Smut: Stories

by Alan Bennett

  Coming away Graham felt uneasy. Had he said he worked at a bank? Had he said which bank? It was this element of risk that was supposed to give these encounters their edge but this time Graham didn’t like it one bit.

  Besides it was expensive. The gates slid open.

  Back in the room Kevin was feeding the number of Toby’s new car into his mobile.

  FOR THE MOMENT things are looking good for the Forbes family. Graham’s marriage is more satisfactory…and more satisfying…than he could have hoped and he is also making progress at the bank, playing squash with executive clients, sitting in on property deals which, it’s true, he doesn’t always quite understand but which his wife with a few seemingly naive and common-sense questions helps him to sort out without jeopardising her status as ‘the little woman’.

  Meanwhile Betty’s internet business thrives. For the moment the question of a baby has been shelved though the actual shelves are still being taken care of by Ted, which is to say Mr Forbes senior.

  If there is an absentee from this general felicity it is Graham’s mother. Naturally she sees much less of Graham married than she did him single. Occasionally he has supper at home if Betty is going out to a concert, say…she is a keen music lover…a passion she doesn’t share with her husband (‘I prefer light classical’) but which she has communicated to Graham’s father who sometimes escorts her, thus leaving mother and son to indulge in their old relationship. But however much she enjoys such occasions they also bring home to Mrs Forbes how empty her life has become.

  Once upon a time Mrs Forbes had had hopes of the internet, thinking it would serve as a substitute or, as she put it, ‘a hobby’. These hopes, though, have gradually petered out as she has proved persistently incapable of mastering the technology.

  ‘It’s really quite simple,’ said her teacher, patiently, but since her teacher is her husband he makes sure that essential keys remain unpressed and connections unmade.

  ‘It’s a man’s game,’ he says kindly, which, bearing in mind the use to which he puts it himself, is quite true, the snake-hipped dusky beauty in Samoa (but who actually lives in Clitheroe) safely sequestered from Mrs Forbes’s questing but untutored fingers.

  Kindlier women than Mrs Forbes might have taken some consolation in an expectation of grandchildren but there seemed to be no sign of them and looking in the mirror and smoothing down her plaid skirt over still shapely hips Mrs Forbes doesn’t feel quite old enough for that yet anyway. Instead on these long afternoons she dreams, sometimes rehearsing a scene in which she receives news of her husband’s unexpected death, sinking bonelessly into a handy chair, a handkerchief clutched in one hand the only sign of emotion. Having absorbed the shock but giving no hint of her true feelings (grief something that belonged behind closed doors) she sees herself as rising magnificently to the occasion, drawing on reserves of confidence and courage unsuspected by any of her friends…or indeed by her dead husband. Then, the funeral over (hers a lone figure following the coffin) she takes charge of her life, selling the house and moving into a flat, buying scarves and going to the theatre, life suddenly sunlit, roomy and accommodating.

  Upstairs…and on the few occasions he wasn’t round at his daughter-in-law’s…Mr Forbes is finding release in scribbling notes on a saga of torture and rape in Renaissance Italy which he plans to work up on the internet for the benefit of another unseemly friend he has found for himself in Paterson, New Jersey.

  People would have said this was a happy marriage, which it sort of was.

  Mrs Forbes poured herself another sherry.

  HAVING JUST COMPLETED a tour of the bank’s east of England mortgages ripe for repossession Graham was driving through Peterborough when his phone rang.

  ‘Hi, Toby. It’s Gary. Where are you?’

  ‘Peterborough.’

  ‘Peterborough! Some people have all the luck. Having a good time?’

  ‘No,’ said Graham shortly.

  ‘Why? It says here it has a Norman cathedral.’

  Not being an imminent mortgage risk the cathedral had not figured in Graham’s itinerary. ‘How’s the lady wife?’

  ‘I can’t hear,’ said Graham. ‘You’re breaking up,’ and he put the phone down.

  Somewhere around Newark it rang again.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘About fifty miles north of where I was before and I’m not sure I like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You calling me all the time.’

  ‘All the time? Twice by my calculation. You should be flattered.’

  ‘Why?’ said Graham. ‘I pay, remember.’

  ‘That is crude. That is unworthy of you, Toby. A person has feelings.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Graham ‘I can’t today. I don’t have any cash on me.’

  ‘We could make it a freebie.’

  Careful about money an offer like this would normally have appealed to Graham but even he could see that acceptance risked turning what was a transaction into a relationship.

  ‘No. I’ve just found some in another pocket. Where shall I meet you?’

  It was dark by the time Graham pulled alongside the waiting Gary in an empty car park, Kevin giving Toby a brief hug before walking him to the side door of a dark, oldish building where he punched in a code and let himself in.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ said Graham as they walked down a bleak corridor lined with identical doors. It seemed to be some sort of hostel, the room Gary let them into furnished with the bare essentials…bed, washbasin, locker and with no evidence that it was occupied even by Gary. It was suffocatingly hot.

  ‘You’ve come down in the world,’ said Graham.

  ‘This?’ said Kevin mildly as he took his trousers off. ‘No. It’s the workplace.’

  ‘And what were the other places. The luxury apartment. The house in Roundhay?’

  ‘They were the workplace too.’

  ‘What do you do?’ said Graham.

  ‘I told you. I’m a panel beater.’

  Putting his shoes neatly by the side of the bed Graham noted the dust and fluff on the floor. ‘Aren’t you going to lock the door?’ said Graham.

  ‘What for? There’s nobody else here.’

  Some clients might have been turned on by the institutional nature of the surroundings but not Graham.

  ‘Where are we?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve told you. Work. Take your shirt off.’

  Reflecting that he was the one who was supposed to be calling the tune Graham nevertheless took it off and his pants too. Unsurprisingly it was a less satisfactory session than they had had in the past, at one point even getting acrimonious when Graham drew the line, and quite early on in the proceedings Graham resolved that however keen Gary was this wasn’t going to happen again.

  Gary was leaning on his elbow while Graham lay on his back.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ said Kevin.

  Graham was actually thinking how much, other things being equal, he preferred his safe, cosy marital bed but he had the sense not to say so. He was also wondering how long it had to be before he could decently take his leave. Though before that there was the question of payment.

  ‘How’s married life?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘How’s the bank?’

  ‘The bank is fine.’

  Kevin considered.

  ‘Tell me. Does your mother know you’re gay?’

  ‘I’m married. That’s all she knows.’

  Graham reached for his shirt and started to put his clothes on though Kevin seemed in no hurry to do the same.

  ‘They’re always supposed to know, mothers.’

  ‘You don’t know mine.’

  ‘True,’ said Kevin, ‘but what if she were to find out?’

  ‘How would she do that? How much do I owe you? Same as last time?’

  ‘How much do you love your mother?’

  Graham stood, money in hand.

  ‘What sort of a question is
that? How much do you love your mother?’

  ‘My mother knows.’

  Graham had had enough of this.

  ‘Same as before then?’ and he put down some notes.

  Kevin looked at them distastefully.

  ‘Oh, I think we should say more than that. This is your mother, after all.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Graham. ‘Oh no,’ and he picked up the money and put it back in his wallet.

  ‘I’m not having truck with any of that. Any of that and I’ll go straight to the police.’

  ‘Very sensible,’ said Kevin, hands clasped behind his head. ‘And you wouldn’t have far to go. I am the police. Now, take your clothes off and before we talk business perhaps we could reconsider the proposal I made you earlier.’

  Graham had meant it when he had said he would go to the police and an hour later when he had made his escape he considered going straightaway. He then thought he should sleep on it and ideally talk it over with Betty. Sensible though this was it was obviously out of the question and in the event a week or two passed before, steeling himself for the inevitable embarrassment, he took steps to report the culprit.

  The police station was unexpectedly civilised, tubs of geraniums on the doorstep with automatic doors sliding open on a bland reception area, a print by Van Gogh on one wall and one by Lowry on another, the ambience saying more about customer satisfaction than it did about law enforcement.

  The desk sergeant, a kindly looking figure with white hair, was already dealing with a woman at the counter.

  ‘I’m just seeing to this client but I shan’t be a moment.’ He indicated the reception area. ‘Take a seat. There’s coffee on the go though you’ve just missed the croissants.’

  He turned back to the woman.

  ‘Now what was he like?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The gentleman who assaulted you. Did you notice if he was black at all?’

  The reassuring atmosphere notwithstanding Graham was still nervous and went in search of the loo.

  This, too, turned out to be surprisingly upmarket with distant music that Betty though not Graham would have been able to identify as The Lark Ascending.

  Then someone had been thoughtful enough to position a bowl of potpourri on the window sill, another touch which, had Graham not been preoccupied, would surely have got a tick.

  As he came out the desk sergeant was just finishing with his customer while a woman PC waited to take charge.

  ‘And shall I put you down for counselling?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s good to talk,’ said PC Valerie and took her off down the corridor.

  ‘We can’t always solve the crime,’ said the sergeant, ‘but at least we can make it easier to bear. Now, sir. Sorry to have kept you waiting. How can we help?’

  Graham had decided to come straight to the point.

  ‘The thing is,’ and he leaned confidentially over the counter, ‘it’s a bit difficult. While I’m not exactly gay and am in fact happily married I’ve got myself into a bit of a fix and I’m being blackmailed.’

  ‘Dear me,’ said the desk sergeant. ‘There’s no need for that in this day and age. Blackmail! We aren’t living in the 1950s. Well, you’re in luck. I happen to know our community liaison officer is on the premises and you can have a little chat with him. I shan’t keep you a moment.’ And he went off down the corridor saying, ‘Blackmail! Dear oh dear.’

  Heartened by his sympathetic reception and relieved at the prospect of sharing his troubles Graham resumed his seat in the reception area where he idly leafed through some of the literature scattered about the low table. Turning a page of the local bulletin he came upon a photograph of a young policeman, looking shy but fetching in his uniform as he was being presented with an award for services to the community. It was Gary.

  Not having kept abreast of liberation and its advancements Graham was slightly startled to find the award had been given to Gary (whose name appeared to be Kevin) for services to the community and in particular in his capacity as gay liaison officer. Having come out himself, ‘as a policeman, an act of great personal courage’, Kevin/Gary had been giving talks in schools, churches and to community groups, and was thought to be personally responsible for a significant fall in hate crime in the neighbourhood.

  He was about to read on when somewhere down the corridor a door opened and Graham heard the sound of voices. Not daring to look back or to check who it was Graham ran down the steps, waiting an agonised second or two before the doors slid open and he could flee the premises.

  IT IS A FEW DAYS LATER and Betty is dawdling over her computer.

  ‘Did you ever wonder,’ she said, ‘whether Graham might be gay?’

  Mr Forbes senior put on his glasses and considered.

  ‘It had occurred to me,’ he said, ‘only then he married you so I assumed I must be mistaken.’

  It was the afternoon and they were in bed.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘It worried me,’ said Betty ‘that he spent so much time on his fingernails, although men do moisturise nowadays, don’t they?’

  ‘They do,’ agreed Mr Forbes (who didn’t). ‘He was always fastidious even as a boy and he had an umbrella at a very early age. Still, I wouldn’t worry about it. He likes you, that’s the main thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Betty, ‘but he is gay. I’ve known for a while.’ (She’d followed up some of the websites he’d been visiting.) ‘I was just bothered that you didn’t.’

  ‘Is it a problem?’ said his father.

  ‘Not as such,’ said Betty. ‘And he does very well.’

  ‘Which just leaves Muriel,’ said Mr Forbes. ‘There’d be a problem there.’

  ‘Has she made any progress on the computer?’

  ‘What do you think?’ said Mr Forbes.

  Betty frowned, her fingers scampering over the keys.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Betty shook her head as she brought Graham’s personal account up on the screen. ‘I can’t work it out. He’s been making some very odd payments.’

  Though Graham and (as he was still bound to call him) Gary now met regularly Graham never mentioned his visit to the police station or that he knew of Kevin’s respected position in the community…a role which even Graham could see rendered him as vulnerable to blackmail as his victim. How, though, could he turn the tables? Short of coming out and telling Betty and his mother for the moment there was nothing to be done.

  A casualty of the heightened commerciality of the relationship between the two men was any pleasure Graham might have been expected to glean from their connection. He did what he was told glumly and with no joy, never able to forget that he was being physically humiliated and was paying for the privilege besides with, most injured, his pride.

  His marked lack of enthusiasm, while entirely understandable, still managed to irk his tormentor who felt that some minimal rapture was owing. But it was not forthcoming and Graham was not a good enough actor to simulate it.

  ‘The spoilsport,’ thought Kevin. Still, and he trousered another grand, there were compensations.

  In time, though, boredom took its toll even on Kevin and more and more when they met money changed hands but nothing else.

  The hangover from these unwilling trysts affected Betty, too. The exuberance that had made Graham such an enlivening partner was now virtually extinguished. He came to bed and went to sleep, but often now she would wake in the night and find him awake too.

  At first Betty thought this was what was to be expected, the shine going off the marriage as it was supposed to do. But there were other more disturbing developments. Undressing, Graham had always put his clothes neatly on or over the back of the chair, his shoes, socks inside, tucked cosily under the bed. This new Graham now left his shirt on the floor and his shoes all over the place so that Betty wondered at first if he was having a breakdown before deciding he wasn’t imaginative enough for that.

  Somet
hing was wrong, though, and his fingernails were a disgrace.

  Chaste as their life together had become, it was not wanting in affection. Indeed since Graham’s trouble he had become a far kinder and more considerate and appealing person than he had ever been before. He came to his wife for comfort and reassurance though over what he was never specific. ‘Life’ was the nearest he got to it.

  ‘Is it work?’ Betty asked.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You’re not ill?’

  He shook his head mutely.

  ‘You’re so good to me,’ he would mumble before drifting off to troubled sleep. Tonight, though, he lay awake and talked about their future, saying he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in a bank and had she ever thought of Australia.

  Betty had never thought of Australia, being quite happy with Alwoodley. So she was about to ‘talk it through’ as he put it when Graham leaped out of bed and peered through the curtains.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Graham. ‘I thought there was a car outside.’

  ‘AT FIRST,’ said Betty, ‘I thought he was just stealing from the bank, only why I couldn’t think as there’s always plenty of money in his account.’

  They were in bed again, the laptop eponymously open on her lap, Mr Forbes reading.

  She didn’t say this to Mr Forbes but what shocked Betty wasn’t the peculation itself; it was that the amounts involved, while not trivial, were relatively small. Acquisitive though Graham was and bold though he thought himself he had always been modest in his aspirations and limited in his ambitions, how limited he himself had never appreciated. He had never realised, for instance, that what he took to be Betty’s fortune was actually only the accumulated interest from her real fortune which lay elsewhere. In the light of this the amounts that Graham was embezzling from the bank were negligible, but they would need to be repaid and repaid quickly before an audit showed them up.

  Actually she was doing Graham an injustice. He was modest in his assumptions, it’s true, but so, too, was Kevin and it was his demands that dictated the withdrawals, each as limited in his expectations as the other.