Ten Tales Tall and True

by Alasdair Gray

  “Then you’d better hurry or you’ll be late for your other mistress.”

  But he does not move.

  She sits, tries to read her book, fails and puts it down.

  “Listen,” she says in a softer voice, “I know men hate clever women. I’ve known it since I was twelve. But we’ve got on well together. Forget I’m clever. I won’t remind you.”

  “I’m not depressed because you’re clever. I saw you were deep from the moment we met. I’m depressed because now I know what happens in your head. Next time you frown I’ll think, ‘Damn! She’s worrying about her thesis.’”

  “Why damn? Why will it upset you?”

  “Because I’ll feel obliged to say something cheerful and reassuring.”

  “Do you really resent making ordinary, friendly little remarks?”

  “Yes.”

  “What a selfish attitude! Anyway, you couldn’t reassure me on my thesis. You’re too ignorant.”

  He stares at her. She blushes and says, “Sorry. You’ve no books and I take books too seriously. You’re probably as clever in your own way as I am, what do you do for a living?”

  “I won’t tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “If you get to know me well you’ll despise me.”

  “Why? Are you in advertising?”

  “Certainly not. But familiarity breeds contempt.”

  “Not always.”

  “Yes always!”

  She rises and walks about saying, “Our friendship has taken a steep turn for the worse in the last five minutes and it’s not my fault.”

  He sighs then asks, “Were you ever married? Or (because it comes to the same thing) did you ever live long with someone?”

  “No. But men have lived with me.”

  “Long?”

  She thinks for a moment. Her last lover was an exciting young man whose work and opinions, good looks and quick speech sometimes got him asked onto television shows. He needed a lot of admiration and support. She had easily supplied these until she found he was also the lover of her close friend and flat-mate, then she noticed he was an emotional leech who had stopped her investigating Chaucer’s debt to Langland for over a month. She says grimly, “Far too long.”

  “Then you know about lack of privacy. We start sharing a bed and some rooms and meals which is fun at first, even convenient. Then we start sharing our thoughts and feelings and end in the shit. Have you noticed how cheerful I am in the morning?”

  “I hear you singing in the lavatory.”

  “Does it annoy you?”

  “A bit, but I can ignore it.”

  “You couldn’t ignore it if you knew me well. My wife couldn’t ignore it. If I sang or whistled or hummed she said I gave her a headache, so I crushed the melody in my bosom and became as miserable as she was. She was always very quiet in the morning. She got brighter in the evening, but not the early evening. I would come home from work and find her brooding. It was very strange. I knew that if I left her alone she would brighten eventually, but I couldn’t. I found her black moods as much a pain as she found my cheerful ones. I would try nagging her into happiness: ask what was wrong then explain it was unimportant. Whenever we weren’t equally bright or equally dull we nagged each other till we were equally miserable. All our conversations became wrestling bouts, like this one.”

  “This one?”

  “This is our first real conversation and you’ve already called me selfish and ignorant. That nearly floored me.”

  “You started it.”

  “Yes guilty! Guilty! I’m like an alcoholic who can keep off his poison for weeks but after one sip can’t stop till he’s flat on his back. I’ve moaned to you about my marriage, I’ve started telling you about my bad habits, if you don’t shut me up you’ll soon know about my childhood, schooling, how I make my money…”

  “Are you a hit-man for the Mafia?”

  “Don’t be silly. When I’ve cut myself into small pieces and handed them to you on a tray I’ll get you to start talking.”

  She says shortly, “I don’t like talking about myself.”

  “I know, but talk is the most infectious disease in the world. In a week or month or year we’ll know each other thoroughly. You’ll no longer be the lovely stranger who approached me in the singles bar, the mysterious she who shares my bed and breakfast. I’ll have turned you into what we all are, basically – a pain in the arse with a case history behind it.”

  She laughs at that. Despite his words he is excited, almost cheerful, and watches her closely.

  She sits down beside him, elbow on knee, chin on clenched fist. He lays an arm carefully round her shoulder but a slight shrug tells him she doesn’t want that so he withdraws the arm. She is thinking that the trouble with his wife was probably sexual. In bed he leaves most of the initiatives to her. She does not mind this because though her last lover was more exciting he wanted applause for his performances and she found this exhausting. Does the man beside her think the last fortnight (the most restful and productive fortnight of her life) has been romantic adventure? Someone who can say I crushed the melody in my bosom without irony is almost certainly romantic. In a low voice she asks, “Do you really think me what you said? Lovely – mysterious?”

  “I’ve managed it so far. You’ve been the greatest thing in my life since wee Moody.”

  “Wee Moody?”

  “She visited me when I’d done too many things in too short a time. The doctor ordered a week of complete rest so I sent the wife and kids away for a holiday, unplugged the phone and stayed in bed doing nothing but doze, watch the box and eat food out of tins. The privacy was wonderful. On the second day a cat ran in when I opened the door for the milk. She was a neat little thing with a smooth black coat but hungry, so I fed her. When I returned to bed she came and curled in the hollow behind my knees. I liked to stroke and pat her, she was so graceful and … suave. When she wanted out she patted the door with her paw and I let her out, but she came in again next morning with the milk. We kept company for nearly a week without nagging or bullying each other. That was the happiest time of my life, before I met you.”

  “Thank you. What became of her?”

  “When the kids came home they adopted her – they saw more of her than I did when I returned to work. When the family left me they took her with them.”

  “A pity. You wouldn’t need me if she had stayed.”

  “Nonsense! You’re a woman with arms, legs et cetera, the whole female works. You’re much nicer to me than wee Moody ever was.”

  She gets up and walks away. Strong feelings stop her speaking: amusement, pity, despair and anger. Anger is uppermost. She forces it down, hearing him say, “Our friendship is entering a new phase, isn’t it?”

  “No!” she tells him, turning, “It had better not. I agree with you about talk. Words do more harm than good if they aren’t in a poem or play, and even plays have caused riots. Let’s switch on the silence again. We came together because like most mammals we can’t bear sleeping alone. You find me fascinating because you don’t know me. I like living here because you’re clean, gentle, undemanding, and don’t interest me at all. Have I floored you?”

  He nods, his mouth open and face paler than usual. She laughs and says, “Don’t worry! I’ll pick you up. I’m your mistress, not your cat. I’ve got arms.” She lifts keys off the top of the sound-deck where he has dropped them again, puts them in his coat pocket, grasps his hands and pulls. He sighs and stands.

  “Kiss me!” she says. He doesn’t so she kisses him hard until his lips yield.

  “Now go off to wherever you always go,” she says, taking his arm and leading him to door, which she opens.

  “But…” he says, pausing.

  “Sh!” she whispers, pressing a finger to his lips, “I’ll be here when you come back. Off you go.”

  He sighs, leaves. She shuts door, goes back to work.

  You

  Go to wedding and reception afterward wher
e, as usual, the bride’s people and groom’s people are strangers to each other. Tension. The groom’s family are English, new here, trying not to show they are richer, feel superior to the bride’s people, the Scots, the natives. Are in a small gang of bride’s friends who know their best dresses will look cheap beside groom’s sisters’ and women friends’ dresses, so dress deliberately down, making a uniform of jeans spectacularly ripped, tiny denim jackets showing midriffs and that we don’t care how much money you lot like wasting on clothes. Bride’s people are mortified. Feel sorry for them. Groom’s people act amused, are perhaps not very, so to hell with them. This tall quite old man, nearly thirty – the well dressed kind who knows he is suave – keeps looking, not openly staring but giving quiet little humble yet slightly amused glances meaning hullo, I’m turned on, do you think we could? He is careful nobody else sees him giving the eye, but stays with his own posh English sort but only with the men until wonder (disappointed) is he gay? and (indignantly) does he think this get-up just comic? Forget him.

  While putting food on a plate at the buffet find him close beside saying, “Can I help you to some of this?”

  Thank him. Stand eating with back to the wall. So does he, saying thoughtfully, “Odd to be at my cousin’s friend’s wedding on the day my divorce comes through.”

  Look at him, surprised. He says, “I feel there’s a lot of aggro going on under our jolly surfaces here. Do you?”

  Agree.

  “I don’t think the tension is as Scottish-English as it looks. It’s just bloody British. Whenever two British families come together one lot feel up, the other lot under. Guilt and resentment ensue and much silly jockeying. Even the Royals do it. I find these tensions boring. Do you?”

  Agree.

  “A woman of few words! I will shortly say good-bye to the chiefs of my lot and the chiefs of your lot, then I will drive to the Albany and enjoy one of the best things your country makes: a Macallan Glenlivet malt. Have you been to the Albany?”

  Have not.

  “It’s nice. I never stay there but I can always find a quiet comfortable bar there. I would like you to have a drink with me because (to be honest) this wedding on top of the divorce is making me feel lonely, and you look a nice person to talk to. And I promise not to say a word about my ex-wife and her wicked ways. I’d rather talk about something more pleasant and different. I’d love to talk about you if you can stand being probed a little by a disgusting Sassenach. Please don’t say a word because I am now about to leave. In fifteen minutes I will be at the carpark, sitting hopefully inside a puce Reliant Scimitar. It’s a silly car with a silly colour but perhaps it suits me. I can’t tell you how I got it.”

  Ask if they let girls dressed like this into the Albany.

  “Don’t be so boringly British. But of course you’re teasing me a little.”

  He leaves. He has done this before. Be careful.

  The Albany has lounges upstairs for residents and their guests. He is neither, but the waiter serves him without question. Can people with his kind of voice and clothes go anywhere? But he does not try to make drunk.

  “Do you prefer sweet or dry drinks?”

  Prefer sweet.

  “Good. I will buy you a very special cocktail which I’m sure you will enjoy if you sip it as slowly as I sip my Macallan, then we can have a coffee and I’ll drive you home. Do you stay with your people?”

  Live in a bedsit.

  “Shared?”

  Not shared.

  “Good! Bad idea, sharing. It has destroyed many a friendship. Tell me about your people. Having no family of my own now I like hearing about other families.”

  Tell him about Dad, Mum, relations. He says thoughtfully, “It’s nice to know there are still pockets of affection in the world.”

  Ask about his mum and dad.

  “Aha! A touchy subject. I hardly ever see them, not even at Christmas. My father is nothing – nothing at all. He made a big killing in property and retired like a shot. My mother is merely supportive. They live in Minorca now. They were never very close.”

  Frown, puzzled. His words suggest bodiless people separating or propping each other after a ghostly massacre. Sigh. Silence. Here come the drinks. Sip. Enjoy this. Tell him so.

  “Thought you’d like it. May I ask what you do for a living?”

  Tell him.

  “What’s the firm like, the boss like?”

  Tell him.

  “What – if it’s not an indelicate question – do they pay you?”

  Tell him.

  “How very mean! Can you live on a wage as low as that? We ought to do something about that. You would earn a lot more if you came to London. I know, because I’m in Systems Analysis which deals with your kind of firm, among others.”

  Don’t be fooled by that one. Tell him everything costs more in London, especially the bedsits.

  “Perfectly true, which is why London wages are higher too. But not everywhere. If you decide to come to London contact me first. And now I’ll drive you home.”

  He does not try to touch on his way to the car or inside it, and stays in his seat on arriving. Not inviting himself in, he sits with hand on wheel smiling sideways. Think of saying thank you, good night, but instead ask him in. The loving is surprisingly good. He seems shy at first, not embarrassingly shy but charmingly shy, responds vigorously to hints, pleasuring first a long time with fingers and then with tongue, murmuring, “With this instrument I also make my money.”

  He pulls a condom on later saying, “I’m thinking of your health. You don’t know where I’ve been.”

  Feel safe with him. Have known nobody make love as long as he does. Say so. He says, “We share a talent for this. Let’s do it again soon.”

  Yes do it again soon.

  Of course his money smooths things. The second night starts with a meal in the Shandon Buttery costing more than a (not his) weekly wage, on the third night another ditto at One Devonshire Gardens, fourth night ditto in Central Hotel after the disco. Dislike these meals, excepting the starters and sweets. The main course is always too fancy, too sauced, too spiced. Never say so. And all the time he is kind, polite, funny, telling stories about people whose faces are seen, names and voices are heard on the news. His stories could never be told on the news, make giggle they are so stupid, blush they are so dirty, madden with rage they are so unfair like the Duke of Westminster and asbestosis. He seems to stand outside the dark tank of an aquarium full of weird cruel filthy comic fish, shining a light onto each in turn, explaining with humour but also with a touch of regret, how greedy and wasteful they are. He never explains how he knows them so well, never talks about himself, but always about them, the others. Maybe he learned about them as he learned about Mum, Dad, the boss, by asking their daughters and employees. If asked about himself he gives a crisp reply in words that sound definite but say nothing definite. Ask where he lives.

  “London, half the year, but which half is problematic. I go where the firm needs me: Scotland just now.”

  Ask where he is staying in Glasgow.

  “I’m a guest of people who called in my firm. It’s one of the ways I learn things, so I run away to you whenever I can.”

  Ask about Systems Analysis.

  “We unstick thing in businesses where things have got stuck. We also advise on mergers and acquisitions. It’s all perfectly honest and above board. We’re a registered company. Look us up in the directory if you don’t believe me.”

  Ask what he does.

  “At present I work mainly with newspapers – not for them, with them, because papers involve advertising, hence marketing. All very complicated.”

  Sigh, hating to be treated as an idiot. Ask if he works in accountancy, computer programming or time management.

  “Yes, these are all part of it, but what I do best (and with considerable aplomb) is kick bums.”

  Ask if that means he sacks people. He chuckles and says, “Of course not, this is England! – I beg your
pardon, Britain. Above a certain income level nobody gets sacked in Britain. My kicking simply shifts the bums to where they don’t block things. If you want the details you should take a course in business management at London University, where I’ll end up as a visiting lecturer if I’m not careful. My work pays a lot more than yours does, but in the long run is just as disgustingly boring. Perhaps more so.”

  Yet he is never short-tempered or depressed, always gentle, considerate, amusing, apologetic, letting no harshness or dulness appear, though it must exist. All folk have a nasty side which usually appears at the second or third meeting, if not the first. His appears on the fourth.

  He calls at the bedsit between seven and eight and says with his usual humorous apologetic smile, “That dress won’t do, I’m afraid.”

  Ask why.

  “It looks cheap – doesn’t suit you. Wear what you wore at the wedding. I insist.”

  Angry and cheapened, find no words to say no. While undressing, redressing he sits watching closely. Know you are exciting him. Grow slightly excited. Before dressing is finished he stands and comes to you, makes love at once fast. Don’t enjoy it much. He sighs and says, “That was our best time yet, I suppose you noticed?”

  Agree. Finish dressing. Resignedly display yourself.

  “Perfect! You suit the Cinderella look. Let’s be different tonight. Where would you go for fun if you didn’t know me? A disco?”

  Take him to a disco where he dances a bit stiffly but well, considering his age. Like it that others (especially Tall Jenny) see him twisting before, around, beside in that well-cut suit, perfect shirt, tie flapping, fine blond hair flapping, and still the modest amused little smile.

  “I’m whacked – need to stand still for a bit. But you’re young – please go on dancing. I’m not a jealous type, I’ll enjoy watching you dance.” Smile at him, pleased. Dance with a handsome gay in biker leathers. This is more fun as gay is better dancer and now have the pleasure of two partners, this Hunky Harry and him watching. Suddenly see him dancing nearby with Tall Jenny, most obviously attractive woman in the room. Are a little hurt but don’t show it. Smile at them, twice, though they seem not to see. Never mind. Please go on dancing. Thanks mister, I will.