by Paul Charles
The humiliation obviously hardened his resolve, if not his other fist, and he lined it up for another poke at my head. They say never hit a man with glasses; use your fist instead. I used a variation on this and positioned myself and my glasses in front of the other doorpost. Once again my radar was working loud and clear, and he took another flying swing at me, muttering something about how he was going to hit me so hard he was going to hurt my parents. I waited until the last possible second and ducked this time, figuring he might be expecting me to swerve, so he’d be prepared to swerve his fist to a new target. The sight of me simply ducking must have looked quite comical but it was effective, very effective. His left fist came crashing into the doorpost. I had now unmanned the missile, or whatever they call it. I had one final trick up my sleeve, which luckily enough I didn’t have to use, and I won’t tell you about it now – you never know when it might come in handy; surprise is the secret of the deadliest weapon.
Anyway, the lack of apparent aggression on my part won me the praise of the hostess and the two singers from Dublin who were ‘right there’ for me if I needed them. But apparently I looked like I was ‘well able’ for the troublemaker myself, or so they said. I wonder what they all would have said if they’d needed to scrape me off the wall?
Mary Skeffington, on the other hand, was beaming with pride, and she pulled me into a darkened corner and whispered, ‘That’s thrice now you saved my life, so that settles it.’
Settles what? I didn’t dare ask. Hey, you’ve got to keep your dreams alive some way, haven’t you?
Back at our suite of rooms at the Royal Crescent Hotel (did you notice there how the suite of rooms had changed from her mother’s boyfriend’s suite of rooms to our suite of rooms?). Anyway, back at our suite of rooms, we settled into the living room for a nightcap. I must admit, I’d had quite a bit of wine at this stage and so as well as accepting her offer of a glass of brandy, I also requested a glass of water. As we snuggled up in the sofa in front of the dying embers of the fire, I sipped from the water and barely wet my lips with the brandy.
‘This is good,’ she said a few minutes later, ‘and if it’s this good, it must be right.’
‘Why do you say that, are you scared that it might not be right?’ I asked, because that was exactly what I was thinking.
‘Everyone worries that you’ve maybe caught me on the rebound. If I was watching someone else go through the same as us, I’d probably think the same thing,’ she confessed.
‘Everyone?’
‘Oh you know, like tonight Susan said, “Of course he’s more than a friend.” She said she could see how much I liked you. She just said to be careful in case I was on the rebound.’
‘Well, I suppose you have to accept the fact that you could be on the rebound,’ I offered, trying to be sympathetic.
‘Do you think I am?’
‘No. I think there’s something happening between us that’s very natural, and we can take all the time we need to make sure it’s correct – there’s no rush here, Mary.’
‘Why are you so patient with me David?’
‘I’m not really patient, Mary. I just want to make sure we do this right.’
Whereas that was correct to a degree, I’d also have to admit that I knew if I tried anything more at this stage it would surely backfire and I’d be out on my ear. There was also a part of me, a growing part of me I will admit, that felt I was really out of my depth with Mary and at some point, maybe whenever she finally got over John, she’d realise this and be off (politely, of course), seeking one more suited to her station. For now though I was keeping my niggling doubts at bay and taking the time to readjust to this new concept of being in a relationship. I’ve already told you what my ambitions for Mary were, but if this relationship should’ve turned out to be as serious as I’d dreamed then I was afraid that going to gigs with other girls – no matter how beautiful and desirable – was going to be an unacceptable lifestyle. Other goals and dreams would come in to play. Other goals and dreams needed to come into play.
In the ideal world, I would have preferred to do a Lone Ranger on her. You know, ride off into the sunset, putting our relationship on hold for say five or six years and then return to claim my prize in hopes that she would’ve been content to spend those six years gazing out of her window with that faraway look in her eyes, waiting for my return. (‘Get real, David!’ I hear you say.) The other thing to consider – and this is perhaps the real reason why the Lone Ranger never returned to claim any of the four brides – is that perhaps the four brides, content in the fact that they had snared their man, spent the entire six years stuffing their faces with chocolate, as well as glaring out the window longingly. Consequently, that slim-line wedding dress which the Lone Ranger’s advance people arrived with in order to set up the television event of the century would no longer fit the bill, and so old Kemosabe would’ve been tipped off to keep on riding into yet another sunset.
Likewise, I knew I’d be a fool to let a girl like Mary Skeffington pass out of my life now that I’d found her. But it was important for me that Mary be equally convinced, rather than caught on the legendary rebound roundabout we keep hearing so much about.
Time for another admission, I feel. Mary was the kind of girl I dreamed about meeting. However, I’d figured that I’d have to wait at least half my life to meet her. One of my main worries was, when I eventually met this perfect lady, as I knew I should, would either of us already be tied up in something that made the whole thing far too complicated and messy?
That was nearly the case, wasn’t it? You know, with Mary Skeffington and me, thanks to the (not unwanted) attention from Jean Simpson?
But not quite. Correct?
That night in our suite of rooms, as I held Mary, I genuinely felt we were meant to be together. I felt I had found my soul mate. I was totally at ease with Mary Skeffington. I was falling in love for the first and possibly the last time. I remember verbally and audibly chastising myself for that one, fearing that such a thought was surely damning the budding relationship. But I crossed my fingers as I hoped and prayed that none of her doubts about the past and John Harrison were hindering her from doing the same.
I was content to snuggle up close to her in the sofa in front of the fire. Six months previous to this, if someone had told me about that situation, alone in a room with a stunning girl, romantic atmosphere, etc., and then asked the question, ‘Would you be able to keep your hands off her?’, the answer would not have been ‘no’, it would’ve been ‘NO!’
And of course you can say ‘That’s easy for you to say, you’re getting your rocks off with someone else, you cad!’ Not true. I mean, yes, true that I was enjoying my encounters with Jean Simpson, but that certainly wasn’t the reason behind me being happy to take things as they came with Mary Skeffington. It was simply the right thing to do and if something was going to happen, it was going to be all the more special if it happened in its own good time.
Nonetheless, I will admit, that I’d packed a spare few pairs of boxer shorts, just in case.
‘It’s time I went to bed,’ she said, breaking a few minutes’ silence, ‘I could lie here all night like this, but I’ll look terrible in the morning.’
So we bid our goodnights and that was that.
Come on, David, admit that you were just the slightest bit disappointed, I hear you say. Well of course I was, but please read the above again – we had enjoyed a lingering kiss at the door to her bedroom and that sent me to bed with a smile on my face and a pole for my tent.
But there’s more.
Of course there is, you say.
But not what you think, I say.
In the middle of the night, 2.20 a.m. to be exact, I heard a tap on the door – they’d funny plumbers in those days (sorry about that, I tried it before, didn’t I?). At first I thought I was dreaming, maybe even wishful thinking, but the gentle rapping on the door continued, then through my half-sleep I could hear, ‘David, are you awake?’
‘Yes,’ I mumbled.
The door opened and this form walked into my room. I lifted my head from the pillow and tried to get my eyes to adjust to the dark. The next thing I heard was Mary.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said and I felt the mattress tilt ever so slightly as she sat on the edge of the bed beside me.
‘It’s okay,’ I said, sitting up and taking her in my arms.
‘I just feel so close to you, David, and I wanted to be near you. Could you hold me? Could we just lie together with you holding me? I’d like you to hold me.’
‘Sure,’ I said, as I held up the bedclothes, ‘of course.’
I heard some more rustling as she climbed in beside me. She snuggled up close and she eventually fell asleep in my arms and that, I promise, was it! We woke up the next morning in the same position and I realised for the first time that she was wearing nothing but the flimsiest of nighties. We kissed, another lingering kiss, a very enjoyable lingering kiss. We were lying on our sides and her body was against me. I tried to move my hips away from her to avoid embarrassment.
‘No, it’s okay,’ she said, in a shy voice a little above a whisper, ‘it lets me know how much you want me. I need you to know that I want you just as much.’
‘I do,’ I said, but spoiled it for myself by remembering Jean Simpson whispering similar words.
Her lips parted in the middle slightly to reveal that heart-warming smile of hers and we kissed again, this time our full bodies tight against each other.
She broke free suddenly.
‘Okay,’ she announced, ‘that’s all for now. I need you to go to the bathroom first so that I can protect my honour and decency by stealing back into my room.’
‘Fine with me,’ I said and off I trotted.
‘We need to hurry,’ she announced, just as I was departing the doorway, ‘we’re having breakfast with mother in forty-five minutes.’
‘Oh,’ I said, stopping in my tracks, ‘right then, I’ll put an inch to my foot!’
As I showered I wondered if last night had been a test. A test first of all at the party, to see how I reacted to socialising with her friends, and then later a test in bed, to see whether I could show self-restraint. And now that I’d hopefully passed both tests, came the biggest test of all as we were off to see her mum.
But I needn’t have worried. Her mum was great!
‘I hope you weren’t doing anything with my daughter last night that’ll you regret,’ were her first words to me.
‘Oh Mum!’ Mary complained, good-heartedly.
‘We were angels, to be sure,’ I said, moving towards Mary’s mother to take her hand. She caught it firmly and she used her grip to pull me towards her and presented her cheek for a peck. I obliged. To anyone looking on it would appear that I was sophisticated and knew what I was doing.
‘Well, legend has it that the devil is an angel who misbehaved,’ she offered, as she moved back. ‘But I don’t see any regret in my daughter’s eyes, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt on this occasion.’
We were in the restaurant downstairs one hour later, enjoying a hearty breakfast. Mary’s mum was like an older version of Mary. It was uncanny. I felt like I was being given a flash preview of how Mary was going to look when she was older.
It’s funny that – the way children will occasionally grow up to look just like their parents. Sometimes it’s pitiful, you know, when they’re in that in-between stage and they’re not yet old enough to be comfortable with their parents’ faces, and they just have to hang on in there for a few years until they grow into them. The lucky ones are perfect right the way through, of course, at every stage of life. Then there are others who are either waiting until they can put on a few wrinkles for the look to work, or wishing for a kinder mirror. Saddest of all must be those daughters who inherit their father’s looks. It occasionally happens, believe you me, but it certainly was not the case with Mary Skeffington. She was truly blessed with her mother’s stunning looks. They didn’t quite look like sisters but it was pretty close.
Mary’s mother wore a grey trouser suit and a brilliant red shirt, which matched her shoes. Unlike Mary, though, she wore her fine blonde hair up in some elaborate contraption at the back of her head. The whole thing looked very precarious, I’m sure.
Pretty soon we were just three people enjoying a friendly chat over breakfast, as opposed to a wee boy from Castlemartin being interviewed by his potential girlfriend’s mother.
‘God, I’m so glad she’s stopped seeking that John Harrison boy.’
‘Mother!’ Mary pleaded, forcing a smile. ‘Hello, I’m right here with you.’
‘I’ve never trusted a boy who can’t look you in the eye,’ she continued, choosing to ignore her daughter. ‘And those eyebrows! They’re much too bushy and nearly joined up. Yes, I’m afraid to say the overall effect is much too devious for my liking. David here, now his features portray an open and honest personality.’
I do like the way people sometimes talk about you as though you’re not there. She addressed me again, this time directly.
‘John Harrison took advantage of Mary, you know, and I just had to sit by and watch it happen. We’ve got a close relationship, Mary and I. She keeps me informed about everything that’s happening in her life; mind you, at the same time she never pays any attention to my advice.’
‘That’s just not true, Mum!’ Mary complained.
‘When have you ever listened to me?’
‘Okay,’ Mary said, seeming very happy at a discovery, ‘with David here, for instance. I told you I was scared because I might just be on the rebound from John. And you said if there was the slightest chances my feeling were genuine, I shouldn’t let him get away.’
Mrs Skeffington smiled.
‘I understand you know the young lady John Harrison has now taken up with?’ her mother said to me, equal parts changing the subject and displaying selective memory. The fact that John had now taken up with Jean implied that John and Mary had finished their relationship at the point he met Jean Simpson.
‘Yes I… Jean Simpson’s her name; I was at a party with her friend…’
‘Yes, your ex-girlfriend, also called Jean, I believe,’ Mrs Skeffington announced, letting me know that Mary really had filled her in on all the details.
‘Mmmm, not really what you’d call a girlfriend,’ I ventured; I didn’t want her thinking I was a fickle as John Harrison.
‘Yes, I’ve also heard about that emotional blackmail. Tell me; would you consider Mary to be really a girlfriend?’
‘I’m hoping so,’ I said quickly, but not too confidently. It’s just the way it came out.
Mary didn’t offer anything but she… well, I interpreted her look as one of pride, on top of which she took my hand across the table. But I still figured she wasn’t quite 100 per cent there.
‘Good,’ Mrs Skeffington said with a warm smile and she gripped my free arm, ‘Mary doesn’t have a father, you know, but if you mess with her, well, you’ll have me to deal with and I can tell you, I’m no pushover. Right, that’s that settled. Now, what’s this I hear about Roger having to be put in his place again last evening? You know, Roger’s been pining over Mary for years.’
So there obviously was an effective bush telegraph in the area and I imagined Mrs Skeffington was probably at the hub of it.
Chapter Twenty-One.
After Bath, things kind of got a wee bit awkward. For a start, Mary Skeffington and I had crossed some imaginary line in our relationship. Neither of us had declared our undying love for each other or anything like that but, at the same time, I had acknowledged to myself that I was falling in love with her. Well, what was there to not fall in love with? This meant, of course, that at the very least we were sure to spend more time in each other’s company. However, I’d at least a week’s grace to tidy up the Jean Simpson Affair, since Mary decided to stay on in Bath for the following week.
Jean Simpson, driven partially by t
he fact that she was having a hard time with John, partially by the fact that her mate was as batty as a fruit cake, wanted to get out of the flat. On top of which, her sexual inquisitiveness was getting the better of her – well, the better of both of us really – so she was becoming a regular round mine, both before and after the Bath visit. I used my flatmate as an excuse when I didn’t want her around or when I was due to see Mary. Luckily enough, Jean always had the good manners to ring me up to see if it was okay to come round. This was not a quality her mate, and my ex, Jean Kerr shared. She’d just turn up on your doorstep out of the blue, wearing out the doorbell until you could take no more and got up to let her in.
Just like she did the Tuesday night following my weekend in Bath.
‘What’s going on David?’
I started to feel guilty, I didn’t know why. Was it because she knew what Jean Simpson and I had been up to? Was it because she knew I was seeing Mary Skeffington? And if she did know any of this, was she annoyed because she was a mate of Jean’s or annoyed just because, well, Mary Skeffington was Mary Skeffington, and the two Jeans and John had a history with her?
You can see my dilemma, can’t you?
Take it on the chin, just face the music, David. Okay, right!
‘What’s going on with what, Jean?’ I said, emphasising a slight impatience, thereby appearing to have nothing to hide. Was this a clever ploy or what?
‘With our Jean of course, dumbo?’ she shrieked, as she pushed passed me and tore on into my flat, her blonde mane shaking like the leaves on a tree on a stormy night.
‘Hello Jean, good to see you too.’ I said to the space where she’d just been standing but which was now filled with nothing but her perfume. (A funny kind of scent for a perfume, I thought. I’d always been led to believe that if you were going to cover up your own smell, you should at least do it with something a bit more pleasant. But Jean hadn’t followed that advice; she smelled like a hospital ward after the cleaners had just been round.)
