Parlour Games

by Mavis Cheek

  When Mrs Green’s note arrives Alex is apologetic. Celia is delighted. Alex is even more confused by his wife’s behaviour.

  ‘I wonder what the “Goings On” were?’ she muses.

  Alex explains.

  He says, seeking warmth and pity, that his behaviour was unhinged due to circumstances. He thinks back and recalls the terrible vision that confronted him as he dived duvet-wards. He touches his nose. It is indeed still tender. He puzzles. He says, ‘Celia?’

  She says, ‘Yes, Alex?’

  He says, ‘You’ve never thought that your cleaner was a little – well – odd – have you?’

  ‘No more than the rest of us, Alex,’ she says pointedly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well – it’s the strangest thing – but I thought – when I surprised her in our bedroom – that she was – well – holding something – and that there were other – things – on the bed –’ He shakes his head. These last few hours have gone too fast for him, the world has been too unkind. Others get away with it – why couldn’t he?

  Celia blushes.

  Celia says quickly, ‘You had had a lot to drink, Alex. And you had just learned about Your Bastard.’

  He winces. ‘All the same –’ he rubs the back of his neck which has grown tense again – ‘All the same, I could have sworn the woman was holding a vibrator ...’

  There is a rush of wind where his wife once stood. He hears her ascending the stairs with peculiar alacrity. He follows and finds his wife on her knees in the bay of the window scrabbling at the curtain hem which, in its winter weight and not surprisingly, conceals nothing.

  ‘God Bless Tom,’ she says triumphantly, sitting back on her haunches. No wonder she has lost her cleaner for good. Even his hurtful little game has produced some good after all ...

  Silver linings. Silver linings in everything. If only we have the wit to recognise them.

  Alex is finding Celia’s behaviour a little tiresome. And he is rather hurt by it.

  Where is the sorrow?

  Where is the pain?

  Should she not show some emotion?

  Surely what he has done is worthy of some kind of suffering response?

  He says, ‘You and I should talk it through, you know. If we are to rebuild our future together we should begin it now.’

  And Celia, surprising both of them, says, ‘Who says we have one, Alex?’

  Which makes him regret his little foray into psychology very much indeed.

  ‘Oh, now look here, Celia ...’ he says.

  ‘No, you look here ...’ she replies.

  ‘Don’t be unreasonable ...’ he argues.

  ‘I’m not being unreasonable ...’ she argues back with vigour.

  And thus, for a few blissful moments, they are back to being a perfectly normal married couple again before Alex remembers that he has lost a lot of ground in the normal marriage stakes.

  ‘I love you,’ he says.

  ‘Well,’ she says, still sitting on the floor, ‘you’ve got a very funny way of showing it.’

  She looks up at him. He looks down at her like a naughty puppy.

  ‘What would you say, Alex, if I said that I had done the same as you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t believe you and I should say you were being extremely silly.’

  ‘Would you now?’

  ‘I would.’

  He puts out his hands to help her up. ‘And I would also say that if you did think of doing such a thing, then the only person you would be hurting would be yourself.’

  She shivers. In Raynes Park they would say that someone had walked over her grave. She refuses his outstretched hands and continues to sit on the floor. Beneath the bed, just visible, she sees the spine of the book of love letters.

  ‘Alex,’ she says meekly. ‘I think I would like to go away for a little while.’

  Celia shivers again. Not surprisingly, for it is colder in the bedroom now that the evening has drawn in. Faint upon the air is a vestigial whiff of bonfire. It is extraordinary to think that it is still out there smoking exiguously despite the length of time it has been untended. The harbinger of autumn, the transatlantic’s fall. It should be damped down for safety before they turn in ...

  Alex, all tenderness at this clear indication of feminine sensitivity, says, ‘Of course, my darling. But perhaps you will come over here first?’

  And then, rather beautifully, they make love. Celia, distant, dreamy, moves like a serpent about his body. Alex, delighted to be free of artificial methods, responds to the serpent like a tiger unleashed. The love-making is long, hot, tender and perfect. At the end of it the light in the room is silvery. Alex runs his fingers along his wife’s spine which is naked and damp and just as it should be. He bends and kisses it and as he does so he says, ‘It’s a long time since I’ve made love like that.’ He smiles down at her. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Urn,’ she says.

  Which he takes to mean Yes.

  They continue to lie there. After a while Alex says, ‘Where would you like us to go away to? Shall we take the children with us or what?’

  And Celia, rolling over, says to the ceiling, ‘No. And no. Where I am going away to neither you nor the children may come.’

  There is the shortest of pauses, the merest hint of a change in his breathing pattern before he says, ‘Of course.’ And, ‘Certainly.’ For he has regained too much ground to risk the losing of it now. ‘You need some time on your own. I can see that. So where would you like to go?’ He is still plucking delicately at her back.

  ‘America,’ she says.

  Alex has a spasm; the flesh between his finger and thumb, which belongs to her, is pinched very hard.

  ‘Alex,’ she says sharply. ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘But you don’t know anyone in—’

  And then he stops. Of course, that’s it. Susie is in California. He relaxes again.

  ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I’m sure you’ll be well looked-after.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  Alex tenses. Celia is going peculiar again.

  ‘Because that’s what friends are for.’

  Celia sits up and gives him a hunted look.

  ‘You’ll need your suncream,’ he says, by way of making conversation.

  Celia moves away from him.

  Alex has gone peculiar again.

  They both eye each other nervously. Alex breaks the silence.

  ‘All the Californian sun,’ he hazards.

  And Celia laughs, annoyingly, as he has come to expect.

  ‘I’m not going to stay with Susie,’ she says.

  ‘No?’ He too sits bolt upright. ‘Where then?’

  She says, ‘Maine.’

  ‘Main what?’

  ‘The place Maine. In America. I want to go there and see the fall.’

  He takes another deep breath. After all, what is one more piece of madness in amongst so much?

  ‘Fine ...’ he says. ‘That’s just fine. Yes, yes, Maine in America it is, then.’ Another deep breath. ‘When would you like to go?’ He doesn’t believe it will happen but he must go along with it. He must go along with anything just at this moment. ‘I can get my secretary to fix that up. You just say when ...’

  She does.

  ‘Sunday.’

  ‘But my secretary won’t be in until Monday!’

  ‘Then you’ll have to go to the travel agent’s yourself.’ Celia’s voice is very sweet but Alex recognises that it is an unyielding sweetness.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not on, you know,’ he says firmly.

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘Because,’ he suppresses the satisfaction, ‘you’ll need a visa.’

  A little voice – which turns out to be hers – says, ‘No I won’t.’

  ‘My dear girl,’ he says, ‘you will. Everyone does.’

  ‘They’ve stopped requiring visas, Alex.’

  ‘And how do you know that?’ he asks fondly.

  ‘Because,’ she says in a small
but certain voice, ‘because I’ve already found out ...’

  And twenty-four hours later he is in a travel agent’s, telephoning his wife, with the news. She can fly to New York on Sunday night, stay over, and go on to her final destination on Monday morning. If she really means it. He waits for her to say she does not but there is only silence at the other end.

  ‘Will that do?’ he asks wearily.

  ‘That’s perfect, Alex,’ she says happily. ‘Book it.’

  She puts down the phone.

  She rings Isabel.

  ‘We’ll collect them first thing in the morning,’ she says, ‘because I’m going to America tomorrow night. I’ve got to do some research for my book. I think, after all, that you were right about the ending. It needs looking into.’

  Isabel is torn apart. She wants to be right. She also wants Celia’s selfishness to be wrong.

  ‘They’ve had a little tummy upset,’ is all she can think of to say.

  ‘Not used to your cooking, I expect,’ says Celia.

  It is a suitably equivocal statement.

  Before Alex returns from the travel agency Celia goes up to the bedroom, pulls out the drawer of her dressing table and fumbles beneath it. Sellotaped to the underside is a torn-off corner, very scrumpled, of an old New York Times, with an address and telephone number scribbled on it. Mrs Green may have found ecstasy when she removed Celia’s curtains and discovered where the Personnelle vibrator had rolled all those months ago: she may have added to that ecstasy by finding the condom packet and jar of Vaseline; but she missed the most important hint of sexual activity it has ever been Celia’s privilege to own – the name and address of that attractive, desirable, and manifestly satisfactory one night stand. Celia’s hand shakes with the pleasure of the memory as she holds the newsprint tightly.

  They collect the children from Isabel’s on Sunday morning. They are pale, and hollow-eyed, sated on videos, computer games and midnight feasts.

  ‘They have enjoyed themselves,’ says Isabel. ‘Bless them. We’ve got more room for them to run around and play in our neighbourhood. Put some colour in their cheeks. You ought to think about moving out here, Alex.’

  ‘You never know,’ he says, thinking about house values. ‘We might have to.’

  Dave, emerging from his shed dark-browed and unsmiling, says, ‘Bit of a come-down after Bedford Park, wouldn’t it be?’

  For once Alex lets the shaft lie.

  As they make their farewells and set off down the dull street, Isabel calls for them to stop. Alex, about to say something rude regarding Your Sister, remembers even the pleasures of justifiable sarcasm are forbidden to him now. He brakes sharply, the tyres squeal, he winds down his window and gives his sister-in-law an astonishingly kind smile. One that so amazes her in its complete uniqueness that she says to her husband later, ‘He’s changed, Alex. Mellowed somehow. He’s obviously much, much happier nowadays …’

  She has stopped them to hand over a photograph.

  ‘Meant to give you this ages ago. It’s the one I took at your birthday, Celia. For once everyone’s in focus and looking really happy. Susie and Tom, you and Alex – pity Hazel didn’t make it, still ... It’s a nice souvenir to have – isn’t it?’

  Alex retains his smile, stamped like the image on a coin, sideways and grinning as he waits for Celia to remark on the gift.

  ‘I don’t think,’ she says to her sister, ‘that I could ever be happier again ...’

  ‘Ah,’ says Isabel, looking at Alex who is still staring bonnet-wards. ‘Isn’t that nice?’

  Just as they are leaving for the airport a car pulls up. A small grubby Fiat, a woman’s car. A very familiar one to Celia. Out gets Hazel, looking most un-Bedford Park. She wears no make-up, her face looks crumpled and blotched with emotion.

  By contrast Celia is looking in the pink. In Susie’s dress she could take on the world.

  What a long time coming this friend of hers has been. A moment later and she would have missed her altogether.

  ‘Cee-ly-a,’ she groans. ‘God am I glad to see you. We must talk.’ She pauses and looks at the pigskin suitcase on the pavement. ‘Off again Alex?’ she says. ‘Don’t worry – you just say your goodbyes and I’ll put the kettle on.’

  She moves to walk up the path.

  ‘Um – Hazel,’ says Celia. ‘What’s up? How was the weekend?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ says Hazel. ‘I’ve just had the most terrible row with that stupid, insensitive woman—’

  ‘Who? Jo?’

  ‘Her. God, what a friend she turned out to be.’

  ‘What was the row about?’ Celia asks this but her second sense tells her that she already knows the answer.

  ‘Poor old Caspar – in a strange place – what can you expect? I said that to her – I said What Can You Expect? Anyway—’ She stops, looks at the group around Alex’s car. ‘Well we can talk about that in a minute. Bye Alex.’

  ‘He’s not going anywhere,’ says Celia. ‘I am.’ She opens the car door and slides herself in. ‘And if Caspar were mine,’ she says, ‘I’d smack him. Hard. Right where it comes out. That’s what I did to Henry.’

  Hazel gapes.

  So, for that matter, does Alex.

  Hazel runs to the window which Celia kindly winds down.

  ‘But you’ll be back for my party? You’re not going to let me down?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ says Celia, but she smiles. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘But I need you to be there.’

  Celia softens. She looks into her friend’s sorry face.

  ‘A word of advice on fortieth birthday parties, Hazel my love.’

  ‘Yes?’ she asks eagerly.

  ‘Heavy on the food.’ She smiles. ‘And easy on the games. For what it’s worth ...’

  And she winds up the window, smiling still.

  Henry and Rebecca are well content with the prospect of the very big present their mother has promised them on her return. The uniqueness of being left alone with their father heralds an interesting new chapter in their lives, a chapter which is not without possibilities. Alex will have his work cut out and will more than ever find himself valuing his wife in the days ahead. Celia has yet to remind him that Mrs Green will never return.

  On the plane, comfortably settled with gin and tonic fizzing in a little plastic glass before her, Celia takes out her book to read. Anyone watching her will find her actions very odd. For before she opens the book she closes her eyes. It falls open randomly, this book of famous love letters, though whether it be in the section called ‘Beginnings’, or the section called ‘Endings’, or any of the sub sections in between, she has yet to open her eyes and find out.

  Such a harmless little pastime, on the whole, she thinks, willing her lids to flick apart. Chance is as good as anything else in the determining of one’s pattern of existence. Life is, after all, just a game like any other, save perhaps for one sorry difference: that the struggle is also the prize. So thinks forty-year-old Celia in her comfortable airline seat as she focuses, at last, on the open page before her ...

  An extract from Mavis Cheek’s

  SLEEPING BEAUTIES

  The sun, though weak, was warm. The beginnings of Beauty Parlour weather. The signal for women with the whey faces of winter to come creeping from their centrally-heated hibernations and begin to think about pink cheeks, bright eyes and the hope that springs eternal after a good rubdown with exfoliating cream.

  Tabitha, nose up, scenting the first delicious hints of post-Easter spring underlying the morning exhaust fumes, contemplated the months ahead like a pointer after prey: the Christmas turkeys, the Shrove Tuesday fry-up, the gluttony for protein where only an apple was required, all brought to a head (in many cases quite literally) by Easter and its chocolate. It was a busy time from now on.

  Tabitha, whose life was her Beauty Parlour, felt her heart lift as she turned the corner into the High Street. Not that the High Street itself presented a heart-lifting aspect but
there, at the end of it, past the building societies, the Woolworths, the Victoria Wine and the banks, was the little cream-painted sign, swinging gently in the breeze, its elegant strawberry-pink lettering proclaiming the legend ‘Tabitha’s Beauty Parlour – an appointment not always necessary’.

  She screwed up her eyes to focus on it and thought that it seemed further away than usual. She refocused, relaxed her face and patted the skin of her temples as if to rearrange any temporary creases. Nonsense, she thought briskly, and hurried along. When she looked again she could make out the lettering perfectly well. All the same, the lift in her heart seemed to die a little, despite her attempt to revive it.

  The spring air, with its promise of burgeoning summer, is also a warning. Well might Sage Grandmother state that Beauty comes from within ... raising her trembling old finger to stab the air as she insists that you will never find a Beautiful woman who is ugly inside, shaking her grizzled locks to emphasize that Beauty feeds on a sap of kindness ...

  Well indeed might her quavering voice offer up all these ancient wisdoms, but Tabitha smiles – Hot Wax to that! She turns the key smoothly in the lock. Beauty feeds on the opportunity that Nature has bestowed, and which Nature, fickle mother, then spends all her time trying to take away again. It is Tabitha’s job to intercede, and redress this capricious clawing-back as best she can.

  She removes the key and pushes down on the doorhandle which is shining and golden and delicately chased with cupids: fitting for a door which opens on to a little piece of Paradise.

  It is a nice idea, she thinks, that Beauty radiates from within, but – she places her hand on the rose-painted door plate and gently pushes – my best friend at school, Brenda, was the sweetest-natured girl in the world. Utterly well-meaning, utterly lovely of character, utterly beautiful inside and utterly devoid of Nature’s Opportunity. She had everything against her – small piggy eyes, florid full lips, plump cheeks on a face shaped like a fat pear, and a body like a tube. Open her up and she was enchanting. Look her over at a dance and you’d pass by on the other side. She could stand there all night exuding Beauty from Within and thinking Nice Thoughts, but she still had to buy her own lager-and-lime and pay her single bus fare home.