One Of Our Jeans Is Missing

by Paul Charles

  It was still relatively early at that stage in the evening and John suggested going down to the pub. Both the Jeans pooh-poohed the idea and so, as a compromise, he and I were dispatched to fetch some wine and cans of lager.

  ‘So. You and our Jean are going to be friends now,’ John began, as we set off into the cold him puffing away on a half-smoked Player he’d retrieved from his pocket.

  I wasn’t sure which of the Jeans he meant. Using the old reliable process of elimination and deduction, I assumed he was referring to Miss Kerr.

  ‘Yes, I think it’s for the best. The blow-up at the party brought it all to a head. I mean, we’re not really right for each other and in a way I suppose we just drifted into it in the first place.’

  ‘It’s for the best,’ he replied, shaking his head positively, ‘on top of which she really is a right old battleaxe,’ he continued candidly.

  I was surprised, and relieved, that he wasn’t one for toeing the party line. There was more to come.

  ‘Even our Jean was surprised that you and Jean got that close.’

  ‘Well,’ I began, picking up my pace – John Harrison turned out, amongst other things, to be a speed-walker. He’d an awkward smile, which I liked. It was kind of a ‘Don’t you think so?’ smile, very tentative. He still seemed hesitant over direct eye contact. Then, as previously in the Jeans’ flat, he let his whole body rock with laughter, but even at that point he didn’t make a lot of laughing noises. ‘It was awkward there, to be honest. I was quite happy when she dumped me – I felt major relief, to be honest, and then tonight, that whole thing.’

  ‘Yep, my Jean told me what was happening. She advised her to just let it be, you know, just try to be friends again. But not our Jean, she was back to her old bull in a china shop again. She went on about how it would be super if we were both couples, doing couple things together and all that. I mean, I sometimes feel sorry for the girl but other times I think, well, she’s only got herself to blame. It’s all going horribly wrong for her and she still doesn’t realise that… Well, my mum always said, “You have to walk before you can run”. Things keep getting out of control for her and she keeps running back home to get better again.’

  ‘Yeah, what exactly does she suffer from that she has this miracle cure for up in Derby?’ I asked, as we turned the corner into Wimbledon Hill Road.

  ‘Nervous exhaustion is what she gets written on her sick note for work,’ John said, and then started his silent laughter routine again. ‘I know it’s unfair of me but when I saw her take her boot off to Mary at Tiger’s party I thought I could see another nervous exhaustion trip to Derby coming up. And that’s exactly what happened.’

  Then he suddenly remembered something, ‘Oh, and you’ll never guess!’ he started, grabbing my arm and nearly stopping us in the middle of the street. I was thankful of the rest, ‘the morning after the party, just before she left for Derby, you know, I was around at the Jeans’ flat and she takes me to one side and blames me for the whole sorry scene the night before! She goes on this complete tirade! I don’t know what Jean was doing at the time or where she was, but Jean Kerr – eyes bulging out of their sockets – tells me to get my shit together, clear up the mess with Mary or she’ll make sure my Jean walks. She also told me not to get any ideas about moving into the flat while she’s away. You know, like she’s Jean’s mother or something, and having a right old go at me. I was just waiting for her to give me one of those “are your intentions honourable?” talks.’

  We’d arrived at the off licence and we chipped a few bob each into the pot.

  ‘Let’s see,’ John began, ‘our Jeans like their lager and I like cider, what about yourself?’

  ‘I’ll have cider as well,’ I said. I wasn’t a great cider man myself, but beer and lager I could leave alone and I’d have a nice pint of Guinness now and again as a treat. Apart from that I liked wine or even orange juice, so cider I could get by with at a push.

  ‘Jean Kerr’s problem is that she thinks that if my Jean marries before she does, then she’ll have no one. The two Jeans have been very close, you know, since their early teens. Jean has tried to explain to her that I’m not trying to separate them. That’ll they’ll be friends forever. Two married women with lots of children.’ John Harrison stopped there for a second. He was wearing another of his ‘Don’t you think?’ smiles. ‘I’m not so sure about all that, you know, about kids and all that. Our Jean’s got such a beautiful figure and if she has children, well, that’s all going to go to hell, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, not really – I mean, after a little time it’ll all be fine,’ I offered, in encouragement.

  ‘Besides which,’ he continued, choosing to ignore me, ‘would you really want to bring a child into this world at this time, with the Russians and all that kind of stuff going on?’

  ‘Agh, you know, when you think about it there’s never been a perfect time. There’s always been a war or a depression, or a recession, or a strike, or a crap government, or a shortage of something or other. But people have always got by,’ I said. I thought I was starting to sound like the PR person for society’s reproduction department.

  ‘Yeah, but that’s if you want to just get by. I don’t only want to get by. I’ve been saving for ages, you know – I want to enjoy my life. I want a beautiful wife. If our Jean starts to have lots of kids she won’t be beautiful any more, you know. I’d like us to have a great house, a car, go away for holidays. I want to lie on the beach with my beautiful wife, in her bikini, lying beside me. You know what, David, I’m not sure I want a pile of kids running around me, screaming and spilling ice cream and lemonade all over the place, and making a scene. I love a bit of peace and tranquillity. You need a lot of peace to do your drawings, you know.’

  ‘They’re good, your caricatures. I like your stuff,’ I offered in genuine praise, hoping to get off this bizarre topic.

  ‘Thanks, yeah, I enjoy it. But don’t you see, all that would go out the window if we’d children.’ He was obviously obsessed with this issue and I wondered why he’d chosen to discuss it with me. Not for much longer though – we were fast approaching the Jeans’ flat.

  ‘Have you discussed this with Jean?’

  ‘Well, we talk around it,’ he replied hesitantly.

  ‘And what does she feel about it all?’

  ‘Well, she says we should “never say never”. She says, “Let’s wait and see how we’ll feel.” You know?’

  ‘Sounds fair to me.’

  ‘But I know how I’ll feel, David: I don’t want kids. I’ll never want kids. The sad thing is, the woman has the final say in this, doesn’t she? We don’t know if she’ll take the pill all the time or not, do we?’

  ‘Mind you, John,’ I said, as we walked up to the front door, ‘they say that the old pill plays havoc with a woman’s figure.’

  ‘Do they really?’ he said, arching his bushy eyebrows. ‘Oh well, we’re here. I’ve enjoyed our conversation. Not a word to the girls though,’ he added as he rang the doorbell.

  I was very interested to note that he didn’t have a door key. Probably a Jean Kerr rule, I thought.

  Forty minutes later Jean Kerr retired to her bed claiming that she was exhausted. John and I looked at each other as she made her statement. Neither of us inquired if she was also feeling nervous. But I bet we were both simultaneously thinking it.

  And so it was left to Jean Simpson to entertain us for the next hour or so. She was very witty when she wanted to be, when she was enjoying herself. I made my exit shortly thereafter being assured by Jean, quite unnecessarily I thought, that John would soon be out on his ear as well.

  Being the perfect hostess, she led me to the door – we didn’t kiss though, not even a peck on the cheek. However, as I turned to close the gate, she was still standing in the doorframe. She was wearing a long, flimsy housedress. The kind of garment girls like to flop out in, you know, about their flat. She stood there waving at me, her feet apart, and the hall light shone t
hrough the material of her dress, cutting the shape of her perfect legs. I bet she knew exactly what I was looking at and the exciting thing was she didn’t seem to care.

  Even when I heard John’s voice shouting from inside ‘Come back in Jean or you’ll catch your death out there’ she still stood frozen in the pose. I know this because I kept looking back and staring at her. So much so in fact that I stumbled and fell over a dustbin. I was sure I heard her giggle as she closed the door.

  Chapter Seventeen.

  ‘I saw you staring at me. That housedress is so thin, and what with the light and all it must have looked like I’d no clothes on at all,’ Jean said, next time we met. It was a week or so later, a Wednesday night, and we were on a tube going up the West End to see the Savoy Brown Blues Band in the Marquee Club.

  This time as we entered the Club, Jean Simpson took a lot more time to familiarise herself with her surroundings at the famous address of 90 Wardour Street, London W1. The shop frontage and adjoining double doors of the previous tenants, Burberry Raincoats, was still intact and slightly to the left of the small, white neon sign, which stuck out at right angles to the wall. The sign proudly, and simply, proclaimed the name – Marquee – in black letters. Jean Simpson stood around the door reading the coming events poster, which included Soft Machine, Renaissance, Brian Auger’s Trinity featuring Julie Driscoll, Blossom Toes, Atomic Rooster, Yes, and she let out a little squeal when she read that Taste were returning in a fortnight’s time on October 24 (we’re still in 1969).

  She leaned over my shoulder as I was collecting our tickets and was amused by my membership card and wanted to know had I ever met the club secretary Jack Dee, whose name was on my card. As we wandered through the corridor to the club space, she pestered me about all the band’s names she’d picked up from the poster. She wanted to know who they all were, and what they did that was different from the others. She pleaded with me to bring her back in little over a fortnight’s time for the Taste gig. She even used the word ‘gig’ rather than ‘concert’.

  While we excitedly chatted away, we made our way to the performance area, which was still scented with the previous night’s mass perspiration. Jean said she hadn’t notice the circus style, striped canopy above the stage when we’d been there to see Taste the first time. I felt I would’ve been just that bit too much of a trainspotter if I’d told her that the Angus McBean Circus decorations had been brought from the Marquee Club’s original spot, in nearby Oxford Street. The numerous large mirrors around the club made it feel a lot bigger than it actually was, so that when you first walked into the club you were confused. I’m told it’s an absolute nightmare to try to get out of if you’ve had a few drinks too many. Some nights (The Taste, Jimi Hendrix and Led Zeppelin) the audience was packed so tightly it looked like the club had sold out the mirror image space as well.

  But here we were, Jean Simpson and me, back in the Marquee Club, and she was more relaxed and looking like she wanted to savour every actual microsecond this time.

  It was rather chilly out that night as I seem to remember. Jean was wearing her wine duffle coat and goodness knows what underneath. I mention this only because I didn’t know, even though it was, as usual, incredibly hot in the venue. But she still kept her favourite coat buttoned up the whole time.

  I guided her to my usual spot, by the back wall facing the middle of the stage – I always thought that it was the best position because there was no one behind you, pushing into you, and you’d pretty much a good view of the stage due to its height and the distance you were away from it. But only if you were happy seeing the musicians from the waist up. I leaned against the wall and Jean followed suit directly beside me. In fact, she leaned closer to me so that our heads were nearly touching and she looked like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth as she said, ‘I wish John looked at me the way you look at me. There’s always hunger in your eyes. You’ll never know how much that turns me on.’ She smiled, and casually nodded at a girl who made her troubled way past the both of us before taking the empty space next to Jean.

  ‘We’d never last the two years until marriage if it was you and not John. You see, I knew you’d be trouble. I knew you’d be the kind of trouble I liked, and I don’t know how I knew because I’ve never experienced any of this before. But it is just so deliciously wicked,’ she continued, all the time retaining a polite smile on her face. To any of our fellow audience members it looked like we could have been discussing the current Brian Auger & The Trinity – featuring Julie Driscoll – hit single ‘This Wheel’s On Fire’, which was another classic Bob Dylan song, or the weather, or The Prisoner, which absolutely everyone was talking about that winter, or even Coronation Street, heaven forbid.

  I’d developed another theory as to why John found it easy to keep his hands off Jean. He got his rewards with catching his fantasies of her in his drawing book. I thought he was a fool, but I now knew the reason he was abstaining – protecting her figure and his peace and quiet to draw – so it definitely wasn’t the same reason Jean was abstaining. Not that she really was abstaining. Though, equally, to say she was ‘cheating’ might be too strong a word. Yes, cheating was too strong a word. Let’s just say they were both attending to their own agenda while remaining under the umbrella of being an about-to-be-engaged couple. So what if we ‘bumped’ against each other to varying degrees on two separate occasions; for all I knew, that might have been the height of it. Maybe she was enjoying the drama going on around her but she no longer wished to participate further. But what did I know? Her signals were all over the place: she didn’t want to sleep with her husband-to-be until they were wed, but that image didn’t exactly coincide with that of the lady sitting on top of me on my well-worn red carpet, skirt up around her waist. An image I knew was branded into my brain for eternity.

  You see, and you’ll have probably noticed this from my story so far, that boys – single boys, single men – are preoccupied with sex and the fairer sex. In fact, we spend the majority of our time thinking about it and them. Jean Simpson was young and healthy, why shouldn’t she be just as preoccupied with it? But there was no way she could look at a man and feel the same charge I felt when looking at a woman. But that was based on my physical attraction to the female form. Perhaps her mental charge was even stronger. She had just recently whispered into my ear ‘This is just so deliciously wicked.’ She’d said those words with the same sense of adventure I felt when lusting after her. And I have to say that, for me, the thing that made her words such a turn-on was that she wasn’t a tart; she wasn’t crude, or someone who used dirty language. I was convinced that she had not used those words before. I was equally convinced that she had never before done what she and I had experienced on the red carpet. She looked wholesome and innocent. Hell, she was wholesome and innocent. But at the same time she had an air of authority about her that convinced me she knew exactly where this was going, or where she wanted it to go.

  I knew where I wanted it to go: I was intrigued by what she had on under her coat. All I could see were her black boots, which disappeared under the hem of her duffle. My mind raced forward through the evening; it was going to be 11.30 p.m. before we returned to Wimbledon. It was a Wednesday night; we were both working the following day. So nothing was going to happen, simple as that. Hey and you know what? That was fine, totally fine, because on another level I really enjoyed being out with her. She was great fun to be with if she knew you; around strangers she’d be very quiet, but when it was just the two of us she could be vivacious, upbeat, excited and exciting all of the time. She couldn’t be more different from Jean Kerr if she tried.

  Still though, she was going to marry John Harrison.

  That was fine to a degree; he was a decent enough chap all right, but I believed they’d discover that neither was what they were looking for in a partner.

  The Marquee was full – not quite as packed as the Taste gig, but still full by normal standards. It was a great night with the blues, and Jean in h
er wine duffle coat fitted in perfectly with the blues freaks. And just like that evening at the pub, any time any strange man came up to her, she just blanked him. Well, she didn’t need to deal with any of them did she? First off, she’d already picked her husband and second off, she’d an escort. I’ve deleted a few of the adjectives I was going to put before escort – it’s not that I don’t feel they were apt, but in the circumstances perhaps we should wait and then you can fill in the missing words yourself.

  We’d a quick, easy journey back to Wimbledon, arriving back at 11.25 p.m., five minutes ahead of my prediction. As we left the tube station we headed off in the direction of both of our flats. At the junction she guided us to the right, away from Wimbledon Hill Road (before it became steep), up Alexandra Road (with its overview of the railway and underground tracks), past her flat and in the direction of Rostrevor Road.

  I think that once we were definitely heading in the direction of my flat I subconsciously picked up the pace a bit. I didn’t really know why. I mean, yes, now I was once again expecting something to happen. But it wasn’t like we were dating and we’d start with a kiss. She’d a regular boyfriend – her future husband, in fact – to take care of all of that kind of stuff.

  I suppose that had to be a regret. You know, I just loved kissing so much you wouldn’t believe it. But I couldn’t really kiss Jean. You see, I’d this feeling that if I took the wrong step, or even the first step, I’d scare her off. Now, I didn’t really know what I was scaring her away from. Our previous encounter – yes, encounter… I think that’s the best thing to call it (in fact, Encounters is a rather apt thing to call them) – hadn’t really happened, except within ourselves. We barely acknowledged that anything had happened. She had whispered ‘You got me’ and ‘That was rather enjoyable.’ I on the other hand had said nothing and I suppose if I hadn’t had to change an item of clothing, it would have been difficult to take it as anything other than a wrestling match. But I was hardly going to put her in an armlock or a full Nelson the minute we arrived in the house in hopes that someway, somehow, we’d end up in an interesting position on the red carpet. You have to admit it was an awkward situation.