The Manner of the Mourning

by Robert Ward

  “My left ear is a centimetre lower than my right.”

  “How large is your penis?”

  “Miniscule… but it does work.”

  “How would you describe the arrangement of your genitalia?”

  “I’m hung like a radish and a couple of garden peas.”

  “Do you have any fetishes or perversions?”

  “I like to punish naughty girls. It’s for their own good and you have to be cruel to be kind.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t like to talk about it.”

  “Come on.”

  “Promise you won’t tell anyone else?”

  “I promise.”

  “It involves a high chair and a nappy with a huge safety pin in it and baby refusing his din-dins.”

  “Yes, yes I see. There seems to be a lot of confusion here. Have you ever sought professional help?”

  “Mother would never allow it. I was kept locked in my room until I was eighteen.”

  Sally had been pretending to take notes and to push imaginary spectacles back up to the top of her nose though she had abandoned the middle-European accent.

  “There’s only one thing for it,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Food, sex and defecation in that order and then you’ll be cured.”

  “Are you involved in the performance of any of these?”

  “Certainly in the first, possibly in the second, but definitely not in the third. You’re on your own with that one my boy.”

  Chantel pressed herself up against Richard as she made some kind of attempt to clear the table of debris again, speaking to him in the din.

  “I see you’ve found yourself a little friend, Ritchie. I’ve been watching the two of you.”

  “Why, Chantel,” he said, putting his arm round her waist, “I do believe you’re jealous.”

  “You be careful love,” she said to Sally. “We don’t know much about him yet, do we darling? He might be one of them funny buggers.”

  “I assure you, Chantel,” he said, not quite slurring. “That any buggering I do will be of quite a serious nature.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Chantel asked Sally, inclining her head towards him.

  “I’m not sure myself,” Sally answered. “I think it must be his time of the month.”

  “What?”

  “Chantel,” he said, squeezing her. “Say that you love me, even if it is a lie.”

  “You’re barmy, the both of you,” she said laughing. “Now let me go. I’ve got to clear up.”

  “Reluctantly, my love.”

  “Barmy.”

  The intrusion of Chantel had broken their little tete-a-tete and they again suddenly realised that they were in the company of dozens if not hundreds of people.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “God knows.”

  “Have you got any drink at your place?”

  “Beer, scotch, gin, vodka, rum, brandy, wine, oh and Babycham.”

  “Babycham?”

  “Yes, Babycham.”

  “Bizarre. Any drugs?”

  “Just hash and grass and some speed.”

  “I like that word, speed. Speeeed. What, no crack, no, E?”

  “Fraid not. I’m a bit of a hippy really. Born thirty years too late.”

  “Any acid?”

  “No. But I can get some if you want it.”

  “I’m hungry,” Sally said, resting her head on his shoulder.

  “What would you like?”

  “Indian.”

  “Come on then.”

  “Don’t forget your folder,” she said. “What’s in it anyway?”

  “Nothing much,” he said.

  They stood up, trying to feel their legs beneath them and slowly made their way to the door. The cold night air hit them as they stood under the sign of the Rat and Cockroach for a moment while deciding in which direction to go, and it was raining.

  Sally’s long blonde hair, a little lighter than Richard’s, was partially protected by a large black felt floppy hat, and she wore a black cape with a silver coloured clasp. Richard, being close to home, had on only a yellow heavy cotton shirt and black jeans, but the restaurant they had decided on was not far either.

  They walked through the black-bricked streets, the tall buildings sweating with the rain, not quite tripping on cobbles and broken pavements, not quite feeling the chill of the night air. They passed by the Star of India, a Passage to India, and the Jewel in the Crown and entered the Bengal Lancer.

  Richard’s shirt was soaked to his skin and he was beginning to steam in the warmth of the hot red restaurant, and Sally ordered chicken vindaloo and beef madras and naan bread and onion bhajis.

  “It’s best to share,” she said. “I’m not territorial about food. My mother was. If you tasted something from her plate she wouldn’t eat the rest of it.”

  “There’s probably something deeply significant in that,” he said as they waited for their food to arrive and drank weak lager. “You don’t like your mother, do you?”

  “Yes I do. She’ a jolly good egg. Very liberal. And she told me about sex when I was nine. She can’t help being horribly middle class.”

  “What about father?”

  “What is this?”

  “You gave me a test.”

  She halved the food onto their plates as it arrived.

  “Never had one,” she said. “At least not since I was very little. He buggered off with some tart apparently. Went to Canada or somewhere.”

  “No brothers or sisters?” he asked between mouthfuls of the hot spicy meat.

  “No.”

  “Same here.”

  “So I suppose we’re both spoilt,” she said.

  “I suppose.”

  Indian muzak floated out from some invisible speaker, and suited waiters hovered about asking if the food was good and if anything else was required, as they got more used to eating and convinced that chilli is a drug. They were both by now sweating and thirsty and hot from the inside and feeling good and soberer.

  “My mother is a fashion designer,” she said after a lull, as a matter of fact.

  “My mother is a postmistress,” he said. “If being married to a postmaster makes her a postmistress. Not that he is a postmaster actually. The shop he runs is also the local post office. At least, I think that’s right.”

  “You know exactly what’s right,” she said. “I bet you were the adored son of indulgent parents.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But they voted Tory without realising that they were despised by the people they were voting for.”

  “Goodness, do I detect a hint of bitterness in that? And what’s that got to do with you being adored and indulged? What’s hurt you about being the product of the lower middle classes? You know they are all despised, by everyone. Has someone in particular hurt you?”

  Richard tore off a piece of naan bread with his teeth and as he chewed he decided to change the subject.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “I’m nineteen,” she said. “Why? Is that too old for you?”

  “Well, it is a bit,” he said. “I told you about me and naughty girls. Have you still got your school uniform?”

  “Have you still got your nappy?”

  “Of course I have. And the big nappy pin.”

  They asked for some whisky to fan the flames of their already white-hot tongues and hardly noticed how crowded the restaurant was.

  “What do you plan to do when you leave the art college?” he asked.

  “Do? Really, what a question. I’d rather not do anything at all really. Now you really are giving your background away. You don’t suffer from the work ethic do you?”

  “No, not at all. I’m quite an idler myself.”

  “You’re going to be a failed playwright aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said, wondering at her emphasis on, failed, but understanding it.

  “And we’ve
established that you’ll never be rich.”

  “Oh yes, that is quite certain,” he said, nodding and looking into his glass of whisky as he swirled it around.

  “In that case you’ll be someone interesting to know but not someone who’ll enable me to do nothing and to do it very well.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why were you staring at me, by the way, in the Rat?”

  “You know why.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “Your face was interesting.”

  “You mean ugly.”

  “No I don’t. You’re really quite beautiful. But it takes some looking, and that was why I was looking. Your face is fascinating, but you are beautiful, unusual, believe me.”

  “Everyone knows how they look. I know I’m not beautiful, but I will concede interesting. You’re not so bad yourself, you know?”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Aren’t we all? And faces mean so much, don’t they?”

  “Yes, they do. Your face is fascinating.”

  “Ugly, you mean.”

  “I don’t know where you get this idea from. I don’t talk to ugly girls.”

  “Let’s drop it now. I think we’ve exhausted the physog subject, don’t you? Besides, it depresses me.”

  He asked for the bill and they agreed to split it after some discussion concerning testosterone and what Dutchmen had to do with it and they sucked their free mints while thinking of what was going to happen next.

  “Where do you live then?” she asked.

  “Back near to the Rat.”

  “Is that where we’re going?”

  “Yes, I think so. That’s if you want to.”

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  “Let’s go.”

  The rain had stopped, but the sometimes silent, and sometimes noisy streets, depending on whether there were places of entertainment in them or not, still seemed to sweat and whisper memories as they passed by and made their way towards his flat above the shop opposite the Rat and Cockroach.

  He opened the ground floor side door and they mounted the steep creaky steps to his flat. The shop below was a Bangladeshi general store and the smell of the spices permeated the whole building.

  “It smells a bit like the restaurant,” Sally said as they entered.

  “A poor place, but mine own. Well, not really mine own. It belongs to a Mr Zadiq, a splendid fellow. He looks as I imagine Maharajahs to have looked. Twenty stone, bloated and depraved. I’ve seen him slavering at the sight of girls in saris. He has five daughters of his own. They’re quite cute but I think they may grow moustaches and run to fat in years to come.”

  “I see you’ve made a study of them then.”

  “Of course.”

  The flat consisted of a bedsit with a kitchen and bathroom off it. The place looked as though it hadn’t been decorated for half a century, which in fact it hadn’t, and the ceiling was almost black where the plaster remained at all. It boasted electricity but the wiring was probably lethal.

  The bed was large and lumpy and covered with a puce flannel-like bedspread. In a corner by the grimy window stood a little portable TV, a laptop and a cheap music system. The carpet was worn through to the matting in several places and it was impossible to determine what colour it once had been. The walls were filthy and the furniture some kind of just post-second world war hideous. Sally looked around her and sighed.

  “Dear oh dear, what a place to die in. It’s classic.”

  “We have our love. Surely that is enough?”

  “Not bloody likely. There aren’t any bugs in the bed are there? I couldn’t stand it.”

  “I’ve never looked but I couldn’t give any guarantees.”

  “Yuk,” Sally shivered. “I suppose the bathroom’s a midden.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Couldn’t you take this Zadiq person to court or something? I mean, if ever there was a case of a place being unfit for human habitation, this is it surely?”

  “Yes, but you see, the rent is ludicrously low, and besides, I’ve grown rather fond of the old place.”

  “Your brain must be diseased. Are there any mice?”

  “Not up here. They prefer it downstairs where all the food is.”

  “Put some music on.”

  He played a doom laden dirge by some obscure Slovakian composer and they lay next to each other on top of the bed.

  “You’re weird, you know that?” she said, staring up at the ceiling.

  “I’m not really. That’s the trouble. But I try to be. I’m very ordinary, which is almost worse than being nothing at all.”

  “I think I’m going to like you.”

  “You mean you don’t like me already?” he asked, turning his head to look at her profile.

  “I’m not sure yet. I think I do. But I’ll always remember the way you were looking at me.”

  “There’s nothing ever I can do about that,” he said.

  “Maybe not.”

  The sounds from the street, of cars passing or stopping, and doors slamming and of people walking by and talking or shouting, lessened as it grew later, and in a time there was silence. Richard lay there, looking at her slightly curved forehead and straight nose and the thin lips of her small sweet mouth and he wondered how he could possibly have ever thought she was ugly. It was definitely something inside himself he decided.

  “I’ll never be as lovely as her,” she said suddenly in the quiet.

  “As who?” he asked.

  “As whoever you’re thinking of now. Whoever you were comparing me with when you were staring at me in the pub.”

  “My God,” he said.

  “Do you have one?”

  “No. But my God all the same. I wasn’t, truly.”

  “Careful now.”

  “Truly.”

  “Okay, I’ll take my clothes off now shall I? I take it you want to feel me bare?”

  “My God,” he said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Rich,

  How dare you become a literary person? I’m the one with the words, remember? I can’t wait to hear it. I bet it’s awful. You never showed me anything you wrote. Why not? Is it because you knew I’d laugh at your feeble scribblings? No, seriously, that’s wonderful. I’m glad you’ve given up the postgrad. Only wankers do those. After all, I’m a genius and didn’t even get a degree. What a fucking waste of time. Bad news about the travel agents though. What are you thinking of? Mind you, I can talk, working in Drew’s bookshop. It’s almost as bad as being a librarian. Can you imagine me in tweeds and brogues with my hair in a bun? I wouldn’t mind but we never sell anything.

  Anyway, when the hell am I going to see you? How long has it been now? I miss you. Write soon.

  Liz.

  Elizabeth sipped her tea as she sat looking out of the window of the bookshop. It was raining and the high street was deserted. She waved to the retarded boy who worked in the butcher’s shop opposite as he was taking in the display out of the rain. He always had blue sticking-plasters on his fingers and she was sure that one day he’d lose one and it would go into the sausage-mix. She poured more tea. Earl Grey. That was her favourite.

  Drew was out. He’d gone to Hay-on-Wye to see what he could pick up. He always bought more than he sold, but he was happy. He loved book-hunting, and often he’d pick a book in which he had no interest simply for the challenge of finding a copy. The more obscure and difficult to find the better.

  Elizabeth was one of those beautiful girl assistants that one sees in antiquarian bookshops, sitting quietly, serene, remote, and infinitely desirable. She wore a long black and silver dress cut straight across above the breasts with puff shoulders and long sleeves. She wore black court shoes and was beautifully bare legged.

  It was late in the afternoon on a Saturday. Thus far she had sold an American paperback copy of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, an 1889 edition of Collected Wordsworth, and a very good two volume set of Madame Blavatsky’s the Secret Doctrine which we
nt for £64. This she had sold to a small old man with a black trilby and a limp who lisped and sounded Jewish, though she wasn’t sure why.

  With the rain, she didn’t expect any more customers and was merely keeping the shop open until five-thirty for want of anything better to do. She and Drew lived above the shop which was in an adapted Regency terrace, and a very nice place it was too. Richard of course also lived above a shop. But there the similarity ended.

  At twenty five past five, just as she was about to lock the door and reverse the open sign, a tall man in a long slate-grey raincoat entered the shop. He was in middle middle age and his hair matched the colour of his coat.

  “Have you got a copy of, Lady Don’t Fall Backwards by Darcy Sarto?” he asked.

  She looked at him blankly

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I haven’t heard of that.”

  “How about, Naughty Nurses Get Their Injections?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Fly Fishing, by J R Hartley?”

  It slowly dawned on her that he was referring to ancient things she wouldn’t know about.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” she said, smiling, “But I’ve got Bugger Off, by Pissed Off Lady. Now if you don’t mind, I’m just about to close up.”

  “Don’t be like that,” he said, “I’ve been watching you from across the street.”

  “You old pervert.”

  “No, no, please. I was watching from my car. I’ve been waiting for my friend.”

  “And where is your friend?”

  “I think she must have found another friend.”

  “Reliable type is she? She doesn’t wear short skirts so tight she can hardly walk does she, and chew doublemint while smoking?”

  “How did you know? Are you a friend of hers?”

  She found herself laughing at him.

  “Do you think I could have some of your tea?” he asked. “I’m terribly thirsty.”

  “All right. You can have some tea. But you haven’t escaped from anywhere have you? Or are you being cared for in the community?”

  “I’m just a lonely soul on life’s long journey seeking kindred spirits along the way to ease the passing.”

  “Jesus, pass the sick-bag will you. I hope you meant that the way it sounded. If you’re one of those nature or nurture freaks… actually, you’re old enough to have been a hippy. Did you blow your brains out on acid and have love-children and play acoustic guitar and have a little beard?” she asked as she poured some tea for him.