‘Yes,’ she said. He moved in closer, massaging firmly.
‘Harder?’
‘Oh, well …’ She barely knew what to say, so utterly was she in his grip—and, curiously, how close he felt.
‘Hard enough?’ He was pressing into her back with his body now and, could it be, no, yes, he was rubbing himself firmly in a horizontal movement across her. ‘Hard enough?’ he repeated rather impatiently.
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ she cried, thinking, it can’t be! Perhaps he misunderstood her cry.
‘Yes, yes,’ he crowed, pressing and rubbing, ‘I knew you liked it really hard.’ Miss Pewsey closed her eyes, let her hands drop over the sides of the chair, submitted to what she couldn’t believe.
Suddenly it was over. He swivelled her chair, flashed a mirror, swept off her cape. ‘Lovely,’ he said, ‘lovely. Now if you just come this way we can pencil you in for next time.’
Miss Pewsey let herself be pencilled in. Presently they were on the landing beside the lift. He shook her limp hand, she gazed into his inscrutable face. Not a flicker. Thoughtfully she made her way down the stairs. Thoughtfully she crossed Castlereagh Street and thoughtfully she climbed aboard the Bellevue Hill bus. Am I mad? Am I imagining something? I mean, he couldn’t really have … He wouldn’t, would he? But he did! No. Yes! She scanned the faces sitting placidly, dully, on the bus, as if somehow their expressions would clarify her confusion. All the way home she tried to convince herself that what she thought had happened, had not. For if it had, surely she would have done something. But I would have, if I could have. I didn’t because I didn’t believe it. No, it didn’t happen. I have misinterpreted. Must have. After all, look at me, a nearly bald old spinster. Heavens above.
But the puzzlement persisted. Should she be outraged or not? Maybe she had … No, of course she hadn’t. Why then …’ She worried at it all evening as she sipped her Amontillado, cooked her chops, grilled a tomato and mashed a potato. It niggled away as she washed her dishes and even twenty minutes at the piano with Chopin’s Nocturnes failed to quell the confusion. Finally she took her bath, creamed her wattled old neck with Ponds and stared at her face in the mirror. As she did so she felt herself begin to smile. She crossed to the bedroom, slipped out of her dressing gown and slid under the blankets, still smiling. The whole absurd conversation clicked onto replay in her head.
‘Like it nice and hard?’
‘Yes.’
‘Harder?’
‘Oh well…’
‘Hard enough?’
‘Oh yes, yes’
‘Yes, yes. I knew you liked it really hard.’
Miss Pewsey laughed aloud, she laughed and laughed. Sex. It was all so utterly ridiculous. She had never been in such a ridiculous situation in all her seventy-plus years. Dear oh dear oh me, men were so silly sometimes.
disreputable people
I have spoken before of our old friend, Phyllis Musk. Unfortunately, about the time my daughter, Squeak, gave up accessorising her person and her garments with live rats and became a corporate lawyer, we lost touch. Imagine my astonishment then when I found myself serving on a jury that included my friend. Delight at seeing her was vastly outweighed by the sinking of my heart. I knew her ways but what was I to do? It wasn’t my place to send a note to the judge saying, ‘Phyllis Musk is as mad as a hatter’.
We were going to be together for a couple of weeks at least, the judge told us, before sending us off to get to know each other in the windowless, locked jury room. Controversy broke out almost immediately.
‘It won’t be weeks, more like a couple of hours,’ said Stanley. ‘I tell you, just ask old Stanley, I know the criminal psyonomy. He’s as guilty as sin. Nothing more to be said.’
‘You can’t say that,’ said a lady. ‘The trial hasn’t even begun.’
‘Can’t I just? Simple. It’s like those magic eye pictures. Just stare at his face long enough and another face comes looming out at you. Who’s for a smoke?’
‘We can’t,’ said the lady. ‘It’s a smoke-free zone.’
‘Jesus,’ said Stanley.
I’d been taught by the nuns almost half a century ago to be prepared to take the initiative.
‘I think we should appoint a foreperson,’ I said.
‘What’s this foreperson business?’ said Stanley. ‘Foreman’s the word. Foreman and I don’t care if it’s a bloke or a bloody woman, foreman’s the word. Isn’t that so, girlie? What’s ya name?’ He laid his arm across the shoulders of the young woman beside him in a friendly manner.
‘Tracey.’
‘Okay, Trace. It’s foreman, isn’t it?’
‘I s’pose so,’ said Tracey, ‘but I think women are allowed to do it now. Um.’
‘Course women are allowed to bloody do it. It’s the name, the name, I’m talking about.’
‘I don’t think we’re supposed to talk like this,’ said Tracey. Game.
‘Talk like what? Bloody? Jesus, Trace, we’re not having any of that crap in here, are we?’ Stanley twitched one shoulder, then the other, shot his cuffs and patted his midriff. ‘Nothing wrong with me. One person’s as good as the next. Look here, look at my little Chinese mate here. I’m no racist. What’s your name, mate?’
‘Quoc. Not Chinese, I’m …’
‘Never mind about that. You’re all the same to me, Wok. You don’t want any bloody female crap in here, do you?’
‘I …’
‘Good on ya. Tell you what, just behave, me little mate …’
‘Not so little. I have three children.’
‘Never mind about that. Behave or we’ll lock you in the lavatory, young Wok. Good on ya, mate.’ Quoc, astonishingly, smiled affably.
‘What about we all introduce ourselves?’ I suggested.
‘Right. Spot on. I’m Stanley and I can take it, I tell you. I …’
‘If we go round the table?’
We went around the table. There was Tracey and Stanley and Quoc. Then there were two Johns. That left Anne and Anna, Bill and Bob, Phyllis, who was quietly getting her bearings, me and a chap called Fether. He spelled it out for us.
‘Bloody Pom, are you?’ Stanley snorted. ‘Nothing against Poms, mind.’ He raised his hand in blessing and dispensation. ‘Keep your mouth shut and your nose clean. Only joking, mate. Fucking hell.’ He pulled out the form guide. ‘Got a nice little filly running at Moonee Valley today. Sure thing. Anyone got a mobile?’
‘We aren’t allowed,’ said the lady, who was Anne, as distinct from Anna who was a veiled Muslim. (‘Bloody warmongering lot, your bunch,’ Stanley had commented during the introductions and Anna had blushed.)
‘Whadda ya mean, not allowed? No-one tells me what’s allowed and what’s not.’
‘But we’re not. I’ve read about juries. We have to report you to the judge.’ Anne looked as if she was going to cry.
‘No shit? Come on, anyone got a mobile.’ We looked at each other. Bob and one of the Johns looked shifty as if they were having a crisis of conscience.
‘You’re not allowed,’ said Anne, starting to sniff. ‘Who’s the foreman? Do something, please.’
‘Okay, fellas? Who’s it to be,’ asked Stanley, grinning around. ‘You shut up, young Wok, and you too, Fether.’
‘I’ll be foreman and that,’ said Phyllis Musk, catching us all by surprise. ‘Mr Musk has served many times as a jury foreman. I know all about it.’ What a fibber.
‘Are you volunteering?’ asked a John.
‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘Someone has to organise things and that there.’
‘Very good thing,’ said Quoc.
‘Shut up, you,’ said Stanley. I looked around the table. Anne and Anna were nodding encouragingly.
‘I don’t think we should,’ said Tracey uncertainly.
‘Should what, love? How old are you?’ said Stanley.
‘Twenty-three. Have a foreman that’s not a man.’
‘Why not?’ said a John.
‘Well, they’re all ladies
out there. Didn’t you see? The judge might get annoyed.’
‘What do you mean, all ladies?’ snapped Stanley, eyes widening in disbelief.
‘Didn’t you see, in the wigs?’
‘No shit? I was reading the form.’
‘I think is all right,’ said Quoc nodding at Phyllis.
‘How would you know?’ said Stanley.
‘This is my third time on jury duty.’
‘Fuckin hell,’ said Stanley. ‘Young Wok. Bloody foreigner. More experience than the rest of us put together. What’s the world coming to, I ask you? No wonder that opera singer woman complained about Chinese at the post offices. You should go back to Hong Kong, mate.’
‘I am not Chinese.’
‘No? Could have fooled me. You’re all right, mate. Pardon me.’
Stanley rose at this juncture and initiated the toilets. We had two. They opened straight off the jury room and were worse than useless in the soundproof department.
‘Sounds like he’s got one of his bloody race horses pissing in there,’ said Bill, thoughtfully fingering his nose hairs.
‘Shouldn’t we talk about the case or something?’ begged Anne, goitre eyes rolling.
‘Not much to talk about yet, sweetheart. It hasn’t even begun,’ said a John.
‘But it’s taken all morning already to get this far,’ said Tracey. ‘I’ve got a hens’ night with the Chippendales to go to in November.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said a John, ‘It won’t last that long. This isn’t O.J. Simpson you …’
‘Isn’t he divine?’ said Tracey. ‘I’d sleep with …’
‘Me? You’re on,’ said Stanley emerging from the toilet. ‘Don’t know what Duckie’ll say though. Listen, you lot, it’s not pee all over the floor in there. I’m not having you think I’m a dirty bastard. I washed my hands and shook them and drops went everywhere. It’s not pee.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Tracey cheekily. Stanley winked at her, adjusted his shoulders again, hitched his crotch and sat down.
‘Jeez, I could do with a cooling ale, couldn’t you, Wok?’
‘I really think we should be doing something,’ said Anne, with a frantic sort of intensity that I felt could only get worse as time passed.
‘Who knows a nine-letter word from FNSETI-REF?’ said Fether.
‘The Pom has a question. Attention please,’ said Stanley. ‘Show our overseas visitor some courtesy.’
Just then the door opened and the sheriff’s officer, our sheriff’s officer, came in.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentleman. I am Mario,’ he began.
‘Jesus fucking Christ. This I cannot believe,’ said Stanley. ‘Another fucking wog. No offence, mate. Can you put something on the two ten for us, mate?’
‘I cannot,’ said the officer imperturbably. ‘You must have no contact with the outside world. Anything you need you must ask me.’
‘I just did, mate. The two ten. Moonee Valley.’ I felt my calf being kicked. Anne was shuddering at me, her lips moving. The mobile phones, she signalled, the phones. Ask. Dob them in. I tried to ignore her. Anyway that was Phyllis’s responsibility now. Just then Bob’s rang. It was his wife telling him to pick up the dry cleaning on the way home. Our sheriff’s officer took a very dim view of this.
‘Please hand me your phone. No-one may have a phone. I will return it to you as you leave the building tonight. Any others?’ Silence. Anne was practically gagging in shock.
‘Listen, mate,’ said a John. ‘Can you get us some decent milk, not this pretend stuff?’
‘I am sorry, no. You may take up a collection and someone can bring milk in tomorrow if you like. Don’t forget, if you need anything, I am at your disposal through this trial.’
‘Could you clear up a little point for us, mate?’ said Stanley. ‘Just what will you do for us? We haven’t had much success so far.’
Mario waggled his head in a ‘you’re a funny fellow, I know your sort’ way and serenely ignored the question. ‘I will count you in and out every time we leave this room and move down the corridor. I will count you in and out of the jury box. We must at all times have twelve.’ Fether was working on his word game. He paused momentarily, looked up, gazed in disbelief at Mario, shook his head and returned to his game. ‘Shortly I will return and take you into the court. Please wait here.’ He went out and locked the door firmly.
‘I’ve got to have a wee before we go in,’ said Tracey. ‘I wet my pants when I’m nervous.’
‘You shouldn’t,’ said Phyllis firmly.
‘I know,’ said Tracey. ‘Awful isn’t it?’
‘No, I mean you shouldn’t use the toilet for “just in case”. It doesn’t do any good. I was a nursing sister.’ (Fib) ‘It leads to a lazy bladder and as you get older …’
‘Excuse me,’ said a John. ‘Do we have to hear all this?’
‘You needn’t talk, young man,’ said Phyllis. ‘The prostate …’
‘Would someone ring for old Mario and have this woman thrown out? She’s disgusting,’ said Stanley.
Just then, Mario returned and got us to line up at the door while he counted us.
‘I have eleven. Who is missing?’ he asked.
‘Trace. She’s doing a wee,’ said Stanley. We all waited, staring at the toilet door.
Tracey came out, unabashed. ‘I’m not going to look up the whole time,’ she said. ‘I don’t want him to see my face.’
‘Who?’ said a John.
‘The bloke in there.’
‘The crim?’ asked Stanley.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I shouldn’t think you have to worry too much,’ he continued. ‘You can tell he’s a poof a mile off. It’s us blokes’ll have to watch our behinds, eh fellas? What do you think, young Wok? Any poofters in China?’
‘Thank you,’ said Mario to no-one in particular. ‘Go down the hall, please, and stop at the next door until I unlock it, count you and let you through.’ There were five stops and starts in between the jury room and the courtroom. Anne was giggling with anxiety.
We all sat down, Phyllis in the box seat with the microphone close by. The judge greeted us again, thanked us for doing our civic duty and said it was time to break for lunch. We got up, stop-started in reverse and were locked in our room with plates of cool, congealing roast beef and gravy.
‘Duckie’ll be pleased she doesn’t have to feed me tonight,’ said Stanley tucking in.
‘I am a vegan and that there then,’ said Phyllis in disgust and went to ring for Mario.
‘Since when, Phyllis?’ I called.
‘Do you two know each other?’ said Anne in alarm. ‘I don’t think we’re allowed to. You have to report it.’
‘Bullshit,’ said a John. Anne began to cry. Fether looked up from the crossword and shook his head.
‘Don’t you worry, dear,’ said Phyllis patting Anne’s hand. ‘There are no conflicts of interest at stake here. We agree on everything. Now where’s that fellow about my lunch?’
Things passed back and forward in this desultory vein through the lunch hour and a half. We spent the remainder of the court day, about two hours, hearing the case against the accused from Madam Crown.
‘Madam Crown,’ spluttered Stanley when we were back in the jury room. ‘Madam Bloody Lash more like. Imagine coming home to that every night.’
‘Did you get a look at her legs when she approached the Bench?’ asked Bill.
‘None of that now, none of that,’ said Stanley. ‘Keep it clean, young man, or I’ll tell your wife when she rings tomorrow about the dry cleaning. Who’s coming for a drink?’
‘Ooh.’ It was almost a howl of pain. ‘We can’t,’ said Anne. ‘You heard the judge. We aren’t to talk to anyone.’
‘We can talk to each other and that,’ said Phyllis authoritatively.
‘No we can’t,’ muttered Anne to herself.
‘Wouldn’t be surprised if His Worship’s downing a few cold ones already,’ said Bill.
‘Nah, mate, nah. He’s a Johnnie Walker bloke. You can tell. The nose,’ said Stanley as we stepped through the secret doorway into the loading dock and the outside world. Both Johns, Bill, Tracey and Quoc went off with Stanley for a drink. Fether drifted away. Phyllis said she’d shout me afternoon tea in the Woolworths cafeteria. That was very Phyllis.
The next morning we assembled, were searched and tagged by security and delivered to the locked room.
‘Made me spread me cheeks,’ said Stanley. ‘You girls have any trouble?’
‘Oh, they did not, Stanley,’ said Tracey.
‘Watch it, young Trace,’ said Stanley. ‘And how are we all this morning? Jeez, I got it from Duckie last night. Forgot her flagon. She likes to mix the old red ned with apricot nectar. Nice little thing, Duckie. Brought in some photos for you to look at. Here we go. This is my favourite. See. Looks like she’s giving me the finger. Here. Pass them round.’
‘Shouldn’t we be talking about yesterday?’ begged Anne.
‘Talk away,’ said Phyllis waving her hand in a lordly way. She was browsing through New Idea. ‘That poor Queen. I know what it’s like to be a mother.’ (What a fib. Phyllis never had children unless you count her semi-rearing of Squeakie when we were neighbours over in Randwick.) Fether was busy with his new nine-letter word TRCGIEMOL.
‘Duckie, mate, it’s Duckie,’ said Stanley leaning over, prodding, urging the photos on him. ‘Lovely kid.’
‘How old is she?’ said Tracey.
‘Twenty-nine. These ones here now, they’re of the girlfriend before Duckie. Bloody Kiwi, she was, not a blackie though, couldn’t stand a blackie, no offence, young Wok. Had a nice place in the mountains but, jeez, she was always wanting me to go down. I can’t breathe I’d say but nah nah nah never a minute’s peace. Couldn’t stand it in the end.’ My eyes briefly met Quoc’s. We registered disbelief at what we were hearing. Tracey was having a convulsion into her hanky, Anna was studying her-fingernails and Phyllis was moving towards the toilets with a jar of Dettol and a toilet brush.
‘Everybody come along, please,’ said Mario taking us by surprise. ‘I have only eleven. Where is the other one, please.’
‘She’s on latrine duty,’ said Bill.
Disreputable People Page 15