Boating for Beginners

by Winterson, Jeanette

  'You're too pretty,' he shouted. 'Can't we get a wig or some false teeth?'

  The costume department looked blank. They didn't have either, though they could get them by the afternoon. But Noah wanted to shoot now. 'I need the light,' he complained. 'Just look at this light.'

  Gloria looked and it was just the same as on any other morning, but then she wasn't artistic.

  Noah was talking again. 'Who's got a wig? I know one of you lot at least must be wearing a wig. Let me have it, come on, let's have a wig for the Lord. It's not much to ask. He made you all, so why not give him something back. Give me a wig.' He was very strong when he spoke, and soon he had three wigs at his feet. 'Thank you, Lord.' He raised his hands to heaven. 'I see the Lord is with us today. He's here on this film set, opening up your hearts to his love.' The three wigless ones felt comforted and blushed, but Noah hadn't finished. 'Who's got some teeth? Let me have some teeth for his greater glory. Praise him and give me your teeth. You'll get them back, and the Lord himself will have blest them.' One of the cameramen offered his top set (he never wore the bottoms when he was working), then another his gold-crowned dentures. 'Thank you brothers,' crooned Noah. 'I know the Lord will bless you in your endeavours today and I promise you that after this whatever you chew in his name will never make your belly ache.' From the lofty pinnacle of her second stage Gloria was detached enough to admire Noah's way with words. She was glad she didn't have any removable parts to offer, and for the first time she understood her mother just a little. Mrs Munde had been in Noah's company for fourteen years. No wonder she couldn't distinguish between subject and object when even her teeth might be whisked out for the glory of the Lord. Noah went over to the orange tree and set about making Rita, Sheila and Desi as ugly as possible. Sheila didn't like it but there was nothing she could do.

  'You told me this was going to make me a star,' she moaned. 'If I'd known I was going to be treated like this I would have asked for an advance.'

  'I already did,' said Desi through her chain mail. 'You know what he's like.'

  'Yeah, but I always forget until I see him again,' sighed Sheila.

  When they were particularly hideous Noah decided to start filming. 'I see a lot of similarities here to Macbeth, don't you?' Gloria overheard one of the art people say. 'The grouping, the thematic construction of their dialogue, the portents contained in the most casual sentences. .. ?'

  'You're right, you're right. It's very much folk tale rather than myth, isn't it?'

  'Hold on,' said Gloria, butting in and so scoring another personal first. 'This is the inspired word of God, isn't it? As delivered to Noah in a mighty cloud of printed leaflets?'

  The pair looked at her blankly. 'You think all this is God's idea? What would the creator of the world be doing on a film set?'

  'Perhaps he wants the publicity,' replied Gloria tartly. She hated intellectuals. They just smiled at her and wandered off. Gloria called after them, 'If you're so smart why have you got dandruff?'

  Perhaps it was Gloria's presumptuous confidence, or perhaps just the sight of Noah collecting his wigs that caused the cosmic cloud to hover over the film set just at that moment. No one noticed, because the superbeings inside wanted to disguise themselves as an innocent bit of weather. But there was a riot going on. Things with wings and lyres begged the Unpronounceable for mercy, but not much was forthcoming.

  'I want his ass!' thundered YAHWEH. 'He's gone too far this time. I never said I'd work on his filthy film. I never said I'd work with that woman either, that rabbit woman. What does he think I am?'

  'Destroy him, destroy him,' urged one of the more hyperactive angels.

  'I can't do that,' snapped God. 'It would mean a riot. I've just started to get some control down there, and our Good Food Guide's selling well. I like being in print. I just don't want to be taken for granted. I have my feelings too. Now who's going to think of a plan?'

  Lucifer put his hand up. 'Why don't you negotiate? Arrange to meet him, threaten a bit, frighten him, tell him he's got to stop filming.'

  'No, no.' YAHWEH was getting exasperated. 'I want to be toured in York and Wakefield. It's not his ideas I hate, it's the way he moves. What's the plot of this thing anyway?'

  Patiently one of the angels explained; and a strange gleam came into the Unpronounceable's eye. 'An oceangoing ark, eh? That might be fun. Lucifer, tell that skunk-sized little baldy I want a meeting, right after his press reception next week. Tell him we'll land at the Gaza Strip and he'd better be there.'

  Lucifer shot off, leaving the Lord a trifle calmer. Relieved, the angels went back to their hymn books.

  When the crew had a steak break Gloria walked home to see how her mother was getting on. New understandings bring new responsibilities, and Gloria felt it was her duty to protect her mother from her own excesses and any possibility of further evolution, Her mother had erected something that resembled a beach party windbreak in the space where the kitchen had been. She was experimenting with Noah's machine for the Hallelujah Hamburger. When Gloria saw the extent and folly of the device she told Mrs Munde very firmly to leave it alone.

  'I can't,' declared her mother, trying to help the machine out of its self-imposed labour. Finally she delivered a reasonably shaped quarterpounder. 'The problem is that the burgers get stuck in the funnel and I have to squeeze them out. It's messy work, but it's for His Glory.'

  'Why don't you tell him to stick to vegetarian food?'

  'He's being guided by the Unpronounceable, that's why. He doesn't tell God how to run a small business. Besides, meat's popular. He's always been involved in meat.'

  When Mrs Munde decided to be on someone's side, that was it for ever and ever. What they did wasn't her concern; it only concerned her that she should defend them. She had never heard of mixed feelings. There were friends and there were enemies. As far as it mattered to her, Ham could be making mudpies to sell on Goodwin Sands. She liked him and he wanted her to help. That was enough.

  Gloria knew her mother wasn't going to be persuaded so she thought she'd go for a swim instead. It was hot and she had a hard afternoon ahead, knowing nothing about crocodiles. She ran through the bushes and plunged headfirst into the clear water of the river. It was green and cold and slippery with fish. She caught a fat one between her teeth, beat it to death on a stone and took it back to her mother.

  Mrs Munde smiled and put it in the fish kettle. 'A young girl like you with a future shouldn't do tomboy things like that.'

  'I wanted to give you a present,' said Gloria, a bit upset.

  'I wasn't being critical,' soothed Mrs Munde. 'I just wish you'd use a rod, that's all.' The two of them sat in silence, then Mrs Munde remembered her news. 'We've been invited to a special supper to celebrate the start of the new Bunny Mix Romance Show. You see how useful it is to work in high places? It's tomorrow night, up at the house, and you must do something about your hair. I'm having a new dress made.'

  Gloria's heart sank. What could be worse than having to accompany her mother to a supper full of media people? Perhaps she could invent a headache. Back on set that afternoon she told Desi her woes.

  'I know,' said Desi. 'I sent the invitation.'

  Gloria had a relapse and couldn't think of anything to say, but Desi smiled. 'I wanted you to see the world. You haven't done much, after all.'

  'Why?' asked Gloria suspiciously. 'There's no such thing as a free lunch.'

  'I see you've reached the second stage. Well, that's too bad. I like a bit of romantic nonsense.' Desi turned away, then called back: 'You'd be surprised how easy it is to find out about people, but come anyway. You can meet Bunny Mix.'

  Again it was typical and tedious. All her life she'd wanted to meet that famous rabbit of romance, and now she had it on a plate and was just about to turn vegetarian. Well, perhaps she should try and stomach it, for the sake of her development as a fully rounded person. Desi was odd, and Gloria wasn't altogether sure that she liked her. Or maybe she liked her a lot. Both were
reasons to back away. She decided to go and ask Doris about the nature of affection, but Doris had been put to work on a papier-mache heathen temple and didn't have time to be metaphysical...

  The following evening, servants lit the pathway to the house with a thousand flares. Anybody who was anybody was expected at the reception. Gloria walked in silence beside her mother, hardly daring to look at her. Mrs Munde's dress, while being a single creation, could be seen as two parts because each half appeared to do entirely different things to her body. Above, the sculptured bodice crushed her breasts into firm pineapple shapes; below, the flourishing skirt, too generous for a woman with girth, made her hips spread like marmalade on a hot day. It was all crimson with little white roses for decoration.

  But Gloria needn't have worried. Her mother was not overdressed, nor was she out of place. Sheila was almost bent double underneath the gold she had managed to attach to every spare inch of flesh. Japeth, whose shoulders were almost as wide as the door he was leaning against and whose ears stood out at right angles to his close-cropped head, seemed to be wearing a body suit covered in platinum fish scales. As for Desi, Gloria chose to ignore the expanses of bare brown skin she had decided to leave undressed. She concentrated on Shem, who was much smaller than his brothers, with masses of curly hair. Was it his own? 'Don't even think about it,' she told herself. Out of the corner of her eye, Gloria could see her mother talking to Ham. He was at least a foot taller and made Mrs Munde look all the more like a billiard ball.

  So this was it, this was what all the magazines talked about; this was Society, the rich and beautiful all in one place. 'How many of them are on drugs?' she wondered. 'How many of them have unusual sexual habits?' Then she blushed as she remembered what Desi had said about thinking about it. She had begun to. Did that mean she was soon to ... Quickly she banished the idea, but she couldn't help going pink.

  'So what are you thinking about, standing here alone?' Desi was there with a bottle of champagne in her hand, offering some to Gloria.

  'Oh, I was just thinking what a nice time I'm having.' Gloria discovered she had also learnt to lie. It was useful, this second stage.

  'You could have a better time if you wanted,' hinted Desi meaningfully.

  Gloria collected herself. Was she about to be offered illicit substances or was she ... ? She coughed.

  Desi looked straight at her. 'Why not get drunk with me?'

  'I can't,' said Gloria. 'I'm with my mother. She'll get upset and you can't begin to understand what that means.' Desi shrugged and smiled and Gloria watched her lean body and embarrassingly tightly clad bottom swing away across the room. She supposed that Desi would be called attractive, and she momentarily cursed Doris for not having been willing to talk that afternoon. She couldn't be expected to find out about instinct and impulse and the nature of attraction all by herself. Just as she was about to become tearful with frustration, Gross Reality intruded in the devastating, show-stopping shape of that rabbit of romance, Bunny Mix herself.

  Down either side of the hall the crowds parted, and as if by magic conversation stopped. Then came Bunny, smooth as if she were on castors, gliding down towards Noah who stood at the other end of the red carpet like a small sacrifice. Her face was very pale and her eyes were very black. A gash of brilliant red marked her mouth, while the finest emeralds explained which of her was neck and which was not. About her ankles three little dogs gambolled in matching sailor suits. When the famous novelist reached Noah she engulfed him in a maze of taffeta and button pearls. There was a muffled shriek which the company took to be an acknowledgement of Bunny's hug, then everyone cheered and the novelist undamped herself, taking her place as guest of honour at the top of the table. Inspired by a stroke of wickedness or benevolence, Desi had placed Gloria and Mrs Munde very near the great pair and Mrs Munde of course was close to dying from a surfeit of pleasure. Gloria sat down by Desi and asked for some help in deciphering the cutlery.

  About halfway through the soup, Mrs Munde started to question Bunny about her novels. How did she always manage to be so wonderfully accurate in her interpretations of the passions? How could she see into the heart of ordinary people and show them the truth about love?

  Bunny gave a little laugh. 'Well, dear, the true artist is more than just flesh and blood. The true artist is the bearer of wisdom down the annals of time. I have been given a gift, and I believe it is a gift from God, to explore the passions with you all, so that we can learn together how to tame and control that mighty and terrifying force. You see, artists have visions and dream dreams. They are the keepers of society's conscience, the guiding light on a rough and stormy way. Take my show, my Romance Show. I can't tell you how many people that show has helped - people who thought they were unloved and unwanted and then, through me, have gained a new confidence. A woman should be sent flowers every day. What I'm talking about is pure and holy love. I have no time for the kind of salacious rubbish put out by others who call themselves romantic writers.'

  Bunny Mix coughed and no one dared mention the name of Jackie Colic, her arch rival who had actually said in public that she thought the keeper of the holy tryst was a fat fraud who had probably never had an orgasm in her life.

  'I've always wanted to know how the true artist works,' pursued Mrs Munde, 'but you don't get to meet many when you're busy in the kitchen all day.'

  'Well, no,' sympathised Bunny. 'You wouldn't because the true artist is always rich. I have no patience with those who toil away in squalor, claiming to develop new art forms. The experimental novel is a waste of public funds, and I'm sure Noah would agree with me.' (Noah did.) 'The important thing is to create for the people and then the people will buy it, which is what I do. It's very selfish not to think of your reading public. I am rich because I provide a valuable public service. Yes, I do, but the Nineveh Council don't offer me a grant.' She gave another trill and reached for the salmon mousse.

  'Bunny,' put in Shem from across the table, 'some people call you the founder of romantic fiction. Do you think that's true?'

  The rabbit of romance blushed and dabbed at her red gash mouth with her napkin. 'No, I'm not a woman to take credit where it isn't due. You see, I am the heiress, the interpreter of the women who first inspired us. I mean, of course, those three sisters who used to live with their drug-crazed brother in a desolate mango swamp round Ilkley. I have taken on their burden, and I like to think I have made it a little more accessible.' 'But they weren't rich,' threw in Desi. 'No dear, they were socialists. I can't help that.' 'But you were going to tell us how you work,' said Mrs Munde eagerly, and settled back thinking that Heaven must be like this. Bunny shuffled and took a deep breath. 'I get up each morning at five a.m. because I don't need much sleep and I take a walk in the garden. If it rains, one of my servants carries an umbrella. I always sniff the mint at half past five because it's so heavenly. Then, at six o'clock, I have breakfast: honey and wholemeal toast and a cup of dandelion coffee. Then I spend at least half an hour in the toilet, because you can't do your best work on a full bowel. I always keep a copy of Vague in the toilet because they do have such nice clothes, and it helps «me forget about the poor who are always writing me letters asking me to help them improve their wretched condition. I have to write back and tell them they never will be better off because it takes money to be young and beautiful. They can, however, stay hard-working, clean and inviting to their equals. I console them with this. At eight o'clock I read my fan mail which is then sent off to be recycled into trees. I am, you see, a great supporter of ecology and I've just sent off an article to Vague showing how the poor are ruining our environment because they use so much wood keeping their fires going. Well, after I've read my mail I sit down on my specially padded pink sofa and dictate my book. I like to wear eye-shades and slippers while I do this, and sometimes I drink champagne because the artist has a right to be comfortable, suffering as we do in inner ways. We give of ourselves you see. I dictate my novel for three hours fifty minutes precisely,
then I have my maid put out my swimming costume. I do two lengths of breaststroke - so important for a woman — and two lengths of doggy paddle, then I hook myself onto my pink winch — it was a present from my fans — and Oscar winds me back onto land. The rest of the day I spend finding new recipes for my cookbooks or talking to friends.'

  'Fascinating,' murmured all the guests who were lucky enough to have heard this saga.

  Noah stood up. He was wearing a red-and-white spotted bow tie. 'I'd like to offer my personal thanks to Bunny and all that she stands for. We've known each other a long time and her support has always made my life easier. She's on the Glory Train, brothers and sisters, and all of us here tonight are going to see some big changes in our lives as the Unpronounceable takes control.'

  No one knew that Noah's speech was as much motivated by anxiety as it was by genuine affection. Just before the meal he'd got the message from Lucifer about YAHWEH wanting a meeting and he felt uncomfortable. His fame and fortune depended on the Unpronounceable remaining cooperative.

  It was late. Gloria and Mrs Munde walked home together, and Mrs Munde talked about the stars:

  'I sometimes fancy that my body is made up of all the different stars. Leo's in my chest; I'm sure it's Leo because my heart roars. I've always had a roaring heart. Whatever I'm feeling my heart is roaring inside. I don't think I'll die, I think I'll combust. One day my frame will be too weak and my banging heart too strong and the lion will be out, gone, escaped, leaving me here in a little heap. Still, I'd rather it was that way than have no lion at all. Modern people, they don't feel much, Gloria, they do all they can not to get excited, not to get upset.. ..'