—Certainly not Toytown Assorted, at any rate. Although of course all the children love them. Does Boniface like them?
—Yes, Boniface loves them, he has always loved his Toytown, I have to say.
In spite of herself, no matter how she had promised herself she would react, once more Golly felt tingly and quite uncomfortable. She could not bring herself to look at Blossom’s dress—for she knew how expensive it must have been. But it was more the older woman’s imperturbable composure and self-assuredness which, as always, succeeded most in getting under her skin.
—Excuse me, love—if you could just step out of the way. I think I see the perfect little bun.
The older woman’s hand was now firmly resting on Golly’s shoulder—ever so firmly easing her out of the way. Suddenly Blossom released a small cry:
—Hurrah! she shrieked, leaping up down in an almost childlike fashion, what an absolutely lovely cake—almond!
She had found her holy grail, she triumphantly declared.
—My husband will simply adore this gorgeous almond slice!
To her dismay, Golly found herself becoming hopelessly tongue-tied—with her shoe making shapeless patterns in the tiles that were so vivid she actually had to look away. As Blossom smiled and took her by the hand.
—My garden! You really must come around and see it, yourself and Patsy. You could perhaps take some cuttings—for your own garden, I mean. Is that something that might appeal to you, Golly? You’d be more than welcome, as I’m sure you well know.
It was only after she had fingered the silver half crown onto the marble-topped counter that Blossom Foster was seen to hesitate. Before pressing her gloved hand in mock awe against her lips—as though quite affronted by her own insensitivity:
—But then, of course: You don’t have a garden!
She turned away and began to converse with the female assistant. Not that it mattered, for Golly now heard nothing. Making a few halfhearted attempts to rally, galvanize herself into making a reply.
Regrettably, however, she did not succeed.
Instead she found herself bidding goodbye to Blossom Foster.
Who said that now she had to be off, as she had one or two more things to get for Bodley’s tea.
The assistant was folding her arms and smiling.
—What a lovely lady, she was saying, before taking out her compact and remarking to Golly from the small oval mirror:
—So what can I get you?
—Some Toytown Assorted, if you please, she heard herself reply—thinking that she had dropped her gloves and then remembering she hadn’t even been holding them in her hand. And that, in fact, they had been in her handbag all along. O, and also that they didn’t actually sell Toytown Assorted in the home bakery.
—The shop across the road is the place you want for them, the assistant told her in a chillingly disinterested, quite dead monotone.
Or so it had seemed to Golly Murray at the time.
—I have a feeling I’m going to scoop the dividend this time, said Patsy, chewing his pencil, if United can manage a draw against Liverpool. If that happens, then I think I’m in with a very strong chance.
—Perhaps then we can think about going to Florida, said Golly, flicking the pages of Picturegoer, smiling.
—Ha ha, laughed her husband as he chewed on his pencil, you really do come out with them, Geraldine. You really do make me laugh sometimes! Would you mind turning the wireless down there, dear—just a teeny little bit?
His wife obliged.
—Thank you, he said, closing one eye as he shuffled his pools coupon, marking in an X for a draw.
But Geraldine “Golly” Murray hadn’t, in fact, been joking at all. And the more she thought about it, the more possible it did seem that, if they really wanted to, there would be nothing to stop them from going to Miami. She had read a lot about it now and felt, in her own way, quite at home there. She had even borrowed some books from the library. But her favorite remained the account in her magazine. The Miami Vampire was one of her most-loved stories. Because if it taught her one thing it had shown her that people, worldwide, are essentially the same. For example, the town in which she lived—there weren’t any swimming pools or stretches of sand or great tall buildings. But when it came to sex, all men were disappointingly predictable.
—The handle of my stomach, she remembered Patsy’s friend saying that day in the shop.
Of course, shutting up immediately as soon as he saw her. What she could not for the life of her understand was how it meant so much to them. Obviously in so many ways her own husband and Pedro Gonzales would have been almost impossibly different. But in this area nothing divided them. Or lantern-jawed Norman from Peyton Place either, she presumed. And as she thought of herself laying back in the great expanse of that foam-rubber bed it was difficult for her to suppress a chuckle when she heard Pedro say:
—Tú eres muy bonita. If you say you love me I’ll do anything. An’ting!
The laugh, of course, was that she knew he would. But it wasn’t because of love that he did it. It was on account of, when it jumped, the handle of his stomach.
—Bury it in there, up to her kidneys, she had overheard Patsy’s friend continuing that day in the shop—the countryman with the massive red hands.
—Up to their kidneys, boys, he says, that’s the way to make them squeal. The further in it goes the more they like the handle of your stomach.
Because of such unstylish utterances—hopelessly imprecise as they were—like any woman, Golly was by nature suspicious. It paid to be like that, her mother had counseled her, considering the numerous subtle hazards with which females had to contend. Right throughout, in spite of his flattering charms, she had always harbored certain reservations with regard to Pedro Gonzales. He was much too sweet and far too attentive not to have something to hide. It had taken only three visits to his room in the Siesta Motel for her to finally come to the conclusion that in all probability she had been wrong—and that, most likely, she was sleeping with the Miami Vampire.
He spoke Spanish to her all the time—especially when he was feeling under her nightdress.
—Tú eres mas bonita que todas estrellas en el cielo.
He asked her did she like it. Yes, she’d told him, very much. But most of the time she didn’t even feel it. And when he eventually would “buck”—as she’d once heard her Patsy describe the act when he’d had a few jars—that he’d be prepared to do almost anything for her. That was when she’d said it, running her fingers through his thick black greasy boyish Cuban curls.
—This, then, is what I want you to do: Disfigure Blossom Foster.
Initially, unfortunately, he had demurred. Perhaps he hadn’t expected her to be capable of persuading him as effectively as she did. But Golly, like most women, had learned not to expect very much of men—which was why, on account of the disfigurement meaning so much to her, she had come well prepared. Had been to Frederick’s of Hollywood, in fact, whose adverts she had become aware of in Picturegoer’s back pages. She told him she’d let him lick her black waspie if he did it.
—Disfigure Blossom Foster, she repeated.
—I never see you like thees before, Golly, croaked Pedro, now you frighten me!
She told him she’d let him chew her ankles if he agreed.
—Disfigure Blossom Foster, she again whispered.
He couldn’t believe it when she slapped him across the face.
—You’ll do what I say—do you hear me, Norman?
Then she led him across the floor to the bed and gently took the handle of his stomach and placed it gently in her palm.
—And now you will receive the greatest prize of all. If only you will do what your Golly has just asked of you. What is it, Pedro?
—Disfigure Blossom Foster, her Cuban companion sheepishly replied.
—That’s right, she said softly, before laying back and clamping his lower back with her legs.
—At last! she wept, at last I’ll die h
appy!
As the little man groaned inside her then went soft.
* * *
To his credit, unlike Patsy, Pedro hadn’t gone and made a great big unnecessary fuss about things. Or tried to get out of it after making his promise. Which her husband usually did, once he had released himself. But of course, in the case of the Cuban, there was the promise of further waspie-kissing on a nightly basis—for which he had, again sheepishly, professed a particular fondness.
—It would be ver’ easy, you know, he now told her, to do what it is you ask on thees Blossom Foster. I theenk that maybe we do it with the brakes, yes? I sever the cable, then is no problem. What make car you know she drive?
—I don’t know but I can find out, she had told Pedro.
And drifted to sleep like a child that night, slumbering happily on a soft cloud of sound—that of horrendously screeching brakes.
The next day was a lovely spring afternoon Sunday, and like a lot of people from the town, the Murrays decided to go for a walk. Everyone was in high spirits as they greeted Patsy and Golly, with the church bells ringing out and the shoots of the crocuses as they craned across their borders coyly offering the impression that they perhaps considered themselves the incarnations of some particularly gifted versifier.
There were cars parked here and there, and through lowered windows a delirious bleat was heard to deliver a scene-by-scene account of an important Gaelic football match which was proceeding. By all accounts—that is to say if the near hysteria of the commentator’s observations was to be considered in any way indicative of proceedings—at this advanced stage, the equally matched teams were neck and neck. Golly froze as she spotted Blossom Foster.
—Dearest! exclaimed her neighbor, attired now in a ruffled nylon blouse complete with brooch. How lovely to see you—and you, too, Patsy dear, of course!
She pecked the younger woman ever so lightly on the cheek. There then ensued a discussion on the recent spell of good weather. Subsequent to that they then attended to the subject of the forthcoming summer—and where both couples were likely to take their holidays.
—We’re going to Miami, Blossom declared, yes that’s Miami, Florida. We’re jetting out next week. Do you know how much it costs? One hundred and sixteen guineas.
Once more Golly said that that was wonderful. Before blurting out:
—Will you be taking the car? What kind of car is it?
—No, we won’t be taking the car, we never do. We’re flying, you see. It costs one hundred and sixteen guineas—each. All in, of course.
—All in, replied Golly, somewhat dazedly. So you won’t be taking the car then, you say?
—No dear, we won’t be taking the car. We always rent a car when we get there.
—And what kind of car might that be? asked Golly.
—Goodness, dear you’re so interested in automobiles all of a sudden. That’s what they call them over there, you know.
—Automobiles?
—Yes, automobiles. As a matter of fact we’ll be hiring a Pontiac. We like to hire a Pontiac, don’t we, Bodley?
—Yes, dear. Chrome plated. Once in Miami we always rent a Pontiac.
—A great big pink chrome-plated Pontiac.
—Gleaming. A beauty.
—A Pontiac the color of Toytown Assorted! laughed Golly, unwittingly twisting her gloves.
As Patsy gripped her excitedly by the arm, affectionately and with a boyish innocence that made her feel so close to him:
—Jeekers tonight! Do you know what, if I’m not mistaken—I think that Down has this game in the bag!
The sea can be cruel and the sea can be cold and sometimes the sea can be snug as a glove. Especially if you’re fortunate enough to be tucked up in bed beneath a nice warm candlewick counterpane with some heavy blankets and nice crisp clean sheets. Which Patsy Murray and his wife Golly were.
—You’re listening to the BBC. And now, the shipping forecast.
Golly Murray tugged the bedclothes up to her neck. There go the pips, she said to herself, as big hairy men began hauling ropes in her mind. With massive breakers soaring in faraway places.
The time was now 12:01 A.M., with the shipping forecast almost concluding. Atlantic low 991, it continued, expected 130 miles west of Rockall, 1,011 by 0100 tomorrow. Area forecasts for the next twenty-four hours: Viking variable 3 or 4.
Golly loved the names—so cozykins and warm, like being wrapped in silk miles and miles from the horrible salty cold.
Cromarty Forth, Tyne Dogger 2 or 3, veering southeast 4 or 5. Occasionally rough in Cromarty and Dogger at first. Rain later. Moderate or good.
Her husband had been talking to her for some moments, she now realized. Yes, her spouse Patsy Murray lying beside her in the bed was asking her if she pleased would she mind adjusting her position “just a little.” In order that he might maneuver the bolster. Which she did. She happily complied and the large pillow in question was duly adjusted.
As Patsy smiled and returned to his pools coupons—chewing on the end of his pencil as he did his best to calculate the first-division league results.
—I’ve never seen you in such good humor, he said to his wife, anyone looking at you would think it was you who had won the pools.
—No, darling, thought Golly to herself, smoothing out the glossy center pages of Picturegoer, depicting a city of mythical composition with modernist white facades in seafoam green with salmon-pink trims, architecture designed specifically to invoke feelings of the purest delight.
The BBC pips had once made the world seem giant, almost unnegotiable—but nothing about it now intimidated Golly Murray, as with a smile on her face she laid her head on the pillow, sighing luxuriously. The great thing about it all was that now she knew Pedro needed her. In a way it wasn’t all that different from her husband—all big talk but in the end running around looking for his mama—sucking his thumb with those great big dependent bulbs of eyes.
When he came into the Fountainebleau bar the first thing she noticed was that he was extremely agitated and kept on looking behind him with his shoulders hunched, in the attitude of someone perceiving himself to be under surveillance. When he sat down beside her she saw that his forehead was heavily beaded with perspiration. But he was carrying the bag of tools, just like he’d promised.
—There’s nothing to be worried about, she said to him, caressing his arm tenderly. Running her fingers through the whorls of his shiny curls. Feeling so proud of herself that she had done it—obtained the information that he’d requested.
—Ees where you say it would be, muy bonita. The Pontiac is parked in the lot of the hotel.
—My lovely baby, to do this for me.
—Every night and day I think of my Golly. And now that you say you love me too there is nothing I will not do for you. Tú eres muy bella.
—After this we both disappear. Just you and me, Pedro and Golly.
—We take a boat to Key West and—we are gone!
—Now. Let’s go, and put an end to my troubles once and for all.
—Blossom Foster—the things you tell me.
—What did you call her? What was that you said?
—Puerco! Cochino! That’s what I said.
As a feeling of bliss overtook Golly Murray, gazing out across a city that looked like it belonged in outer space. To one of those programs, like Buck Rogers, that Boniface was fond of watching. In the humidity, there on that balcony where the two of them were now standing—it was ninety-six degrees—bewilderingly, Golly Murray found herself shivering.
But delight was the feeling she was experiencing on the way to the Fontainebleau Hotel to check up on her neighbors.
—Upon the allotted evening, she smiled mischievously.
As she made her way past the soaring finials, exaggerated parapets, and sculptural towers of this extraordinary place. Where exotic birds and tropical flora abounded, etched in stained glass on the windows or in bas relief on the facades of the buildings.
; —Amazing Stories—Flash Gordon, Jules Verne, she found herself thinking—quite light-headed.
The interior of the hotel was chartreuse and forest green as she came through the revolving door.
Blossom, as might have been expected, was at the bar counter—doing all the talking. In her ruffled white blouse, dripping with jewelry, she was holding a long-stemmed glass in her hand—pretending to be amused by a joke of her husband’s, tossing back her head and laughing. Her hair was piled up, blonde, on her head—as her husband shook his head in his loud Hawaiian-print shirt. Golly was tense as she waited for the call. Which she took in the lounge as Pedro, gasping, told her.
—It is done. Meet me in the Siesta Motel, and hurry!
Her heart was thumping loudly in her chest. As she took her wrap and raced outside, hailing a cab in the forecourt. Never in her life had she been so excited. Which made it all the more disappointing when she got back to the Siesta and discovered Pedro in a state of extreme agitation. Trembling violently with his face and hands still covered in oil.
—I theenk that maybe I have been seen. There was someone in the shadows when I lie under the car—O God!
In spite of herself, Golly Murray the barber’s wife knew that she had no option—forcefully striking her lover across the face. As he fell, like Patsy, a baby, into her arms.
—No one saw you, Pedro. It’s done. You have made your girl very happy tonight.
—Now we make love?
She didn’t care—but she didn’t mind either, as she stroked his forehead and gave him a smile.
—For you, Pedro Gonzales—anything!
As she took him by the handle of his stomach, leading him around the room like a puppy. Now she was exultant—now she could do anything.
—Kneel on the floor and beg like a puppy.
The Cuban complied.
—Ask me! she snapped.
—What ees I ask you my lovely Golly?
—Ask me can you bury it up to my kidneys.
—Bury what—I don’ understand.
She smacked him again.
—Golly is the queen—don’t you dare to ask her questions! She’s a thousand times better than Madam Blossom Foster! Take that!
The Dark End of the Street: New Stories of Sex and Crime by Today's Top Authors Page 15
