Boating for Beginners

by Winterson, Jeanette

  Like Gloria, Mrs Munde was by nature philosophical and optimistic. She believed in the power of the mind — at least, those minds in harmony with the will of the Unpronounceable. After her meeting with Noah she felt more fulfilled as a mother; she felt she had come closer to grasping that elusive and mythic image most perfectly described in Bunny Mix's novels. Every young girl needed a good mother, a figure who could be both wise and sympathetic, a model for the future and a comfort for the present. Her own mother had been little more than a useless socialite, whose dedication to pleasure had seemed shocking to the impressionable and earnest girl who became Mrs Munde — earnest, because she had wanted more than anything to be an astronomer; indeed she had spent nearly all her youth gazing out of the window, wondering about the nature of the cosmos and how she could truly be part of it. As she grew older and her ambitions remained as distant as their object, she persuaded herself that this early impulse was really a metaphor for something else, and when she heard about the Unpronounceable she knew her instinct had been correct.

  She was an Astronomer without Telescope. Now the cosmos loomed larger and more definable, and she belonged to it. She had been fixed on the creation when what she was seeking was the creator. Suddenly, her life collapsed into place.

  Gloria was more of a problem. As far as Mrs Munde could see, her daughter had no ambition and no faith. It never occurred to her that Gloria had chosen to be nothing in order to avoid being her mother's something. Only by remaining in a vacuum-sealed diving bell could Gloria hope to avoid the storm at sea that was Mrs Munde. And so, Gloria's vision of life was rather like the Lady of Shalott's. She dared not expose herself to the genuine and unruly three-dimensional world that included her mother. If she did that, she had a feeling something awful would become inevitable. Instead, she peered through her misty porthole on the shadowy world and dreamed of being rescued by somebody tall...

  What Mrs Munde hadn't yet told Gloria about her new job was the possibility it brought of fame. She wasn't going to clean out the chickens or work with dogs; she was going to be part of a special team who were collecting animals for Noah's latest dazzling venture: a touring stage epic about the world and how the Unpronounceable had made it.

  Stunned by the success of their literary collaboration Noah and God had decided to dramatise the first two books, bringing in Bunny Mix to add legitimate spice and romantic interest. The cast would be large, probably most of Ur of the Chaldees, and the animals would take pride of place. The whole show was to tour the heathen places of the world, like York and Wakefield, in a gigantic ship built especially by Noah's most experienced men. As it happened, a film company would be putting the whole thing on camera, not just the play itself but the making of the play, because Noah claimed he was going to carry his ship over a mountain by a miracle. This was thought to be nonsense, but it was bound to make money. There was the problem of casting, but it had been decided, quite fairly, that Noah's three sons and their wives should take the major roles. After all they were a public family, unlikely to be upset by the personal intrusions that accompany stardom. Ham and Shem were to play different aspects of YAHWEH because everyone agreed that God is a multifaceted and complex character who shouldn't be restricted by a single actor. Japeth was to play his father. Excitement was mounting amongst the privileged few who knew how Bunny Mix would interpret the characters of the overthrown goddesses collectively described as The Trivia. They had to be seductive but not too racy, and they had to lose all sympathy before the Unpronounceable finally destroyed them. A difficult task, but Bunny was a wonderful woman.

  Mrs Munde mused on what she had been told, longing for the morning when the announcement was officially to be made. Perhaps Gloria would get a small part, maybe as one of the more musical heathen. Even if she didn't she'd still have a break in theatre production, and what mother could do more? She had given her only daughter a proper start in life; she had every right to feel proud.

  The morning came, and of course the announcement was in all the papers. The Tablet had an old photograph of Noah raising someone from the dead, and a long description of the play and forthcoming film. The whole town was gossiping and doing their hair in case a scout came by looking for faces. The greatest excitement was generated by the imminent return of Japeth and Ham and Shem with their lovely wives Sheila, Desi and Rita. Japeth the jewellery king, Ham the owner of that prestigious pastrami store, More Meat, and Shem, once playboy and entrepreneur, now a reformed and zealous pop singer.

  Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, but to be young the very heaven. Ur of the Chaldees looked less and less like an inhabited spittoon and more and more like Milton Keynes as the hours ticked by. Neighbours made friendly gestures and lent one another their lawn mowers, the dustbin men volunteered to return to work without their extra 10 per cent and the Socialist Worker Party Magazine painted their offices. It's extraordinary what Art can do.

  Gloria was less certain. She had always considered the theatre a rather risqué profession and she said as much to her mother.

  'Don't be silly,' cooed Mrs Munde. 'This isn't State-subsidised Nineveh Council theatre, this is honest profit and the glory of the Lord. You won't find any drugs or loose living, and remember it's being made into a film. You should be thankful for your chances and especially grateful to me.'

  For a moment Gloria felt her diving bell keel to one side: her mother had managed to score a direct hit despite eighteen years of careful preparation. Was there no justice in the world? No. She thought about an article she had once seen on mind control. Apparently if there was a person fiendish enough to set about interfering with your life, the only thing you could do was to concentrate hard on someone they were unlikely ever to have heard of called Martin Amis. The particular blankness of this image was guaranteed to protect from any subtle force, but Gloria realised with a sinking heart that it was too late now.

  Mrs Munde broke into this miasma. 'You have to go up to the big house in the morning and you'll be told how to get started. I won't be here much myself because Noah wants me to try out a few new recipes that need some invention of his. Do you know he's been inventing in his spare time? No, I don't suppose you do, you never listen to what I tell you. Well Noah's not just religious, he's scientific and he's invented all kinds of things, including a jet-propelled shark to amuse the tourists. He's going to do the special effects for the film. You should be proud, Gloria; I know I am. I look up at the stars, those bright and pleading stars, and I feel proud.' Mrs Munde began to choke and Gloria was forced to approximate intimacy and slap her on the back. She felt about touching her mother the way natives feel about looking into a camera: her soul might be transferred by accident.

  'I think I'll go to bed,' she said, 'so that I can do my best in the morning,' and she folded the night around her with something like hope. Surely things couldn't get worse?

  'I was like a disaster looking for somewhere to happen,' said Doris, which seemed to Gloria a very intimate and surprising thing for a perfect stranger to say. They were standing in a long room in Noah's house and Doris was doing the dusting. 'I've been hired, same as you, to help with the arrangements, so we're going to see a lot of each other.'

  Gloria wasn't sure which question to ask first; she wanted to know about Doris and her disastrous self, but she needed to know what these arrangements were. Not used to making choices, Gloria just frowned. It had started to dawn on her as she surfaced from her pool that she was remarkably under-equipped to deal with life as it is lived. Her own world had been perfectly ordered and very clean because she had assembled it from a kit composed of spiritual certainties and romantic love. It didn't matter that she hardly believed in God and had only ever received one valentine. What did matter was the voltage of faith she injected into every worn-out cliche. A rose is a rose is a rose.

  'Yes,' continued Doris, 'all my life I've hovered over happiness like a black cloud. Whatever I've touched has turned to dross.'

  ('Dross?' wondered Gloria, t
oo nervous to interrupt.)

  'I used to be rich and beautiful. I took my holidays in Andorra, and now I have to use a false name just to get a cleaning job. I don't think it's my fault. We're all drunken mice running round on the wheel of fortune and some of us are lucky and some of us aren't.'

  Lucky. This was one word Gloria recognised. She clutched at it.

  'Don't you feel lucky then?'

  Doris gave a hard and bitter laugh. 'My first husband died on our honeymoon, my second suffocated at a fancy-dress party and my eldest boy is an accountant.'

  There was a silence while Gloria hopped from foot to foot, trying to design her first social response. Unaware of this new architecture going on around her Doris felt the silence compelled her to continue.

  'I've learned something though. I think of myself as a student of life. I suppose you could call me an organic philosopher.'

  'Do you understand the Meaning of Life?' blurted out Gloria. She knew that everyone sought this mysterious meaning because it was in all the magazines. Every month there was an article on how to be fulfilled and what to invest in when you were. Gloria felt tense at the thought of being offered a fully inflated lifebelt to help her negotiate the pool.

  'The Meaning of Life,' began Doris slowly, 'is death.' Gloria looked blank. 'All your clothes are rotting, all your food is putrefying, you're covered in dead skin and your bowels are full of muck. Why try and pretend? No wonder we don't have an easy life.'

  'What about freezer food? That's not rotting.' Gloria hoped her mother couldn't hear.

  'I'm not talking about things that have been interfered with. I'm talking about Essences. Decay is the key; once you've come to terms with decay not much can disappoint you. Your house will crumble, your friends will die. Nothing remains. Can you think of anything permanent?' She turned on Gloria with a challenging duster.

  'Washing up,' cried Gloria wildly. 'There's always washing up to do. No matter how much you manage, there's always more.'

  Doris was thoughtful. 'Washing up as a Metaphor. I can see what you mean.' Gloria had said the right thing. It had never happened to her before and she actually felt rather tearful.

  It's fortunate that our dangerously emotional moments are often punctured by Gross Reality (one reason for the Shakespearean fool). The lives of fanatics are usually rather low on Gross Reality, which allows them to take their visions too seriously. Joan of Arc or Mary Baker Eddy might have found their personal lives less complicated if, say, either of them had had a bowel complaint or a passion for chocolate milkshakes. If Gloria had been left untended a moment longer the effect of that first wave of social rapport might have drowned her for good; but by a miracle she survived, and that miracle appeared in the form of Rita, Sheila and Desi, fresh from the hairdresser's.

  Rita was dark-skinned with a bush of orange hair and matching painted fingernails. Gloria had never seen anyone wearing a leopard-skin dress in the day before. Even the models in the magazines wore them against a photo-background that was clearly night. Exhausted from her recent efforts Gloria found she could think of nothing to say, so she turned to stare at Sheila who was very fat and covered from head to foot in solid gold. She had a snake torque round her neck, snakes dangling from her ears, snake ankle chains and something like a boa constrictor round her middle. She was the most unsnakelike creature Gloria had ever seen. Beside these two, Desi appeared relatively normal, clad as she was in a designer-cut suede cat suit. Gloria noticed that she wasn't wearing make-up but that her hair was probably henna'ed.

  'Hi,' said Sheila. 'Guess you know who we are because we're wearing our badges. You should have a name badge too if you're working here. Are you with the film crew or the stage hands?'

  'Neither,' said Doris loudly. 'I'm here to do the cleaning and she's here for ...' Doris stopped as she realised she had no idea who she'd been talking to, but then, she thought to herself, knowing is a superficial position to assume, most commonly in fact a deception. Comforted by this she went back to her dusting, but Sheila vulgarly pursued the point. 'So tell us, skinny, what do you do here? We don't know anyone. We've just arrived.'

  ('Americans,' thought Doris. 'Typical.')

  Gloria breathed deeply twice and concentrated on Martin Amis in an effort to clear her mind. 'I'm here to help with the animals.'

  'Shit,' said Sheila, 'you a zoo keeper?'

  'No.' Gloria was getting agitated. 'My mother's a cook and I've got an elephant that needs a home and they told me I could bring him with me if I came to work here. I only started this morning and I'm waiting for someone to tell me what to do next.' Gloria wasn't aware of it, but she had just summed up her whole life in one sentence.

  'Well, you won't have much animal work for this week; they're still building the set. Tell you what, you can help the girls and me check out our franchises. We're not just film stars, we've got business on our minds as well, ain't that right?'

  'Right,' agreed Rita.

  ('No sense of proportion,' thought Doris bitterly, as she dusted a map of the world as dictated by the Unpronounceable.)

  'What do you do?' asked Gloria timidly.

  'One of the things we do is to run a kind of clinic, a place to help people who have problems, personal problems with their bodies and themselves. We used to do it just as a hobby but the thing took off and now it's so popular we have to franchise out. We're taking this opportunity to visit our branches and maybe put in a few guest appearances. You can come along, take notes, make coffee, go out for sandwiches.'

  'Like a secretary,' whispered Gloria to herself, feeling better.

  'Meet us down town first thing tomorrow, outside the Pizza Hut,' ordered Sheila, and the three of them left.

  Doris poked her tufted head round the bust of Noah as a young man. 'What kind of people do they think they are? Coming in here ordering me about. You should have refused. I always do. Whenever I'm asked to step outside my Union-defined bounds I refuse, otherwise it's only a matter of time and we workers will be back on collar and lead.'

  'I don't belong to a union,' explained Gloria.

  'You what! You don't belong to a union and you don't know anything about the transience of existence! No wonder you haven't got on in the world. You're a fool to yourself.' But Gloria didn't care. Any port in a storm.

  Spiritual empathy, coincidence, or sheer bloody-minded-ness meant that Mrs Munde was having a difficult time of it too. She had gone up to the house to make scrambled eggs with wheatgerm and found Noah's eldest son, Ham, wandering around her primitive kitchen. Naturally she felt aggrieved. Some places you share with others and some you don't. A room of her own was important to Mrs Munde. She liked to think or to look at her plan of the constellations when she had a spare moment. Now it was going to be small talk and a smiling face when she could have been studying Orion. She decided to make as much noise and mess as possible in order to drive the stranger away. Accordingly she began to sing the overture from Carmen while spilling a pail of milk. Ham didn't seem to notice. He was fiddling with some new kitchen item which Mrs Munde assumed to be the promised gadget invented by Noah. A sense of social hierarchy prevented Mrs Munde from actually telling the lousy bastard to get out, so instead she began to think evil thoughts. She had once read an article on mind control, explaining that the best way to bend someone to your will was to think of a gooey mudlike substance called Cliff Richard and direct it at the object of your intent. Such were the marshmallow-suffocating properties of this image that the victim fell instantly into an undignified froth. Putty in your hands in fact. It didn't seem to work. The stranger was insensitive as well as intrusive. Mrs Munde gave it one last go till the kitchen air was thick with Cliff Richard. The stranger suddenly made a little squeaking noise and fell sideways. 'Stop it, stop it!' he cried. 'You're pulping my brain.' 'Well go away then,' sulked Mrs Munde, releasing her victim, not through generosity but because she found the image too nauseating to continue.

  'But I've got something very exciting to say. This conversation
could change your life.'

  'I've got all the insurance I need,' said Mrs Munde stiffly.

  'Lady, I'm not here to sell you anything. I'm here to give you something.'

  Mrs Munde looked up into Ham's dark brown eyes, and with a wave of affection that began in her throat and sank to her apron pocket, she felt she might trust this man. Perhaps he had been sent by the Lord. Perhaps he was an angel in disguise come to test her spirit.

  'Why don't I take us both for a cup of coffee?' he suggested.

  'It's happening to me!' Mrs Munde thrilled inside. 'I've read about it and now it's happening. Perhaps I've been chosen for the Bunny Mix Romance Show.'

  The Bunny Mix Romance Show was a very popular afternoon programme in which a woman would be pleasantly accosted by a mysterious tall figure. If she behaved in a fitting and simpering manner a number of boys would then rush onto the set singing in barbershop harmony and strewing flowers. The lucky woman would then be taken out to dinner and given a signed copy in calfskin of her favourite Bunny novel. If she behaved rudely a bucket of custard was poured over her from behind. It was possible that Mrs Munde had already qualified for the custard, which made her nervous because she was allergic to milk. Still, perhaps she could make up for her recent ill temper; and after all, she had never been taken out for a cup of coffee.

  As they set off together Ham explained who he was, and Mrs Munde was caught between a welter of disappointment that she wasn't on the Bunny Mix Show after all, and a deluge of wonder that someone so rich and well connected should want to be with her. She decided to be happy.