The Private Parts of Women

by Lesley Glaister

  Because, although I had had no absences since my parents’ death, although I was as near to happy as I have ever been, there was always the fear. The fear of what I was. The fear of being found out.

  But for a long time everything was almost as it should be and I grew gradually less afraid. I wore my uniform proudly. I thought about other things, my new life, my new concerns. For the first time I was looking outwards at the world and at the suffering of other people. I worked long hours at the shelter on Bothwell Street. It was miserable stinking work but I never took a single moment for granted. I never stopped being grateful for every normal minute that passed.

  The shelter was a terrible place, like a barn, a place I could never have slept in. But we kept it clean, we charged a few pennies for soup, tea, bread and cheese, the chance to wash, a bed for the night. There were seventy beds in the one dormitory, too close together I thought, so that the men’s breath must have mingled as they lay in bed, but more space would have meant fewer beds, and the beds were always full. We always had to turn men away.

  The poor wretches turned up at six o’clock each evening with their handfuls of greasy pennies to pay for their night’s lodgings and were able to wash, were fed, were able to rest in reasonable comfort. But it was their souls that benefited the most. For gambling was forbidden, and gambling is the chief downfall of the poor man. It is a temptation I can understand. It seems a chance for a sort of magic to happen – for sixpence to become six pounds, then sixty, perhaps six hundred and for life to be transformed. That is the temptation of it, a false and wicked temptation because of course it never works like that. It is a vice. It is one of Satan’s traps. So gambling was banned from the shelter. On the wall under a portrait of General Booth was a sign in red lettering, the only splash of colour in the room:

  HELP KEEP THIS HOSTEL FREE FROM

  THE DETESTABLE EVIL OF GAMBLING.

  ANY MAN FOUND PLAYING CARDS OR

  OTHERWISE GAMBLING WILL BE EJECTED

  AND NEVER AGAIN ADMITTED

  UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.

  Gambling gives false hope. Our concern was to replace this false hope with hope for another kind of transformation, equally magical but good and sure and lasting. To this end we prayed with the men and sometimes we sang hymns. And sometimes we did save a soul, though many of the men’s eyes were empty and lightless, blocked off from God’s love, sometimes we did find a spark and wherever it was found it was kindled.

  Oh, the drunkard may come,

  And the swearer may come,

  Gamblers, all sinners are all welcome home.

  If you will but believe and be washed in the Blood,

  For ever and ever you shall dwell with the Lord.

  We sang that at open-air meetings, aiming to reach out to those that had ears to hear. We sang outside pubs. Harold and I. One time. It was the beginning of the end although I could not see that then.

  I am cold.

  I cannot stop this blasted remembering.

  Thank God for my television. Coco-Pops. I’ll have another bowl of Coco-Pops. I like that tune. Properly catchy. Coco-Pops are something I’ve never had but they look like a cheerful start to the day. Something cheerful, always cheerful, Constant sunshine in the soul. Something new to try. I will have to go out.

  I’ll have another bowl of Coco-Pops.

  Concentrate on the memory. It will come. Get it over with.

  All right then.

  I did nothing wrong. There was attraction between Harold and me. Nothing happened, oh no. One day we were singing outside a pub, The Cross Cat. Mary was not there, she’d gone to visit a relative. It was the day after an absence. They had started again. I thought no one had noticed any difference. I did not want to know about the absences. I ignored them, pretended nothing had happened.

  A man was staring at me. I took no notice at first, people always looked. We were there to be noticed, and some men did take a fancy to a young woman in uniform, it was well known. In the pubs on Friday nights when we sold The War Cry, dreadful suggestions were made and we took no notice. But this man persisted, looking at my face and then with a long, lazy, almost licking look at my body, at my uniform rather. He wore a Panama hat and a long light trench-coat. He waited until he’d caught my eye and smiled and shook his head at me in a horrible, knowing way, that made me feel sick. He had a crude scarred face. I averted my eyes, made myself smile at a little cluster of children who’d gathered.

  ‘Oh the drunkard may come,’ we sang. I tried, I fought against the shrinking of my voice. It was as if I was shrivelling under his eyes, my voice, my self, to nothing. The round eyes of the smallest child were full of the ribbon on my tambourine. I kept my eyes on the children and at the edge of my vision, at last I saw the man move away. I turned slightly then, watched him enter the pub. But he looked back at me, caught my eye before I could escape his, shook his head and touched the brim of his hat. The door swung behind him and he was gone. There had been something so knowing in his manner that my voice died altogether and I shuddered. Later Harold walked me home.

  ‘I saw the way that man looked at you,’ he said, quite delicately, ‘and I saw your reaction.’

  ‘I was frightened,’ I admitted, ‘the way he was looking.’

  ‘He’s not an acquaintance … not a former acquaintance?’

  I walked faster. ‘Certainly not.’

  I wanted to be away from Harold, away from everybody. I wanted to shut myself in my room and pray. On the floor of my room, I had scattered sharp gravel to kneel on during prayer to stop myself from going off again, to keep me conscious of and in my skin. The consciousness of the pain prevented the fearful drift. For this reason, I almost liked the pain of the gravel biting into my knees.

  ‘Trixie, I have been wanting to talk to you.’

  ‘Do you think Mary would mind you walking me home?’

  ‘Mary would not mind.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know how … I’ve prayed for guidance. I’ve spoken to Mary about my feelings. Trixie, you must have guessed …’

  ‘No!’ I hurried so that he had to lengthen his stride to keep up with me.

  ‘I love Mary as a sister and a friend. I have not looked at another woman – hardly looked – before in my life. But you … I know you feel it too. Trixie, I am excited by you. I could love you in another way. The way God meant a man to love a woman.’

  My heart went cold. ‘And you’ve said this to Mary? Harold! How dare you?’

  ‘She understands.’

  ‘I don’t care! Mary is my friend. Is that why she’s gone away?’

  ‘No … not entirely … she is worried about you – your activities. Oh she is innocent. Innocent where you are not.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I stopped and faced him. I pressed my lips together to prevent them from trembling.

  ‘If you will marry me, you will be saved. Mary will stand aside. If you will not marry me, then I’ll marry Mary.’

  ‘Poor Mary.’

  ‘Mary is strong. She would wish us well.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Trixie there is a wildness in you, something dangerous. There is talk … If you marry me you will be safe.’

  I began walking again, fast and then slower. The idea began to settle on me like a soothing cloud, a temptation.

  ‘Let me come in with you. We can pray together for guidance.’

  I let him come in and made him tea. I remembered the day when my feet had first carried me to the Citadel, when I had seen Mary and Harold together and wanted to be Mary, to be with him. Now I had the chance to do that.

  We did not pray. I was filled with dread that Mary might have seen me in an absence, spoken to me when I was not there. I was weak, tired, confused by Harold’s closeness. He held my hand gently in his own. His hand was beautiful, long fingers, little dark hairs curling on their backs. To have another person so close, a person who cared, who loved me, wanted to hold me, hold
me for the rest of my life was an overwhelming temptation. His mouth was wide and kind, the skin on his chin and cheeks shadowed bluish with the stubble underneath. I almost gave in. I said I would tell him tomorrow. The idea was so big and pressing in my mind that everything else got pushed aside and I could not think straight. When he left he kissed me on the lips. A long, deep kiss, not holy, a kiss that left me breathless.

  ‘I am not blind to your eyes, Trixie. I know the way you look at me. Do not deceive yourself,’ he said as he left, and I shuddered after I closed the door on him. If he had not said that …

  Something in his eyes, his tone of voice, reminded me of the knowing eyes of the man who had looked at me so … so intimately, so greedily. I had thought of Harold as good, as sent by God but the way he spoke those words made me doubt him.

  As I knelt on the gravel and prayed, the thought came to me that he was not of God, he was the Devil in disguise. A good disguise. Oh with his smooth tongue he had nearly tricked me. Even that thought didn’t remove the temptation. Lust. It was that that he felt for me and not for Mary, lust not love. And though that knowledge shocked me I felt an answering stir. But he loved her. He could never love me because I am not loveable, I am not even a whole person, so how could he love me? And when he got to know me, when he discovered the deep flaw in my soul, then what? Then he would regret leaving Mary and I would be despised. I would have lost everything.

  So next day I said no. Because of Mary, I said, because Mary is my friend, because I do not love you, is what I said. Because of the lust in your eyes that excites something bad in me, because I cannot let you know me, is what I thought.

  If I had married Harold where would I be now? Sometimes I wonder if that was my one chance, if I had been fooled by a sort of double bluff – the Devil made me see evil and lust in him when there was only goodness and love. Perhaps I would have had children, two girls and two boys. No, not boys. Not babies at all, oh no, no, no. I could not bear to be near a baby. I’m worn out with these everlasting memories, going round and round in my head, what if this? what if that? questions, questions and no answers. Never, ever, an answer.

  Time for my quiz: Countdown. I like this. You can make answers to this. I keep a pad by my chair with a pen attached, to save a scramble every afternoon, and I try to beat the contestants at their own game, and sometimes, on a good day, I do.

  ADA

  My love for Frank. Oh … you cannot imagine. The sight of Frank made Trixie shudder. Poor Trixie who knows nothing. I do love her, of course I do, she is my … she is my … I have responsibilities. I have work to do. There is the boy I have to keep him in. Somebody has to.

  That boy is a monster.

  Frank killed people but he killed them according to the rules because criminals do have rules. The rules are more exacting than the ones they cross. Break a rule, get the knife. Simple.

  No, I do not agree with killing but, a funny thing. His killing hand on my body it made pleasant gooseflesh.

  Can you explain?

  One day, a hot windy day. We were in torment. Trixie was trying to move her Salvation life into our childhood home. Trying to deny the strengthening me. I was feeling bad, knowing I would hurt Trixie with my love for a bad man. The boy was weak then, it was me that was the other mover.

  The country, Epping Forest. He drove me in his Armstrong-Siddeley black and shiny as a stag-beetle. We drank beer outside a pub in the sunshine. We walked past a hedge full of blossom. Bees hummed and bumbled. The grass was long and soft about my ankles. I had hardly seen him outside. Under the shadow of his hat I saw his skin was scarred, little bluish zig-zagged lines on his cheekbones. He had thin crooked lips but eyelashes like a girl’s.

  Up against a tree.

  ‘Let me love you,’ he said.

  I looked around. There was nothing and no one, only green trees swaying and creaking and childish white flowers like stars in the grass. He lifted my skirt and moved aside the lacy edge of my knickers. The tops of my thighs were a shocking blue-white in the sunshine.

  Trixie’s thighs too.

  ‘Not here,’ I said, aware of the hardness of the tree trunk against my back.

  ‘Where?’ he said.

  ‘Mine,’ I said, thinking of Trixie, thinking, can I? Can I? I knew if I could stay me, stay away from Mary then I could bring him back. ‘Tonight.’

  ‘You’re on,’ he said. He took off his hat and put his head down. I saw for the first time that his hair was thinning on top. I thought he would kiss my thigh but instead he nipped the flesh between his teeth. A sharp nip. When he stood up, he smiled. I think it was the first time I’d seen him smile a whole smile. It revealed the sharp ivory of his narrow slanted teeth. Rat’s teeth I thought, and the thought was not repellent.

  FEVER

  Two whole days and nights in bed. I think it must have been flu or something, worse than a cold anyway. I was so ill, time just hung in the room around me and didn’t pass and my dreams were like stale tastes in my mouth when I woke. I staggered to the lavatory once or twice, and to fetch water to drink. I oozed tears into my pillow because there was no one to look after me. My mum used to wipe my hot head with a cool flannel when I had a temperature, bring me fruity drinks, change my hot rumpled sheets for smooth, cool ones. Richard would bring me medicine and cups of tea and try to keep the children away. But there was no one – and it was my own fault.

  Something strange, I remember, a bit like a dream. I got out of bed, feeling ghastly. I went to fetch a glass of water from the bathroom. Before I got back into bed, I pressed my hot forehead against the cold window. It was either early morning or early evening, anyway, barely light, but Trixie was outside in her dressing-gown. I thought she was looking at her plants but then I saw that there was a cat in her garden, a big black-and-white Tom, he prowls round my garden too, a nice cat. As I watched, Trixie leant down as if to stroke him and then, with a quick movement, caught him by the tail and pulled so hard she jerked him off the ground. The cat’s scream was frightening, but what was worse was the sound of her laugh as the cat ran off. A sort of laugh, horrible, jeering. If I hadn’t seen with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed Trixie could do such a thing.

  I was very feverish.

  Maybe it was a dream.

  Today, though, I woke with a clear head and the aching in my muscles almost gone. My stomach was hollow, my skin all shivery and mottled, but still I feel much better. I looked at my parchment face and greasy hair in the mirror. I ached for a bath – but the boiler has completely packed up. I thought I’d ask Trixie if I could have a bath at hers.

  There was nothing for breakfast, only a bit of stale bread, an inch of thick milk in a bottle, so I had to go out. Everything was sparkling, so bright it hurt my eyes. The fag ends and dog turds in the gutter were stiff and whiskery with frost. My legs felt hollow and weak. I was walking along the main road to the supermarket when I saw a little boy running ahead of me. He had blue padded trousers and a red jacket just like Robin’s. His hair was dark, he was the same size. Just for a splinter of a second I thought he was Robin and my heart leapt. The little boy was running towards the busy road. It looked as if he wasn’t going to stop. I didn’t stop to think, I leapt forward and grabbed his hand. And he turned, surprised. And it wasn’t Robin, of course it wasn’t, quite the wrong face, a nice little boy but not my son. His mother hurried up and caught his hand from mine.

  ‘I thought …’ I started to say but she did not care to know. She gave me a tight suspicious smile and whisked the boy away – and who can blame her? If someone had grabbed my Robin like that I would have reacted in the same way. I thought how I must look, pale, haggard, greasy. I could have been a mad woman for all she knew. The episode left me feeling faint. Instead of the supermarket I went into a café and sat in the window drinking coffee and forcing myself to swallow a toasted tea-cake.

  Through the window I watched the procession of mothers and babies, mothers and children, pregnant women. It was as if someone
had put a breeding spell on Sheffield. I seemed to be the only woman under the age of forty without a child in tow or brewing.

  Then I walked back home, feeling exhausted, dispirited, so flattened that I forgot to post Richard’s card. I’d had it in my bag but the boy had distracted me, wrenching me painfully into a moment of motherhood, responsibility, reminding me of the panic of protective love … I’d meant to buy a stamp and post the card but my surge of energy had evaporated. All the way home my hand kept clutching at the empty air.

  I felt disgusting, ugly, smelly, caked in the cold residue of my fever. I needed to bathe and then to sleep. I knocked at Trixie’s door. I was scared of her reaction. But I really needed a bath. There was no one else I could ask.

  The door sprang open quickly, surprising me.

  ‘Inis init?’ Trixie laughed as if this was a great joke. ‘Come in, always thought it a funny sort of name, funny peculiar that is. In is.’

  I followed her in. She looked and sounded different, the whole room seemed different, though it was dark, the curtains were pulled against the sun and the light all came from the silently flickering television screen and the orange bars of the fire. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom I was amazed to see that she was wearing lipstick and a raggedy chiffon dress sprinkled with shiny black beads. And the room smelt overwhelmingly of rank perfume. A huge perfume atomizer, with a silky black bulb to squeeze, stood on top of the piano. For a moment I thought it wasn’t Trixie at all but a sister, perhaps a twin. Where’s Trixie? I almost asked, but she knew me. And anyway, I could see that it really was Trixie.