The Private Parts of Women

by Lesley Glaister

‘Compost,’ she said, shaking me off.

  ‘Oh!’ I was relieved. I’d thought she looked demented. ‘I’ll fetch them for you.’ I crossed the road and picked up the thick curved leaves. ‘Here.’

  She took them without looking at me.

  ‘I was coming to see you,’ I said.

  ‘For a cup of tea?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind …’ She turned her back on the road and walked back up the passage. I followed. ‘Thank you. And I was going to ask a favour.’ We went into her house. It was freezing cold, the windows all open, no trace of the sherry, the flowers, no sign of the day before. ‘I’ve bought you a card,’ I said, ‘sorry it’s late.’

  She opened it and smiled tightly. ‘Roses. Very nice,’ she said and stood it on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Pretty aren’t they?’ I said, ‘I know you like flowers … gardening.’

  She turned her back and went into the kitchen. She was in a strange, tense mood. I listened to her fill the kettle and light the gas. She started humming. To the tune of ‘What shall we do with the Drunken Sailor’ she began to sing, pointedly, as if to me. ‘What shall we do with the Sneaking Judas. What shall we do with the Sneaking Judas?’

  ‘Want any shopping?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not a prisoner,’ she said quietly coming back through. I didn’t think I’d heard her right.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’m not a prisoner. Don’t think I don’t know your game, keeping me locked up. I know your sort.’

  ‘What? Trixie …’

  She subsided a bit.

  ‘Trixie, that’s just nonsense,’ I said as gently as I could. Clearly, she was distressed. ‘Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make the tea? Let’s shut the window shall we, it’s very cold in here.’

  ‘You can shut the window if you like,’ she said and went back into the kitchen. I did so and sat down. The television was switched off for once and I could see my distorted reflection in the curved screen.

  ‘I came to ask you something, and tell you something,’ I called. She clattered about in the sink and the kettle shrieked. She carried the tray through, pale tea slopping on the biscuit she had placed in each saucer.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I do look a sight …’ I nodded at my reflection and she flinched. She looked very upset.

  ‘Are you not well?’ I asked.

  She bent down and switched the set on. There was an advert for Flash and one for insurance. ‘I’m going to get my hair done,’ I said. ‘There’s a place along the high street where you don’t need an appointment, and I thought I could get a load of shopping in for you … you see …’

  ‘I don’t know what I want,’ she said.

  ‘Whatever it is I’ll get it for you.’

  She laughed: a dry, squeaky, disused sound.

  ‘Peace of mind,’ she said, ‘can you get me that? Just an ounce or two, just a slice.’

  ‘If you could buy it I’d have some for myself,’ I said. I reached forward to touch her hand but she jerked hers away.

  ‘I wanted to ask you a favour,’ I said.

  ‘Spit it out then.’ Her tone was suddenly sharp. ‘What is it, money?’

  ‘No! Trixie, what a thought! I wondered, you know my heating’s gone kaput … I wondered if I could have a bath here. I’d pay you for the hot water, of course. You see.- I’m going home.’

  ‘Home?’ she said. Her face went dreamy, her voice childish.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Home on the range?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Where seldom is heard a discouraging word?’

  I smiled. ‘Sort of. Back to my children.’

  ‘Children!’ She started. ‘Children! You never said anything about children.’

  ‘Two,’ I said, ‘a boy, four, Robin, and a little girl, Billie. She’s nearly one.’

  ‘A baby,’ she said, pulling her fingers to make them crack.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now you see me, now you don’t,’ she said, putting her hand over her eyes and removing it, almost teasingly. ‘Where is he then?’ she asked in a sing-song voice. ‘If you’ve got a baby, where is he?’

  ‘She – I know Billy’s usually a boy’s name. They’re in London, at home, with my husband.’

  ‘London? What part?’

  ‘Bromley,’ I said. ‘Do you know London?’

  ‘Do I know London!’ She sat on the edge of her chair. ‘Bromley’s not London. Not what I call London.’ Her face seemed to be changing, the muscles sliding beneath the skin. I was alarmed, I thought she might be having some sort of stroke or seizure. Her face flickered, that’s it, flickered between its usual lax tiredness and a sort of concentration that was like a skew-whiff face-lift, the muscles tightening and bunching, the cheeks rising. She smoothed back her sparse hair as if there was a great cloud of it. ‘Do I know London she asks!’ I recognised the Trixie of the day before.

  She leant forward conspiratorially. I sipped my tea which was weak and cool. ‘And what have you done with the baby?’ she whispered. ‘You can tell me, I won’t tell. Have you done away with him?’

  ‘Trixie!’

  Her face changed again. I was beginning to feel dizzy. It was like being in a room with several people. It was unsettling. I was so glad I would soon be home.

  ‘Oh, that name,’ she said, ‘that tiresome name. I thought I said, my name is Ada, palindrome, you know. A.D.A. Same either way.’

  ‘Ada … yes you did say. My children are both with my husband. I’m going back. That’s why I want to get smartened up a bit.’ I thought it best to be normal, not to react to her strangeness.

  ‘You do look a fright,’ she agreed. ‘He won’t look twice at you like that you know, it’s perfume they like, men, perfume and tight clothes. Silky black clothes. Oh, and lace. Did you run off with another man? Was it an affair of the heart?’

  ‘Nothing so exciting,’ I said.

  ‘No?’ She looked me up and down.

  ‘I just … Oh I don’t know, Trixie, Ada, I can’t explain. So could I, do you think, could I have a bath, just a quick one.’

  ‘You could get a plumber in,’ she said.

  ‘I know, but it would take ages and cost … and I’m leaving. But never mind, it doesn’t matter. I can go without.’

  ‘No, no, no …’ She stopped to think. ‘Of course you must have a bath. The tank is full. Now?’

  ‘If it’s convenient. Or later … it’s just that I’ve had this flu and I’d like to freshen up before I go to the hairdresser’s.’

  ‘Now will be fine,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll get my stuff.’ I stood up.

  ‘Stuff?’ A woman in a skin-tight white dress was silently singing, her eyes smouldering at the camera. ‘That would suit you,’ she said, ‘a dress like that. Something to show off your figure. They don’t last forever you know, figures.’ She ran her hands complacently over her solid midriff.

  ‘Not my style. I’ll fetch a towel and soap.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. There are piles of towels, rich thick piles of towels, too fat to shut in the drawers, white towels, blue and red, any sort of towel you want and soap, bars of it, heaps of it, pink soap, white, Imperial Leather, Pears, Camay, all the big-name soaps.’

  ‘Oh, well!’

  ‘Up in the attic. Where I store things. Go up in the attic and choose.’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘Go on … go up and take your pick.’

  I hesitated. My own towels were damp since there was nowhere warm to hang them. And I could hardly be bothered to go back. Also, I was curious. I wanted to see what Trixie’s attic was like.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll do that.’

  I was surprised that she used the attic, the stairs were very steep. There was a lock on the door at the bottom but the key was in it. The stairs were dim, narrow and uncarpeted, dangerous for an old woman alone who could so easily slip. There was a thick, musky, musty smell that made me sneeze violently. In
the light from the dim red bulb that dangled from a frayed flex I could see the hairy clumps of dust gathered at the corners of each stair.

  At the top there was a small, bare landing and another door, also locked, also with a key. I opened the door and gasped with a mixture of shock … delighted surprise … I don’t know. In the centre of the room was a double bed, rumpled sheets, shawls, pink and black silky underwear, crushed flowers tangled with the sheets – Mr Blowski’s lilies by the look of them. The room was lit by one small dusty skylight. Chairs were heaped with chiffon and satin; Trixie’s beaded dress was on the floor; black and red feather boas were draped over dusty mirrors. So many mirrors! And on the dressing-table was a powdery jumble of make-up, perfume bottles, hair-clogged brushes, lipstick-smudged handkerchiefs, sticky wine glasses. High-heeled sandals littered the floor and stockings were everywhere, one hung from the lampshade like the spectre of a leg.

  My heart was beating unnaturally. I felt disconnected. This attic was not like the rest of the house, as Trixie last night was not like the usual Trixie. Again I had the feeling that I was intruding in someone else’s dream. A sweet, stale chill hung in the air. I shivered and felt my skin prickle into goose-pimples. I looked round for the clean towels and the heaps of soap but found none. It was such a mess. There was nothing clean. I stood gazing at my dusty reflection in the dressing-table mirror. My heart nearly leapt out of my mouth, as the door suddenly banged and there was Trixie with her back to it. She was wearing the wig again though she had not changed her clothes and her crimson smile was immense.

  BOY

  Nearly out sometimes

  Like a boy’s arm sticking out of a cave

  The cave is an old woman

  It is not fair

  If she does not let me out I will …

  How can I?

  I am bad because boys are

  Big

  Because it is for boys, all that, bad and that

  I am stuck in Trixie

  A danger and a disgrace

  Baby boys are weak like girls are

  They are supposed to be boys but they lie about in blankets

  and suck milk from ladies’ titties and cry

  One day I will out

  Making me angry, keeping me inside as if I am nothing

  When I am more than her

  I am the boy

  Watch out for me

  Watch out

  RIVER

  Terrible things. My head like a merry-go-round. I must calm myself, collect myself, must collect. Yes, pull myself together. Hear me Trixie? Pull yourself together. Things going on, an absence … if it was an absence.

  Look, perhaps it is just old age, just absent-mindedness, just ordinary. Now I can think that. I am old, an old woman, memory leaking like a sieve. Ha! It’s almost funny. I’ll forget my head next.

  The memory leaking like a sieve, seeping out all the time like some sort of wound staining my days.

  Should I have a bath? The water is so hot it’s growling in the tank. A long, hot soak. But the bathroom is so cold. When the water is warm you never want to get out, you lie there until you wrinkle, you lie there till the water is nearly as cold as the air and then, when you get out, you are so chilled, you just cannot get warm again, not properly warm, not for hours.

  Now, if I brought a towel downstairs, I could air it by the fire first. But having a bath is such a terrible palaver, what with the undressing, the running of the bath, getting in, washing, getting out, getting dry, getting dressed, cleaning the bath. Oh it makes me tired just thinking of it. It’s a night’s work, having a bath, and for what?

  It might soothe my headache away, ease my stiffness. Maybe later. Soon it will be time for ‘Countdown’ but before that there is nothing I want. Oh I don’t know, I don’t know where to put myself. My throat is sore as if from shouting or talking and talking and my heart is beating hard. Oh there is such a crashing in my head, a commotion, almost as if a voice is crying out from the very roof of my skull, ‘Let me out.’ If only I could, I say, if only I could.

  The River Thames is a strange and filthy beast. I was always afraid to get too close. From far off it is just water, an opening, pleasing among the bridges and buildings. I did think, once, that the river was like God’s love, deep, eternal, whiter than the driven snow. But close to, it was grey and brown, khaki. There was a stench of I don’t know what, oil, something sulphurous almost, something rotten. It was not that my faith in God had deserted me, it was my faith that He could save me. There was a flaw in my soul. I was unsalvagable. I was lost.

  I went down beside Hungerford Bridge and sat on a stone. There was a place where small boats were moored, used to be, in the shadow of the bridge. The river’s cold got into me and I shivered. The water sloshed against the stone platform. I had never looked at the river so closely before. In the distance it seemed a beautiful thing. It seemed to belong to the city, to be tame. It ran between the houses, roads, warehouses, under the bridges as if in obedience. But that evening, in the mood to end it all, I saw my mistake. The city was obedient to the river, designed around it.

  The pagan idea came to me that this river was itself a sort of God. It was nature. Not tame, not there to serve commerce, not there to provide a lovely view. It was nature and it had the power, if it wanted, to rise up and swallow ships and towers, wash the bridges away, drown the buildings and the people in them. It could destroy. I could see that, smell it on its breath. The water was muddy and carried fragments, lashed them against the side of the platform. Sometimes the curve of a wave would break against the stone like a seaside wave, splashing my skirt with dark spots. I saw paper rubbish, bits of wood. I saw a tiny shrunken thing that might have been a drowned kitten, very new. I saw flowers floating past, a stream of them as if someone had flung them, one by one from a bouquet: rose, rose-bud, rose-bud, rose; green ferns like feathers; and a puff of babies’ breath. Not old flowers but fresh: snow, sunshine, flame. I thought it was the end of love, a spurned gift. The River carried them away like an offering.

  I imagined myself in the water. I would go up on to the bridge, climb the rail and drop. I knew how cold it would be. I felt already the slapping shock of it, the gasp. I knew my body would struggle, for not all of me wanted to die, oh no, not all. I knew that my clothes would grow heavy, my skirt thick and wet around my thrashing legs. A shout might even come from my mouth, a cry for help, but it would be in vain for I could not swim and the River was greedy, it licked its lips, all those grey tongues against the stone, slavering for such a gift, a warm woman, an unsaved soul. And into my shouting mouth would rush the water, into my nostrils. I would breathe in water and my mouth would fill with oily feathers, flower stalks, I would float and be wound about on my voyage to the sea with ropes and strings and slippery weeds. Dead kittens would tangle in my hair. And there would be silence.

  I climbed the steps on to the bridge. There were people about, it was a fine evening. I listened to the traffic and another sound, I almost laughed. Very distant, by some acoustic fluke, I could hear a Salvation Army band, I swear I could. I stood looking at the low orange sun on the waves. A barge passed under the bridge pulling a series of wide flat vessels packed with timber. It looked neat and toy-like. St Paul’s dome shone dully in the distance ahead of me. My mouth, I found, was moving, mouthing the words of the chorus I thought I could hear, so faint and distant:

  The Cleansing Stream I see; I see;

  I plunge and lo! it cleanses me;

  It cleanses now, it sets me free,

  O praise the Lord it cleanses me.

  Was Jesus having a laugh at my expense? Did I think that? Did the band happen to be playing that tune? Was there a band at all? In my memory there was and that is all I have. You cannot catch it by its shoulders, memory, shake it, force it to tell the truth.

  My memory tells me I heard the chorus, shaped my mouth around its words, smiled slightly, bitterly, at the coincidence of deed and musical accompaniment, climbed over the raili
ng, and glancing down to check that no boat was directly beneath me, jumped.

  Jumped, everything white before my eyes, feeling no emotion at the precise moment of jumping. What did I think of? Babies. Baby Harold and Benjamin Charles swaddled together in a soaking shawl.

  The babies would have been in my mind as the water engulfed me but instead there was a split second of air and flight and then a jolt, a rip, a scream. A scream from outside or from my own mouth, I do not know, but there followed other shrieks and running feet.

  My skirt had caught on an iron projection, ripped but stuck in the thick hem, so I dangled head down, most of the skirt about my head, the rest caught up behind me. I screamed again, this time it was surely me, my frustration, and then a terrible mad laugh fled from my mouth. It was as if the life inside me gathered into a ball in my chest, around my heart, and hurled itself out and I was sick, sick even as I shrieked with laughter, hanging there my legs all on display, my underwear, my stockings, even perhaps my tattoo, all visible to the people, crowding round now, on the bridge. I choked as the acid from my stomach stung the lining of my nose, I struggled to get free, to drop, but someone had grabbed my shins by then. I was untangled and hauled back over the railing, on to the bridge and a sort of safety.

  The past is pressing in and the present flickering in and out. Oh I am not myself. A bath, later I will have a bath and an early night. Just now I can’t shift myself from beside the fire, from in front of the television. I don’t know what to do with myself, holes and gaps like empty windows with draughts blowing through.

  Pray Trixie or sing, drown it out, drown out the voice in your own skull that cries Let me out. Jesus is with me. I must believe it. I do. I do not feel alone. He did forsake me but He is here with me now. In my eyes, my body, my mind. And in my memory. And it will all come out tonight, now that the stones are rolled away and now that it is started. Like a reckoning.

  THE ROSE TATTOO

  I don’t believe this. I don’t know whether to laugh or scream. Scream I think, now that the time is passing, it is a joke gone on too long. She has shut me in her attic. Not a joke at all. I can’t make sense of her or it. I am not exactly frightened, but it’s bizarre the way she’s acting. She’s gone off her head. So I should be scared. If she was a man I would certainly be scared. It is absurd and it is bloody freezing up here. I thought it was cold in my house. I’m only a few feet away from my own attic, my darkroom.