The Manner of the Mourning

by Robert Ward

  You haven’t become a luvvy and a darling have you? Do you wear cardigans wrapped round your neck by the arms? Do you lunch with the DG, whatever his name is? Why a telly play and not something for the theatre? Is there more money in it? I know why, writing for the theatre must be more difficult, that’s it, isn’t it?

  I didn’t tell you that I had a cat, did I? Not that it matters. It’s dead now. It was a big smelly ginger tomcat called Tom. It got run over the other day. A fellow was quite upset for a time though, he’d had it for a while you see. I don’t know what possessed me to get it in the first place. Someone I know had a bitch-cat that brought forth and rather than see it flushed down the loo I agreed to have one. A monstrous act of sentiment I know. It won’t happen again.

  Have to go now. Write soon.

  Liz.

  Richard put the letter back in its envelope and placed it with the others in his Liz-box. Apart from her letters he also had photographs of her and a few other little mementoes like a yellow hair ribbon and a blue plastic ring from a lucky-bag she had given him as an engagement ring for a joke. He put the box back in the bottom drawer of his large mahogany desk.

  He had just moved into his new flat which was hideously expensive and which he could only just afford. It was rather nice though, he thought, after some of the others he had been in. It was the top storey of a converted Victorian terraced house, but it was bright and clean and nicely furnished and it overlooked a little park in a square.

  It was Christmas eve and Scrooge was showing on the television. Unusually, it was actually snowing outside and the little park looked pretty, covered in white, with the bare trees standing stark and twisted around it. Richard poured himself a whisky and lit a cigarette, feeling the warm glow of Christmas time and safety. He flicked through the Radio Times to see what films were on over the holiday period, ticking the ones he wanted to see or record.

  Scrooge was being shown his lonely boyhood by the Spirit of Christmas past and the mantle-clock chimed the hour and Richard felt contented and happy in a way to be alone. It was nice, he thought, to have the choice. He’d phone his parents and Liz tomorrow and microwave his frozen turkey dinner and watch some perennial Christmas film for the umpteenth time.

  He had mince pies and ginger beer and Brazil nuts and milk chocolates in, things to remind him of childhood Christmases. Though he doubted he would eat so much as to give him that slightly sickly feeling associated with such times. He poured himself another whisky.

  Out in the park, some small children were playing in the snow wearing coats and scarves and woollen hats and wellington boots of mostly red and green, but they were too far away for him to hear them squealing with happiness. It was only mid-afternoon but already it was beginning to get dark. He poured himself another whisky and by the time Scrooge had sent the turkey round to Bob Cratchit’s house he was feeling a little pissed. More in fact than he had intended to be and he was regretting having drunk so much. It was too early and too late to stop now though.

  He was hungry but didn’t want to eat. It would put him off drinking and make him fall asleep. It might even make him feel sick. He looked at the television screen with bleary eyes and his stomach was burning. A game show was on, and it was completely dark outside now, but he didn’t draw the curtains. He realised he was bored but the whisky made him not care.

  The host of the game show was wearing a blue sparkling jacket and he was assisted by two long legged bimbos. The contestants were being asked questions like, what is the capital of Italy? Rome, Madrid, or Cairo? and getting them wrong. The winner would get a car wrapped in a big ribbon with a bow on top. He felt himself drifting off into mindless thought. The gentle purr of the telephone snapped him back into place.

  “Jesus, God, Rich, you fucking liar. You said you’d never make any money and that you’d die of consumption in a garret.”

  “Who is this?” he asked, frowning, as people do when speaking into telephones.

  “Well, that’s just great isn’t it? You don’t even remember me.”

  “Sal? Is that you, Sally?”

  “Yes, it’s the ugly bitch herself.”

  “Sal, it’s good to hear from you. Where are you?” he asked, reaching for the remote to switch the television off.

  “I’m phoning you from my boyfriend’s house. We’re staying for Christmas with his family. It’s a bit of an ordeal actually,” she added, whispering.

  There was a silence, and Richard looked around him, trying to think of something to say.

  “Merry Christmas,” she said.

  “Merry Christmas.”

  There was another silence.

  “So how the hell are you doing? Wow, plays on the telly hey? I bet you’re coining it.”

  “Hardly,” he said. “It was British telly you know. And we call them original dramas, not plays. But I’m well pleased.”

  “I bet you are. You old sly boots you. I should have stayed put, shouldn’t it? I suppose it’ll be Warner Brothers or Universal next?”

  “Someone else said that to me recently,” he said.

  “Isn’t that just typical of me? To be second, I mean?”

  “It’s more likely to be, Shoestring Films, shot in a disused quarry and an abandoned warehouse,” he said, passing over her remark. “So, what are you up to these days?”

  “Finlay, my boyfriend, owns a clothes company, KINK. Have you heard of it? No? Well never mind, anyway, I design for him. Like mother like daughter, hey?”

  “Finlay?”

  “Yes, don’t laugh. He’s a Scottish person. He’s really nice. You’d like him. He’s loads of fun.”

  “How did you know where I was?” he asked, suddenly realising she wouldn’t have had his new number.

  “You remember the girl in the Rat? Chantel?”

  “Oh yes, of course. That was clever of you.”

  He had left his new address and a number with Chantel, trusting to her discretion in giving them out when he left the area after several flat moves. Everyone who knew him, he knew, would know to inquire at the Rat for his whereabouts.

  “You always had a soft spot for her, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I like Chantel.”

  “Do you ever go there now? To the Rat I mean?”

  “No, I haven’t been for a while now.”

  “We’ll have to meet up there one time. What d’you think?”

  “Sounds good to me,” he said.

  “Do you remember David and Charmian? What a couple of weirdos they were? We had some good times though, didn’t we?”

  “We certainly did.”

  “Well, listen, Rich. I’ll have to go now. Finlay has just come into the room and he’s so insanely jealous of my beauty that he can’t bear me even talking to another man. Don’t forget our date at the Rat.”

  “I won’t,” he said. “Keep in touch, Sal. It’s lovely to hear your voice.”

  “You old softee you. Bye now. Lots of love.”

  “Bye Sal, love.”

  He put the phone down, feeling a strange sensation in his head. He poured himself another drink and sat down and switched the television back on. He was sober suddenly and trying to remember how long it had been since he had last seen Sally. He felt a sense of loss and regret simply for times past for a moment and then he smiled inwardly and took a long drink.

  Superman was saving someone from a dastardly fate on one channel and the game show was nearing its exciting conclusion on another. Something about whether Christ was a real person or not was on also, and another channel had a comedy quiz show on, with the comedic contestants dressed in Christmas garb. He switched back to the game show to see the ecstatic winner being given the keys to her new car. He then switched the television off, thinking about what it was that he really wanted to do alone on Christmas eve.

  Despite his sobering after Sally’s call, he knew he was still too drunk to drive, and yet he was beginning to feel restless, and the thought that he might go out grew in his mind. Where
to though, seemed an insoluble problem. He didn’t want to visit anyone he knew. That was why he thought he had chosen to be alone. Going to a pub or club would mean sitting alone amongst crowds of people rather than doing the same at home, and that would make him feel awkward and lonely. It was still early though, and the alternative was simply to drink himself into a stupor watching the television or listening to music.

  He washed and shaved and gelled his hair, combing it back so that it seemed much darker than it actually was, slick and separated in strands of comb tooth measures and he put on a white shirt and black suit and black shoes and his navy blue raincoat. He then left his flat and began to walk in the direction of the main road to the south of the park for a reason mysterious to him.

  He slipped in the snow and landed with a thud on his backside. After the momentary shock he laughed and scrambled to his feet. A passing woman asked him if he was all right and he replied, yes, saying it was only his pride that was hurt. She wished him a merry Christmas. She must have been drunk, he thought.

  The smell of a chip shop drew him towards it. The shop had white tiles on the walls with little blue dolphins on them. Odd, he thought, as he doubted that dolphin and chips would be on the menu. He asked for haddock and chips feeling he ought to eat something even if he did throw it up. Salt and vinegar was added. He ate them from the wrapper as he walked. Something his mother had told him he should never do.

  The portions from the chip shop were huge and he could barely eat half of it. In the distance he saw a dustbin and walked towards it. As he was about to throw the remains of his supper away, a girl, leaning up against some railings, who he had hardly noticed, spoke to him.

  “Don’t you want your chips then?” she asked.

  “I can’t eat them,” he said, having crumpled up the wrapper.

  “Give em here then,” she said. “There’s loads here. You’ve hardly eaten any.”

  “There was quite a lot,” he said.

  He watched as she ate hungrily with her fingers. She had fingerless red and white woollen gloves on. She was a small girl with long, very dark hair and was very pretty. She was also very young. She was wearing a black jacket over a tight red jumper with a short denim skirt and black stockings. Her short black lace-up boots had two-inch heels on them.

  She finished her fish and chips and threw the wrapper into the bin and wiped her mouth with the back of her glove. He realised he was still standing there, looking at her.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I enjoyed those. I’m thirsty now though. Didn’t you get a coke with your chips?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said, looking down at her.

  “Buy us a coke then?”

  “Of course.”

  “We can get one at the sweet shop. It’s cheaper than in the chippy. You are looking for business, aren’t you?”

  He didn’t know what she meant for a moment, or rather, he did, but the meaning hadn’t registered. It then dawned on him that of course she was a prostitute.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Good. I thought so. I’ve been freezing my arse off standing out here. Christmas eve, I suppose. The punters are at home playing happy families or getting pissed at the office party and groping the secretaries. Where do you want to go? I can get a room for twenty if you like?”

  “I live quite close,” he said. “We can go there. There’s nobody else there.”

  “Okay with me. It’s fifty quid, up front. That’s a lot, I know, but it is Christmas and I’m very good. No violent stuff though, you’ll have to pay extra if you want any of that. If it’s to me, I mean. If you want it doing to you, that’s okay.”

  “No, I don’t want anything like that.”

  “No,” she said, looking at him. “I didn’t think you were like that.”

  He bought her a coke at the sweet shop and she drank it as they walked carefully in the snow. Her cheeks were flushed pink with the cold and their breath misted.

  “How far is it?” she asked.

  “Not far now.”

  “Good, it’s fucking freezing. What’s your name by the way?”

  “Richard.”

  “That’s nice. Mine’s Jenny.”

  “That’s nice too,” he said. “Jennifer?”

  “Yeah. But it’s Jenny.”

  “Okay, Jenny.”

  They entered his flat and she put the fifty pounds he gave her into her white patent leather handbag.

  “This place is nice,” she said. “Is it yours?”

  “No, it’s only rented.”

  “But it’s yours though?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. As long as I pay the rent.”

  “I’d love a place like this. You should see the fucking shit-hole I live in.”

  “I’ve had my share of shit-holes,” he said.

  She wandered around the sitting room, looking at everything with interest, and then sat back down on the settee.

  “Right, shall we get down to business?” she asked. “What is it that you want? You can have straight or I’ll give you a blow job or just wank you off. You can fuck me up the arse if you want to, but you have to be careful. Bums just weren’t made for screwing, you see.”

  Richard didn’t really know what to say. He wanted her, and he didn’t feel nervous with her as he usually did in sexual liaisons, probably because she was so young, and a prostitute, and must be used to all kinds of sexual inadequacy, but even so he was hesitant.

  “Can’t you stay for a while?” he asked. “Apart from the sex I mean? I’m lonely you see, and it’s Christmas eve.”

  She looked at him with her blue eyes which had astonishingly white whites.

  “I should be working,” she said, and then paused to think. “But I don’t suppose there’ll be much business tonight. Christmas eve.”

  She looked at him again and smiled.

  “You’re not bad looking though. And you’re quite young. And I like the flat, and it’s warm. I’ll only freeze my arse off out there again, I suppose.”

  She thought again for a moment.

  “If you can give me another fifty quid and pay for a taxi for me tomorrow, Christmas day rates remember, I’ll stay.”

  “Good,” he said, smiling.

  “Put the telly on then,” she said. “I love Christmas telly. And let’s have a drink. Vodka and coke please.”

  She took off her jacket and jumper and laid them carefully on her chair with her bag. Richard picked them up and hung them in the hall. He noticed her watching him closely.

  “You don’t think I was going to rob you? Do you?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “It’s habit. I’ve been ripped-off so many times. I know you won’t though. Why do you think I agreed to stay? I am a human being, you know? I’m a person. I have feelings.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just thought you might be worried.”

  “Okay. I know what you mean, but I’m not.”

  He brought their drinks over to the settee and sat down beside her.

  “How old are you, by the way?” he asked quietly, not looking at her but into his glass.

  “Don’t worry, I’m legal. I’m eighteen,” she said. “You’re not disappointed are you? Some of them like them under-age. They like to think they’re doing something not allowed. No one gives a fuck though. Some of the girls start when they’re twelve. How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty six,” he said.

  “That’s still young. I thought you looked about that. I wasn’t really sure you were looking for business though. I just took a chance. I said I knew but I didn’t.”

  “I didn’t know that I was, either,” he said. “But I suppose I was.”

  “You’re not sorry now are you?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Have you got any fags? I forgot to get some when we were in the sweet shop.”

  They watched Some Like it Hot on the television, which Jenny hadn’t seen before but thought quite funny, and Richard put
out the Brazil nuts and chocolates onto the coffee table and brought over the bottles of scotch and vodka and cokes and an ice-bucket.

  “Are we all right like this?” she asked. “Do you want me to take my clothes off or anything?”

  She tugged at her white blouse and asked him with her eyes, also.

  “No, we’re fine,” he said. “Later.”

  She was more than tipsy by now and kept looking at him.

  “What is it?” he asked, cracking a nut.

  “I’m looking at your hair,” she said. “You shouldn’t have it like that. Greased back. It makes you look older. You’re a blondie aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I thought it made me look sophisticated.”

  “You’re tall too, aren’t you?”

  “Not very.”

  “Everyone’s tall compared to me. I’m five foot two and a bit. Don’t forget the bit.”

  “I won’t,” he said.

  “What I mean is. Why are you lonely tonight?”

  “I thought I wanted to be alone but I was wrong. Why? Don’t you want to be here any more?”

  “Yeah, I’m enjoying myself. I’ve been with a lot worse than you,” she said slurring slightly and then gulping her drink.

  “Thanks,” he said, amused by her.

  The snow had stopped falling by now but a hard frost had set in and everything outside seen through the window seemed cold and crisp and clean. The little park was dark and empty and quiet, and the lights from people’s houses on the far side of the square looked warm and pretty. They must have left their curtains and blinds open for the same reason as Richard.

  “Your telly’s nice,” she said suddenly. “Ours is some crappy old set that was left there. Part of the furnishings. It hasn’t even got a remote.”

  “Who do you live with?” he asked noticing the plural.

  “My mate, Tanya. We share the rent see? It’s a real rat-hole and the landlord’s a bastard. It’s cheap though, I suppose.”

  “Won’t she wonder where you are when you don’t go home tonight?”

  “Nah. We don’t keep tabs on each other. Sometimes we don’t see each other for days.”