There would be a fine range of ales from the planned micro-brewery at Ventnor; Island wines would be served by the jug, provided the Adgestone vineyards survived the final Strategic Plan. But top dollar and long yen were also to be lured by the tinkling tastevins of master sommeliers; oenophiles would be flattered by guided visits to cellars deep in the chalk cliffs (‘once the hidey-hole for smugglers’ booty, now the resting-place for classic vintages’) before being suckered with a quadruple markup. As for after-dinner drinks: there might be a gentle recommendation of Great Aunt Maud’s Original Shropshire Plum Brandy, but a range of single malts, none with aggressively Caledonian names, would also be available. Sir Jack would personally oversee the armagnac list.
‘And that leaves sex,’ said the Project Manager, after the patriotic menus had been approved by the Co-ordinating Committee.
‘I beg your pardon, Marco.’
‘Sex, Sir Jack.’
‘I have always run family newspapers.’
‘Family newspapers,’ said Martha, ‘are traditionally obsessed with extramarital and transgressive relationships.’
‘Which is why they are family newspapers,’ replied her employer exasperatedly. He snapped his Garrick Club braces and sighed. ‘Very well. Given the democratic rules of these meetings, proceed.’
‘I assume we have to provide some kind of sex angle, don’t we?’ said Mark. ‘People go on holiday to have sex, it’s a well-known fact. Or rather, when they think about holidays, some part of their brain thinks about sex. If they’re single, they hope to meet someone; if they’re married, they hope to have better sex than in the domestic bed. Or even some sex.’
‘If you say so. Oh, you young folk …’
‘So as I see it, if your twopenny tourist is looking for threepenny sex, then those purchasing Quality Leisure will be looking for quality sex.’
‘It would have a historical logic to it,’ said Martha. ‘The British always used to go abroad for sex. The Empire was built on the inability of the British male to find sexual satisfaction outside of marriage. Or inside it, for that matter. The West always treated the East as a brothel, upmarket or downmarket. Now the position’s reversed. We’re chasing Pacific Rim dollars, so we have to offer a historical quid pro quo.’
‘And what says the Official Historian to this scandalous analysis of our nation’s glorious past?’ Sir Jack pointed his cigar at Dr Max.
‘I’m f–amiliar with it,’ he replied. ‘If not always as pithily put. It can be argued.’ Dr Max’s languor implied that he personally could not be fished to argue the matter one way or the other.
‘Ah,’ his employer replied. ‘It can be argued. Spoken like an historian, if I may be permitted a little lèse-majesté. So what is being argued is … what, exactly? The offering of English virgins in the marketplace, chained naked to a tumbril, sold into sexual slavery by the hour in high-price brothel hotels equipped with waterbeds, tilting mirrors, and pornographic videos? I speak, you understand, figuratively, as it were.’
There was an embarrassed silence which Mark moved swiftly to counter. ‘I think we’re getting a little off the point. I just said I wondered if there shouldn’t be a sexual angle. I don’t know what it might be. I’m not an ideas man, I’m just the Project Manager. I merely put to you the proposition: Quality Leisure, top dollar, long yen, market expectation, England and sex. May I offer that cocktail to the meeting?’
‘Very well, Marco. Let us place that on the vibrating bed, to coin a phrase. And let us start simply. Sex and England, any takers?’
‘Swiss Navy,’ said Martha.
‘My condolences, Miss Cochrane.’ Sir Jack gave a heavy chuckle. ‘Though that’s not what a little birdie tells me.’ He was looking blandly away by the time Martha snapped a glance at him. She didn’t dare look at Paul. ‘Any advance on that?’
‘OK, OK.’ Martha took up the challenge irritatedly. ‘I’ll go first. The English and sex. What comes to mind? Oscar Wilde. The Virgin Queen. Lloyd George Knew My Father. Lady Godiva.’
‘One Irishman and a Welshman so far,’ Dr Max observed, in a public murmur.
‘Plus one virgin and a stripper,’ added Mark.
‘The English vice,’ Martha continued, looking firmly at Dr Max. ‘Sodomy or flagellation, take your pick. Child prostitution in the Victorian era. A number of multiple sex murders. Do we hear the turnstiles clicking? What about an English Casanova? Lord Byron, I suppose. A club-footed nob with a taste for incest. It’s such a tricky area, isn’t it? Oh, we invented the condom, if that’s any help. Supposedly.’
‘None of that is any help,’ said Sir Jack. ‘Even more obstructive than usual, which is saying something. What we are looking for, if I may make so obvious a point, is a woman who gave sex a good name, a nice girl everybody’s heard of, goddammit a cutie with big knockers – figuratively, as it were.’ The Committee found unprecedented interest in the grain of the table, the flock of the wallpaper, the glitter of the chandelier. Sir Jack suddenly bounced his palms off his forehead. ‘I have her. I have her. The very woman. Nell Gwynn. Of course. A cat may look at more than a king. Charming girl, I’m sure. Won the hearts of the nation. And a very democratic story, one for our times. Perhaps a little massaging, to bring her into line with third millennium family values. Then there’s the orange franchise, of course. Well? Do I hear good? Do I hear more than good?’
‘More than good,’ said Mark.
‘Good,’ said Martha.
‘Dubious,’ said Dr Max.
‘How?’ asked their employer grumpily. Did he really have to shoulder all the creative burden, only to find himself carped at by a pack of nay-sayers?
‘It’s not really my p–eriod,’ the Official Historian began, a disclaimer which rarely led to a briefer lecture, ‘but as I recall, little Nell’s background was not exactly riddled with family values. She referred to herself openly as a “Protestant whore” – the King being Catholic at the time, you understand. Two bastard children by him, shared the pleasures of his mattress with another favourite whose name temporarily escapes me –’
‘You mean, three-in-a-bed stuff,’ muttered Sir Jack, envisaging the headlines.
‘– and obviously I would have to check, but her career as King’s mistress did start at a relatively tender age, so we might have to factor in the child-sex angle.’
‘Good,’ said Martha. ‘Very good. Western paedophiles traditionally went East for their satisfaction. Now Eastern paedophiles can come West.’
‘Disastrous,’ said Sir Jack. ‘I have always run family newspapers.’
‘We could make her older,’ suggested Martha brightly, ‘lose the children, lose the other mistresses, and lose the social and religious background. Then she could be a nice middle-class girl who ends up marrying the King.’
‘Bigamously,’ annotated Dr Max.
‘Things were so much simpler in my day,’ sighed Sir Jack.
‘DO YOU THINK Sir Jack’s on to us?’ They were in bed; the lights were out; their bodies were tired, their minds still fretful with caffeine.
‘No,’ said Paul. ‘He was just fishing.’
‘It didn’t feel like fishing. It felt more like … goosing. I told you, it’s always the family men who are the worst.’
‘He’s fond of you, can’t you see?’
‘He can keep his fondness for the invisible Lady Pitman. Why do you always defend him?’
‘Why do you always attack him? Anyway, you provoked him.’
‘I what? You mean, my charcoal suit with the shirt buttoned to the neck?’
‘With your unpatriotic views on sex.’
‘Provocative and unpatriotic. Better and better. It’s what I’m paid for.’
‘You know what I mean.’
They were on a nervous run of talk edging towards aggression. Why was it like this, Martha wondered. Why did love seem to come with a subversive edge of boredom attached, tenderness with irritation? Or was that just her? ‘I only said the English weren’t
famous for sex, that’s all. Like the Boat Race, in out, in out, in out, then everyone collapsed over their oars.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Didn’t mean you.’
‘No, I can recognize accurate flattery when I hear it. What everyone needs, I seem to remember. Prevents wars, we were saying.’ Paul thought: What have I done wrong? Why are we here, suddenly, like this, growling at one another in the dark? A moment ago it was fine. A moment ago I liked you and loved you; now I just love you. That’s frightening.
‘Oh, tell me another story, Paul.’ She didn’t want to fight.
He didn’t want to either. ‘Another story.’ He let a little resentment burn off in the silence. ‘Well, I was going to tell you about Beethoven and the village policeman. The one I told Sir Jack.’
Martha stiffened. She liked to leave Sir Jack in the office. Paul kept bringing him home. Now he was in bed with them. Well, maybe this once.
‘Right. I picture the scene. Side by side in the gents. What was he humming?’
‘The Kreutzer. Second movement. Adagio espressivo. Not that that’s directly relevant. Anyway, what happened. One morning, back whenever it was – eighteen something, I suppose; the point is, he was already famous as a composer – Beethoven got up early and went for a walk. He was a bit scruffy, as you may know. He put on this ragged old coat, and he didn’t have a hat, which all respectable people who weren’t great composers did have, and he set out along the canal tow-path near where he lived. He must have been thinking about his music, hearing it in his head, and not paying attention to anything else, because he walked and walked and all of a sudden found himself at the end of the canal, at the canal basin. He didn’t know where he was, so he started looking in at people’s windows. Well, this was a respectable part of Germany, or whatever it was called then, and naturally instead of asking what he wanted or offering him a cup of coffee, they called the local constable and had him arrested as a vagrant. He was surprised by this turn of events, to say the least, and protested to the policeman. He said, “But Officer, I am Beethoven.” And the policeman replied, “Of course you are – why not?” ’
He stopped, but Martha’s instinct for the rhythms of male narration didn’t fail. She waited.
‘And then – that’s right – and then the constable explained why he was arresting him. He said, “You’re a tramp. Beethoven doesn’t look like this.” ’
Martha smiled in the dark, realized he couldn’t see her, and reached an arm across to him. ‘That’s a good story, Paul.’
They had pulled back from wherever they were heading because they’d both wanted to. What if one of them hadn’t? What if both? As she fell asleep, she wondered about two things. Why, even in bed, they still referred to Sir Jack by his title. And why Beethoven thought he was lost. All he had to do was turn round and follow the canal back to where he lived. Or was that the logic of lesser mortals?
Later that night she awoke to thoughts of sex. She listened to an echo of her own voice. I’ll settle for good, she had said. Settling already, Martha, isn’t it a bit early for that? Oh, I don’t know, after all, everyone settles. Not you, Martha, you’ve always lived your life not settling, that’s why you’re not … settled.
—Look, I only said that the sex was very enjoyable but it wasn’t Carcassonne. Why’s that keeping you awake? It’s not as if it’s the opposite of Carcassonne, whatever that might be. Chernobyl. Alaska. The Guildford by-pass. And anyway, relationships aren’t just about sex.
—Yes they are, Martha, that’s exactly what they’re about, this early. It’s not as if your previous relationships had their beginnings in pottery classes or bell-ringing, is it? Then it might not matter.
—Look, it’s just getting going, this relationship.
—It’s just getting going and instead of all that old hopefulness and lovely self-deception and … ambition you used to have, you’re making sensible adjustments and sensible excuses.
—No I’m not.
—Yes you are. You’re using words like very enjoyable.
—Well, maybe I’m getting middle-aged.
—You said it.
—Then I’ll unsay it. Maybe I’m getting mature. And not so self-deceiving. It’s different now. It feels different. I respect Paul.
—Oh dear. Doesn’t it feel like settling down to hear the Lives of the Great Composers?
—No, it feels like this: no games, no deceptions, no pretence, no betrayal.
—Four negatives make a positive?
—Shut up, shut up. Yes, by the way, they might. So shut up.
—Didn’t say a word, Martha. Sleep well. Just out of interest, why do you think you woke up?
A BRIEF HISTORY OF SEXUALITY in the case of Paul Harrison would be briefer than in the case of Martha Cochrane:
—inchoate yearnings for girls in general, and since girls in general, or at least girls en masse in his particular vicinity, wore white ankle socks, green plaid skirts to mid-calf because their mothers knew they would grow into them, and white blouses with green ties, this was his initial paradigm.
—specific yearning for Kim, a friend of his sister’s, who was learning the viola, who came round to the house one Sunday morning and made him realize (which he had not done on the mere evidence of his sister) that girls not dressed in school uniform could make the lips parch, the mind fog, and the underpants bulge in a way that girls at school never could. Kim, who was two years older than he was, took no notice of him, or appeared not to, which amounted to the same thing. He once said to his sister, nonchalantly, ‘How’s Kim?’ She had looked at him carefully, then giggled almost enough to make herself throw up.
—the discovery of girls in magazines. Except that they clearly weren’t girls but women. Women with large perfect breasts, medium-sized perfect breasts, and small perfect breasts. The sight of them made his brain press outwards against his skull. They were all of unimpeachable beauty, even the rough, slaggy-looking ones; perhaps especially them. And the parts which weren’t their breasts, and which initially rendered him quite dumb with wonder, were also surprisingly various in layout and physiology, but never less than wholly perfect. These women seemed to him as inaccessible as goat crags to a mole. They were the deodorized, depilated aristocracy; he was a smelly, ragged peasant.
—he still loved Kim, though.
—but he found that he could also love magazine women at the same time. And among them he had his favourites and his fidelities. The ones he thought would be kind and understanding, and show him how to do it; and then the others, who once he had learnt how to do it would really show him how to do it; and then a third category, of fauns, waifs, and innocents, whom, in the fullness of time, he would show how to do it. He tore out photo-spreads of the women who pierced his heart, and kept them under his mattress. To avoid crushing them (an impracticality as well as a sacrilege) he stored them in a stiff-backed manilla envelope. After a while he had to buy another one.
—as the girls at school grew older, their skirts rose from mid-calf to knee level. He hung around in groups of boys looking at groups of girls. He didn’t think he would ever, ever be able to handle being alone with a girl (who wasn’t his sister). It was much easier to be alone with magazine women. They always seemed to understand him when he had sex with them. And another thing: you were meant to feel sad after sex, but he never did. Just disappointment that he had to wait a few minutes before he could crank the old system up again. He bought a third manilla envelope.
—one day in the playground Geoff Glass told him an intricate, confidential story about a travelling salesman away from home for long periods of time and what he did when he couldn’t find a woman. There was this, and then there was that, and sometimes for a change, because he didn’t want the landlady spying on him, he would do it in the bath. Well, you know what it looks like in the bath – whereupon Paul, not wanting the story to stop, had said ‘Yes’ instead of ‘No,’ whereupon Geoff Glass started shouting to the playground, ‘Harrison knows wh
at it looks like in the bath.’ He realized that sex meant pitfalls.
—he realized this further when he came home from school and discovered that his mother, in the course of spring-cleaning, had decided to turn his mattress.
—for a time he kept in cryptographic form, in the back of a maths textbook where his mother would never look, a graph of dermal eruption plotted against the sex he had with the lost magazine women. The conclusions were inconclusive, or at least not dissuasive. He found that he remembered Cheryl and Wanda and Sam and Tiffany and April and Trish and Lindie and Jilly and Billie and Kelly and Kimberley in startling detail. Sometimes he took their memories into the bath with him. In bed, he didn’t have to worry about keeping the light on. He worried instead about whether he would ever meet a real woman, or girl, who would inspire in him the same ferocious carnality. He understood how men died for love.
—someone told him that if you did it left-handed, it felt like someone else doing it to you. Perhaps; except that it felt like someone else’s left hand, and you wondered why they didn’t use their right.
—then, quite unexpectedly, there was Christine, who didn’t mind the fact that he wore glasses, and at seventeen years and one month was three months older than him, which she thought was a nice sort of difference. He agreed, as he did with everything she said. He found himself, in the parallel universe of real life, allowed to do the things he had previously dreamed of. With Christine he burst into a world of condom-unrolling and menstruation, of being allowed to put his hands anywhere (anywhere within reason, and nowhere dirty) while helping baby-sit her youngest brother; of dizzying joy and social responsibility. When she pointed at some bauble in a lighted shop window and cooed with a strange longing he found uniquely feminine, he felt like Alexander the Great.
—Christine wanted to know where they were going. He said, ‘I thought the cinema.’ She burst into tears. He realized that agreement and misunderstanding could easily co-exist.
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