by Lucy Ellmann
Isabel watched in dismay as her mother succumbed to the effects of trying to keep a young man happy and alive. Her coquetry turned into mere clownishness as she got varicose veins and heart palpitations. She became, in short, the sort of woman who has to keep her feet up, wear support hose, and exercise her calf muscles.
The new family went to Beatles films together and sat in brooding silence, baffled by the exultation all around them.
Our Heroine’s Step-Father and His Fateful Influence
Alan, my step-father, changed our lives.
I resented him at first.
We had led a very peaceful existence, based on tea and toast, before he came along.
It was an irregular household, for there was no man about.
I hardly knew anyone but my mother, for my great-aunt had left us for the next world when I was three.
But I was perfectly happy.
Alan’s arrival meant a lot more cooking and cleaning.
Yet, when my mother’s plumpness turned to droop, and her coquetry became mere clownishness, I began to feel for Alan more.
And it was Alan, my step-father, who first showed me how romantic art is.
He was always going to exhibitions.
He bought museum catalogues.
He read art reviews.
He often recited the phrases that had particularly struck him.
For instance, ‘The black of a hole is like the flame of a fire.’
But there were others that were equally profound.
‘I like to sculpt in soap because it’s a proletarian substance. There’s a universal need to keep clean.’
‘His unassuming pastoral scenes are heroic in their modesty.’
‘Franklin has been using ant-hills in his work for the past sixteen years.’
‘These crudely welded metal chairs marry plastic expression of pure neurosis with the offer of rest.’
‘Poised between describing emotional and social states and creating exquisite abstractions, he uses elongated, roughly triangular plates.’
‘The sculpture is characterized by its defiant hold on everyday reality, its desire for a direct confrontation with the viewer and by its unease in the face of interpretation.’
‘This piece was inspired by those dolls whose hair grows if you press a button.’
‘My paintings are a form of vaginal iconoclasm.’
I found modern art disconcerting at times.
So I decided to concentrate on older art.
I was fascinated by the tradition of artists starving in garrets as they awaited a rich patron.
Artists whose names went unrecognized until after their deaths.
And heiresses forced to paint beautiful pictures in Bohemian surroundings in order to escape the clutches of a mad earl or uncle intent on marrying them for their fortunes as well as for their faultless beauty.
And noblemen who bought paintings because they had fallen in love with the artist’s model.
The household was full of lofty ideas of this kind.
Art Historical Romance
I was in a state of some excitement as I approached the Catafalque that delicious spring morning in the year one thousand nine hundred and eighty-eight.
Yes, things had moved on apace.
The day previous to that had been a turning-point in my life.
I was sitting in the cafeteria enjoying some tea and toast after a splendid seminar with the Splendid Young Man.
Suddenly, he appeared behind me and put his arm around my shoulders in a jovial manner!
He asked me if there was anything edible in the cafeteria.
It lasted only a moment, but it was momentous.
The thought flashed through my mind that even being married could not have made us closer than we were at that moment.
I recommended tea and toast to him, and warned him against the tea-cakes.
Before this incident, he had seemed rather reluctant to get near me.
For many months I do not think he even knew my name.
So this had given me a lot to think about, as I approached the Catafalque that delicious spring morning.
Should I have it out with him? I wondered.
Should I confess my feelings for him?
My feeling, for instance, that we were made for each other.
My feeling that he had a very attractive physique and physiognomy.
My feeling that he must be getting sick of all those forward girls who were too young for him.
My feeling that he dallied with them because he had not yet found the love of a good woman.
My feeling that he was looking for something more sincere, more lasting, more secure, more respectable: in fact, A VIRGIN BRIDE.
And my feeling that I could help him with his work.
The thought was tantalizing.
It was enthralling.
It was stimulating.
It was unwieldy.
It was unbearable.
I wondered if I would meet him in the hallway.
This too was tantalizing.
And all the rest.
It was all so exciting that I thought I must calm myself in private before I could possibly encounter the man of my dreams.
The very thought of him gave me digestion problems.
I hurried into a ground floor loo before anyone could see me.
I was just sitting down, feeling very anxious, when someone knocked.
Could it be HIM?
Having seen me flutter by and sensing my distress, had he come to pull me to him and whisper sweet plans for eternity?
Had he come to tell me that we were made for each other?
My saviour, my soul-mate, my destiny, with his slight aura of the divine.
I called on my poor dead father to help me.
Feeling soft and feminine and vulnerable, ripe as putty to be moulded in my lover’s strong hands, I tremblingly, despairingly, hopefully opened the door.
I was his, the all of me (if required).
Demurely, I lifted my eyes to my master, my guide, my guardian.
Unfortunately, it turned out to be Dr Lotus who had knocked.
I had been recovering myself on the Female Staff Loo, designated in other words for her sole use.
I murmured something by way of apology and hurried off.
Various Objectionable Bits of Our Heroine’s Body
People say that if one loves a man, one should tell him.
The trouble is, I deal with rejection badly.
I stutter, go pale, feel faint.
Self-hatred produces in me a number of embarrassing physical manifestations.
My cheeks atrophy, leaving my mouth unable to smile and my eyes unable to close (should I wish to smile and close my eyes whilst being rejected).
I stumble, feel faint, need a sit-down.
I find it difficult to carry the situation off with aplomb.
I, a thirty-one-year-old virgin with rough skin on my heels.
I, a thirty-one-year-old virgin with dark hairs that go every which way on my big toes.
I, with a permanent stain on my left eye from a ping-pong accident in childhood.
I, with my knobbly knees.
I, bony as a goat, with a distended stomach to match.
And hardly any breasts to speak of (should I wish to speak of breasts).
I, whose auburn locks are not brought to life by sunlight.
I, whose eyes do not have a translucence.
I, with moles in unmentionable places.
I, who behave with the perpetual jumpiness of someone who has been told too often that I am a slow eater, a slow reader, a slow walker.
I, who therefore move erratically and eat without pleasure.
I, who have never been allowed to revert to MY OWN NATURAL SPEED.
I, who blush when intimate areas of male and female anatomy, even vis-à-vis insects, are mentioned.
I, who sometimes burp and fart.
I, who sometimes (in privat
e) burp, and the other thing, and do not MIND.
I, Isabel!
How could I say to someone, ‘I love you’?
Would a normal man be likely to be pleased by this news?!
But I did try to show the Splendid Young Man how much I loved him, just by little things I did.
I wore my best Janet Reger knickers to his classes.
And fingernails.
Fingernails are important.
No man likes a woman with battered fingernails.
And I used my intellect to try to impress him.
I exerted myself in this regard.
I like a man I can argue with.
Seeking his admiration, I threw interesting points at him with increasing frenzy during our seminars together.
It was a duel of words, which was at times stimulating, at others slightly embarrassing.
He often tried to shut me up.
He ignored my quieter utterances entirely.
Perhaps he sensed the dry skin on my heels.
The strange construction of my belly-button.
Could he detect the defects of my knees through the folds of my long, carefully ironed skirt?
Or did he foresee that I might be ill in old age, and he didn’t want to have to take care of me?
DID HE HAVE SOME SIXTH SENSE ABOUT HOW UGLY MY BODY IS WHEN NAKED?
Our Heroine in Jeans
I actually look rather good in jeans.
So I rarely wear them.
I don’t want to get mixed up with the wrong sort of person.
Men who are only interested in me for my body.
I don’t want to settle for second-best.
(I also have nice arms.)
Our Heroine’s Strict Notions of Propriety
Dishes should be washed and dried immediately after use.
The drying process should not be left to the natural laws of physics.
It shows a lack of resolve to leave dishes dripping by the sink.
(Also, many people probably have jobs in dish-cloth factories.)
Pink and orange should never be worn together.
Likewise, blue and green.
Newspapers should be refolded to look as if no one has read them.
One should not place cups of tea upon library books.
Mushrooms should be peeled.
Vegetables should be well boiled.
Pasta on the other hand should be al dente.
Meat must be carved at the correct angle.
One should not appear over-eager to eat food.
Or to do anything else, for that matter.
But tea and toast can be consumed in any quantity.
This harms no one.
Taps should be run while relieving oneself of bodily wastes, or brushing one’s teeth, to disguise disgusting sounds.
Music should be played loudly whilst others are doing the same, to protect them from embarrassment.
Flushing should be thorough, and the toilet inspected to ensure this.
Men should not burp in front of women. (Women should not burp in front of anyone.)
Women should be treated with respect.
One should not appear depressed in public.
It is best to wear trousers when riding a bicycle.
The 31-year-old Woman’s Attitude to Relationships
It is amazing what people will settle for.
I saw a couple on a train once.
The woman looked much older than the man.
His name seemed to be Gavin.
Gavin had long hair in a pony-tail.
Gavin had long hair and the responsibility of going for the sandwiches when they’re travelling.
Truly pathetic: she, too old for him, crouching over her magazine, while he, merely too hairy, stalking off in search of British Rail sandwiches.
A friend of mine invited me to Sunday lunch with her and her boyfriend and, almost as soon as I got there, he began to weep.
I assumed his rocky emotional state was due to the fact that he was a former fruit-machine addict.
But my friend soon explained that Sunday was their usual day for making love.
I offered to leave, but she insisted I stay for lunch.
He kept passing by the door of the sitting-room, sobbing.
Soon she was crying too, and trailing up and down the stairs after him.
Finally they both came down and we ate nut roast.
To which I was allergic.
I kept apologizing.
But actually I was thinking, not only do they cry together, but she has to watch him SHAVE every morning.
Had she no pride?
And then there are those couples who constantly interrupt each other, so you don’t know who you’re supposed to be listening to.
You’re bound to offend one or the other.
They speak in tandem but each expects to get your full attention.
These are not at one with each other.
I do not know why so many people settle for second-best.
There were few men for whom I would sacrifice my independence and sense of personal space and identity.
In fact, baring my soul or any other part of myself to a man was for me practically unimaginable.
Even experienced people seem to encounter numerous hurdles in the search for a soul-mate.
For instance, the woman who wrote this sad letter to a magazine:
My problem is: MEN. I’ll never understand them. Are there any I can trust? I’m twenty-six and met my first boyfriend at seventeen. He was handsome and funny, but stingy. Two years later I met Joe who was funny and bought me presents, but he was not so handsome. After seven months, he tried to strangle me. My next boyfriend was a reliable person, but not very good in bed. After five years, I got bored. All I want is to be married with ten children and an Afghan hound. Is this too much to ask?
Of course, she should never have lost her virginity.
According to Babs Cartwheel, in her 373 treatises on the subject, when the right man appears, he will appreciate finding your virginity intact.
And yet, there was no doubt that my virginity somewhat hampered my own progress in life.
In contrast to the era of high romance, men now find the precious gift of one’s virginity a slightly daunting prospect.
I was not particularly attached to my virginity.
I would have given this precious gift to any man I truly loved, whether or not we were yet married.
To be still in possession of one’s virginity at the age of thirty-one is an encumbrance.
But I firmly believe that, if one cannot change a man, one must find the right one the first time.
I wanted to choose carefully.
And I had chosen the Splendid Young Man.
He too seemed to be saving himself for that special somebody.
Despite his many admirers, to whom he was invariably gracious and polite.
We were destined for each other.
A woman knows these things.
Why else would I have ended up at the Catafalque, and in his seminar group?
I knew we could be happy together.
He seemed to enjoy tea and toast.
If only he could overcome his shyness, and make clear his intentions towards me.
Mrs Lionel Syms.
Perhaps Ms Isabel Syms sounded more feminist.
Ms Isabel Syms.
Rather striking, I thought.
The Letter ‘Q’
One hundred and seventy-eight men had been burnt alive on an exploding oil rig in the North Sea. A so far unidentified sniper had gunned down twenty holiday-makers on a Turkish cruise ship for a so far unspecified reason. The US Air Force had sent the contents of an Iranian passenger plane to Allah. By contrast, the new president of Mexico had just gained office by resurrecting thousands of long-dead voters and persuading them to fill out ballot papers in his favour. A bee disease was spreading across Europe. Whales on the way to their mating-ground were thinking profound though
ts and probably, like us, using only a tenth of their brains. Forty-five children in the Borough of Islington had been beaten up before setting off for school. Car alarms wailed to their owners all over London in deafening expressions of outrage or ennui. And people throughout England and Wales still lay in beds covered with cats. It was a normal day.
Lionel Syms, beaming with post-coital smugness, tickled a crouching girl’s neck as he reviewed his notes on Degas. He waited tolerantly as she tied his shoe-laces. He had never learned how to tie shoe-laces properly, and now considered it too late. Sir Humphrey Basilisk elsewhere – though he would happily have been doing up the Splendid Young Man’s shoe-laces – searched out a decent position for the black toupee on his eighty-year-old head. Believing that he had found one, he proceeded to search for his teeth, mumbling to himself about the sacrifices one makes for Beauty and Love. Cragshaw, regaining consciousness after a night spent on the floor of his rooms at the Catafalque, noticed that he was running low on gin and telephoned his wife to bring another bottle, feeling for the moment unable to face another brushstroke without it.
Babs Cartwheel had written to the Daily Telegraph that morning to extol the pleasures of motoring in France. Besides toy poodles, virgins, beeswax, gypsies and housewives, motoring in France seemed to be one of her pet subjects. ‘Why oh why,’ she asked, with her indefatigable eloquence, ‘can’t our roads be made as enjoyable?’ As always, she gradually ground to a halt. Splutters, smirking, had read her letter along with everything else in the paper on his way to the Catafalque. His mind needed constant sustenance, even when walking, on account of a surplus of energy and erudition. He was in a particularly good mood that day, for he had been practising the deaf alphabet with his penis in the early hours and had reached the letter ‘Q’. His knowledge of the deaf alphabet was just one more facet of the dynamic and wide-ranging scholarship which had won him a permanent position at the Catafalque: he was their expert on historiography, hagiography, iconography and Kant. He was also in love.
