play was a flop. Not just because her mother was in it either. It’s always pretty dull when a play is a flop. Everyone blames everyone else. But she was sympathetic without being corny. Lots of people when they’re being sympathetic just make you want to nun off.

  I didn’t see her again for ages and ages, then she suddenly rang me up and came to see me. She was madly in love with a fascinating man, and she chatted away about it. Then she said she was pregnant I found myself thinking that I hadn’t heard quite right – on account of my bad ear and all that. I knew I mustn’t look sorry for her, although I did. I settled for looking dumb, which I am quite good at now. Actually, I really did feel sorry for her. I had the feeling that she didn’t quite know what had happened to her. It was as if she didn’t know how babies were born. She was a bit like me on Bognor Beach that time. She couldn’t believe what someone had told her. I mean, babies always seem to be something that happen to other people.

  Anyway, we sort of left it at that. Probably because I didn’t know what to say, and she married the fascinating man, and six months later she had the baby. I met them in the park one day and she still looked as if she didn’t quite know what had happened to her, how she came to be pushing a pram. It was as if she had borrowed the pram, and the baby.

  My mother blamed her mother for not telling her about affairs leading to babies. My grandmother didn’t blame anyone, she just cleared her throat very loudly, because she doesn’t approve of people having babies at all.

  I’m not sure that my mother wasn’t right. I mean you have to know about affairs leading to babies and prams, even if, like me, you don’t quite like being told about how it all happens on Bognor Beach.

  That girl was the first time I realised that people got themselves into things rather than live happily ever after. No honestly. Of course I knew that some people didn’t. But they weren’t really people I knew very well. I just always took it for granted that you live happily ever after. My parents have lived happily ever after by and large. They really have. I think my father gets a bit browned off with getting hot-water bottles for headaches sometimes, and my mother wouldn’t mind him being a bit richer, but on the whole they’ve lived happily ever after.

  Not many girls’ parents live happily ever after. I only know about two girls’ parents who have. Even if they’re not divorced or something, they’ve usually got lovers. Lovers are corny. They’re so normal. Someone’s going to have to invent something else. No honestly.

  That’s the trouble now really. You just can’t find anything to do that’s going to shock anyone. Honestly, it’s pretty miserable not being able to shock anyone. There’s nothing you can do that people won’t yawn at if you tell them about it. You can’t even surprise them by being naked. A friend of mine went to a party naked. Nothing on at all. She had her coat on to arrive in but nothing underneath. You’d think people would be a bit surprised but they weren’t at all. She said they hardly noticed at all. Mind you, it was quite dark. Even so, you’d think they’d be a bit taken back. She said one person said what a nice pink dress she had on but that’s all.

  One thing though. I wish fat women were admired now. I do honestly. I wish huge great fleshy women were what men swooned over. I’m not exactly a huge fat woman on the beach. But jolly near. Mostly it’s my hips actually. I’ve got one friend, it’s her back. She’s thin all over except for this back. I don’t think fleshy women will come back. They’re just not practical I suppose. What with buses and things. You couldn’t get them all on.

  Slimming’s one of my hobbies really. Migo and I. I should think we’ve done every diet you can do. Migo’s as thin as anything. She just does them to keep me company. In case I get discouraged. It’s not that I like eating. I just like a little something every now and then. And that’s why I’ve got hips. I went to this doctor once and he said my hips were just due to little somethings. Some people smoke and I have little somethings. I’ve tried to smoke but I’m no good. That’s my ambition. To be smoky and thin. I don’t know if I ever will be. On the whole I think you’ve got to be more nervy than me. Perhaps I’ll be more nervy when I’m older. A lot of people are.

  Not many of my relations are hippy like me. Plump all over but not hippy. I’ve got an awful lot of relations. None of them is what you’d do your nut over. Mostly they’re cousins. They don’t really care about me and I don’t think I really care about them. They’d just be useful if you were an orphan. They’re not even real cousins. Most of them are removed in some way. And they come stomping up to you at parties and go on about you being one of their cousins. I bet if you were a lavatory attendant they’d soon forget you were. I shouldn’t think they’d even know you. Let alone go about telling everyone you were their cousin.

  My mother’s hobbies are slimming and dailies. She swears every evening after a huge dinner that she’ll go on a diet. Cut
down on sherry and everything. She’s still on it at breakfast the next morning but by lunch she just feels it’s her duty to eat up all the left-overs. She says someone’s got to. And if she doesn’t no one will. She can’t bear to see waste. She says it’s because of the war. That’s what ruined her figure – not being able to bear waste during the war.

  Anyhow her other hobby is dailies. She says dailies are more interesting than most people. She has these long conversations with them. About practically everything. She says there’s practically nothing a daily doesn’t know. One thing she doesn’t like much. She doesn’t like their operations. She’s not much good on operations. Some people are mad on them. They talk about them for hours and hours. And they know all the names of what these operations are called. I don’t mind the names, it’s when they’re actually describing them I don’t like it. Once a woman told me about having a bit of her body removed. It was terrible. I felt for the rest of the day I had to keep looking down to see I hadn’t got a gap. It’s terrible when you feel all gappy. Anyhow, that’s where my mother gets all the plots for her plays. From all these dailies she talks to.

  I’m not keen on operations but I like medicines and pills and glucose. I think it’s working in an office that’s made me like that. I’m so bored I feel every twinge. So I take all these things to get me through the day. Honestly, it makes the day go much quicker if you take pills and glucose. Also they make something to look at. It’s pretty boring just looking at your typewriter or the wall or someone’s face. I get this feeling I’ve got no energy because I yawn so much. I had a boyfriend, he was the same. He was a lawyer so he took glucose and pills in between clients. We used to go round chemists together and find new things to take. And he’d ring me up and remind me when to take them. We thought of founding a club for bored glucose-eaters, but he got sent to Manchester so it was no good.