Born of Woman

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Fantastic smile, Jennifer—the first one I’ve really believed in. Try and hold it, will you?’ Oz was shouting against the brutal interruption of a Boeing. ‘OK—relax now. I want to move to the other side of the roof and get those tower-blocks in as background.’

  Jennifer picked up her skirt, hop-scotched the puddles, tried to protect her hair from the sudden gusts of wind which blew grit and litter across the wasteland of the car park—thirteen storeys, most of them half-empty. Here, on the roof, there were no cars at all, save Jonathan’s hired Mercedes shouting scarlet against sallow concrete stained with bird-shit. Jonathan himself kept bravely smiling as he helped to lug Oz’s equipment and Jennifer’s props across the roof until they were all three staring out, not at Tyne and city, but at cranes and factories, wharves and sheds, with a raw new housing development cutting across the bleak industrial landscape. Oz was aiming for a photographic contrast between the old and quaint and rural, and the new urban brutish. He made sure the jutting rectangles of the high-rise flats cut behind the flounces of Jennifer’s skirt and frilly parasol. The light was perfect. Clouds lifting, sun shining on the puddles, atmospheric haze shrouding squat and ugly factories, tangled motorways.

  Jennifer shivered. She was still damp from the shots he had taken earlier. It amazed her how they got through so much film. One or two quick snaps were surely quite sufficient, but every photographer she had met so far went on flashing, flashing, flashing—changing films, changing lenses, even changing cameras—jumping on to benches, crawling on their stomachs, rearranging props and towns and scenery to achieve some subtle or sensational effect.

  ‘Look, I think I’ll use that puddle. Get some reflection and some light effects. Can you move nearer to it, darling. That’s good—almost in it, please. Now bend over a little. More. Put a hand up to your hair. No, don’t hide your face like that. Just rest the fingers along the chin. That’s great, Jennifer! Terrific! Jonathan, the skirt please. It’s dragging in the puddle—BLAST!’

  The rain was suddenly cascading from the sky, as if God had let out the plug from the floor of heaven. They all three rushed for cover, Oz gathering up his gear, while Jonathan held an umbrella over Jennifer as she struggled with skirt, flowers and flounces.

  They stood listening to the rain nag and spit against the concrete struts. All they could see now were the tallest buildings—multi-storey super-markets, factory chimneys, grimy steeples of half forgotten churches. Roads and river, shops and people, all had fallen away. Jennifer stared down through haze and smoke. She felt strangely out of touch, as if she had soared up to some exalted yet bleak and empty plane, where there was nothing man-sized, nothing human-scale. Even the rain seemed colder, greyer here. Oz frowned into his light meter.

  ‘I suggest we make a get-away. Find somewhere less exposed. I know—how about the railway station? I can get some sensational shots in there, with that marvellous cast-iron roof and all the sidings.’

  ‘But won’t it be terribly crowded?’ Jennifer objected.

  ‘All the better. It’ll help publicity.’ Jonathan was already stuffing props into his capacious leather holdall. ‘I’ll drive us, shall I?’

  Jonathan only existed to be helpful. He was so endlessly attentive, he made Jennifer uneasy. He soothed, oiled, balmed, smiled; fetched and carried, scraped and bowed. He picked up bills before they could embarrass her, waved away bad weather or bad taste, assured her she was fantastic when she had hashed or stuttered her way through a chat-show or an interview, eased in and out of traffic jams, checked timetables, booked planes. He always had aspirins in his pocket and Kleenex in his car, a smile to charm a journalist, a joke to calm her nerves. He acted as nanny and alarm clock, chauffeur, guide and God. With Jonathan, she was never late or lost, rushed or fazed or mobbed. Neither was she happy. His presence stultified her. Her face ached with the strain of endless small-talk. Even with this photographer, she would rather have been alone. Jonathan inhibited her, made it less easy to take up the easy natural poses Oz demanded.

  Oz himself was continually in motion, bending back, swooping sideways, crouching on his haunches. Part of his job, presumably, to find exciting camera angles, but she found herself disturbed by it, kept glancing at his body as it rippled through his clothes. He was wearing skin-tight jeans with tiny brass studs outlining the back pockets, which clung against a narrow bottom and made Jonathan’s porridge-coloured flannels look effete and middle-aged. His hair was long, thick, dark and artfully untidy, his face pale beneath the tinted sunglasses. She hadn’t seen his eyes. He called her (and everybody) darling. She tried to call him nothing. Names like Oz stuck in her throat like gristle. Perhaps it was short for Oscar, Oswald, Osbert—all of which sounded both idiotic and intimidating. Names had been a nightmare in the last few weeks. She had met so many people who immediately called her Jen or Jenny (or darling) while she was still struggling to remember who they were or what they did.

  Jonathan took her arm and, braving the rain, dashed from their shelter to the car. He held the door while she climbed into the back, followed by Oz and both his cameras.

  ‘Know the way, do you, Jon? It’s only a matter of minutes.’

  Jonathan wound round and round, down and down, until thirteen storeys steadied into floor level, pin-men swelled into human size again, and the clouds soared back to their position overhead. Jonathan paid (and charmed) the attendant and whisked them northwards across the High Level Bridge. Jennifer stared down at the water, dilapidated warehouses throwing grotesque and jagged shadows across oil slicks and driftwood. So this was the famous Tyne. She inched towards the window. Oz’s thigh kept jiggling against her own.

  ‘Oz …’ She dared his name. ‘I’d like a few shots with the book in them, if possible.’ Matthew had told her always to insist. The book must appear every time that she did. She was only its servant and ambassador.

  ‘Sorry, darling. That’s been done to death. I’m trying to present you in a different way—to point the contrast, if you like. We live in an age of planes and high-speed trains, tower-blocks and microchips, yet you’ve chosen to bask in a country cottage, making cheeses and lavender bags, and dressing like an Edwardian recluse.’

  Jennifer swallowed. The only place she was living at the moment was a room in Matthew’s house. Their Cobham place was sold and both allotments had been given up as well—the original plot for vegetables, and the second plot they had rented after coming back from Hernhope and made into a herb garden modelled on Hester’s own. She no longer grew her saxifrage and comfrey, her carrots and her beans. Her cheese-making equipment was piled in cardboard boxes in Matthew’s garage. Now she bought her cheese plastic-wrapped, on shopping trips with Susie to Waitrose or Fine Fare. As for dressing like an Edwardian recluse, the last garment she had purchased—under Susie’s tutelage—was a pair of scarlet jeans two sizes smaller than her usual safe and roomy skirts.

  In fact, the greater the fanfare for the book, the more she was abandoning the very things it stood for. Take this trip. She was staying in a sprawling industrial city in a glass and concrete hotel, dashing about in cars and planes, stuffing herself with junk foods, swallowing pills to help her sleep, then washing them out with stimulants and coffee to wake her up again. All the natural herbal homely things which she and Hester had been preaching to the world had no place in her schedule. She was the Natural Woman leading an ersatz unnatural life; raving to reporters about basic homecrafts when she had neither home nor craft nor garden, hailing nature and nurture without sex or seed or child.

  Oz’s denimed thigh was still nudging against her skirt. She hoped it was only the motion of the car throwing them together. ‘You must miss that place in the country,’ he was saying. ‘What’s it called—Hernhope? I’ve read the book, you know—well, most of it. Incredible house it looks. You’ll be going back there, will you, after this?’

  ‘Er … no. Not quite yet.’ She hadn’t even seen the place for over a year. Molly continued to keep an eye on it, while Mat
thew still made problems about the missing Will. May be he was right about all the legal and financial complications, but all the same, it suited him to keep her and Lyn at Putney, especially now he was absent in Australia, and she and Susie were sharing duties as Cook and Nanny. She had to admit, though, she was quite enjoying it. Susie made things fun, persuaded her into instant foods or take-away, crazy picnics, sudden impulsive sprees. She wished Susie was with her now. She missed her constantly, as if she had known her half a lifetime, instead of a few short weeks. Susie had sneaked into her life like a keepsake in her handbag, a photo by her bed. Susie was so easy. She didn’t brood like Lyn did, or need asbestos gloves and armour before she dared get close, or add all the world’s anguish to a headache or a tiff. Even now, when they were parted, she found herself using Susie-phrases—chuffed, knackered, chatted-up—choosing Susie-food. Last night at dinner, she had ordered cocktails instead of her usual boring grape fruit juice—gaudy concoctions piled with fruit and froth, scoffed them all for Susie. (Scoffed was another Susie word.) She had even …

  ‘Right, here we are.’ Jonathan drew up in front of the imposing stone facade of Newcastle’s Central Station.

  ‘Thanks, Jon.’ Oz jumped out after Jennifer. ‘We’ll see you on the platform. The car park’s just a few yards on. Could you be a sport and buy some vegetables? You know, leeks, carrots, sweetcorn—things with shape and texture. Try and get carrots with those feathery bits on top. They make a more interesting picture.’

  Oz took Jennifer’s arm and steered her through cars and crowds into the station, stopping a moment beneath the soaring stone arches of its entrance.

  ‘You’re quite a girl, you know,’ he murmured, turning her to face him. ‘Fancy a drink this evening? I’d like to get to know you better.’

  Jennifer blushed. She wasn’t the sort of person photographers chatted up. She was too pale and dull and homely, trapped and barred by Lyn, Matthew, Jonathan, who towered like a palisade around her. It was probably only the make-up which had fooled him. She had larded it on to woo and please the cameras. He would be cruelly disillusioned if he saw her naked-faced and boring, without her fancy dress.

  ‘N … no, I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m having dinner with a man from the Newcastle Journal.’

  ‘Can’t you escape? Just for an hour or so?’

  ‘Not … really. It’s a formal interview. And, anyway, Jonathan will be there and he’s my … chaperon.’ She tried to laugh, make it sound the joke it wasn’t.

  ‘I ‘ll be your chaperon instead. I’d like that.’

  Jennifer smiled. ‘I’m sorry, but it really isn’t possible. Those dinners last for hours, you see, and then I’ve got to pack and …’

  ‘OK. No hassle. If you’re free, call me. If not, forget it. There’s my card. I’m always up late.’

  Jennifer took the card and slipped it in her handbag. She would give it to Susie as a souvenir. She had been collecting things for Susie all through the trip—silly gifts, stolen menus, after-dinner mints. On her first and longer tour, it was Lyn she had bought presents for, Lyn she had phoned and fretted over. Now he had faded to a vague and gloomy presence. She had seen very little of him in these last few weeks. He had refused to take any leave, but had been working as hard and conscientiously as if he were a Matthew, roughing out designs for the firm’s next two books. So she had embarked instead on a sort of holiday with Susie—Susie and the boys. They had gone to zoos and fairgrounds, stately homes and cricket matches, booked day-trips to the sea or just messed about making fudge or playing tag or hopscotch under the garden hose. If Lyn was sulking, she wasn’t there to notice, and at night she simply went to sleep, since he offered nothing better. She had confessed to an incredulous Susie about the non-existent sex.

  ‘You’re kidding! No one goes that long without it. There must be something wrong with him.’

  ‘There isn’t, Susie. Well, nothing physical. It’s just that …’ Her voice had petered out. All the sympathy she had felt for Lyn, the forgiving explanations, the endless kind excuses, seemed merely fatuous now. Susie’s own contempt and irritation were disturbingly infectious.

  ‘If I was you, I wouldn’t waste your time on him. There’s plenty of other blokes around.’

  Susie was right, it seemed. She had already received two eager propositions from men at the hotel and now a famous photographer had asked her out for a drink. Susie would approve of Oz. She was opposed to men in general, but she liked them in particular—especially when they had Hasselblads dangling round their necks, Equity admission cards weighing down their pockets. Perhaps she ought to go out with him just for Susie’s sake. Or the sake of those brass studs. She could see them now—the perfect frame they made for his taut provoking bottom as he bent to change the film.

  He stood up, strode ahead, barged his way through the barrier without a platform ticket, then started pacing up and down, checking angles and locations. She followed nervously.

  ‘Right, Jennifer, I want to pose you in the centre of that footbridge. There’s some fantastic textural detail with the criss-cross pattern of the bridge leading the eye to the girders of the roof, and those railway lines echoing the curve and …’

  Jennifer tried to appreciate his fantastic textural detail. All she could see were crowds of impatient passengers struggling to cross the footbridge with their luggage and their pushchairs while she and Jonathan blocked their way or delayed important journeys. Other people stopped to stare, creating more obstruction.

  ‘Fantastic!’ Oz was murmuring, as she arranged her arm against a complex intersection of metal curves and struts. Fantastic was like darling—a word which had lost its heart. Yet she clung to it like some addict to his fix. If they said just ‘good’ or even ‘excellent’, she felt a nonentity, a failure. The trouble was, the book had made her vain and introspective, fretting about her looks or her performance, her speeches or her image. She felt like a pop-star with her attendant gaggle of groupies, tried to ignore them, smile only for the camera. Matthew had told her to treat the camera as a friend. Oz had added, ‘Flirt with it. Woo it like a lover.’ She saw it rather as a snooper and a spy, sleuthing her up and down the city, in and out of cul-de-sacs, jumping out from corners, breathing down her neck. Susie would adore it, pose and pout and swank for it, respond to its advances.

  ‘Now, I’d like you to look mysterious—stare into the distance, raise your head a bit.’ Oz had stopped being the Romeo and become the professional again. She could hardly hear him against the clank and roar of trains, the cackle of loudspeakers.

  ‘This is a platform alteration. The 15.50 to London King’s Cross, will now depart from Platform 9. Will all passengers for London King’s Cross kindly proceed to …’

  She longed just to drop everything and run. King’s Cross was only forty minutes’ drive from Putney. It might be dry there—dry and bright, Susie in the garden with the boys. A week ago, she had daubed them all with body paint—Hugh and Robert red with spots, even the solemn Charles a zizzy green. They had used an ice-cold garden hose to yell and gasp it off. No one said ‘Be quiet’ or ‘Don’t be puerile’. Matthew couldn’t see them from Australia, and Lyn was in his office in the City. After that, they had a barbeque. With Susie there, things which had loomed and threatened seemed somehow less important—Hernhope, house sales, even sex and babies—all took second place to charcoal-burnt chipolatas, ten-pin bowling, boat trips on the Thames.

  ‘Jennifer, you’re flagging, darling. Just one more shot and then we’ll stop, I promise.’ Oz was changing lenses again. ‘Lean forward a little, will you, and then I can get that … Ah, Jonathan, you’re back.’

  ‘Am I too late? I’m sorry.’ Jonathan’s cream suede shoes were squelching, his hair darkened and flattened by the rain. ‘The sweetcorn wasn’t easy. I got the other things, but then I had to …’

  Oz waved away the split and sodden paper bags of vegetables. ‘Don’t worry—I managed without them. Thanks all the same, but we’ll have to finis
h now. Perhaps you could drop me off on the way to your hotel?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Jonathan drove them back through traffic-jams and rainstorm, left Jennifer in her room to bath and change. Jennifer stripped off her clothes and stretched naked on the bed. Strange to think of Jonathan being homosexual. He didn’t seem sexual at all. She couldn’t imagine a panting, thrusting body beneath that immaculate facade. She was obsessed with bodies at the moment. The longer she was deprived of sex, the more she felt constantly on edge, on heat, spinning fantasies from damp and steaming denim, from gleaming teasing studs. Or perhaps it was simply Susie talking about bodies in a way she kept recalling: ‘A screw’s only like a meal’, ‘Love’s a mixture of hormones and hot air.’

  Susie brought up subjects she had avoided all her life, took the blush and censure out of sex and discussed it as freely as books or records. She somehow found it threatening and disturbing, torn between Susie’s easy-going sluttishness and her own more stolid views. Susie was still a child in some respects, yet sexually she was so much more experienced. She had slept with a score of different men, even with a woman. Susie had poured out all the details, seemed to have relished the affair.

  Jennifer had listened, shocked and yet excited. When Susie tried to kiss her, she always pulled away. Women shouldn’t kiss. Yet she found herself dwelling on the kisses, thinking about them when Susie wasn’t there childish kisses too fervent for a child’s, tasting of chewing-gum and cheap scented lipstick, overlaid with nicotine. Susie had even touched her breasts one evening—sort of casually as if it hardly mattered. When she pushed her off, Susie had pouted and called her a prude, explained that in her Women’s Group they learnt to give pleasure to their own and each other’s bodies, instead of always waiting for men to dish it out.