by Paul Charles
‘So you broke up?’ I asked, hoping to prompt her back into her tale.
‘Well yes, but I don’t think I should just let it go like that. I mean, I know he’s making a big mistake and I feel that eventually he’s going to realise this, and I just don’t want to have fallen out of love with him by the time he wakes up. That would be so sad.’
Just then the two Jeans came through the doorway opposite us, arm in arm, with a man in the middle of them.
‘David!’ Jean Kerr gushed, ‘this is Jean’s boyfriend John, John this is…’
And that’s as far as she got with her introduction.
John Harrison was staring at the judge sitting beside me. She was staring at him. She rose slowly to her feet, as dignified as she could from a beanbag, leaving her glass of wine with me. When she was steady (ish), she took back her glass of wine, turned and threw it all over John Harrison.
Then all hell broke loose.
Chapter Seven.
John shouted, ‘Mary!’
Jean Simpson screamed, ‘Mary Skeffington?’
Jean Kerr screeched, ‘Fockin’ bitch Mary fockin’ Skeffington!’ and threw her half pint of lager over Mary.
Mary ignored both of our Jeans and the lager, which was adding yet another shade to her shirt, and plunged straight at John Harrison. It wasn’t a well-planned attack on her part, for when she landed on him she didn’t know what to do next, other than shove him. The momentum she had built up in her few steps was enough to unbalance John and he fell over, with Mary on top of him. John clasped his hands around his head in order to protect himself from what he thought was going to be a barrage of punches. Jean Simpson had now dropped to her knees, flashing a bit of stocking top, and was trying to pull Mary off her man. Jean Kerr kept screeching: ‘Fockin’ this’ and ‘fockin’ that’ and ‘fockin’ her’ and ‘fockin’ him’ and fockin’ every single thing. She was totally out of control. I tried to calm her down but she pushed me to one side with such force and pent up anger that I went flying across the room and straight back into the beanbag.
Embarrassing to admit this, but I was having great difficulty getting back out – I rolled this way and I rolled that way, but I couldn’t find a way out of that blasted bag.
A crowd had started to gather now, and Jean Kerr seemed to be struggling with the zip on one of her boots. ‘Fockin’ useless expensive boots!’ she screamed.
Jean Simpson was on top of Mary, who was still on top of John and still not sure what to do with him. Kent Walton would have been proud of the fight. Especially with all the stocking-top Jean Simpson was exposing as she tried to pin Mary to the floor. Unfortunately John was between Mary and the floor, and he was suffering the whole force of both of the girls.
Jean Kerr, in contrast to her friend, was exposing some stocking bottoms, as in stocking feet. She was throwing such a fit I expected she’d soon need another wee trip back up North to recover. She had been relatively quiet for a few moments. Boot off, however, she was back on her feet again, and I suddenly realised why she had been so defiantly trying to remove her boot as she swung it high above her head before using it to lay into poor Mary! But it was Jean Simpson who took the first blow. Nothing serious, it brushed her shoulder.
With all the screaming and shouting and jostling going on you’d have imagined there’d be blood flowing freely and the sound of bones cracking everywhere. But that’s the thing about fights, isn’t it? I mean real fights, they’re so uncoordinated, so ungraceful, aren’t they? Now fights in movies, they’re a different thing altogether – they look almost like a form of ballet. Everything is perfectly orchestrated; the timing has to be perfect. The fight is lengthy and the balance of power shifts first in favour of the hero, then away from him, then back to him and away from him again until you are convinced he is about to lose the fight, and then miraculously the hero recovers and overpowers his opponent as the fight concludes. In the middle of all this, the hero’s head had taken a serious battering.
Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever accidentally bumped your head into a door, or post, or anything hard by accident, but you’d start to see stars, sparks and suchlike, wouldn’t you? Your stomach would start to churn. Wouldn’t it? You’d want to be sick, wouldn’t you? Maybe you’d have concussion, perhaps a broken nose, perhaps a bloody eye. Maybe you’d like to lie down and cry. Now think of repeating this process several times in quick succession. You’d have to think that it would render you pretty immobile, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t feel like just getting up, dusting yourself off, finding your hat (it would always be a white hat), dusting that off, straightening the brim and then strolling up to the beautiful heroine, before linking arms with her and heading off into the sunset now, would you? And all of the above only for you to appear in the next scene without a single blemish on your face, well apart from a knowing smirk that is.
Whereas in real fights you have screaming girls, like Jean Kerr, hitting their friends with a weapon no deadlier than a leather boot.
‘Fockin’ sorry!’ Jean Kerr screamed, as James Brown’s ‘It’s A Man’s, Man’s, Man’s World’ filled the speakers to distortion in the background. ‘Let me at her, give me a clear fockin’ shot, our Jean, I’ll send her into the middle of next fockin’ week, fockin’ bitch!’
Jean Simpson all but ignored her best friend, so focused was she on the task at hand as Mary turned to defend herself against the onslaught. She was starting to overpower Jean Simpson, with John still cowering beneath her, and I was finally able to take stock of the situation.
First off, Jean Simpson’s legs looked amazing, scene-stopping, just stunning. Perfect male-fantasy, super-heroine shape – muscular thighs with sublimely curved calves and petite ankles. So much so that Jean Simpson’s wonderful legs were now the sole attraction in the packed room, and that’s really saying something when you consider Jean Kerr’s antics. I know, I know, I was meant to be ignoring the exposed legs, but I was there and you’ll just have to take me words for it: Jean Simpson’s legs were completely impossible to ignore. But, putting that aside, three against one just wasn’t fair, especially when one of the three was intent on doing some serious damage.
Second off, if I pulled Jean Simpson away from Mary, there was a good chance that: a) Mary was going to make another of her effective charges, this time at the person she thought was her competitor for the affections of John Harrison; or b) Jean Kerr was going to take someone’s head off. So I felt it was all relatively simple. I had to disentangle Mary, restrain her and then remove her from the scene altogether.
Disentanglement was easier said than done. Actually, I’m not 100 per cent sure that’s a fact. But, however I did it, Jean Kerr was going to take it as some form of betrayal. Then again, I figured, I didn’t really know this new Jean Kerr – this wild, blonde-maned pirate, one boot still on, the other raised and swooshing and swinging high in the air, desperate to connect with Mary’s head. So, as Mary began to gain an edge over Jean Simpson, I quickly pulled Miss Simpson off of her altogether. I kept my arm firmly around her waist. She kept kicking out like she was riding an imaginary bicycle, so that when I turned to face Jean Kerr, I was using Jean Simpson as a shield. I was guilty of assuming that one friend wouldn’t hit the other.
Not so.
Jean was by this point so enraged she had to hit someone, anyone, and Jean Simpson would have to do for now.
‘Let me fockin’ at her!’ she kept screaming, referring, I thought, to Mary. John, now benefiting from a lighter load, was now pushing Mary off of him and stumbling to his feet. Right, here was my opportunity. ‘Hi John, good to meet you! I’m David Buchanan. Hold this one, will you, while I get Mary out of here before some serious damage is done,’ I said, thrusting Jean Simpson into his arms.
He smiled feebly and grabbed hold of the girl, placing her behind him with himself now between the two Jeans. That was when Jean Kerr made her first real successful connection of the encounter: her boot and John’s head. John slumped to the floor
in a heap and both Jeans immediately dropped to their knees and started to fuss over him.
Here was my perfect opportunity: I grabbed Mary by the hand and got her the hell out of there.
She didn’t offer too much resistance.
Chapter Eight.
‘So you’re Mary Skeffington?’ I said. I hadn’t let go of her hand and she hadn’t tried to break free. We were walking away from the party and we could still hear the music, with John Lennon’s subtle confession of an affair in ‘Norwegian Wood’ filling the night air. You had to say one thing about our host Tiger, he certainly had very accommodating neighbours in Deacon Road.
‘And here I was trying to retain a little mystery by not telling you my name,’ Mary replied breathlessly. ‘I can’t believe it; my heart’s still beating like a drum.’
She innocently took my hand and placed it near to where her heart was. Coincidently this position was quite close to another part of her anatomy and I had to convince myself I was feeling for a heartbeat and nothing else.
I continued to experience the pounding of her heart but all too soon she’d realised exactly what she’d done by her gesture and she smiled a gentle smile and whispered, ‘Okay, we’ll count that as your payment for saving me. But don’t get any ideas.’
On that we turned and walked in the general direction of Kingston Overground Station, still hand in hand.
‘So John Harrison is the boy you were talking about?’
‘So the mad Jean Kerr is the girl you were talking about?’ she replied.
I shrugged in response. I was glad in a way that she was aware of everything now, no skeletons hiding in the cupboard, or wardrobe, or wherever skeletons stay (I do have to confess that I’ve never ever come across a skeleton in either a cupboard or a wardrobe). We walked on, hand in hand, lost in our own thoughts.
‘So, Jean Kerr is not going to be a happy bunny the next time you see her?’ she eventually said.
I was impressed with that. I mean, you could have forgiven her for being preoccupied about her own situation with John and the repercussions of recent events. But no, she’d been thinking about Jean Kerr and me.
‘You poor boy,’ she continued, breaking into a throaty laugh, ‘she’s probably going to lay into you with the other one of her boots.’
‘It’s lucky she doesn’t play football!’ I said only half joking. ‘I couldn’t believe that – she was just… totally bizarre.’
‘Actually, it would be funny if it wasn’t so scary,’ she added before sighing. ‘Well, now you know both sides of the story, do you think there is any chance John will get back with me?’
That’s what I like, I thought, nice, wee, easy questions.
‘What can I tell you? I mean on one side you have the fact that John and Jean Simpson haven’t really known each other all that long and they only see each other twice a week and–’
‘And…’ she said, ‘you were going to say that they haven’t slept together yet.’
‘In this instance, it could be important.’
‘No, sadly in this case I think it will only serve to make her more attractive. On top of which John is very single-minded. Once he sets his sights on something, he just keeps his head down and works to achieve it at all costs. So if they’ve made their plans, he’ll be happy to only see her twice a week. He’ll be buzzing away like a busy little bee, hatching all their long-term plans. I bet he’ll have worked out a savings plan for both of them. In a way it’ll be like she doesn’t exist.’
Sounded like someone else I knew.
‘You know, all these sacrifices will be for their own good but in reality, he really likes the hermit life, saving away all the time. You can imagine that when he gets married it won’t stop there; he’ll start saving for his retirement.’
‘Then what is it about him that he’d have two beautiful women fighting over him?’ I asked dejectedly.
‘I’m in love with him. I don’t really know why, but I am. That’s the way it works isn’t it? You really have no choice over who you fall for, do you? I imagine she loves him as well. You really think she’s beautiful?’
You see, there’s another intriguing thing: I had said, ‘Then what is it about him that would have two beautiful women fighting over him?’ Notice the two beautiful women section. That is to say, I was also paying Mary Skeffington a compliment. I mean, I didn’t ask the question just so I could pay her a compliment. I suppose, if I’m perfectly honest, the subtext, if there was one, was, ‘What’s he got that I haven’t?’ But we don’t ever admit to such thoughts, do we? So, whatever way you shake it and bake it, it was a compliment for both of them. However, Mary Skeffington only took note of the point that I thought Jean Simpson was beautiful.
‘Yeah,’ I replied. I was being as honest as I knew how.
‘Well then, why didn’t you pick up with her instead of the mad one and then all of this wouldn’t have happened, would it?’
‘My case entirely, Your Honour,’ I replied. ‘But it’s not the way it works, is it? Like you said, we have absolutely no control in any of this. We like to pretend we have, but the reality is that we don’t. Take me, for instance: I’ve drifted into a situation I don’t really want to be in. Yet supposedly I’m meant to be in control of all of my emotional moves. Yes, I might fool myself into thinking that I’m only doing it because she’s liberal with her favours, but then I’ve always felt the favours of those given liberally are not as rewarding as those given sparingly. Not quite as precious, if you know what I mean.’
I hope she knew what I meant because I didn’t want to give the more vivid description, as in she lies there like a sack of potatoes. No, long term I didn’t think I’d be doing myself any favours by being that honest. But then Mary Skeffington nodded and I took that as a sign that she did know what I meant, so I continued.
‘Now, I’m always telling myself that I can get out of this, this relationship with Jean Kerr, whenever I want to and, you know, every time I think of ending it I come up with an excuse as to why I shouldn’t. You know, she’s about to go home for a time because she’s ill, and it’s not fair to break it off before she goes. But even thinking that is wrong, because in my mind there is really nothing to break off. But in her mind there clearly is. In another situation, you could see months, perhaps even years passing, and then talk of marriage and then thinking well I won’t say no just now, for fear of upsetting her, and before you know it you wake up in a loveless marriage ten years later. But the point I’m trying to make here is that we really have no control over whom we fall for. So because of that it’s rarely going to be tidy.’
‘I do hear what you’re saying, David, but it still would have been more convenient for everyone if you’d picked up with the other Jean. I saw the way you were ogling her bare legs during the scuffle – I kept looking over at you to see what to do, to see if you were going to do anything to help me and each time I couldn’t help but notice that your eyes were nearly popping out of their sockets at her stocking tops. I started to think I hadn’t dressed properly for the wrestling match. Yes, you’d have done all of us a favour if you’d picked her instead of jungle woman.’
‘Well, all things considered, even if I had picked up with the other Jean, what’s to say that John still wouldn’t have gone off with someone else entirely? There must have been something lacking… I mean…’ I faltered, realising where I was taking this.
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ she said confidently. ‘There must have been something lacking in our relationship for him to be receptive to the charms of Jean Simpson. Or maybe he just… maybe he just fell in love with her.’
‘But he couldn’t have done that if he’d really been in love with you?’ I offered, scratching my chin in the hope she would realise that this was just a thought and not a statement.
‘You therefore honestly think that if someone falls in love, that’s it for life?’
‘If they are really in love, yes, of course.’
‘You poor
, naive boy you; don’t you realise that people change, they grow apart, they have different interests, different goals? That’s what happens in life.’
‘No,’ I said defiantly, ‘that’s just a bunch of excuses for something which wasn’t real love in the first place.’
‘You really believe that?’
‘With all of my heart.’
‘You’re such a romantic.’
‘Is that a crime, Your Honour?’ I asked.
‘Unusual in one so young,’ she replied.
‘But then again, look at yourself: you’re fighting desperately for a love you don’t want to lose. You told me yourself that by the time John realises what’s happened, the love would have died.’
‘I do love him, David, and I’m scared that it’s already over and all this fighting of mine to save it is nothing more than damage limitation on my part, as in a delaying tactic to accepting the fact that it really is over. How long do you think it takes for love to die David?’
Now there’s a question to chill the heart even further on a cold and windy November night.
Chapter Nine.
Just in case you were thinking that I took advantage of the vulnerable Mary Skeffington that evening, I have to report to you that this is not my style and, even if it was, I’m very sure Mary would have been well able to look after herself. In fact, I left her to her flat in Gladstone Road, Wimbledon, a long straight road close to Wimbledon Theatre that was so long and steep it looked like it might go all the way to Heaven. I walked back up Broadway, over Wimbledon Bridge past the train (and tube) station, where Wimbledon Hill Road started, then a quick first right into Alexandra Road, took the fourth on the left into Rostrevor Road, which was only about a fifteen-minute walk from her flat but took me thirty that night. Just long enough to go through things in my head and make a few plans.
