The Girl Who Came to Stay

by Ray Connolly

  ‘Bye, bye,’ I said, and putting on an old overcoat with a sheepskin lining, I wandered down to Kensington High Street, where I bought a dry and burnt beefburger in a recently opened hamburger bar, swabbed it down with a glass of tepid milk, and took a taxi to Bond Street. Walking. And window-shopping. Just passing time.

  A present for Clare. That would be nice. A scarf, maybe, but that’s a bit uninspired. Not jewellery. Nor perfume. A picture? Too big. Don’t want to lug one around with me all day. Got work to do. Why not jewellery? A ring? No. No. Too presumptuous. Remember when Hector and I went shopping to buy his girlfriend an engagement ring. The two of us putting our National Assistance benefits together to make £12 16s od. Why did he get more than I did when we were both in the same position? No justice. But never mind, we shared everything. Anyway there we were outside the shop window in Earls Court looking at something that looked like an emerald set in diamonds on a band of gold, and the both of us deciding that the girl who got that, plus Hector, would be very lucky indeed. And then Hector in there and out again with that small token of his undying love and devotion, and finding that as we had seventeen and tenpence left over maybe we ought to go across the road and celebrate his engagement. Which we did, in half pints, because they lasted longer, until quite late in fact, which was unfortunate because Hector had promised to meet his lady quite early that night. And then Hector and me getting into my old red Alvis, a relic of more affluent times, and rag, tag and bobtailing ourselves across the river to mock tudor and detached Barnes, and smiling like Sunday, at Mr Speakman. ‘What do you mean?’ said Hector, when Mr Speakman regretted that unfortunately Marilyn had had to go out that evening. ‘She’s seeing me tonight,’ Hector understandably a bit chagrined on his engagement night. Mr Speakman nice and bland like a cultured porpoise. In that case she must surely have mixed her timetable up then. That’s what he said. As though she were a bloody bus, said Hector in my ear. Then me intervening on Hector’s behalf. Perhaps if Marilyn wasn’t going to be too long Mr and Mrs Speakman wouldn’t mind if Hector and I waited for a little while, as we had come to see Marilyn rather specially tonight. And Hector nodding. And secretly amazed, he told me after, at me being so forward. Of course, come in, they said. For coffee and biscuits. Me doing my best nice-young-man chat bit that I reserved for girls’ mothers, but Hector getting more and more sullen, as time passed, and Charrington’s bitter fermented in his underfed shrunken stomach. Then, later on, me saying—well, perhaps we should be going, as it’s getting very late and thank you very much for having us. But a roar of Austin Healey. And Marilyn, looking a bit bedraggled and flushed. Followed in by a rugby club blazer and golden crest. And a cravat. And gaily Mrs Speakman saying, Took Marilyn, here are some other friends to see you,’ while Hector fumbled in his pocket for the ring and I said for Christ’s sake let’s go home. And Hector asking Blazer and Cravat where the fuck they’d been half the night. And Mr Speakman saying he thought it was really about time my friend learned to watch his tongue in front of ladies, while Marilyn said she had a headache, but how nice and unexpected it was to see us both —and so late, too, so really if we wouldn’t mind she thought she ought to go to bed. Me saying yes, of course, good night, and reaching the front door and Hector saying ‘Good riddance, you randy little nymphomaniac. You can drop your drawers for every fly-half in London from now on for all I care.’ Mrs Speakman saying ‘George!’ and Mr Speakman saying ‘Out.’ And then the next day Hector back at the jewellers in Earls Court being told he couldn’t have his money back. And Hector, six feet two and fourteen menacing stone, saying what’s that you say, you little twat, where’s me £11 18. And five minutes later the pair of us back in the pub celebrating my best friend’s escape from the jagged jaws of matrimony. And it was only much later on, when the beer, drunk in pints tonight, was talking, that Hector remembered to tell me that he was heartbroken, and now he would never marry. And me saying come on, you’ll get over it, which I’m sure he would have done if he hadn’t fallen off that mountain in Scotland and broken his neck the following Good Friday. And so I drove down to Barnes on Easter Monday night and gave Marilyn a quick one in a dirt car park behind a rugby clubhouse in memoriam of Hector Disley, BA History (Lower Second). I couldn’t, she said. He’d expect it, I insisted. He would, too. Best friend I ever had. Shared poverty was a fine thing when we were twenty-one.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘I want a brooch. I think.’

  ‘You only think, sir?’

  Supercilious sod. ‘Oh, Christ. Not today.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Can I see that one? D’you call it a cameo? The one with the woman’s face. Looks a bit like Queen Victoria. No? Oh well, you know—the bun at the back. Even the nose, you know, like the prow of an empire-building trading ship. Wider still and wider shall thy nostrils flare…’

  ‘Yes sir. And here is a slightly superior and I think a little more elegant brooch.’

  ‘Ahm, how much are these things?’

  ‘This one is thirteen guineas, and the better one is seventeen guineas.’

  God’s teeth. The price of such tat. Yet tat to pin to a pretty tit is cheap at twice the price. For Clare. Now which one? It’s the thought that counts, but seventeen guineas’ worth of thought is better value than thirteen. Although in truth they both look the same to me.

  ‘I’ll have the more expensive one.’

  ‘Yes. Gift-wrapped, sir.’

  ‘Yes … ah. No. No. Just stick it in a bag.’ Be able to give it to her all casual then. Better not to make a big thing of it. Be embarrassing. More blessed to give than to receive, but it’s equally embarrassing whichever way the transaction goes. And maybe she won’t like it. Not her style or some feminine reason like that. Then I can always say oh it was nothing anyway. And slip the dagger of hurt out when she’s not looking some time. But really I do hope she likes it. And understands.

  A neat little packet pushed into my pocket with my gloves. And with tape-recorder over my shoulder it’s back into bustling and windy Bond Street. Ten past three, a nice leisurely walk to Grosvenor Square, and I’ll arrive about twenty minutes early. Maybe I’ll find her doing all manner of funny things. At least I’ll know if she really was jet-fatigued. Can’t stand PRs who tell me lies. If your client is a creep, Suzy, better admit to it. Then we all know where we stand.

  Right in one corner of Grosvenor Square. On the fifth floor. Pushing open the glass and black steel doors. Peaked capped lobby porter, saying ‘Yes sir,’ and ‘Oh. Take the lift. It’s a long climb.’ Slight butterflies in stomach now. No matter how many interviews I do I always feel the slight uneasiness of self-doubt. Always the slight clamminess about the palms. Anxiety symptoms, the psychiatrist called them. A tightening of the stomach, a moment of panic, and I’m at the bell and ringing it. And putting a finger over the glass peep hole. Why should she have the advantage over me? We’ll meet strangers, one to the other. On even terms. And let’s hope she’s good copy. Because I think I need it. And I want to show Clare how clever I am.

  The door, heavy mahogany, swings slightly ajar, and a foot of blonde curls fountains round the edge.

  ‘Hello. I’m Benedict Kelly. I hope I’m not too early.’ Curious how English I become in the presence of those so obviously not.

  ‘Oh no, do come in. I was just waiting for you.’ Mary Jane holding wide the door and me going inside with my professional smile. ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’ A softly Southern whispery voice; Daisy Mae with a city hair-do.

  Shaking hands: ‘Won’t you come this way, please?’ And she’s off leading me down a hallway of Beardsley and Felicien Rops erotica and into a sitting-room of quite enormous proportions, a place of pillows and cushions, built like islands and atolls on the block floors, a room designed for lying and loafing in rather than for sitting and working. From the double bay window I can just catch a glimpse of the downcast eagle on the United States embassy above the trees of the square. Sitting down on what looks like th
e most likely island of all, I take off my coat and begin to fiddle with my tape-recorder.

  ‘Could I get you a drink?’ Mary Jane standing in front of the bright autumn light of the windows. A thin gown that reaches barely to her thighs does an absurdly inadequate job of disguising her feminine attributes, and for a second I catch a glimpse of red and blue bra and pants under the pale lemon of the nylon. I turn my eyes deliberately and carefully back to my tape-recorder and begin to load a cassette.

  ‘Yes, please. If you’re having one. A drop of brandy maybe. I suppose you’ve just got up. Really I’m sorry that I had to see you today because I know how tired you must feel. But my column has to be in by tomorrow.’

  ‘No really. I’m not tired. I wasn’t sleeping. I shouldn’t have broken our lunch date, because I couldn’t sleep. I’ve just been sitting here waiting for you.’

  Pouring two drinks: mine far too big. Cheers. Thank you. Mary Jane wandering over to what looks like an enormous rubber mattress in a corner of the room, and flopping onto it. She’s floating. And bobbing up and down like a dinghy on a lake.

  ‘Isn’t this just the grooviest?’ Me wincing into my brandy. ‘It’s a water bed. See, lie back like this and the whole thing wobbles. It’s just like floating.’ Mary Jane lying back, knees up, while I take a quick peep. Red and white striped knickers. Mary Jane gazing at the ceiling with some concentration. And now I’m looking up, too. Christ! Son of Michelangelo! A hundred fornicating couples, naked as can be, all at each other. A bit of cunnilingus here. And a touch or two of fellatio there. And what’s that? Buggery. In Grosvenor Square, too. Is nowhere safe from the fungus of creeping porn? At the same time, not looking too closely, a very pretty and colourful ceiling design it makes, and although it may not be quite the Sistine Chapel, it’s clear that an artist of some great imagination worked here. And is not imagination a wonderful gift?

  ‘Fun, isn’t it?’ Mary Jane giggling to herself. A low and dirty chortle.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, but do you normally meet complete strangers dressed like this? I mean how do you know that I’m not the Boston Strangler or Charlie Manson or Benedict Kelly the notorious West End rapist?’

  ‘If I’m provoking you I’ll put on something else. Really I just like not to wear a lot of clothes. You know? It feels so much more free. But really I’m not trying to be provocative. I mean, I might if I knew you better. Before you came I was just lying around here in my brassiere and pants, but I thought you might think I was being a little indiscreet or forward if we met that way so I just slipped on this Pucci robe. If it really bothers you I’ll put on a dress…’

  ‘Oh, no. Really, you look very nice. And, er, relaxed.’

  Quick glance back to the ceiling, and the contorting nymphs and satyrs and mermaids and men and women whose faces suddenly look terribly familiar the more I study them. Dear God, I do believe that half of Burke’s Peerage have their likenesses up there cavorting about the ceiling. What on earth can they find to do with a mermaid? Oh, I see. Now that must be interesting.

  Mary Jane with eyes closed, floating on her water bed: ‘This really is terribly nice of Dick. It isn’t as though we’re that close really. I only met him once at a party in New York last week, and right away he said that if I needed anywhere to stay I was welcome to come here. I think he must be one of those really genuinely decent people, don’t you?’

  Me watching myself going alternatively concave and convex in a black PVC kinetic mirror: ‘Oh yes. I’m sure. He’s well known for his acts of kindness towards young ladies. Look, why don’t we start chatting about your book, which is really why I’m here … I’ve, er … I’ve read it, and I must say I did find it … ahm … well, entertaining, but it strikes me that you must have a very poor idea of marriage if you really believe that the wife-swapping ring is going to help perpetuate it… er, I mean, I would have thought that it was much more likely to do irreparable harm to the institution…’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The institution … of marriage … er, you know?’

  Mary Jane: ‘Dick’s away, you know. He went to L.A. They’re opening a branch out there.’

  ‘That’ll be nice … I mean, for you. You do live in Los Angeles, don’t you?’

  ‘Ah-ha. Tell me Mr Kelly, how old would you say I was?’

  Quickly I turn my eyes back to the ceiling as more striped pants come into view: ‘Suzy told me. So I know you’re twenty-five.’

  At a guess, Miss Pinhead or whatever your name is, I’d say you’re thirty-six.

  ‘Suzy—ha. She’s okay. But she’s been lying a bit. I’m thirty-three.’

  ‘No? Really. I can hardly believe it. You have a … well, a superb figure.’

  ‘Shit … but thanks anyway. I’ll pass. But what the hell, I’m having a good time. How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-nine.’

  ‘But you’re such a baby. You know what I was doing when I was twenty-nine? I’ll tell you. I was a change girl in a Lake Tahoe gambling saloon. You know what that meant? It meant I was picking up maybe fifty a week in straight pay, and now and then maybe doing a little hooking on the side. I’d leave the kids with my sister for the summer and work the hotels. You talk about the institution of marriage. Well, maybe where you come from it’s something that’s like kind of sanctified, but I’ve never seen that side of it.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had children.’

  ‘I don’t any more. Their daddy has custody of them. The courts took them away after a security guard got mean on me one night in Vegas. He really didn’t believe me when I told him that I only made it with guys I went for. No offence, I said, but I just don’t see you like that. And the next thing was I was picked up, fined two hundred dollars and on an airplane back to L.A.’

  ‘Look, er. You sound a bit depressed at the moment. Perhaps I’d better come back when you’re more yourself. These things you’re saying now, you wouldn’t like them to appear in the paper … and I, er, I wouldn’t really want to write them.’ Which is a polite way of saying that my newspaper isn’t terribly interested in the life histories of former Nevada prostitutes, choosy about their choice of consorts as they may have been.

  Mary Jane sitting up and leaning back, with arms stretched behind her like props. Smiling. Despite the absurd hair and cracked and tired eyes, she momentarily looks almost pretty. Glamorous, and almost pretty.

  ‘Your name Benedict? They call you Ben, or Benny, or what?’

  ‘Benedict.’

  ‘Okay, Benedict. I’m sorry about that. I think maybe it was just you coming in here looking so dewy-eyed and wet behind the ears and innocent, when I’d been expecting some kind of dirty old shrivelled man to come leering round the place. You know I’m not sorry about the book. Why should I be? It’s made me pretty darn well off, but sometimes I feel like something in a freak show. Do you understand what I’m saying? You know—I’m scorned by all those supposedly happy American families with the two nice-looking kids, two cars and a dog on the front porch, the Women’s Liberation people mock me and my kids don’t want to know their own mother any more. But anyway. What do you want to ask me?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me about your childhood? I think I’d be interested in learning about that. Where are you from? Somewhere South, I know.’

  ‘Oh yes. Right down South. Tupelo, Mississippi. Ever heard of it? Famous for nothing but breeding rock and roll singers. There were five of us, and I was the middle one, and my dad worked in one of them yards where they crush up old cars. I suppose we were poor, but so was everybody else so we didn’t really notice. It was a fine thing to have a daddy who was working regular in those days. If you had a job down there then you just hung onto it, because you were only one step away from the gutter. Anyway, when I was sixteen I rather fancied the idea of myself as a dancer and singer, and so for the next few years I moved around the South working in bars and saloons, and, you know, small dance halls. Nothing nude. Never did go in for any of that stuff.
My daddy would have come after me and killed me if he’d heard I was showing off what I oughtn’t. You know? They were funny days. I remember one time, I’d be about twenty-four or so I suppose, when I was working with a little troupe in a bar in Dallas, Texas, which was owned by a man named Jack Ruby. You remember him? He was the guy who shot Oswald that shot President Kennedy. Anyway we used to go on and do our little turn, a bit of singing and dancing, and then a group of stripper girls would take over when the audience was nice and warmed up. And I always remember there was one stripper girl there that hadn’t got but one arm … I promise you. It’s the living truth. You shoulda heard all of them men takin’ to hollerin’ and shoutin’ when One-Arm Jeannie would come on…

  ‘But anyway, like I was saying, I left home when I was just a girl and by the time I was twenty I was married to a boy who played bass guitar in a club I worked in Phoenix. Between us we was getting good money, but with me being pregnant and all I had to give up, and then his band broke up. All the same I think he was happy with me, and we had a nice little duplex, and he did a gig when he could. We called our first boy Phil. That was his daddy’s name. But then if I didn’t go and do it again the next year. We called her Little Mary after me. Anyway that did it. I started taking care from then on, and we all moved to Houston where Phil was playing with a little five-piece group, and doing some country stuff on the radio now and again. Then I really don’t know what happened, but Phil went off to work in Memphis and I stayed behind with the children, living in rooms and working when I could. Now and again Phil would send us some money, when he had any, or come over and see us, but it wasn’t easy. And eventually I moved out to Los Angeles where my sister lived.’

  ‘How old are your children now?’

  ‘Well, Phil will be fifteen, and Little Mary’s going on fourteen this December seven. I was hoping that maybe I could get them back this Christmas, you know, and have some kind of family reunion, but their daddy won’t agree to it. He’s remarried and working driving those big trucks that carry cars around the country these days. He has a nice little place just outside of St Louis now, with three cars of his own in the driveway. He never did show much interest in any of us until that trouble in Vegas, but I think he cared in his way.’