The Grace in Older Women

by Jonathan Gash

  There is a Little Snoring in Norfolk, and a Great Snoring. Cornwall has Goongumpus. There's North Piddle, for grinning motorists to photograph each other peeing nonchalantly by the name sign. Essex has a village called Ugley. It's a pretty postcardy place, but I'll bet they wish they had a quid for every time a visitor's asked their bar ladies, 'Are you an Ugley woman ha-ha-ha?' There's our mega-famous original Gotham. Notthinghamshire. The village of Lover is popular every St Valentine's Day.

  With a name like mine, I'm only thankful I don't come from Wormelow Tump, Cold Christmas, Swine Sty, or Maggot's End. Names make you careful. I almost got in a scrap about the name Pratts Bottom, south of London. There's a serious market in signs stolen from villages with names like Shellow Bowells. I'd hate to be their parish clerk - you'd need a standing order with sign makers for replacements every fortnight. The undisputed leader is Anglesey's little Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. Its railway platform sign is the one most at risk - if you could find enough stalwarts strong enough to carry the frigging thing. Muck, I'm told, runs it close. The point I was making, as I trudged finally out onto a road with actual real motors running between civilizations along it, is that to us they seem pretty dull. To people who've never heard of them, they're worth a detour, cameras at the ready. Tourists flock, camcorders whirring, to buy T-shirts and porcelain mugs, ice creams, patronize the local taverns and maybe send franked postcards to give the lads a smile back home.

  Middle Snoring had chucked away its birthright, and money, by changing its name. I could have got a lift from the tourist charabancs that would have been thronging the place. But, 'Fenstone'? Who'd go out of his way to be photographed there? The village of Crackpot, the equally famous Fattahead, though, you're talking visitors by the score. For ever, wallets at the ready.

  Mind you Whistlejack's an odd name, too, even for a horse.

  By the time I'd got a lift - a couple wanting to buy a boat at East Mersea (which incidentally lies south of the northerly West Mersea, so not even humdrum names are safe) - I was sure of one thing: Fenstone, lately the village of Middle Snoring, was not simply atrophying. It was being strangled.

  The village's killer was not Juliana Witherspoon, for she seemed to be fighting might and main to keep the church going. And she was doing her bit for the lone stray tourist with her proffered likenesses'. Jox, fabled doomer, was also trying, in his stalling way. And some lady with her strange animal farm.

  Not only that, but that painting had been quite a good tilt at forgery. Should I visit Packo Orange in gaol, ask him a thing or two? I'd definitely suss out Juliana. And see Jox. And excavate Fenstone, and its lonesome parish priest. And get something to eat, to survive long enough to do all these. Still, I wouldn't suffer the ultimate hunger, for Sundays spelled Sabrina, thank God. At two o'clock we'd make smiles. Before that, there was the tomorrow auction.

  Due about elevenish, today. (Tell you more in a sec.)

  The couple dropped me off at the bowling place in Leisure Planet, where they intended to nosh. They didn't invite me to a burger, I noticed, thanking them and piking away. That's what you get for being nice to people for umpteen miles. Sometimes I wonder where gratitude's gone. Ten past ten by the town hall clock. Still in time. Then I saw a long mobile home pull in, engine coughing over the greensward. The legend SEX MUSEUM was emblazoned on it. I felt a wash of relief. Food, in the nick of time! Thank God for nutters like Tryer.

  9

  The engine wheezed, choked explosively, gave a final gasp. Tryer slammed from the door, smiling when he saw me waiting.

  'Just a minute, sir!' he croaked - he has this gravel voice from years of fairgrounds. 'We'll be open in . . . Oh. Lovejoy.'

  He's as blind as a bat without his bottle specs. Tryer rhymes with sigh-er, meaning one who tries (and, by implication, never succeeds, or his nickname would be something like Champ or Hero). I've known him since gaol.

  'Disappointed, Try?' I cracked cheerfully. Never look desperate or hungry, or you get scorned. It applies most when meeting women. He has Chemise, Deo gratias.

  'Thought you was a customer, Love joy.'

  'Chemise in?'

  'Aye. Just brewing up.'

  'Chance of a cuppa with the belle of East Anglia?'

  He grinned, sheepish. Chemise is really ugly, but if you've tact you don't remark on this. I like her. Tryer's besotted since they met last year and invented the Sex Museum. Local peelers move it from town to town, not wanting sordid exhibits in their little patch, thank you. Makes me wonder how some people manage to breed.

  ‘I’ll put the music on. Go in, Lovejoy.'

  Tryer has this wailing music, his idea of enticement to the multitudes. It comes from a faulty compact disc player that blares out over a Tannoy thing, loudspeakers and dangling wires. He started unrolling a dirty banner. He always has a fag between his lips, goes unshaven. But, I thought enviously, he has Chemise, regular grub, and a career crusading against the ungodly. Can you ask for more?

  'Take that end, Lovejoy.'

  It read ADMISSION FREE EVERY SECOND PATRON. Quite clever, because couples will go in for a giggle, and loners wait then slope in silently. Hence, it's only rarely a customer gets in for nowt.

  Chemise put her head from the side door as we got the banner tied along the vehicle.

  ‘Wotch, Chemise.'

  'Lovejoy! I thought it was your voice!' She was delighted to see me, and embraced me with a savagery you don't often get outside of total war. I almost vanished into her cleavage, struggled up after a prolonged asphyxiation.

  'Hello, love.' I sucked fresh air in, reeled about a bit. 'Business good?'

  Tryer watched, smiling foolishly at his loved one as he hung out shingles of admission prices. It was a daft question, really. More rust than last month, I noticed. The tyres were bald as a bladder. The engine was already pooling oil on the macadam. Times were hard.

  She grimaced. A pretty woman can get away with doing that. Chemise's grimaces are a tribulation because she starts with a handicap. Yet I really do mean I like Chemise, in the sense am fond of. The Sex Museum is her idea. It's kept them in bread since they paired off, which is a novelty for Tryer. He's like Jox but without the money, if you follow. She's average height, has uncontrollable brown hair, a figure that's oddly lopsided as though she's had some auto accident, with legs of skeletal thinness and large feet. Her cleavage is something else, but her shoulders are also kiltered. Buck teeth, a forehead with permanent wrinkles. But I like her, so that's that, I don't honestly understand why women score off each other about appearances, because every woman has her own beauty, Chemise included. It isn't necessarily what you see, what's to grab in the throes of orgasm, a snooty comparison of shapes. It's not even the business of smart fashion - her dress costs thousands, little Cinderella's only discount sale garb - that competition thing women do. It's the woman's gracious merciful sethat counts. And the one with grace wins hands down. Women don't know this. They think everything is youth, shape, and marvellous clothes. Try telling them, they think you're having them on.

  'Business? Awful, Lovejoy.'

  'I'm hungry, love. Any use asking?'

  'Don't be silly. I'm just getting rid of some extras. Help us finish them off. Come in.'

  See what I mean? A gorgeous woman could become Lady Bountiful, dishing out grub to ruffians like you. With Chemise, it's come and help her get rid of excess grub. Grace and mercy go together, so I went in.

  The trailer's in two sections, one for living in, one the Sex Museum. Her microwave's often on the blink but this time was going okay. Those gas cylinders always worry me in case they go off with a bang. And a loo, a shower behind a plastic curtain, two bunk beds that fold into bench seats.

  'Everything but hope!' She did another grimace. I think.

  'More than me, love.' I sat down while she brewed up. She had breakfast ready, beans, eggs, potato cakes reheating, cereals, bread, and a toaster. My mouth watered while she cooked and Tryer clumped
about on the roof. 'Got anything new?'

  'You mean old, Lovejoy.' She smiled, exquisitely beautiful. Her eyes became brilliant with humour. 'I know you.'

  'Well, I can ask.'

  'Some odd old items, Lovejoy. Job lot, an auction. He only bought them because they were at the end of the sale.'

  'I look?'

  'Have your breakfast first, Lovejoy.'

  She called Tryer. It was agony, waiting with a steaming hot plate of grub in front of me dragging my mouth down and my hands twitching. As soon as Tryer sat at the let-down table I was off, whaling in like a stoker shovelling coal. I ate everything within reach. She started buttering another load before we'd finished the first, talking all the while of the places they'd been, how poorly they'd done through the Midlands, police.

  'It's the bloody watch committees, Lovejoy,' Tryer said. 'They had us out of three towns on the trot before I'd got the handbrake on. Right, darling?' He calls her darling without embarrassment, a rare thing for our level of society.

  'They know us, Lovejoy.' Chemise was really downcast. 'It's this new morality.'

  'No, love. It's your name.' My mouth was crammed. Speaking, I lost vital crumbs, which narked me. Starved of calories, here I was spraying the damned things into mid-air, but I had to sing for my supper. 'Worst name you could choose.'

  'And how often do the peelers move you on?'

  Two out of three,' from Tryer. 'Bad spell, four in five.'

  A thunderous knock deafened me on the panels. A voice boomed, 'In there! Watch committee! Open up!'

  'See?' Chemise wailed. 'Now look! They're here.'

  'Hold on, love.' I got up. swallowing fast. 'Stop there, Tryer.' I didn't want him interfering. Lies were called for. My game.

  The bloke standing there was typical. Clipboard, waistcoat, a clerk's view of the universe. Pinstriped suit, for God's sake. I thanked heaven. The watch committee had played into my hands. They'd sent me a duckegg.

  'Yes?' I wished I had a napkin to dab genteelly at my mouth, but Chemise doesn't run to such. I'd have to tell her when I'd got rid of this nerk.

  'Get this off this car park!' Like all his kind, he bawled the command, though I was well within earshot.

  'Why?' A gentle puzzlement lighting my countenance.

  He was narked, having to look up at me. He tried to thunder. 'Your Sex Museum is a disgrace! As the authorized watch committee officer, I order you off! This town is respectable!'

  'Sex Museum?' Now I was baffled, frowning. 'This isn't a Sex Museum. Whatever gave you that idea?'

  'Your banner! ' He mocked me, beads of sweat on his forehead, almost dancing with rage.

  Stepping down, I looked. My brow cleared. I could have filled the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre. My acting felt that good.

  'Tryer?' I called, truly sincere sadness slumping my shoulders. 'Those kids again. Come and see.'

  He emerged, mystified. 'What?'

  'Them desecrators've draped the exhibition.' I pointed. 'It's a damned shame. Every time our Humanistic Encounter Exhibition reaches town.'

  'What exactly are you implying?' the committee man bawled.

  ‘It's no good, Lovejoy,' Tryer said dispiritedly.

  But I was halfway through a meal. God only knows where I'd get the next. I halted, determined. St Alban facing doom.

  'No, Tryer,’ I said firmly, trying to signal him to shut up for Christ's sake. 'No. We must stand firm.' I turned, tearful, to the goon. 'Sir, I wish to protest about your town schoolchildren and your security services. No sooner does our travelling exhibition reach your town than we endure insult. It was the same at Ipswich.'

  'Ipswich?' He glared at the banner, back at me.

  'Insult after insult. The Arts Council predicted this!'

  'Arts Council?' he said, eyes darting uneasily.

  'Of course. We are supported by the Arts Council,' I said gravely. 'This exhibition is aimed at disadvantaged minorities who, poor things, can't encounter others similarly oppressed by humanistic relationships.'

  'Lovejoy,' Tryer was saying. 'Give up. I'll move on.'

  Nobly I faced the ungodly, smiling with proud heroism. God, but I was good. I felt myself welling up. 'No, Tryer. How could we face the Minister for the Arts? Didn't he promise parliament to speak out for travelling exhibitions that help the suffering?' I gazed at the official, brimming pure soul, and spoke with quiet martyrdom. 'Sir. Your vile and unlearned youth with fascist malevolence defiled and desecrated our attempts to help those in need. But even with such horrid opposition, we will open our doors. In one hour! Even if you bann us!' I finished in ringing tones.

  A crowd assembled at such goings-on in the Leisure Planet car park. Some carried skateboards, sports bags. I appealed.

  'See what the town's yobbos have done! Defaced our exhibition! Just because it is concerned with living life!'

  'Shame, that,' a bloke muttered.

  A lady piped up. 'There's too much interference from the town hall.' Women get more bitterness in their voices. I could have kissed her. Agreement rose. More people paused to listen.

  'Thank you,' I said fervently. 'You see, sir? These good family folk can see it instantly. You let your vandals replace our banner by this monstrosity! And blame us!'

  'He's right!' another lady chipped in. 'They sprayed the public lavatories last week. It shouldn't be allowed!'

  'I know the town hall is overworked . . .' I knew I needn't complete the sentence. A roar rose from the onlookers.

  'Over bloody worked?' a man exclaimed. I'd touched a nerve. 'The town hall? A load of parasites, I'll tell you.'

  'What about the trees on the bypass?' the first lady demanded, angrily prodding the council man. Tell me that!'

  'Landscapes and gardens is a different section - '

  Too many bloody sections at that bloody town hall, if you ask me!' from a beer-face.

  'Ladies and gentlemen,’ the clerk tried, desperate, ‘I do assure you that-'

  A crone said grimly, 'He's trying to get out of it!'

  'Please.' I appealed to everybody. 'If our original notice could be . . . We don't want to cause bother.'

  'Right!' The clipboarder grasped at a straw. I thanked people, smiling sadly as they started to disperse. He took out a pen. 'What was on your notice? The wording? I'll replace it.'

  Hell fire, I thought in despair. What had I called us? 'Er, Encounter Exhibition.'

  His eyes narrowed. 'That wasn't what you said.'

  I said, quiet but resigned, if it's too much trouble - '

  'No, no! It will be ready in half an hour.'

  He wrote and vanished, like the poem's angel. We went back in. I attacked my congealing fry-up.

  'Here, Chemise. Where's the toast?'

  'Coming!' She hurtled about the confined space. 'That was marvellous, Lovejoy! He's right, Tryer. Our name's wrong!'

  We dined with more speed than elegance, then went through to the Sex Museum in the trailer to see Tryer's mysterious job lot.

  It's not bad, as displays go. It consists of bays just wide enough to stand in, the partitions crudely tacked to a frame. Chemise put the light on. No windows, just overhead glass for enough basic glim.

  ‘It's been rearranged since last time, Lovejoy,' she pointed out. 'See the dildoes? First two alcoves.'

  ' "Dildo Through The Ages".' I read the card. 'Er, good.'

  The implements were all newish. Wooden, with belts and without, leather, plastic composition, bakelite, even beeswax phalluses, small to gigantic, anatomically precise to bizarre.

  'Automated sex dildoes are separate from the manual.' Chemise led me. Tryer doesn't agree. But the electronic and battery must be separate. Different concept, right?'

  'Right, right.' I had to agree, being unable to see the point of the entire thing, but Chemise thinks it's the only career. For all I know it might do a deal of good.

  I felt off colour. Maybe I'd eaten the meal too fast, or maybe I wasn't getting fed often enough. But I started sweating.

>   'Are you all right, Love joy?'

  'Aye, fine.' I wasn't. I laughed to stay her worry. 'Just all this passionate sex with none coming my way!'

  Then I was down with a bump, clammy and woozy. She called for Tryer, dashed for a flannel. By the time she started laundering my face I'd sussed the problem.

  Near where I was slumped on the trailer floor stood some small boxes. Nothing special, just various shapes dusty and worn. They were on a shelf Tryer reserves for erotic postcards. This was the cheapest section. You can still buy these postcards for a postage stamp. This won't be the case for long, because they're getting rarer with every tick of the clock. Tryer has all the common ones: 'Hold to Light' cards - you peer through a pinhole and see a lovely girl bathing or being passionate. Each card seems innocent, with maybe a sailor holding up a lifebelt at a porthole, as in W. H. Elliam's famous example - still priced at three pints of beer, no more. Go for them today while they're dirt cheap. Tomorrow's too late.

  The next alcove held a display of nipple jewels and penis rings, rather clumsily pinned on a cork board, with descriptions written in a painstaking scrawl. I'd told Tryer the details of them some time back. Most were cheap, though one was 14-carat gold. Penis rings come in two sizes. One is small, the size of a sleeper earring, for putting through the foreskin or under the glans penis, very like a nipple or an ear is pierced. Usually engraved with a sentimental inscription, though why anybody'd want it decorated beats me. The other sort's larger, to go round the penis. This embellishment is coming back into fashion, would you believe, and women - especially wives, odd to relate - are the instigators, who want to doll up their blokes. Ask any specialist jeweller. It beats me. I always want to know if it's painful. Shops in exotic cities sell them to males of a certain proclivity who intend to declare mutual betrothal in unusual ceremonies. The real oddity is that women mostly buy them for an illicit 'marriage' ceremony, in which the ring is slipped over their secret bloke's organ, to the accompaniment of prayers, chants, incense from a thurible, and blessings. I went to one where a respectable married woman wed a boatman down the estuary; they were lovers and wished to plight their troth unknown to the outside world. There was quite a party afterwards, consummation on the floor right there and then, ring in place. I wanted to ask the bloke if it hurt, but the girl I was with whispered I wasn't to and how dare I ask. Propriety gets everywhere these days, so I'll never know. You can tell these 'shatter' rings from their relatively larger size; they're usually jadeite or nephrite jade, with bright green preferred. I've seen them in onyx, cheap old serpentine, and genuine gold. Silver's in vogue for dark skins, they say, with alabaster long in fashion among Earth groupies, for occult reasons.