Janice Gentle Gets Sexy

by Mavis Cheek

  She saw her father, Mr Perth, duster in one hand, Boy George

  T-shirt in the other, laughing as a customer selected dog turds and hot sweets. And then Mrs Perth again, who, after his death, retired to the centre of Birmingham, having seen, as she said, quite enough of the open horizon. She would not sell the shop, only lease it, since she was contemptuous and unbelieving that the lure of the Costa del Sol would endure. Skin cancer proved her right and, with a last triumphant flourish, she went back to her trade, bought tin buckets now that plastic was outcast, raffia instead of rubber, and did very well. Now she lived in self-paid-for comfort in an old folk's home suburban to Birmingham. Sylvia saw her mother as she was now, and saw herself on the rare occasions she visited her, dressing down for the part of humble daughter, struggling into a chain-store frock and shoes, buying low-brow chocolates as advertised on TV, bringing with her the latest Janice Gentle in paperback — a double-edged irony which Sylvia enjoyed — travelling by bus from the station. These were her extreme moments of penance and a goodly reminder of how not to end up.

  Mrs Perth's insight deserted her when it came to her daughter. She never suspected that she had become rich, as she never suspected the truth about Sylvia's unmarried state. She saw her daughter as comfortably well off and dull to drabness, seldom free to visit her, being tied to London to earn her wage.

  'If you made more of yourself,' she said through a montelimar on Sylvia's last visit, 'there's still no reason even at your age why you couldn't get yourself a well-to-do husband. One who could help you a bit with the business. No reason why you shouldn't get on the gravy train.' With sticky fingers she picked up the paperback of Janice Gentle's latest. 'See this? She's a winner. Better than that Betty Cartland woman. Bit realer, bit more meat to it, I always feel as if I know her people. They could live next door, really. Do you know a Janice Gentle book once made me cry?' She nodded her head in personal wonderment. 'Thanks for bringing it. Chocolate?'

  Despite the pain Sylvia chortled: discovering the truth might kill her mother off, too. Hah, hah, that'd be ironic . . .

  She gasped. The cell seemed airless. Rohanne Bulbecker. First her voice, then her face floated, swam into the closed-in space. Why ever had she said those final words to her in the restaurant?

  'Over my dead body, Rohanne. Over my dead body, Rohanne Bulbecker, dear . . .'

  Ho, ho . . .

  Ho.

  Chapter Six

  OVER SYlvia Perth's dead body Janice put several slightly used tea towels, the first things which came to hand. She had wedged the lift door with one of Sylvia's handmade Corizon shoes, and from below the lift shaft came the sound of a frustrated would-be ascendant. Janice never had, and certainly did not now want, social confrontation with any of the other tenants or their acquaintances, so, having done all that she felt she could under the circumstances, she went back into her own flat and pushed the door to. The screen of the word processor blinked at her, mocking. Phoenix Rising, it said, and Janice felt a terrible emptiness in the pit of her stomach.

  As she passed the table with the scones, she picked one up and bit into it, which calmed her a little. That, at least, had a sense of reality. She looked at the jam but it no longer enticed. Its redness was a bit too lurid and alive; apricot, she found herself thinking, it should have been apricot, a far less angry and disturbing colour. As she shuffled across to the telephone, she wondered why she had never thought of it before. Apricot. Pale scones, white cream and the gentle, translucent gold of a precocious fruit.

  She telephoned the caretaker with no idea of what she would say and waited for him to speak first. 'Yes?' he rapped out loudly.

  Janice jumped. 'My agent has just died halfway out of the lift,' she said. 'Fifth floor. Could you come up, Mr Jones?'

  Then she dialled the emergency services, thought Ambulance, but said Police, and went back to the table again, waiting and listening as she chewed and swallowed, hoping it would all go away.

  Mr Jones, who had been pickling onions, thought it was his hearing-aid on the blink again. He stirred the chillis and peppercorns into the boiling vinegar and hoped that the sieved raspberries with which he was experimenting would colour the onions as positively as they had coloured his fingers. Sighing, he turned the pan down to simmer, and picked up his toolbox. By rights he ought to stop and put on his boiler suit, but it was a warm day. Tenants, he thought, tenants! There was always something. He knocked the handle of the pan slightly and it slopped some of the vinegary juice on to his bag and his shirt. His already darkened brow darkened more. He looked extremely fierce.

  Out of his basement door he came, slowly, grudgingly, and with the hot odour of acidic onions wafting around him. At the front entrance to the building he paused to look up at the sky, took a deep breath and closed his eyes, enjoying, just for a moment, the afternoon peace which should have been his by rights. He took another, deeper breath and felt rather uncharacteristically that life was quite good after all. And then he changed his mind. He remembered the raspberry juice, he remembered being disturbed, and he resumed his fierceness through closed lids as the tranquillity was violated by the ear-splitting sound of a siren (nothing wrong with the batteries, after all) and the protesting squeal of hard-pressed brakes. He winced, and then winced again as something jabbed him in the ribs. He opened his eyes and met an excited pair, shaded by a cap of authority, which stared poppingly into his. A voice, thrill-edged, spoke rapidly and with a hint of Transatlantic Patrolman.

  'Where is it, then? Come on. Where's the body?'

  'What body?' said Mr Jones, not unreasonably.

  Sergeant Pitter looked at the tool-box and noticed its owner was sweating, he saw that the hand which grasped the tool-box was bloody. There were also suspicious stains on the tool-box itself and on the man's garments. Oh, joy of joys. His heart, a somewhat depressed organ for most of the time, leapt within his breast. This was no hoax call from a bored housewife — this was real.

  'You do not have to say anything,' he began (more joy, how he had longed to utter those words), 'but anything you do say may be. . .'

  Mr Jones, anxious about leaving his pickling spice in too long, turned on his heel. He had done nothing wrong, his conscience was clear and he could not make head nor tail of what the policeman was saying. It was probably raffle tickets. It always was raffle tickets. Well, poking him in the ribs and being aggressive about it weren't going to get him digging in his pockets. And if the raspberry extract simmered for too long, it would be jam. He entered the block of flats swiftly. Sergeant Pitter danced after him.

  'Cover the back entrance,' he said to his driver. 'Thinks he's 007,' muttered the constable, but he went to try and find one.

  To Mr Jones Sergeant Pitter continued excitedly, following him in,'. . . may be taken down and used in evidence . . .'

  'Ah, Jones,' said a tall, thin man with a walking-cane and a respectable air. 'Lift's up the spout again.'

  Mr Jones lacked humility. 'Use the stairs, then,' he said peremptorily. Afternoons were definitely supposed to be his quiet time.

  'Now, look here, Jones,' said the respectable man, waving his cane, 'you know perfectly well my leg's dicky.'

  It was beyond even Sergeant Pitter's hopeful imagination that this could be an impromptu exchange between felons. 'Excuse me, sir,' said Sergeant Pitter sadly, 'do you know this man?'

  The man tapped his cane, prepared to speak, but Sergeant Pitter had gone, trailing the shadow of the absenting Mr Jones.

  'Who are you?' the sergeant puffed at Mr Jones's resolute backview. But in his heart a creeping despondency told him that he already knew. The evidence for a trained police officer was overwhelming. This was not, after all, the Boston Strangler. This was a genuine caretaker, and the sweat, like his own, was to do with the air temperature and sudden exertion. No doubt the redness had some legitimate source, too. He followed him, keeping his distance, for despite his disappointing reassurances about normality, the man smelled very strange.

>   On the fifth floor Janice peeped out as she heard footsteps approaching. She too was sweating, both hot from the day and cold from fear. The point was, she argued to herself, that Sylvia Perth was now deceased. No amount of standing around and debating cause and effect would change that. It was the ultimate truth and required nothing further than its acceptance. Therefore, she was not going to communicate with any of these people. She was no good at it, didn't want it, and despite the fact that Sylvia Perth had been on her way to visit her - well, she hadn't exactly arrived, had she? Therefore, she - it - was not Janice's responsibility. She did not want responsibility, she did not want participatory dialogue. That was why supermarkets were so nice. Perhaps, she thought, she could just say, 'There it is, take it away,' and go back into her own safe world to mourn in peace. It was, you might say, but the shell, the soul having clearly departed. Nevertheless, if Janice was a poor communicator, she was not a fool. She would have to say more than this, and besides, there were her tea towels to consider. She wished she had never taken the things out there now. In any case they looked shamefully incongruous and by no means freshly laundered.

  At the penultimate turn of the stairs a depressed Sergeant Pittef paused and listened. There was no doubt about it, the plodding Mr Jones was whistling. Sergeant Pitter became even more depressed. The caretaker would not whistle unless he were innocent.

  'Stop that,' he called.

  'Eh?' Mr Jones turned, confused.

  'Stop that whistling,' said the sergeant tersely. And he wondered how Mr Jones could apparently continue the noise while not moving his lips.

  'Eh?' said Mr Jones again, and he tapped his earpiece. The whistling stopped.

  'That's better,' said Sergeant Pitter, feeling more secure now that the authority of his uniform had apparently had its effect.

  'Just round here, officer’ hazarded Mr Jones. 'Next landing.'

  They turned the corner and the policeman's heart sank.

  There was no body to be seen. Merely a pile of laundry sticking out of the lift doors. Tea towels, by the look of it. A hoax? A joker? Someone would pay for this. He looked up and saw a door move infinitesimally, caught the gleam of a bespectacled eye peering out, a bespectacled eye that was not without a hint of guilty rectitude. He pounced.

  'Gotcha,' he cried, hauling Janice out into the corridor, or attempting to. But she was heavier and larger than the crack in the door suggested. Much heavier, much larger and, more to the point, unwilling to be moved.

  He felt his back go ping, muscles spasmed, the pain was savage. He released Janice's Rubenesque shoulder, sank to his knees and, crawling, turned himself round. And it was in so doing, as Mr Jones whipped off the tea towels, that Sergeant Pitter came face to face, quite literally, with his first stiff. Big red tongue, livid cheeks and popping, accusing eyes. Sergeant Pitter attempted to retreat on all fours.

  'What about the kiss of life, then?' asked Mr Jones.

  Sergeant Pitter retreated even further and bumped up against Janice's legs. 'Do you know this person?' he began, attempting to swivel his neck to address the quivering Janice . . . And then he fainted.

  Janice let out a hearty scream. Not for the sight of her once living agent, nor for the sight of Mr Jones attempting the kiss of life on her once living agent (part of a caretaker's job, first aid to the injured), but because she had a presentiment that this whole episode was the beginning of the end of her peaceful enclosure. Janice could not quite mourn for Sylvia, for she had been too afraid of her, but she could mourn for the passing of her protection, her greatest gift.

  Well, nothing was to be gained by standing out here and getting caught up in all this.

  She moved swiftly.

  Mr Jones gave up and replaced the tea towels. Sergeant Pitter murmured in his unconsciousness. Janice slipped back into her apartment and closed the door, but not even the pale familiarity of her apartment soothed her. She picked up the jam dish and washed the contents away down the kitchen sink as if she had been the murderer. Then she tidied away the table and the things that had been set out for two, switched off the screen's insistent eye, and waited on the settee for the knock to come, with a Mars bar and Chaucer's Criseyde. Double solace.

  The entrance by Troilus into his lady's chamber while Pandarus pleads the hero's case, she reads. A favourite piece of Janice's. And she sucks heardly at the chocolate bar.

  This Troilus ful soone on knees hym sette Ful sobrely, right be hyre beddes hed . ..

  Momentarily she allows herself to transpose Troilus for Dermot Poll but buries the thought of it immediately. Their union had begun with the purity of a lily flower and who was to say it might not stay that way? Like the chaste love of Dante and Beatrice? She reads on. It is all much safer in books.

  Reading Troilus and Criseyde serves only to increase Janice's vagueness about sex. In practical terms Janice was comfortably vague. Sometimes when she was sitting in the bath she would look down, past the three large rolls of white flesh, and observe that mysterious place, deep in a forest, without being at all privy to its secrets. She tried not to think that in order to get her both parents must have experienced this thing at least once. But this was such a disturbing notion that she usually pulled out the plug at its inception and let the thought vanish down the gurgling waste. One day, she always vowed, one day ... In the meantime her books did not contain any reference to it because she did not want to get such an important thing wrong. Love she knew, for love was within her. But sex? She knew it not. And she had no desire to invent it.

  She reads on, still waiting for the knock, still taking comfort from Troilus, who placed his faith in love so strongly that it reflected itself back upon him, sweetly blinding him from the truth that its object would finally betray. The bedroom scene, Janice Gentle thinks, is one of the most enchanting in fourteenth-century literature. As a matter of fact, thinks Janice, she had rather hoped Sylvia Perth would take the role of Pandarus in the bedchamber herself and sort of throw Dermot into bed beside her, as Pandarus threw Troilus in next to Criseyde, once Janice had located him. Now that isn't going to happen, is it? She sighs. Life has been seriously unkind, considering that all she has ever really wanted is to seek, to find and love and worship back.

  'But al shal passe; and thus take I my leve.' The noises outside continue. At least, so far, the knock has not come. '. . . thynketh al nys but a faire,' she reads. 'This world, that passeth soone as floures faire . . .'

  Yes, she thinks, that is the tragedy. That the world is so potentially fair, yet made so ugly. A deep and tragic beauty. She is best set apart from it until the time comes when it will bloom for her. Christine de Pisan knew this; Langland knew this; Chaucer knew this. Life is a journey in which the valiant banner of beauty must be flown. She will not write of ugliness. How brave, she thinks, those Canterbury pilgrims were, travelling the ancient and dangerous byways with only their stories and their small number to keep them safe. But she will also be ready to travel when the time comes. Alas, it seems more remote than ever. With Sylvia Perth gone, to whom can she turn? And where can she get enough money to continue this Quest of hers? (She remembers the bank manager and shudders. Never. Never. No. No. No.) At least the travellers of yore knew exactly where they were going. Janice doesn't even know that yet. At least Canterbury Cathedral was accessible, even if footpads and forests made it tricky. And at least they all had enough money sewn about their persons. Janice doesn't know how much, if any, is at her disposal. She sits on, hearing the noises outside, wishing they would go away, waiting for the demanding knock to come as Gothic souls might wait for Armageddon. And she decides to do the only thing possible in the circumstances.

  Nothing.

  After all, Sylvia Perth turned up magically upon her doorstep all those years ago. Why should not another? It is as likely as anything else.

  She continues to read, turning her mind from the hubbub beyond her door. On the page all is serene and elegant. Vous ou Mort. What are the oaths and scuffles in the corrido
r to that?

  Janice sits silent, save for the flicking of a page and the slightest murmuring of the words as she reads. Across the room the machine sits silent. It, too, is waiting for a spark that will kindle it to life.

  *

  The Little Blonde Secretary puts the cover over her machine, tidies her desk and takes her bag to the Ladies'. She puts paper all over the seat and does a little pee before coming out, washing her hands, and fluffing up her hair. She peers at her eyebrows, which need tweezing, she thinks, and returns to her office. Through the half-open door she sees the Boss Masculine, cigarette in mouth, telephone at ear, brush one of his shoulders with his free hand. Disgusting, she thinks, and heads for the homeward tube, her little metal heels clacking quickly along the pavement. A workman gives her a wolf whistle, to which she returns a haughty look. All the same, she takes it as her due. She takes care of her appearance and cannot grumble if they wish to show their appreciation. She is feeling slightly miffed since the plain (and slightly smelly) girl who works the switchboard has announced today that she is having a baby. The Little Blonde Secretary was surprised to find out that she was married at all, really, given that hairstyle. Clack, clack, clack, go her heels and she clatters down the station steps in a trice.