Varying Degrees of Hopelessness

by Lucy Ellmann

Supposing the Splendid Young Man/Robert was at the Catafalque late one night.

  And I was too.

  And we got locked in together!

  Supposing I was completely at his (the Splendid Young Man’s/Robert’s) mercy.

  Supposing he desired me fiercely, almost to the point of losing control of himself.

  Supposing he took me in his arms, and then struggled to resist kissing me, but in the end could not help himself.

  Supposing both Robert and Lionel Syms were at the Catafalque.

  Supposing they BOTH wished to take me in their arms.

  Supposing there was a fight.

  I would weep and tell them to stop it.

  Perhaps they would agree to share me.

  …!

  My thoughts on these and related matters were abruptly intruded upon when Robert popped his head round a bush and asked me to come to the pub with him that night.

  Their First Date

  I was dumbfounded.

  I was thrilled.

  I was amazed.

  It was all so sudden.

  He came to the flat at about seven and I was still washing up the supper things.

  I said I would be ready to go as soon as I’d dried the dishes.

  He said, ‘Hey, Isabel, loosen up! We’re only LIVING, you know. We don’t have to take an exam at the end of it.’

  ‘As far as we know,’ was my rather witty reply.

  So I washed and dried the dishes.

  I do not trust the laws of physics to do a proper job.

  I do not trust natural processes in general.

  I do not like or trust these things.

  Then something thrilling happened, something I had been waiting for all my life.

  At a certain point in our walk towards the pub, Robert told me to take his arm.

  ‘WHAT?’ I gasped, unused to such requests.

  ‘Take my arm,’ he said again, quietly but insistently.

  Manfully, if you must know.

  So … I … did it.

  Gently, ecstatically, but tremblingly and perhaps in retrospect a little too tentatively but it is so difficult to gauge exactly what degree of feminine bashfulness is required at precise moments, I slipped my hand into the delicious and dangerous crook of Robert’s elbow, and left it there.

  Ecstasy.

  The wonderful stiffness of his arm thrilled me, I knew not why.

  We fitted together perfectly.

  We were clearly made for each other.

  Robert then explained that he had just spotted an ex-girlfriend across the street and wanted her to think he was involved with somebody.

  It was so romantic.

  I was very flattered that he might want to appear ‘involved’ with me.

  I was completely overwhelmed.

  It was perhaps the most romantic event of my life.

  At the pub we had an argument.

  I like a man I can argue with.

  Robert said, ‘There’s a lot of history in big cities.’

  I said, ‘I don’t like history. I don’t like thinking about all those people who lived here before us. Except in historical novels.’

  ‘All I said was, there’s a lot of history in big cities,’ said Robert rather grumpily.

  Perhaps he was slightly offended that I never seemed to agree with him about anything.

  But I felt that kept things exciting.

  I went to get some more drinks, and was accosted by a man who asked me if I was Iris.

  ‘What if I am?’ I answered daringly.

  That was how I was when I was with Robert.

  He made me feel proud and defiant.

  I was certainly much too proud to THROW myself at Robert, the way Pol had.

  That seemed a meagre form of courtship to me.

  I wanted Robert to have to use all his skill and cunning to win me.

  And perhaps to take advantage of me one day when he happened to be overwhelmed with desire in an idyllic setting with the landscape unfolding beneath us.

  I had always wanted a landscape to unfold beneath me.

  I did not want to settle for second-best.

  Unfortunately, Robert showed no signs of being overcome with passion.

  After our date I felt very lonely.

  I actually seemed to have been doing all the courtship by myself.

  The tension before the date, the examination of every detail afterwards.

  What he said, then what I said, then what he said.

  This game is no fun unless two play.

  Pregnant!

  The Catafalque Institute, Purport Place, was in uproar. Not only had Dr Cragshaw disappeared into his office, permitting no one but his wife to bring him supplies. A new and unexpected worry had arisen. One of the moral certainties of life at the Catafalque Institute, despite the uncertainty of everyone’s morals, was the fact that the sole member of the weaker sex to be allowed to teach there was no longer of child-bearing age. Her much-envied absences were tolerated with the strict understanding that they were essential to her research and that, far from enjoying any special privileges, she was actually paid less than anyone else.

  And now, without consulting anyone, without even having the decency to reveal at her initial interview that she was still fertile in body as well as in mind, Dr Lotus had inexplicably become pregnant. At such a time, when the Catafalque’s funds were low and its standing in the academic world debatable, the esteemed scholars were faced with the ghastly realization that Angelica Lotus would be expecting maternity leave. The financial considerations were in fact so pressing that it was a few more days before anyone thought to enquire about Dr Lotus’s marital status. Unless she had been doing some research into this too, in Vienna or elsewhere, it was doubtful whether the whole matter could be kept from the press. All in all, the thing was not to be borne.

  Splutters was given the task of hinting to Angelica Lotus that much as her colleagues acknowledged her intentions to be of the highest calibre, it was generally felt that she should investigate recent findings on the subject of severe abnormalities in the babies of middle-aged women. And that there were also known to be serious risks to the mother when giving birth so late in life.

  This Splutters duly carried out, adding a touch of his own, to the effect that everyone had been much surprised by her sudden show of fecundity, as they had all assumed she’d given up the activity, not to say the hormones, required to produce such a state in herself, years ago. He politely offered his surprise that a woman should be having relations, particularly giving birth to any, so late in life.

  ‘Is it so unseemly?’ she asked, wearily. ‘And if so, may I ask why you continue with YOUR varied sexual doings?’

  ‘The general feeling, I’m afraid, is that it is all right for a man. It is natural for a man to remain active. As you know, WE can go on spreading our seed well into old age, touch wood.’

  ‘You don’t seem to be aware that middle-aged men are just as likely to produce damaged offspring as middle-aged women.’

  ‘My dear woman, men do not usually indulge in the procreative act for the purposes of procreation! No, although I am often rather sorry to thwart the little devils. They surge so heroically towards their goal, the victor piercing his way into the egg in triumph … as it were. But one has responsibilities, doesn’t one?’

  ‘So I’ve noticed, Splutters,’ replied Angelica darkly. ‘By the way, this heroic victor of yours. Perhaps it’s time someone straightened you out on the facts of life. The sperm is SELECTED by the egg. There is no race, no jousting competition. The egg decides which is the most genetically acceptable. YOU make it all sound like RAPE!’

  At this point, Dr Lotus did something once again that was never done at the Catafalque (mainly because no one knew exactly how much shaking the building could take without crumbling to the ground). Though small, pregnant and usually quite kind, Dr Angelica Lotus slammed her door.

  The Lotus Position

  Angelica Lotus had been
attracted in early adolescence, a formative age, to the opulent gold-mashed paintings of Gustav Klimt. The way a beautiful head would emerge from the gold for a kiss swept her off her feet. All her erotic urges focused themselves on Vienna from then on.

  As a small child she had been an evacuee, thrown from a penny-pinching, formerly wealthy family (in which the main topic of conversation was the price of pork necks at Sainsbury’s) into an even grimmer existence outside London. A bar of chocolate she’d received for the train journey was immediately taken away by the stern woman who was to look after her. ‘Stole Angie’s chocolate,’ said the three-year-old to herself again and again until the fact became bearable. But other horrors followed. She was never given enough to eat, and was left outside every Saturday night while the woman went to the pictures. And this went on for years.

  On her return home, it took three years for her to reach a normal size. By then she was fed up with mundane, rationed post-war Britain. She longed for forbidden fruit. She longed for the enemy. She finally went to Vienna to study Art History. There she met an ex-Nazi professor who taught her to enjoy being whipped. What could English Art Historians offer after that?

  Vienna was a city built on artifice, male towers and female domes topping the baroque trompe-l’œil churches. Every trick was played on the eye. Even the Danube had been swayed from its course, and its enigmatic waters polluted. Angelica Lotus allowed herself only brief visits, for fear of breaking the city’s fragile spell. She did not want to be left with a mess of meaningless Mozart records.

  The Nazi had long since been supplanted by slightly more politically sound young men, undergraduates whom she hired to help her with her research. She liked men a little plump, so fed them up with chocolate cakes and creamy coffee until the effect on their bellies was evident. Then she seduced them with Klimt, tying them up in golden robes to the tune of Strauss waltzes, sung by the Vienna Boys Choir. Atmosphere was essential. Her sexual equipment was always left behind in her Vienna flat – she had no use for suspender belts and fetishistic leather gear during her London lethargies.

  But now it was getting harder to pick up the students, and as she stiffened with age, she was tiring of ephemeral mystique and sins. She had decided on a child some time before managing to create one. But once she was determined, she found with ease an Adonis who was willing to be wined and dined and fattened up. He even turned out to possess a human cart, specially designed to be pulled by a woman (extra tackle to fit around breasts, etc.), and he knew how to use the whip.

  During one of their outings through some remote woods, Angelica dared to look back at her master, sunning himself contentedly as the cart rolled him along. She was punished for this later. He fucked her lackadaisically, she came wildly and, to her menopausal body’s eternal surprise, conceived.

  The 33-year-old Woman’s Unsuccessful Talk

  I was sorry to hear that Dr Cragshaw had disappeared without trace.

  I had hoped to borrow some of his slides for my lecture to the Workers’ Educational Association in Lewes.

  The Workers’ Educational Association of Lewes turned out to consist of six people.

  After my lecture which somehow lasted only ten minutes, I asked if they had any questions.

  One person enquired if that had been only the first half of my talk.

  Another asked why I hadn’t brought any slides.

  Then we adjourned to have some tea, which I was grateful for.

  While I drank it, further complaints were expressed about my talk.

  I had to admit I had read it rather fast.

  I kept apologizing.

  Meanwhile no one seemed the slightest bit interested in my thoughts on heterosexuality.

  The Workers of Lewes are very demanding people.

  Paris in the Spring: I

  It was ecstatic.

  It was heavenly.

  It was all clearly leading up to something.

  There had been many enjoyable, argumentative meetings.

  Shy like teenagers, we had discussed our lonely lives.

  He had told me of his career difficulties.

  He had taken me to pubs.

  He had introduced me to some of his friends.

  He had made me take his arm once.

  We had travelled in a taxi, just the two of us.

  In the exquisite darkness of the taxi, we had scrupulously avoided touching each other.

  A tantalizing occasion.

  But I feared always that my dreams might be hopeless.

  For instance, when he mentioned a pretty girl he had seen, or a beautiful one, I knew all was lost.

  I couldn’t compete on that level.

  I did not want to hear about the beauties he had known in former days.

  I, a 33-year-old virgin with increasingly dry skin on my knees and elbows.

  I, a 33-year-old virgin addicted to rearranging the food on supermarket shelves.

  I, with my limited command of philosophy.

  I, ill-read, ill-made, prone to illness of all kinds.

  And allergic to nuts.

  I.

  So I held back, however much I might have wished to catapult myself into Robert’s arms.

  Even the night he stayed and talked until three in the morning, I held back.

  Well, I didn’t want to lose my virginity at three in the morning!

  That would certainly be settling for second-best, after so many years fraught with danger and heartache and similar decision-making.

  Not that he made any attempt on my honour anyway.

  He slept that night in Pol’s bed.

  Luckily, she wasn’t in it.

  It was May, and the dawn broke early.

  I of course did not sleep a wink.

  I hatched a plan instead.

  The next day we were all setting off for Paris.

  It was the annual Catafalque trip to see museums.

  At breakfast I told Robert he should come along.

  I said it would do him good.

  I even admitted that it would not be fun without him.

  I was that brazen about it.

  I was feeling spirited and impulsive.

  Reckless and obstinate.

  But Robert did not do things on impulse.

  He did not like sudden plans.

  On impulse he had sold his entire collection of kitsch paraphernalia and come to England for a job that did not exist.

  So I had to use all my feminine powers of persuasion.

  It was pure selflessness on my part.

  I could tell he needed a change of scene.

  Paris in the spring.

  So romantic.

  The air alone would surely make him amorous.

  I myself was quite amorous enough already.

  Sleepless, almost speechless with it.

  I was not, on the other hand, overly demonstrative.

  I had heard somewhere that men feel easily overwhelmed by overly demonstrative women.

  But even my undemonstrativeness had no effect.

  He said no.

  Paris in the Spring: II

  Splutters had always enjoyed the annual expedition to Paris, where he could practise his French while making romantic headway with his students. There were long lunches together and evening strolls. It was a bonding experience, to show young women about a foreign city. Perhaps he would get a chance to be alone with Isabella at last – she had been neglecting him shamefully.

  Splutters wasn’t always chosen as one of the trip’s supervisors, but this year he had insisted. Life at the Catafalque was becoming intensely uncomfortable for him. Not only was there no peace to be had in the Gardens, now that the tennis court was under construction, but Angelica Lotus was determined to antagonize him by pinning reports on the progress of her pregnancy on the Staff Room bulletin board. The latest had read simply, ‘HEIGHT OF FUNDUS 12’.

  Splutters was eager to start carousing, but after getting several of his most beguiling students sloshed on the
ferry, he had unfortunately passed out himself, only regaining consciousness four hours later. His nausea turned out to be caused not by the boat but by the bus on to which he had been carried comatose and somewhat déshabillé. Mourning his lost opportunities, Splutters was the first to emerge later from his hotel room, ready for anything. The informality of the Paris trip excited him. The conjunction of his female students with the Eiffel Tower was almost too much to bear. In museums, he would gently encircle a student with his arm, his sleeves jauntily rolled up, and lead her towards a secluded painting. If a slight thrill, whether of aesthetic or sexual pleasure, seemed to have been evoked thus, he was liable to follow her around for the rest of the morning in the hopes of securing a seat beside her at lunch. Students had an unlikeable tendency to form a giggly gang. It was therefore essential to isolate one’s prey.

  Paris in the Spring: III

  It was ecstatic.

  I was ecstatic.

  I had given up all hope.

  And then he came!

  Robert turned up at Victoria Coach Station at the last minute to join the Catafalque Paris expedition.

  He sat next to me on the bus.

  Well actually, he sat next to the Splendid Young Man, but they were just across the aisle from Pol and me.

  Of course no other man could ever seem attractive to me, now that Robert’s face was engraved on my memory.

  But it was wonderful to have the two men in my life sitting so close.

  Robert, Pol, Lionel and I had beefburgers together on the ferry.

  As you can imagine, I was overwhelmed.

  It was so romantic, and we hadn’t even reached Paris yet!

  I was bewilderingly happy.

  Perhaps Robert was bewildered too.

  I thought at one point that he might be about to kiss me.

  We were standing by a porthole, and he leaned forward as if he was trying to look out, but the glass was too smudgy.

  It was a remarkable moment.

  At the hotel, he and Lionel shared a room.

  I shared with Pol.

  We went round with the whole Catafalque crowd all day.

  It was heavenly.