It was exciting to have a fridge in the room, even though it didn’t work. When I opened it, it smelled like sour milk. I found a very withered fruit in one of its drawers, so wrinkled it almost looked like it had a face. I kept it on the windowsill as a kind of artistic curiosity until I realized it probably wasn’t fruit but something much darker. I buried it in the small backyard of the house early one morning before any of the other lodgers were up.
The couple in the other room were named Pauline and Stuart. Pauline worked in a Factory sewing ladies’ intimates. She brought home samples for herself and spent a lot of time modeling them in the bathroom, where the mirror was. Mirrors were extremely expensive, we were lucky to have one, but Pauline was such a bathroom hog I had to buy a chamber pot for my room. She was anorexic and so the lingerie just hung off her in a sad way. She kept the bathroom door open when examining herself in the mirror, I suppose she wanted Stuart to pass by and see her.
She rarely flushed the toilet after she used it. She left small dark pellets in the bowl, like rabbits’ droppings.
I wasn’t frightened of Stuart because he seemed very preoccupied with himself.
He spent his time at home pacing their room, with a Philosophy Book under his arm, smoking his pipe and listening to records by Wagner and Tchaikovsky. He tried to look like he was deep in thought, but I was sure the only thing on his mind was his next tinned meat sandwich. He had a meaty smell about him. Often my hotplate wouldn’t work on account of Stuart hogging all the electricity for his records. I ruined a lot of eggs that way, and had to drink my coffee powder mixed with cold water.
Stuart wore a red quilted night-robe with rolled up corduroy trousers underneath, and velvet smoking slippers with a slight heel, and his red-blonde hair stuck up unbrushed and very dry. When he went out, to an Exam, or to buy tobacco and records, he changed his robe for an unwashed Oxford shirt and a green jumper with leather elbow patches.
He never brought much Exam money home. Often he returned slightly drunk, as it was a common custom for Men to go for a drink after one of their Exams, but I think Stuart pretended to be more drunk than he was so that Pauline would think he’d won a big Exam prize and spent it all on drink. Sometimes I don’t even think he went to a Bar—I couldn’t smell any alcohol on him—but just walked around till evening before coming home.
“Next Time, Don’t Spend Your Prize Money On Drink,” Pauline would say in a very loud, but not yelling, voice, as if speaking to a half-deaf person she wasn’t cross at.
If one’s Man did not do well on Exams, it was considered the woman’s fault for not providing a nurturing enough environment in which they could excel.
I was jealous of Pauline’s underthings. I didn’t have anything I could bring home from my Factory, besides bits of sewing machine, but you couldn’t do anything with them unless you had an iron frame, which was too large to pocket. It was my job to paint the name of the sewing machine company onto the frame, in gold paint: NIGHTINGALE.
When I first got the job, I felt bored and cruel painting NIGHTINGALE on all the machines. They looked like frightened black cats, and would all have the exact same name. I thought it would be so lovely to give one a name like DANCEY or VERONICA, but of course I would be fired. It didn’t take long for it to feel like the only word I knew how to write was NIGHTINGALE.
In Pauline and Stuart’s room, I could see women’s underthings hanging everywhere in abundance like cobwebs, insects, and flowers, but Pauline did not offer to give me any. Their room was papered muddy green. The most important thing they owned, besides a bed, a wardrobe, and Stuart’s desk—all matching brown—was a gramophone, which loomed over everything else like a grand rotting flower.
I didn’t have any nice underthings, perhaps Rollo wouldn’t have left me if I’d had some. He and I parted ways after he won a large Exam prize. He wanted to find a nicer place to live and a prettier girl to take care of him. I wasn’t too upset, I had prepared for something like this to happen, and I was proud he finally did so well on a big Exam.
When I first started dating him, I took him to the cinema. It was very expensive but I wanted to show Rollo I would not only take care of him but also show him a marvelous time. The film was called A Virtuous Woman. I didn’t remember any of it, only the way the title was written in big letters on a black background. Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw the word NIGHTINGALE floating in black, like a film that was just beginning.
During the short time when I did not have a Man, I bought myself a grey trench coat, some plastic flowers, a pair of red rubber sandals, a tweed skirt with a few fixable moth holes, and a third pair of dungarees, which I needed for work.
I felt good, but it was frowned upon to be Manless. I knew people would become suspicious of me if I went without one for too long. The way to meet Men was to go to a café, order a coffee, and wait for a Man to talk to you. They often went, in groups, to cafés to study. The cafés had wooden booths and stools, and the floors and walls were all tiled. In the cheaper cafés the tiles were filthy and cracked, in more expensive ones they smelled strongly of bleach. The first question a Man always asked was what type of Factory you worked in. Ideal were the ones that disfigured a woman the least and paid the most.
Pauline’s job was better than mine; she could’ve found a better Man than Stuart, though perhaps not because her anorexia was unappealing. Men really liked women to have breasts for them to fondle when they were nervous.
My hands were rather ruined from the chemicals in the paint I used at work. I thought about wearing gloves to the café, but that would’ve been deceitful, and if part of you that is normally shown is conspicuously covered, the Men know it is hiding some sort of disfigurement. I didn’t want them to imagine my hands were worse than they actually were. I was lucky not to have a disfigured face, though I did have a nasty cough sometimes.
One day at a café I saw a tall, red-haired young Man with lots of freckles who appealed, but a girl with brown ringlets and a black eyepatch came in sobbing and pulled him out by the sleeve of his coat before we had a chance to talk.
I felt intolerably miserable. There were posters everywhere reminding me I was Manless:
TAKE CARE OF YOUR MAN
A GOOD LADY DOES NOT LET HER MAN LOITER
FEED YOUR MAN WELL
I traded a tin of meat with Pauline for a nice bra and panty set. I styled my hair into ringlets, it was a nice golden syrup color, and used the lipstick I hadn’t used since Rollo left me. I spent all my time off work sitting in cafés looking for Men. There was a couple I always saw: a thin, unshaven, greying, balding old Man wearing a filthy brown coat and a grimy checkered scarf, and a young woman with a nice prim body, nice hair, and natural curls. She could have done much better if it weren’t for her face: she was only sixteen or so, but her face had most likely been ruined by acid in a Factory. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen something like it. They clung to each other in a desperate manner, and shared their food: one cup of coffee and a slice of toast cut in half and dribbled with golden syrup.
One evening I saw the Man sitting alone in the café. I assumed the girl had got pregnant and died. The Man only ordered a cup of coffee, and I didn’t see him in the café for a few days after that—until he showed up with a new girl.
She was fat and bald with red splotches on her skull, and wore a fake-jewel necklace she played with repeatedly. The Man ordered a whole Golden Syrup Toast for himself and ate it greedily, chewing with his mouth wide open in a grin. I felt ill, and never went back to that café again. It didn’t much matter, the café menus were the same everywhere:
COFFEE
GOLDEN SYRUP TOAST
BOILED TINNED MEAT WITH TOAST
The tinned meat became grey when it was boiled and made the toast all wet; most people just ordered Golden Syrup Toast with Coffee. There were also pubs, that sold beer and gin, but, like libraries, women weren’t allowed in those. They were places for Men to socialize and study for their Exams in peace
.
In a café I met a girl named Ann who played the electric Hammond organ in a Bar to entertain the Men, jolly songs to help them relax. She was bulky and had a downy moustache and very thick legs, I think from sitting at the organ all day long pressing the pedal. She smoked very quickly, bringing the cigarette to her mouth the way a greedy person eats little snacks.
She danced her fingers across the table, her shoulders wiggling along, making a buzzing with her mouth to demonstrate the organ sound.
She told me she used to have the most beautiful curls but had to cut them off because intoxicated Men would grab them. She now had a closely cropped bowl cut. She wore a blue dress with a plastic corsage safety-pinned to her chest and had sweat stains under her arms.
She was on her break: she wasn’t allowed to eat in the Bar. They sold beer, gin, gherkins, and toast. Gherkins were the special thing there. Sometimes she and the other girls snuck some gherkins home with them. A green thing was a fine thing to eat, so long as it wasn’t mold, Ann said. Chop them up and put them in a sandwich with mushed boiled eggs and tinned meat. If your Man is worth anything, he’ll bring you back a gherkin from the Bar. I was too embarrassed to say I didn’t have a Man.
Her Man was named Tiny Bernard, and she told me his hands were like chicken’s feet, all bent with only three fingers and a little stump that was hardly a thumb. He was quite smart but never did well on Exams because he wrote so slowly. He could never finish before the time was up. Ann said she had fine hands aplenty and it was unfair they wouldn’t let her assist him with writing Exams or give him an extra few hours.
Tiny Bernard was her first Man, and would be her last, she said. “I wouldn’t trade him for All the Golden Syrup in the World,” she told me before going back to work.
As she left, I noticed the seat of her dress was faded and brownish from sitting so much, and I was glad I got to wear dungarees to work instead of easily ruined dresses.
I stayed in the café until it was dark, and signs for Examinations were lit up all along the street. As I left, I noticed a young Man stood with his back pressed to the wall of the building across the street. Above him was a sign that said:
24 HOURS EXAMS WE PAY CASH
Between his legs was a child’s suitcase with a white rabbit wearing a bonnet embroidered on the cover.
The young Man wore a long green woman’s overcoat, a yellow jumper, wool trousers too wide and short for his long legs, and funny shoes with the laces missing. He was peeing without his trousers undone, the inner thigh of his left trouser leg quickly darkening. His hair was black, and very sparse, like the hair of a woman who works in a Factory full of chemicals. He looked about seventeen or so. I was taught not to judge a Man by his looks, that it was the inside that counts, but this one was so beautiful I wouldn’t have cared if he were stuffed with straw. I couldn’t wait for him to talk to me, he might never. I put my ugly hands in my pockets before I approached him, just in case.
The suitcase was a fortunate sign. Perhaps he had just left a woman and needed a new one, or perhaps even better, had never had one at all. He seemed very intoxicated, or nervous from Exams, and agreed to come home with me immediately. I would take care of him, I said, and carried his suitcase for him back to my house.
I didn’t realize how bad he smelled until we were in the hall of my building, a mixture of urine, rotten milk, and mice.
There wasn’t enough electricity for hot water, so he had to take a quick cold bath. I scrubbed him furiously with soap until he was red and shivering.
I gave him a baggy blue jumper with brass buttons, a white cotton nightie to wear, and a cup of hot beef-flavored broth and toast, as he was so cold from the bath. He also put on grey socks and grey underwear from his suitcase, but I made him take them off because they smelled mildewy from not being dried properly. I lent him a pair of my own socks. As he ate, I unpacked the rest of his things: some children’s books and clothes.
When I saw he had no Philosophy Books, I realized he probably didn’t have any identification papers either. I was frightened, but I had already brought him home.
When he heard Pauline and Stuart come up the stairs and enter the room across the foyer he got frightened and tried to leave. I pushed him onto my couch and held him down, putting one of my hands across his mouth. “They were expecting me to get a Man any day now. They don’t need to know you don’t have papers.”
He was skinny enough that we could both fit comfortably on my saggy couch. It was like lying next to a beautiful, pale branch. I was terrified that he would leave me as soon as I fell asleep, but when I woke in the middle of the night it was only because he was trying to enter me, so I spread my legs to make it easier for him.
His name was Paul and he was no one and had never done an Exam.
When he was born his parents called him Bluey because he was blue and cold. Growing up, he had slept beside the open oven door.
Once they put him in the oven, promising they wouldn’t turn it on, and told him not to come out until it was quiet. When he came out, the apartment was empty and his parents were gone. Some older women took him in until it was no longer safe, he was illegal, and they didn’t want anyone thinking he was their child. He lived under stairs, in shadows, cupboards, and attics.
He gave himself the name Paul, from a children’s book, because the name Bluey reminded him too much of his parents and made him sad. He was missing many teeth and sometimes couldn’t control his bladder. I didn’t mind because one of the first things a girl learns in school is that every Man has his own special problems, and it’s one’s duty to take care of them. I became used to cleaning, and also to the sight of Paul’s saggy grey underpants draped over every surface of our room, dripping like rainclouds as they dried. After his first night living with me, I was so worried about leaving him alone, I painted the word NIGHTINGALE wrong on three sewing machines, though it was the word I knew best in the world.
NITINGALE, NIGTINGALE, NIGHTNGALE.
When I came home, Stuart was in our kitchen, walking back and forth, talking to Paul who sat demurely on a fold-out chair, his face very pale, his knees pressed together. He was nodding and nodding, Stuart was talking about Exams, and to my relief, not asking Paul any questions.
I told Stuart it was time to go, that Paul needed his dinner.
Paul said Stuart went on and on about Exams and Paul didn’t know a single thing he was talking about.
The next morning I left Paul some money to go sit in cafés and go to the flea market. I bought him some Philosophy Books so Pauline and Stuart wouldn’t get suspicious.
For a while Stuart thought Paul was some sort of young genius because he was so vague, but soon forgot about him when he realized Paul was of no direct use to him.
As he wasn’t registered for Exams, Paul spent his time wandering or making our home better. He made a couple of rag rugs to cover our cold floor, was good at darning clothes, and knew how to cook eggs in all sorts of interesting ways. He nailed a wool blanket across our door frame so we could have more privacy. Sometimes we could see motion on the other side, as if someone was lightly punching the blanket, but didn’t know if it was Pauline or Stuart.
Paul discovered that a few of our kitchen drawers were full of forks and spoons.
Only a fool would leave so many spoons and forks in a place like this and not expect them to be stolen, he said. Perhaps they were left by the last person, and the landlord was too lazy to look through the apartment for treasures before renting it out again. After what I found in the fridge, I had been too frightened to open any of the cupboards.
He sold some of the forks and spoons at a flea market and came back with a sack of yellow onions. For weeks we ate fried onions with bread. The smell drove Pauline crazy. What she did eat was as unflavored as possible: glasses of ration milk and slices of apple.
We also splurged on a sweet bun to share, sold from the same bakery where I bought bread, but the bits of red and green candied fruit stuck on top wer
e actually bits of plastic, and Paul almost choked on one. He cried for a long time after.
From my Factory I got rations of powdered milk, eggs, margarine, tinned meat, tinned peaches, a fresh, waxed apple, beef-flavored bouillon cubes, and a small pouch of low-grade tobacco. Every month one was given a small circle of pale yellow cheese with an orange-colored rind. Many said it didn’t melt, but just kind of sweated. I enjoyed it all the same, especially eaten with the tinned peaches. We were also given a tin of golden syrup quarterly.
During the time between Rollo and Paul, instead of saving the non-perishable items as a woman was supposed to when single, I ate all the food myself and put on weight.
The rest of our earnings were meant for rent, bread, and tobacco—if one’s Man did not have any prize money from Exams to spend on it—along with Philosophy Books and any other needs a Man might have. Paul didn’t use tobacco, and didn’t have many needs. He didn’t even eat as much as me.
My only worry, besides Pauline and Stuart discovering Paul wasn’t registered for Exams, was having a baby. Paul taught me all sorts of Uncommon tricks I had never tried before that were nice, and according to him didn’t cause babies.
It would take several months of saving my salary without buying anything to be able to afford contraceptives. It was near impossible without Exam prize money. Some Men didn’t like to spend their prize money on contraceptives; they preferred alcohol, tobacco, and bowties. There were always stories about girls who died or were left disabled by jumping down stairs to terminate a pregnancy, or little blue babies left in rubbish bins or killed in ovens and sinks.
“He’ll pay for it, I know he will, he loves me,” a lot of them said, but of course, that rarely happened and the girl died some way or another. It was more affordable just to find a new woman. To register a pregnancy and birth was even more expensive than contraceptives, and I could afford neither without Exam money.
The Doll’s Alphabet Page 3