The Private Parts of Women

by Lesley Glaister

  It is her that has upset me, her next-door, with her treachery.

  I wish that she would disappear.

  I got it wrong back then. I thought I would be Ada. I thought since I was Ada, I would stay and be a whore, that would be my new life, that was the sort of thing she would have done. But I was wrong. Or not. Maybe she would have done it but it doesn’t matter. It wasn’t Ada – if there is even any such person – it was me, that is what I have to face. I was the sinner, not her.

  Jesus dropped me and the Devil scooped me up and made me into a whore. The Devil in the shape of Doll who was a good woman. One of few truly good people I have ever met. How can I say the woman who saw me in despair, who looked at me in my Salvation Army uniform, trying to end it all, looked at me and saw the makings of a whore, how can I say that woman was good? There is no sense in it.

  Oh that first night.

  I spent a week in that house before I was decided. A week spent largely in my room looking out of the window at the sky searching for a sign, a special cloud, a rainbow, I don’t know what. But there was nothing. Only sky. Why did I do it? Nobody pressurised me. I was not a prisoner, I could have opened the door and walked out at any time. But I chose not to leave. I did not need the money from it. What did I need? To be part of something. Was that it? I was so hurt by Mary I cannot describe it. I was so hurt by the doubts about Ivy’s baby, not my doubts. Not mine.

  Really, I was dead. With the jump I lost responsibility. It fell from me and floated away on the Thames like a dead flower.

  And so I said I was Ada. I even believed, some of the time, I really think I did believe I was Ada. They called me A. One day, at breakfast, I said I would like to earn my keep. There was a girl called Edie who choked and had to be thumped on the back and Gracie pulled a face at the others.

  ‘Are you sure, darlin’?’ Doll said, she took hold of my hand. ‘You sure you know what you’re letting yourself in for?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Doll licked her lips and squinted at me. ‘Yes, I believe you do and all,’ she said. ‘Good girl.’ She squeezed my hand and gave it back.

  That evening I sat in the front room with the other girls. There was an air of suppressed hilarity, not shared by me. The others wore low blouses, tight dresses, sheer stockings, their legs crossed to show the tops. The air was thick with perfume, lipstick grease and cigarette smoke.

  I sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa, my knees together, one hand crunching the other fist. I was in my uniform. I was Ada, I told myself, Ada mocking the old Trixie, that’s what I told myself, but it was a lie. Really I was Trixie mocking Jesus. If I had worn a silky dress and lipstick, or if I had worn nothing at all it would not have been so … I would not have defiled my … Oh this is useless.

  That is how it was. That is what I thought Ada would have done and that is what I did.

  The first ‘gentleman’ to be shown into the room was brought up short by the sight of me, so prim in my jacket and bonnet. My dry, white lips. He looked almost as if he would run, but Doll caught him by the arm.

  ‘Here now, Mr Smith,’ she raised her eyebrows at me. ‘This is our new girl, A. She won’t bite your head off nor nothing else for that matter … she’s not quite what she seems, are you A? Show the gentleman.’ She nodded at my thigh but I was frozen.

  Doll looked at Gracie who knelt and lifted my skirt until the red rose showed at the top of my stocking. ‘Now, isn’t that pretty?’ she said.

  ‘So what do you think, Mr Smith?’ Doll said. ‘Who’s the lucky girl tonight?’

  ‘Well …’ He looked around the room, smiled at Gracie, then his eyes returned to me. He had a sandy moustache that twitched damply under his nose. ‘I don’t know that a spot of religion wouldn’t work wonders,’ he said, his eyes darting round, pleased with his little joke.

  ‘That’s right, Mr Smith,’ Doll said. ‘You see if A. can’t save your soul for you while you’re at it …’

  ‘Right you are then.’ He clutched his hat nervously against his chest.

  He followed me upstairs. I could feel his eyes hot on the back of my skirt. A lamp was lit in the room, a little fire burnt in the grate. In a bowl were some white chrysanthemums.

  We stood facing each other. He was no taller than me. His pale eyes settled on my uniform.

  ‘Let’s have a hymn, then,’ he said. I don’t know if he was joking but anyway I sang. At first my voice was unwilling but I thought that if I sang it might put off whatever was to follow, and as I sang my voice grew stronger. I shut my eyes against the twitchy ginger man.

  ‘Yes, yes, oh yes …’ he was mumbling. He had knelt down in front of me as I sang and ran his hands up under my skirt. ‘Keep singing,’ he said, ‘keep it up … yes …’

  ‘The King of Love my Shepherd is,’ I sang as he raised my skirt and buried his face between my thighs, nuzzling up higher, butting and licking. It was as if some old dog had its snout up my skirt. Perverse and foolish oft I strayed, but yet in love He sought me,’ and he snuffled and moaned into me. I kept my eyes closed as he scrabbled at himself and cried out, ‘Yes, Jesus, yes.’ And then I realised that he’d stopped. He stood up pink and shiny faced. My skirt fell down, heavy and safe around my legs. He wiped his face with a handkerchief.

  ‘It’s wonderful what a dose of religion does for a chap,’ he said, straightening his trousers, clearing his throat, twittering around. Despite his handkerchief his moustache looked damp and sticky.

  ‘Goodbye, my dear,’ he said as he left the room. He looked saucily back round the door. ‘God bless, eh!’ and went off down the stairs chuckling at his wit.

  He was the first and he became a regular and he was easy. There were other regulars. Some wanted only to talk. Some to do more than my snuffling ginger friend. But it didn’t matter, I was dead to them all. And to myself.

  I did that. I was it. I was a whore. Not Ada, me.

  But I did not kill the baby. I would never do that. Jesus knows. I don’t think even Ada would have done that.

  ADA

  After Frank’s death. I hardly cared to exist.

  After the Ivy business, the baby and the boy oh poor Trixie that she cannot understand. After that there was no me. Oh dimly I was there, still, watching Trixie struggle.

  She felt a most terrible guilt for something she hadn’t even done. Can you imagine the confusion of that?

  I floated to her surface when she was weak, after she had tried to kill us on the bridge, and for once when I spoke through her mouth, she felt me and heard me.

  She liked me. I was so glad because old stick that she is, I do love Trixie. She liked me and she wanted to be me. But she got it so wrong. Poor Trixie, she is like a babe in arms when it comes to the physical side of things. She thought I would have sold myself!

  I laughed a terrible cringing laugh before I drifted away. Love was dead for me, died with Frank, was buried by the terrible joyless performances in the brothel which were what … were a parody of love and I could not stand it. I could not stand watching poor, poor Trixie being such a fool. What else? Being such a mockery of me. Even the boy turned away and went to sleep.

  Not till Blowski did I wake up.

  Clever Trixie to find a man we both could love.

  Trixie loves him as a friend. But I love him as a lover should.

  That Blowski, he sees me as I am and not how I seem to be. Some days he sees straight through Trixie to me. He never knows who he’s getting when he knocks on the door, Blowski doesn’t, that’s the joke.

  Call me romantic,

  but still I maintain,

  I was born to lo – ove.

  If Trixie and I could only be one. If we could end our days as one …

  That is what I long for.

  That is what she longs for, if only she knew.

  But that can never be.

  Because of that monster.

  That boy.

  MAROONED

  Oh God it is almost morning I have been here all
night.

  I couldn’t think where I was when I woke. But, of course, I am here.

  Marooned in a mad woman’s dream.

  But it is morning and the skylight has turned a weary grey. Most of the candles are dead now, spluttered out.

  I am scared. I need to pee. Despite the coat I am cold. The air stinks of old wax, gone-out candle, amongst the other stenches, rotten lilies, ancient perfume, unwashed linen, the secret, festering reek of body juices dried to crusts.

  She is a murderer, that is what she is.

  Hark at me, bloody hell.

  This is stupid. She has simply forgotten me. Old people are forgetful. Now it’s light I’ll attract her attention or she will remember. Then I will go home. No, hair first, hairdresser or a bottle of something brown from Boots. Pack … station, ticket, journey. Home. Oh my head. I can hardly move. How will I do those things? They are like wishes. When I close my eyes it is all red and fuzzy but … I can see the bubble with my children in it, balloon, like a party balloon drifted far away.

  Sleep is like a dirty blanket.

  The inside of my mouth feels like …

  My head is an empty tin can and someone is bashing on it with a spoon, like Robin with his breakfast egg, smash, smash, smash.

  Even these silly tinny thoughts hurt.

  Look, if she wanted to kill me she would have done it by now.

  Unless she wants me to starve.

  But why?

  You can quickly die of thirst.

  When she comes up I’ll overpower her. She might be bigger than me but she’s not strong. Overpower her! I can’t even move my head.

  But there will be adrenaline. I will knock her off balance. I should feel pity. She is mad. This is mad, this, me, here.

  So. There is no real danger. Except … what enemy is in my head whispering fears? Yes, all right, there is fire. I would not be in a strong position if she was to set the house on fire, but why would she? It is her home.

  What did she mean about the police?

  If I hadn’t wanted a bath I might be home by now.

  If I could have anything what would I have? Apart from water.

  I would like to see Bonny again and smell her fur. I’d like her to lick my hand in her friendly way with her cool pink tongue.

  And Richard and the children, of course, of course.

  And I’d like to see my mum and dad.

  Oh grow up.

  There is nothing I can do but wait.

  SUNSHINE

  Sunshine through the curtain-gaps. I have sat up all night. I never do that. It is just …

  I am an old woman, coming unravelled; stiff in the limbs and soft in the head.

  She’s not herself, they’d say, the people if they knew.

  It’s just that …

  Not herself, not herself, not herself.

  Where do they go, all the people that pass across and through and never stop?

  What is it Trixie Bell, whatever is the matter?

  Imagine someone being there to say that, to say, What is the matter? nothing is the matter, my darling; arms wrapped round. Another person who wanted to be with you. Imagine that.

  The television was on but she didn’t watch it. I didn’t. Oh she does love her Bette Davis, but the sound was turned down and what was in her head was too loud and bright and pressing. It was what was real.

  Think of it. Bette Davis as Trixie Bell. In the film of her life.

  Ha ha. Off I go again.

  But still I maintain,

  I was born to lo – ove.

  What is that rubbish?

  But just imagine love.

  Well I missed it. No use crying over spilt anything.

  And there is Blowski.

  Always cheerful, always cheerful.

  What is it, oh what is the matter?

  Not herself, not herself. She’s not herself.

  I cannot rest until whatever it is that nags me is put to rights. It is like a door banging in the wind, or a bird trapped in a room beating its wings against the window glass, scattering petals.

  Not petals, feathers! Imagine it, a bird with petals!

  But still, trapped in a room, beating its wings.

  I keep thinking that; something like that.

  I will have to look over the whole house. I must look in every room, check every switch, every lock, every window, every door.

  If there was only someone to hold my hand or someone to reassure me. Is that not what God is for?

  I am crying in the wilderness of a morning when there has been no sleep and my eyes are full of grit.

  The seedlings in the yoghurt pots have lain down their heads and died; the seed leaves like little pairs of dead wings, the stems limp as cotton. I have forsaken them as He has forsaken me.

  Come on Trixie Bell. Bear up. Constant Sunshine in the Soul.

  And when I know that it is all safe, all as it should be, then I will rest.

  FEAR

  I was woken by a scream. I’d dozed off again, was dreaming about swimming, gulping the water as I swam, cool, wonderful, blue water. It was not a loud scream, more the strangled wail of a sleeper, that seemed to percolate through the water of my dream. Then I saw Trixie.

  She had not seen me, she was staring at the wardrobe, at the open doors. She wore an old candlewick dressing-gown and her face was yellow and caved in – no false teeth. Her shaking fingers went up to her mouth.

  I struggled in the softness of the bed to get up, waves of pain and nausea washing through me. Trixie’s fear made goose-pimples rise on my chest under the silky lining of the coat.

  ‘What …?’ I said, but Trixie kept her eyes on the dark space in the wardrobe. Then she stepped back, her eyes casting wildly about. She stepped on the crackly brown paper from the open parcel on the floor, the boy’s clothes, all ragged and moth-eaten. She cried out again and backed away from them as if they were crawling things, things that might bite her. She backed away and then she saw me and … I can hardly describe the horror on her face: her eyes flooding with black, the frame of her face collapsing further as if the flesh was disintegrating. Her sparse hair seeming to rise as if it was really standing on end, as if that was possible.

  ‘Trixie, what is it?’ I was not entirely awake, muzzy with gin and pain and dreams and with finding Trixie – whom I’d been prepared to be angry with, to push over, to flee from – so pathetic; not the murderous monster I’d turned her into but only a terrified, confused, old woman. ‘Trixie, what?’ I reached out my hand.

  But Trixie backed away.

  ‘Ada,’ she mouthed, her fingertips crammed in her mouth.

  ‘Trixie … it’s all right …’ and waking up a bit, I looked down at myself, at the black mink open to reveal the crushed velvet underneath.

  ‘Oh the clothes!’ I got up and approached her, caught sight of myself in the mirror, black wig askew, lips smudged huge and scarlet. ‘It’s not Ada! It’s only me.’

  I paused by the mirror, giddy, watching myself sway through the dust on the glass, I could see why I frightened her so. How could I have thought I looked beautiful? I was grotesque. I turned, but before I could reach her she had slipped out and there was the rattle of the key in the lock even as I reached it.

  I shook the door handle and hammered on the door with my fists: ‘No – o – o – o,’ I screamed. ‘Trixie! Trixie! Trixie! Let me out! Trixie!’ I could not believe it. It was not possible that she’d been in and I’d let her out. And I was still there. I bashed the door with my knee and kicked it and then I sank down on the floor, my head pounding, a thin sting of bile rising in my throat. How could I have been so pathetic? It was not fair, not fair, not fair. It was a nightmare; I was trapped in a bloody nightmare.

  I dropped my hot head in my hands and wept.

  BENJAMIN CHARLES

  I am out

  I am out

  I am out

  Hurrah I AM OUT

  I can run and I can shout

  I am a boy and
I am free!

  She is cracked wide open I am free

  I CAN DO WHATEVER I WANT

  Just wait

  I am sucking her rock what the lady gave her

  It’s very sticky and it’s got a word in it but I can’t read it

  Because reading’s for girls

  I am a danger and a disgrace

  And I am free

  HURRAH

  HURRAH

  HURRAH

  I will never go in again

  See me I am clever and bad

  See me

  But, my father could not see me. I stood in front of him and he only saw Trixie

  Oh she will be sorry now

  I am a boy see I am a boy see my thing

  I am a big boy

  Big as a man full growed

  Air all round me

  I can move my arms and legs and I can kick and thump

  Sucking the rock into a spike with red in it from the word

  No I am not a boy I am a man

  See me I am a man

  I truly am

  See my thing

  I could stick my thing in the lady in the attic

  Or I could kill her

  ROCK

  The sun is shining in. I keep looking at my clothes on the floor. Clothes that I hate, feel bad in. The wrong shape jeans, a jumper that makes me look sallow. I wear them a lot. Why do I wear clothes that make me feel ugly? I save my best clothes up for best. For never. In a minute I’ll get up and take off the velvet and the musty fur and put my ordinary things back on. Then she will let me out.

  Then I will go home.

  And I will wear my best clothes.

  I will feel good.

  I will love my children, I do, I do love them.

  And Richard too.

  A ray of sun shines on the stocking dangling from the lampshade and lights it up like a spirit leg all gauzy gold and floating, stirring the dust motes with a glowing toe.

  When she’d slammed the door I’d crawled across the floor and back to bed and lay here, too dry to cry much. Useless anyway. Part of me wanted to laugh. Locked in a mad woman’s attic, something wrong there Inis, something upside-down.