I was asked to the flat one night to meet Peggy Seeger, sister of the more famous banjo player Pete Seeger—she was over from the States to be “groomed” for British T.V. She held us spellbound with her playing—it seemed she must surely have ten times as many fingers as we ordinary mortals—and she seemed very happy and relaxed in the clean but sparse and very bachelor flat. It was sparse mainly because Graham was gradually using up all the furniture for fuel. He liked a roaring blaze and declared that the wormy furniture provided by the leech of a landlord was fit only for this purpose. Someone suggested that the party should finish in a drinking club “up west”—everyone pulled on duffel coats and prepared to go out into the snow. Graham put his arm round me.
“I know what’s the matter with you, darling girl,” he said. “I’ve been watching your poor little face all evening. I’ll take care of you.”
* * * *
I’ve suffered with my periods all my life. I’d usually managed to hide it from the world, preferring to crawl into a corner and be miserable on my own for a few hours. Graham was the first person who’d been able to help. He was wonderful. He drew up the one piece of furniture which remained whole—an ancient convertible divan—close to the fire. He raided Red’s room for a quilt. He undressed me as gently as a mother with her baby, hardly seeming to notice my body. He tucked me in and fetched a hot-water bottle wrapped in an old sweater of Red’s and a warm, sake-based drink (the sake was homemade from distilled rice). He made no demands on me.
I lay there feeling comforted and deeply guilty. I was ashamed that I had let him gather the impression that I was hard up—a struggling author. It was partly Beryl’s fault. She seemed embarrassed by my prosperity—and on the basis that I had scribbled a few short articles for an “underground” folksy magazine, she introduced me all round her circle as her “writer friend.” It had seemed to go down well with this group of creative people, and now I’d let it go so far I didn’t know how to get out of it.
Graham left me at one in the morning to go to the bakery. I sneaked down to the ground-floor flat just after dawn and asked to use the phone. A mild, long-suffering young man was the tenant—he was an Art teacher in a Secondary School—he offered me breakfast and seemed pathetically pleased when I accepted. Tactfully, he closed the kitchen door and began noisily to make the coffee while I spoke to Mabiche.
“Will you open up?” I asked her. “I’m not well.”
She demanded to know exactly what I meant—and why I had not been home all night. I told her it was my monthly problem.
“Then why is it you are not in your own bed shouting at me to keep out of your way as usual?” she wanted to know.
“Because I’m in someone else’s bed!” I snapped and slammed down the phone. I wasn’t really cross, but there was no point in trying to win a logical argument with Mabiche.
Cyril told me over breakfast how much he enjoyed living underneath such a jolly, laughing, music-loving crowd of unpredictable people who came and went at all hours and sublet to the most interesting characters. I felt desperately sorry for him and very cross with Graham and Red for never inviting him upstairs to join in their revelry. I got the impression that it was Cyril who kept the peace with the landlord, and they were quite unappreciative.
To try to redress the balance a little, I agreed to go to his Open Day, though the prospect of entering the hated world of School—of smelling again the chalky, inky odours of stale classrooms, of pretending interest in juvenile works of art was not at all appealing.
* * * *
Graham came back at nine and we made love amongst the squalor of dead ashes in a cold grate, dirty glasses and plates from the party—and my excessive bleeding. He explained that some men enjoy intercourse at that time of a woman’s cycle—he told me a special word for the practice which I’ve long forgotten. I’ve forgotten, too, what he looked like—except for his eyes. And his soft hands, cleaning me up, tending me. Then caressing me, exploring me, arousing my passion all over again. We passed the whole day like this until Red arrived, in a foul temper, to break things up. As I prepared to leave, he apologised. He had nothing against me, he explained. It was just that he was broke—the Club had folded. He must find a ship and sign on to recuperate funds. He let slip that Graham, too, was on the move. Always restless, he had booked a ticket to Canada. Before Graham came back from the lavatory, I had slipped out, tip-toed past Cyril’s door and returned to my well-heeled lifestyle in the fashion business.
Chapter 6
I don’t know why I married John. Beryl said it was his appealing helplessness. I doubted this, having so soon come to see him more as helplessly unappealing. I met him at Cyril’s Open Day. He was introduced as a “fellow writer” to my intense discomfort. This myth seemed to be following me round inevitably. Before I could deny it, John had launched into his own apologia. He was, he declared, more of a philosopher and poet, forced to suffer the indignity of having to teach General Subjects while waiting to be “recognized.” My sympathy was engaged as he enlarged on his suffering in front of a blackboard. I knew the feeling.
* * * *
I rang up Jacques and asked him to give me away. He flew over and closeted himself with Mabiche in our tiny kitchenette.
“She doesn’t like him,” he said when he emerged.
“I know,” I said, unabashed. “She wants to move out—I said she could have that room over the shop—it’s not even used as a storeroom—there’s just a lot of junk in there…”
I prattled on. He put a finger on my lips.
“And that’s another thing,” he said. “Why is he not providing a home for you? Mabiche says it was his suggestion he move in here.”
I stood up and thumped the table.
“I see!” I shouted. “So—you intend to throw me out now that I’ve had the nerve to find a husband for myself!”
“Of course not, my darling girl,” he soothed, and I had a sudden painful memory, bittersweet, of Graham comforting me. “It’s not a question of mean-ness—on my part, that is. And I want you to go on working for me as long as you wish to. Does he know—er—about the rent?”
“No,” I said in a whisper.
I wouldn’t admit it, but I also had been none too pleased at John’s enthusiastic reaction when I told him my salary.
* * * *
Halfway down the aisle I knew suddenly, blindingly, that I was making a mistake. Jacques must have sensed my hesitation. He gripped my arm tightly and looked at me with eager anticipation. I knew he was ready to turn me right round and hurry me out. Stubbornly I dragged him to the altar.
It was a miserable affair, the wedding. It had to be in church to please John’s unbearable, possessive, sanctimonious mother. It had to be modest so as not to offend his wretched, hypochondriac sister who had recently been married herself to a penurious salesman.
Mabiche and Beryl had grudgingly organised a small buffet reception at my flat. Jacques escaped as soon as was decently possible. I saw him to the door.
“Never wear that ridiculous hat again,” he advised. “I liked you better in your woolly cap and your disreputable drainpipes.”
I took off the huge white satin cartwheel. John had picked it out for me.
“I shan’t see you again until…for some time,” said Jacques.
He softened the words by kissing me tenderly on the mouth—something he had not done for years. Memories were roused. I felt warm desire creeping over my body. Then he was gone and I felt desolate.
I went back inside to an awkward silence. The sickly sister and her insipid husband broke up the party. He made coy remarks about the honeymoon which was rubbing salt into the wound as my spouse had decided it would be best to forego this convention and start our wedded bliss in our own little nest. He had been conventional enough about the sexual procedure however—resisting my advances firmly and declaring that old-fashioned values being best, he would rather wait till the deed was done on paper and in front of the altar before render
ing up his body.
This should have aroused my suspicions, I suppose. But nothing could have prepared me for the shock of what followed….
* * * *
Beryl and Mabiche were the last of the measly ten guests to leave—they both hugged me tearfully and their faces were as long as if it had been a funeral rather than a wedding.
In the larger of the two bedrooms, John was unpacking. As I put my head round the door, a forced smile on my lips, he hastily stuffed some clothing in a drawer. I withdrew, stifling semi-hysterical laughter. No wonder he was shame-faced about it—I imagined it must be a gift from his mother—the powder blue velvet dressing-gown he was cramming in amongst my nighties.
I took one look at the littered dining room and firmly closed the door on it. I’d been thoroughly spoiled by Mabiche—she’d never allowed me to so much as lift a duster since she’d been with me. Not that I’d ever really got launched into housework before her advent. Father had employed his stiff and starchy housekeeper, his sloppy, friendly charladies. During my year in Earl’s Court the doing-out of my room had been included in the Rackmanesque rent of thirty-five shillings and sixpence per week. And anyway, my room had been so small it was hardly worth cleaning—there was so little surface area for the dust to settle on. And I’ve always had a blind spot for dust.
The thought of my see-through nighties had put ideas in my mind, or rather in my breasts and thighs. I turned off all the lights in the living room except for one romantic, rose-shaded lamp. I tore off my clothes and shoved them behind the sofa. Then I draped myself appealingly along its length, totally naked. I called out for my husband.
The door was pushed open with a soft click. And in came this monstrous creature in figure-hugging scarlet silk, platform-heeled peep-toed gold shoes and a feather boa. Topped by his long, melancholy face, complete with moustache and beard, the sight petrified me. Then I noticed his look of disappointment at seeing my body—my nudity.
“Put on your green velvet,” he whispered hoarsely, stroking his own silken hips.
I fled to the toilet to think out the absurd, nasty, ridiculous, horrific situation. I bolted the door and sat down, head in hands. I could not weep. I kept thinking angrily of his look of contempt for my healthy, wholesome flesh.
What could I do? The thought of admitting to Beryl and Mabiche that my marriage was an instant failure was unbearable. As for explaining why—I could never tell them. Nor Jacques. The thought of Jacques set me off on a new tack. I tried to logically convince myself that I was over-reacting. After all, Jacques had his—deviations—and that had never put me off him. For all I knew, there were hundreds of transvestites around—possibly one in every three men I met daily were quirky behind their own bedroom doors. Perhaps I should give John a chance—come to terms with his—unexpected diversity. It might not be so bad. Let’s face it—I myself had once worn nothing but drainpipe trousers—and in my wardrobe at this very moment were three smart trouser suits of extremely masculine cut. Why was I making all this fuss?
Chapter 7
I crept out and slid into the full-length jade-green velvet with fur trim. I went back into the living room and John pressed himself up against the sensually-soft material.
It was no good. I tried for three months. In the end, I had to admit to myself that my gut reaction outweighed my logic. Even had it been twenty years later with Boy George paving the way, my personal physical revulsion would still have been there. John revolted me—in and out of his dresses, his pencil-slim skirts, his natty three-piece costumes, his frilly blouses, his nylon stockings. The narrow shoulders, long thin legs, bony knees and ankles had never been my type. Graham and Jacques were both stocky, solid types—like my father. Whatever could have possessed me?
Of course, there were faults on my side. John had been used to being fussed over by mother and sister—he liked his home spotless and run like a well-oiled machine. I could not seem to grasp the organisation of shopping, cooking, cleaning, tidying. Neither could I very well employ someone to do it, for fear they would see my husband’s collection of size ten spiky-heeled shoes next to my size fives.
John ranted and raved as he swept magazines and unwashed clothing from chairs when he needed to sit down, rinsed out a cup from the teetering pile on the draining board when he needed a drink. On top of all this, he was peeved because his poems remained unpublished while I continued to make a success of the shop. In fact, I spent as much time there as I decently could and often hung about Mabiche’s little room until midnight. She never made me feel unwelcome—there was always some home-cooked delicacy in her cupboard to tempt my waning appetite.
I fervently prayed that John would leave, but his miserliness forced him to put up with me and my poor housekeeping rather than fork out money for a place of his own.
Then one day he brought a young woman home with him.
“This is Pat,” he said. “She teaches at my school. She’s come to dinner. I’ve done the shopping. She’ll be doing the cooking.”
Actually, I quite liked her and secretly hoped that she would tempt John away from me—encourage him to make the break. I couldn’t understand why I was so faint-hearted as not to throw him out.
She dropped in quite often—sometimes when John was out at one of his evening classes. He had enrolled for Painting, Sculpture and Creative Writing. Anything to keep out of my way, it seemed. And to boost his rather meagre talents.
But came the day when I asked Beryl home for a drink. We arrived together to find Pat and John in bed. And he started to ramble on about his having been to a solicitor and discovering that he could perfectly well divorce me and lay claim to the marital home because of my technical desertion. I was too busy looking furtively round the room to see if there was any evidence that Pat had gladly or otherwise endured his transvestite foreplay. To my intense irritation I could see no signs that either of them had indulged in dressing up in any of his fantastic, vulgar, gaudy outfits—a procedure which he had constantly assured me was absolutely essential to getting him sexually aroused.
Pat sat there casually holding the sheet over her nakedness and lazily smoking. She was dropping the ash in a little vase Jacques had given me—a Sèvres piece. Somehow this infuriated me more than anything. I understood just how Humbert Humbert felt as he gazed at the fag-end his wife’s lover had left floating in the unflushed toilet bowl. No wonder he had risked all for his Lolita.
Beryl had intervened on my behalf. She was telling John a pack of lies about the flat being tied up with the business, though she knew full well Jacques had sent me the freehold a week after my marriage. She was also letting drop heavy hints about Jacques having the world’s best lawyers at his beck and call. In a daze, I watched John’s face turn peevishly cruel. He pulled back the covers and ran his hands over Pat’s body.
“See these tits!” he spat. “This lovely bit of cunt! You—you cold, hard, bitch—you’ve got nothing. Just watch what this gorgeous smelly creature does to my cock!”
I was more amazed at the crudity of his language than at what was happening to his white, unattractive body. It was Beryl who was outraged.
“You ugly sod!” she cried, matching epithet for epithet. “How can you prefer a dirty cow like that!”
I must admit I had often wondered why Pat did not seem to wash often and had obviously never heard of deodorants.
John did not seem to hear. He was carried away by the sight of his own penis and far too busy coming to his climax to notice his audience any more. I felt suddenly very sick and quite certain that I would never again enjoy sex. I took to my usual refuge, flushing out the bowl every five minutes to drown the sound of my weeping.
After what seemed like hours, Beryl told me to come out. The rooms were even more chaotic than usual. All my best luggage had gone but at least he had filled it with the detestable finery he had provided for us both. Some of my own outfits, Jacques Lemoine originals, had been ripped and flung in corners. Drawers remained pulled out, cupboard do
ors swinging open. Smashed crockery littered the kitchen.
Beryl was phoning Mabiche. She came straight over and they settled me on the sofa.
The next week we moved to Knightsbridge, Mabiche and I, and Jacques flew over to finalise plans for enlarging the boutique.
Chapter 8
My disgust for the sexual act did not last long. I had a succession of lovers, all perfectly presentable, adequately skillful in their amorous techniques and one hundred percent “normal,” as I saw it then. That is, they had a simplistic outlook on life which matched my present mood. They worked hard at a variety of boring jobs, lived comfortably and asked of life nothing more than a pleasant evening two or three times a week at the theatre or a restaurant followed by some desultory dancing and then a spot of bed with their current date.
Mabiche fed them breakfast, sighed a lot when the same one re-appeared more than twice, looked reconciled when a new one appeared. She said nothing to me, but I caught her and Beryl deep in conversation now and then, and they stopped abruptly on my appearance. Beryl was living in town now, with her darling little boys. She was singing in the type of clubs halfway between folksy and cabaret. She had a wonderful voice, inherited, she claimed, from a Russian great-grandmother who had sung opera. Beryl’s rendering of “Summertime” is the only musical performance that has reduced me to tears. I was pleased at her financial and artistic success but worried about her love-life. Her boyfriends seemed to be getting younger and younger, posher and posher. And she was dressing to match—definitely working towards mutton dressed as lamb. I broached the subject with Mabiche, trying to score back for them having discussed me. Mabiche shrugged.
“It’s none of your business,” she said.
With Men For Pieces [A Fab Fifties Fling In Paris] Page 3
