With Men For Pieces [A Fab Fifties Fling In Paris]

by Sophie Meredith

  There was no lift but being on the rez-de-chaussée she managed her bags down the short flight of stone stairs. There were no letters in her mailbox. The invitation, which had arrived a week ago, was the first envelope bearing an English stamp that she had received for years. The rest of her post was bills, income-tax forms, circulars.

  The taxi drew up—one of the new Fuégos. How frustrating for the driver, this enforced slow crawl would be in such a potentially-powerful machine.

  “Roissy—Charles-de-Gaulle!” she said as he stowed her cases in the boot.

  They climbed slowly into Montmartre: she craned her neck for a glimpse of Sacré-Coeur, so easy to pick out from a distance but here only briefly recognised through gaps in the tall, narrow, decaying buildings. Then they were on the ugly Péripherique, wierdly deserted—she had never known it so quiet. This freak Winter had really thrown the Parisians. Maybe the planes would be grounded after all, though the girl on the Air France desk had been confident last night when she telephoned.

  Suddenly she felt sick and afraid. She prayed that she would be turned back at Terminal One. That she need not go after all. They had been a good three quarters of an hour on the road, meeting only a handful of traffic—for a journey that would normally take only a third of the time. There seemed plenty of activity, however, on the other side of the huge plate-glass doors. People milling round the Reception desks, cleaners mopping floors, chic uniformed hostesses marching purposefully about with clipboards.

  She pounced on an abandoned trolley and loaded her luggage. She made her way to the big Information Board. The small television screen set in the pillars confused her with their flickering lists of flights in and out.

  Flight AF310, still scheduled but delayed half an hour. Time to browse through the duty-free shops, to search out an appropriate wedding-gift perhaps.

  What did one give to one’s son, estranged for three years, now something of an unknown quantity? For the third time she rejected a thought. She must first concentrate on the procedure. Passport and ticket ready at the barrier, thickly-guarded even on this comparatively quiet day by alarmingly-fierce Airport police. How young James had feared their holstered guns even as a teenager. He had been more afraid of them than of the gangs of thieves his grandmother had warned him about. Though he was as well-protected against one threat as the other. By his innocence and lawfulness from the official aggressors. By secret pockets containing his funds which she had sewn inside his jeans against the pickpockets.

  James’ young face floated between her and the mustachioed Frenchman inside the glass box, scanning her face to check against her passport photograph. She had fought against this image for these long, lonely years but now she must reverse the process and recapture the memories of her child.

  Child no longer, his face must surely have changed. Would he, too, sport a moustache? But his freckles would still be there—his bright, shiny blonde hair. Would he be taller—surely he had finished growing upwards at seventeen—could he have filled out? He had always been too thin in spite of his ravening appetite, the enormous meals she had cooked for him.

  She looked at her beautifully-manicured nails as she reclaimed her documents—and recalled how she had grumbled at the mounds of potatoes to be scrubbed, onions to be chopped—yet willingly sacrificed the texture of her hands to bring a beam of appreciation to his young face. There had been meat on the menu then—Carnivore! she had accused him, lovingly, serving up his enormous steaks, his beef stews, his roasted gigots.

  Memories were flooding in, but they were not helping in her selection as she peered into the boutiques. Tartan scarves, phials of perfume, chocolates, toys…. She should really have made the effort to get up to the Galeries Lafayette—but then the weather had all but marooned her.

  She checked in her luggage, watched it disappear on the conveyor, returned to the Duty-Free shop. Whisky, gin, champagne—she would take her full allowance as a contribution to the celebration but that was no real answer to the problem of a gift. It would have to be a cheque, then—how cold, how detached, how unsympa.

  She bought a magazine and sat in the departure lounge at Gate 20 pretending to read it.

  A further delay of her flight was announced. On the runways, the snow seemed to be thawing slowly.

  “We’ll make it okay. Don’t worry.”

  An unmistakable American drawl. She turned back from the misted windows to see a middle-aged man healthily tanned and—yes—the inevitable crew cut. He smiled reassuringly at her obvious distress.

  “Oh, yes, I don’t doubt that—I was thinking of…something else.”

  “Pardon me.” He made an oddly-incongruous gesture—as though he would have touched his cap, English fashion, had he been wearing one. “I didn’t mean to intrude…”

  “Oh—that’s all right. I’m just irritated at not finding what I wanted in the shops.”

  Her tone had lightened. She was smiling up at him. He laughed.

  “Did any female—ever?” he asked.

  She laughed in agreement.

  “No—but—I was looking for a present—a wedding gift for my son.”

  “Ah!” The word contained a wealth of meaning. Understanding. A shared experience. Sympathy.

  “The wedding’s tomorrow, you see—not much time.”

  “Yeah—you have a problem all right. Still, it looks as if we’ll have time to do a think-tank job on it. Oh, pardon me again. I’m pushing—I’m intruding.” He shrugged. “I’m American.”

  They both laughed again. It had been a long time since she had felt so gay.

  “No—really—I’d welcome any advice.”

  She slipped the magazine in the side-pocket of her travel bag. It was a gesture he was quick to understand. It gave him licence to claim her full attention. Within ten minutes, she knew his name, the Multi-national Company he worked for, the resort where he had recently braved the ski-slopes for the first time. She had examined a folder of photographs of his youngest children, his even younger grandchildren. He had slid in the information that he was a widower. That he, too, lived in Paris, that he loved the Opera, dining at Flo’s.

  “I’ve got it!” he said suddenly, slapping his well-covered but unflabby thigh. “Yes, by crikey, I’ve got it!”

  She stared at him. Was he about to turn her against him by using the hackneyed old ploy that they must have met before? She hoped not—she was beginning to like him—he had the informal warmth of the Americans without any of their embarrassing brashness.

  “A honeymoon! I’ll just bet they haven’t planned on a honeymoon—these student bridegrooms—they never get around to it—two of my own boys were just the same. And Southampton in the Winter! What a way to start a marriage! Sure—you could offer them a honeymoon.”

  She was taken aback by the amount of information she must have divulged while she had been under the impression that he had been doing all the talking.

  “You have a house in Paris?” he asked.

  Now, whether this was ploy or not on his part, she did not mind. The idea was growing on her.

  “An apartment,” she admitted. “In Montmartre.”

  “Ideal!” he cried, slapping himself again.

  She blushed, bent forward to adjust a shoe strap that needed no adjusting.

  “But…” she muttered.

  “Have you a job?” he insisted, but with a gentle, frank interest rather than a persistent curiosity.

  “I work at home—anywhere—I’m a journalist—since my divorce,” she said and added almost in a whisper, “but there’s…”

  “No problem!” More slapping. “You take a holiday in London—do some—research. Give the young people your keys. Buy them their tickets—snowed up in Montmartre—wow! What a honeymoon.”

  She raised her head courageously and looked him straight in the eyes.

  “I have a lodger—a young French student,” she said.

  He looked at her long and pensively, weighing up the situation. He saw her
well-preserved English-rose complexion—but he saw also the tight lines of suffering round her mouth, a certain weariness in the once-lovely violet eyes.

  “Can’t you—get rid of him?” he asked shrewdly, not feeling it necessary to check whether the young person were male or female. “I’d be proud to escort you in London,” he added with persuasive politeness.

  She thought of the last few months—brief moments of rapture followed by self-denigrating remorse, rows, mutual cruelty. The shame she felt that he would not acknowledge her outside while gladly accepting her charity in return for….

  She looked at the broad shoulders, the capable hands of this still-handsome mature man.

  “I’ll telephone this evening,” she said. “There are a dozen places he can go…” she added bitterly.

  Jim put his hand on her elbow: their flight had been called.

  As he settled her in her seat, helped her with the safety-harness, she thought what a happy coincidence that he, too, should be a James.

  Chapter 29

  “Bournemouth!”

  Beryl’s voice was brimming over with contempt.

  “Don’t come if you don’t approve!” I shouted back down the phone. “But the wedding’s on Thursday. The registrar’s a poppet. Didn’t wince one bit when we introduced Michel. Said quite coolly that children were always welcome at the ceremonies he conducts.”

  Beryl capitulated. She swore she could not pass up a chance of meeting a character as human as that, especially a Civil Servant. And if I was quite sure that I was content to live in a modest flat with sea view…and that Robert was, too—that he was quite well again and settled in his new job on the local rag…and that we were all happy with such a—quiet—lifestyle.

  “Ah well,” she sighed. “You were never cut out to be a Career Girl.”

  The Career Girl

  (a light-hearted story)

  by Gabrielle Tardy

  Millie gathered up the pile of exercise books, glanced quickly round the scarred classroom to make sure all was tidy, and then hurried along the bare, scuffed corridor towards the Car Park.

  She would avoid the Staffroom this evening. John was probably lying in wait for her, a slim volume of indigestible poetry open at a tasty morsel he had picked out for her. Instead, she would zoom straight in on the little brown Mini and its promise of a quick getaway towards her spick and span bedsit, her toasted cheese sandwich, a gallon of real coffee and her blank forms.

  Millie had come to a big decision. She had settled for Ambition rather than Cohabitation. Having been teaching for five years, she was now aiming towards a head of Departmentship. Having learned how to teach, she could now point others in the right direction. It would be a waste to throw herself on the mercy of some (probably inferior) Man’s protection. Thus, she spent her evenings marking, preparing lessons and filling in application forms.

  Turning the corner that led to the side entrance, Teaching Staff Only, she came face to face with Bill, unauthorised Visitor, stockbrokerly dapper as ever, and waving two theatre tickets.

  “Let’s live a little, doll!” he suggested. “A show, then that new Wine Bar. I’m glad I caught you,” he added, as she shook her head emphatically.

  “No thanks, Bill, not tonight,” she insisted, pushing past him into the Specially Reserved, Teaching Staff Cars Only, bit of playground. “I’m busy!”

  She indicated the clutch of books.

  “You’ve been saying that for weeks,” complained Bill, lap-doggedly following her to her car.

  Bill was certainly a contrast to the earnest John, and Millie had found him light relief with his easy entré into clubland and his endless supply of tickets for the jolliest Musicals—after a diet of intense concerts and the Aldwych with her male colleague.

  But now she got into the driving seat and snapped on her Safety belt as though it were the modern equivalent of a Chastity Belt.

  “Well, that’s how it is, Bill! You’ve got to take me seriously. I’m staying home tonight!”

  And she drove off smoothly and confidently into the East End traffic towards her basement in Hackney.

  At six o clock, she was deeply entrenched in the second rendering of her brief but unblemished Curriculum Vitae when the phone rang. A few moments later, she heard her landlady calling down. “Millie! It’s for you!”

  Sighing, Millie trundled up to the dark and draughty landing, nodded her thanks to Mrs. Penrose and put the rather greasy instrument to her ear.

  “Hello!’she said with more than a touch of impatience.

  “Millie?” boomed a hearty voice. “Sam here. Look, do you feel like a work out? I’m at the gym and no-one’s turned up. Come on out—you teachers can always do with a tune up.”

  “Thanks, Sam,” said Millie, her irritation at being disturbed alleviated a little by a vision of Sam, a very physical type, hanging upside down from a wall bar, immaculately kitted out in his whites, telephone grasped under his chin so as not to interfere with the constant flexing of his muscles. Whereas Bill was probably propping up the other sort of bar—and John could well be still waiting in the Staffroom.

  “Thanks, but I’m busy tonight.”

  “Okay. How about the weekend? There’s a crowd driving out to the Country Club. There’ll be tennis, swimming, squash—will you come?”

  “Oh, Sam, no, I don’t think so. You see, I must get this Career thing put into motion—I’ve made up my mind—Teaching is my Vocation—I’m deadly serious and I’ve got to make things happen—now”

  “All work and no play…” warned Sam. “We don’t want a dull Millie, do we?”

  “I’ll ring you on Friday, if I change my mind,” said Millie, plumping for Procrastination rather than long drawn out Argument.

  She ran back down to her form filling. An hour later she creamed off her makeup, had a refreshing bath and took to bed her latest library book, Curriculum Development in Deprived Areas.

  * * * *

  She was still struggling with Chapter One the following day at the staff table in the school Canteen. She was having lunch and trying to avoid John’s signals from the other end where he had reached the tapioca stage.

  Sally Perkins, English and Biology, glanced at the open page, gaudily decorated with a pie chart neatly splitting up days and pupils into orderly segments.

  “That looks a right load of rubbish!” she pronounced cheerfully, propping up the latest Jilly Cooper against the water jug. “I’d rather escape into this jet-set fantasy world, myself. Absolutely guaranteed not to improve or despoil,” she added, patting the torn cover as someone removed the jug and the book curled itself closed.

  “How’s your love life?” she asked, dismissing both books for the time being.

  “I told you last week,” said Millie. “I’m giving up that side of life. I’m concentrating on my Career.”

  “Idiot!” said Sally. “What a waste, with your figure.”

  (Sally was short and plump.)

  “Look at that John Spiers. Positively drooling over you from his end of the table. And wasn’t that Bill Burgess trotting along to heel in the playground last night? And how’s Sam Grundy these days? All dishy and well off—except poor old John of course—he’s just dishy. And you can have your pick. I wish you’d cast them off in my direction.”

  “Sally!” admonished Millie. “There’s more to life than fun and sex, you know.”

  “Oh yes?” queried Sally. “Don’t you think we schoolmarms deserve fun and a bit of the other after spending all day with these sullen, argumentative brats? They’re getting plenty, no doubt!”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call them brats,” said Millie. “I would find it so hard to give them up. I intend to devote my life to them.”

  “More fool you,” said Sally. “You can sit here, John. I’m just going.”

  Millie looked round to find that John was, indeed, hovering. He took Sally’s chair eagerly.

  “Millie! I wanted to show you this.”

  He held ou
t a small blue-bound book.

  “I waited for you in the staffroom last night,” he said pathetically.

  “Did you? How kind,” said Millie, taking the book. “Why, John, it’s got your name on the cover. You haven’t…they haven’t…?”

  “Yes,” said John, squirming with modesty. “I’ve been bursting to tell you, but I wanted to present you with the finished article. Ten Poems by John Spiers.”

  Millie was turning the book round and round, examining the spine, searching for the Publisher’s name. John shuffled nervously in his chair.

  “Actually, it’s been printed privately,” he explained.

  “Oh, John! Vanity Publishing!” said Millie heartlessly.

  “My—er—that is, M-Mother arranged it,” stuttered John. Then, brightening, “She’s dying to meet you. Could you come to tea on Sunday? There’s a good exhibition of portraits at our local gallery.”

  “Oh no, John, I’m sorry. I must have a good rest on Sunday,” said Millie. Then, seeing that his crest had truly fallen, she confided, “I’ve got an interview on Monday. Head of First Year at Bilbow Comprehensive. I must go now. See you around.”

  She rushed away, leaving the little blue book on the table. Sadly, John picked it up and turned to the frontispiece where Millie had failed to notice his dedication of the poems to her.

  During the afternoon, she had a disagreeable tête-à-tête with the Head. He was quite amenable to giving her the Monday off for her interview but then, bolting the door against which she had remained standing since she entered, he imprisoned her with both arms and demanded a kiss as a reward. No use struggling, Millie knew from past visits to his office. Just grit your teeth and get it over with.

  Later, sunk in his chair, mopping his sweaty brow, Dr. Bainbridge, pillar of the Church and the Conservation Society, begged her to run away with him, free him from a life chained to an old bitch who did not understand him. Show the world how few figs he cared for its opinion. Millie said she would think it over and made her escape, ignoring the two secretaries outside, ostentatiously looking at their watches and nodding to each other to confirm the terms of their wager.