by Ray Connolly
But I just smiled. And thought of Clare.
Chapter Nine
I waited until the electric storm had abated, slopping about the floor sponging up the rivers of warm water with velvet, satin and fur-covered cushions, and sliding a sponge-rubber pillow around the place mop-like with the aid of a beaded and befeathered Navajo Indian spear which I’d found conveniently pinned to one wall, before suggesting that I had best be on my way. Neither of us had said much. There isn’t much that two strangers, linked only by a fleeting carnal relationship, can ever say. And when I did intimate that I’d better go before we were both either drowned or electrocuted Mary Jane had understood immediately. Now that the frolicking was over, and great fun though it had been, she was a plain and doleful woman. A woman approaching middle age, and almost visibly aging while I watched her. I felt like a lad next to her.
‘I hope I haven’t spoiled anything for you,’ she said.
And pretending not to fully comprehend what she was talking about, I said, ‘Oh no, nothing like that, don’t be silly,’ and summoned what reserves of sympathy I still felt for the woman and kissed her on the cheek, that she might not know the hostility I was feeling both towards her and towards myself. ‘Will I be able to phone you here?’ I asked.
I suppose it was a kind lie of a question, and a wan little smile climbed the porridge cheeks, a fading sunshine of a smile that was lost in a self-deprecating grin. Yes, she nodded, knowing and accepting that I had no intention of telephoning; but understanding without bitterness.
‘Well, I’d better be off,’ I said again, hearty with embarrassment now that my wet trousers were zipped up again, and Mary Jane had gone back to sheltering her abused little body behind the flag of her nation and that lemon gown.
‘You’re either a nice guy, or a complete bastard,’ she said as we reached the mahogany door again, my hand on the polished brass knob.
‘Thank you,’ I tried a casual grin, but my mouth muscles wouldn’t seem to work properly, and again I caught a glimpse of those stripey panties through her gown. Wonder if there’s a mouthwash in the stripes, my brain asked me.
‘Will you write about me?’
‘I don’t think I ought to … you know.’
‘Well, anyway … don’t tell her, whoever she is. She wouldn’t want to know.’
I nodded into the eyelashes and the absurd hair now falling down out of the sky and about her shoulders, great rude curls of gold and polished platinum. And then heading down the stairs I half-waved as she watched from the doorway, her red painted fingernails tracing the little grotesqueries carved into the mahogany. A scarlet woman and a blushing man. What a right pair we were. It was a long walk down and a longer wait outside for a taxi, which I was glad of because before long the rain had camouflaged the wet patches in the knees of my jeans. My mind was on a rack of remorse. Let us down, I did, Clare, although you’ll never know. I took advantage of a situation, though I’m not certain that I particularly wanted to. Sorry I’m late home. Hope you haven’t been waiting too long for me. Fell in a puddle and got my pants wet, mum. Well get them off and we’ll dry them on the maiden by the fire. I’ll be glad when this road is made up.
‘Sorry I’m late, Clare.’
Clare, now with her own key, sitting reading on the settee, and looking cosy. She’ll be so nice to come home to, so nice by the fire. Back in those plaits I first laughed at. Pretty girls can afford to be careless about how they look. See how pleased to see me she is. A puppy-dog smile. If she had a tail she’d be wagging it now. And I must brave it out. Miss Tupelo, Mississippi, said not to tell her. But what if she doesn’t care anyway? That would make the guilt harder to bear. She feels no jealousy about the other women I’ve had. We aren’t even having an affair. And yet I betrayed myself. Clare was to be the only one, wasn’t she? We didn’t say it, and I didn’t tell her, but inside I’d made a bargain with myself. And I broke it just an hour or so ago. Because the offer was there. An easy conquest. Hardly an Everest. And now here’s Clare. Unsuspecting. And saying she didn’t know it was so wet out. Shall she get me some coffee? Was it a good day? Do I have to work tonight? And coming close now. Which tells me I haven’t kissed her yet. And I know I can’t. Not now. Don’t come too close, Clare, you’ll get wet. But she wriggling past my arm block for a quick cuddle. Nibbling my left ear. And saying it’s been a long wait. And now I’m free. Tactfully, I think. And yes, why don’t you make some coffee, while I have a bath. To purge myself, and to lie there, washing in my sea of Catholic guilt. And wondering did she notice. What kind of a man have I become that such a peccadillo should assume such monumental proportions in my conscience? And what kind of man must lie to himself about his motives? Admit it: I had her because I fancied her. Sympathy had nothing to do with it.
Now lying here staring at my sin. Flaccid and still, while the soap suds form a sauce around him. And now there’s Clare tapping so discreetly at the door, and saying to hurry up because my coffee’s ready, and she wants to talk to me. But not coming in to sit on the edge of the bath, as many a girl I’ve known has done. And now I hear her pattering downstairs again, while I dry myself. While I try to escape my thoughts. And know, that now I’m clean, she cannot tell by perfume smell, or careless strands of hair, that I spent the earliest part of this evening rampaging through the bayou.
‘Did you find me a job today?’ Clare holding her coffee mug in two hands the way they do for pin-up pictures. Me dressed again. Changed and fresh from top to bottom.
‘No. Did you find a bedsitter?’
‘No. There didn’t seem to be any. I went to see two and they were rotten. About four floors above the loo, and smelling of wet dandruff.’
‘What does wet dandruff smell like?’
‘Bit like the back room in your basement.’
‘That’s rising damp. Hit the wall in there and the whole bloody place would like as not fall in on you. Don’t be disheartened. You may find the perfect little home for the young bedsit girl tomorrow with roses climbing all around the doric columns of crumbling Victoriana.’
‘If I don’t find somewhere by Friday—can I come and live here? I mean, stay in one of your spare rooms. Until I get somewhere. Well, what I’m saying is I’ve said I’m leaving the hostel now, so I have to find somewhere.’
‘Impetuous little thing, aren’t you? And suppose having got you here I ravish you, and keep you as a concubine?’
‘Yes. Just suppose. Can I come if I’ve nowhere else?’
‘Yes, please. Tell you what, you can have the room at the top at the back of the house. I did it up as a guest room, thinking I was going to be entertaining every other week, and then I never got round to inviting anyone. You can have that. Really, you can stay as long as you want to. No need to pay good money for a bedsitter. Well, it’s empty. Rent-free, so long as you…’
‘So long as I what… ?’
‘So long as you have all gentlemen visitors out of your room by ten o’clock sharp.’
‘That’s a promise.’
‘With the exception, of course, should the occasion present itself, of the landlord.’
‘Ah, I get it. You want to set me up and then use me for your sordid little ends. You men are all the same.’
‘Oh, now. Do you not yet know that I am not as other men?’
‘Cripes … have you got one too many or one too few of whatever you ought to have?’
‘Don’t you come any of your hockey-stick schoolgirl vulgarity with me, my girl.’
‘Sorry, sir. This is a nice big settee, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why don’t you come over here and tell me about your days?’
Now one arm round her, averting her eyes and gazing into the bars of the fire. Her head on my chest, while my hand combs her hair and wraps round her plaits. And me not telling her anything like the truth. Because I can’t. I did it and now I must wear the misery. Spoiled it for myself, I did. And tonight I can’t bring myself to touch her, mu
ch as I want to. Or to be too close. And I think she must realise it. And now I come to remember it there’s the brooch I bought, which is still wrapped up, all casual like, in my coat pocket, which was to have meant something, if not to her, then to me. But tonight is no night for sentimentality. Oh, by the way, Clare, before I went and fucked that ex-tart I nipped in and bought you this. Just to show that I was thinking of you. No. Better to lock it away. Until another day. Although, in truth, I don’t want ever to see it again, or anything which may remind me of today. Which is a shame, because Mary Jane deserves a fonder memory than she can ever have. Two hundred and odd interviews and never a sniff, although I probably angled for it a time or two. And then today. There it was. On a plate. For the taking. Now her fingers are at my tummy. Tickling. And teasing. Though she needn’t bother. Because she won’t, and if she would, she couldn’t on this particular evening, anyway. And nor would I. You’re special. It must be a special occasion for both of us. Though I forfeited a lot today, I think.
‘What’s the matter, Benedict?’
‘Nothing. What d’you mean?’
‘You’re very thoughtful.’
‘I was thinking about you.’
‘Liar.’
‘Yes. I was wondering whether you’d bring me a cup of tea in bed in the mornings, or whether for a change on Sundays, you’d lure me away from my trusty typewriter and up to your bed for tea and crumpets on winter afternoons.’
‘Give over. I’ve not said I’m moving in yet.’
‘I thought it was your idea.’
‘All I’m asking for is a bed and a bit of board for a couple of nights …’
‘… and all I’m suggesting is that if I provide the bed, you might stop acting like a board for a couple of nights. No. I didn’t mean that. So don’t go pulling your long silly face, and looking stuck-up. You do what you want. When will you move in?’
‘Would tomorrow be all right?’
‘What will your father say?’
‘Nothing. I won’t tell anyone that you live here too. I’ll just pretend that it’s an ordinary bedsitter, and that you’re my very ordinary landlord.’
‘It’ll give Mrs Pollock a thing or two to think about.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘She cleans up and makes my bed, and does the shopping, now and again, when I remember to ask her.’
‘Surely she’s seen girls here before. Come on, admit it.’
‘Well, yes, I do. But they were never invited to stay for more than a night before. And neither did they stay up there in that big top room. She’ll wonder if I’m not on the turn or something. You don’t think I am, do you? They tell me that barium can do terribly strange things to a bloke’s hormone balance.’
Clare looking bored with my silly conversation: ‘It’s nearly half past ten. What do you want to eat?’
‘Let’s go out. And celebrate.’
‘We’re always celebrating. What’s the occasion tonight?’
‘Our celibacy.’
‘Can’t you think of anything else tonight?’
No, I can’t. And ten Hail Marys, three Our Fathers and three Glory Be To The Father, The Son and the Holy Ghosts don’t help any more. It’s easy enough to put religion behind you. But what do you replace it with? What do you do when you can’t make a good act of contrition, when you can’t find the way to start again with a clean slate, when you’re conditioned to absolution?
So off we went, in the Citroën I’d always promised myself, cruising smoothly and hydraulically down to a place in the Fulham Road, her now with her pigtails tied on top of her head, fraulein fashion, and me wagging my secret behind me, like a lead balloon.
‘Did you do your interview today?’ she asked eventually. And I told her no, I hadn’t. Something had gone wrong. It looked as though I’d have to pretend to be ill this week. Which, in a way, I must have been. Because never before in my career had anything come between me and my job. And yet, here I was bedazzled and bewildered by a bit of a girl, a girl with nice manners and a pretty face and a girl who wore her hair in plaits when she hadn’t washed it. Which was tonight. And which was just as eye-catching to me as if Leonard himself had just ushered her out from under his very own drier.
‘You’re not very good company tonight, you know?’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I don’t know. Cheer up. Shall I tell you a joke? I’m not much good at them, but one of my lousy jokes is better than sitting here in silence with you looking as though you’ve lost a shilling.’
‘Okay. Go on. Make me laugh.’
‘Can’t guarantee that—but there’s one that I think is funny. Stop me if you’ve heard it before. This’ll probably appeal to your overwhelming obsession with religion, too, come to think of it.’
‘Get on with the joke, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Well … um … Mae West said to the Pope, “come up and see me some time.” And the Pope said, “I can’t, it’s Lent”.’
‘Ha-ha. Not bad. Worth a giggle. Well done…’
‘… I’ve not finished. And then Mae West said, “well, when you get it back come up and see me some time”.’
Clare, with a grin from ear to ear, sitting up like the clever girl in the front row of class. I’m not telling, but I have heard it before, love.
‘Aha-ha. But I think it was better without the punch-line.’
‘But it wouldn’t be a joke without that bit.’
‘Yes, it would. A subtler joke.’
Restaurant bustling and busy. And now a familiar face on the stairs. Renaissance look now a pony tail. Poncy Paul. With a new girl. Duck behind Clare, but too late he’s seen me. And he’s coming.
‘Benedict, love…’
‘Paul. You prick.’
‘Now, now. Aren’t you going to introduce us?’
Paul eyeing up Clare: Clare eyeing up Paul. Me giving a sly wink to the thin dark girl trailing behind him, a flowing creature of scarves and chiffons and yards of flowery material. My winks mean, ‘hello’. No more. Well, not tonight anyway.
‘Paul meet Clare. Clare, Paul. And friend.’
‘Oh sorry, love, don’t you know Tibby? Tibby, meet Benedict. He pretends to be a sod but really he’s quite sweet when he wants to be, and—is it Clare—?’
‘Yes.’
‘Look, why don’t we join you? Would that be all right. I mean we aren’t breaking anything up are we?’
‘Yes. Push off, Paul.’
Clare giving me a quick and obvious nudge of mortification: ‘We’d like it. Don’t mind what Benedict says tonight. He’s in a rotten mood.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Benedict.’
Is that an irate note I hear there from my little nurse?
‘Benedict, what’s the matter, old love? Come on, let’s order another bottle of that red stuff, and we’ll soon have you more yourself.’
And now Paul’s beckoning and gesticulating while waiters scurry round and pull another table next to ours and find a couple of extra chairs, more wine and menus, and our cosy little dinner becomes a whole production, with people looking up all over the place and watching the to-ing and fro-ing and the dance of service that Paul seems to attract to himself.
‘Christ, what have you been drinking? You never did have any taste, Kelly.’ Paul taking a sip from Clare’s glass, smiling at her all the time, and pulling a face of agonising disdain. ‘Mind if I order something else? He’s trying to give you wine poisoning, Clare.’
I’ll have to suffer in silence and watch the show. With Paul you never need a programme to know what’s coming next. In Act 2 he’ll start asking her how she came to get involved with someone like me, flattering her, always smiling deep into her eyes, thinking that he’s turning her on like mad. Voice as soft as a soufflé. In his way he wouldn’t be bad looking if he weren’t so creepy. He must have some attraction to keep pulling the birds he does, even if they don’t stay once they find out about him.
> ‘Tell me, Clare, how do you know Benedict?’
‘Oh, you know, we just ran into each other.’ Clare being evasive. Is that because she doesn’t want to tell him I went to St Jude’s or because she doesn’t want to admit that she was a nurse until yesterday? Paul gazing fondly at her: Tibby looking a bit left out, and pretending to study the menu to cover her embarrassment. Clare, gazing back at Paul. Not giving an inch. ‘How did you meet Tibby, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘She works for me.’
‘Only temporarily, darling, remember.’ Tibby talks.
‘What happened to Polly, Paul?’
‘Nothing, Benedict. What happened to Sally, Valerie, Mary, and all those other ladies I used to see you with?’ Paul volleying back.
Clare watching us both and laughing: ‘Will you two just stop bickering at each other for a minute. I thought you were friends.’
‘So does Paul.’
‘We are, but Benedict hates to admit that he needs friends at all.’
‘No. I just hate to admit that I have a friend like you.’