The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re impossible!”

  “Quite probably.”

  Steph turned back towards the mirror and put on a pair of pearl earrings. “Have you got your meeting this evening?” she asked.

  “Yep. Should be fun.”

  “It’s not meant to be fun, is it?”

  “Well, it wasn’t when poor old Father Cuthbert was in charge, but it could be now the pressure’s off.”

  “What pressure?”

  “The pressure to change and become good little Catholics once more.”

  “Good little Catholics can have fun too, you know,” said Steph, who was herself a very good little Catholic — Mass every Sunday, confession once a fortnight, the works.

  “I’m sure they can. Just not as much fun.”

  “So what will you do now? What will you talk about?”

  “I’ve no idea. We’ll probably have a good old gossip, get rat-arsed, and come home again.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that!”

  “That’s probably why I do it.”

  “And I wish you’d stop teasing.”

  After her sister had left for her date (if that’s what it was), Gabs wondered how it was that the two of them managed to coexist. She knew that Steph disapproved of almost everything she did, and for her part, she couldn’t imagine a more boring existence than that led by her sister, but maybe that was it. They complemented each other. Personalities apart, Gabs was tidy, while Steph seemed incapable of putting anything away; Gabs’ cooking consisted of things-on-toast (or other things out of packets), while Steph could knock up a soufflé or a risotto at a moment’s notice; Steph had always been the good girl and Gabs the bad girl. Even their looks were so different that people had difficulty in believing that they were sisters. Gabs’ face was gamine, her figure (apart from the breasts) tiny, while Steph fought an ongoing battle with her weight and her mouse-coloured frizzy hair. But once they’d got their childhood out of the way (for sixteen years, they’d fought like cats), they had become good friends, and while they had — and regularly aired — their many differences, on the whole they managed to get along pretty well.

  The Basic Theology classes had been Steph’s idea. She’d heard about the scheme via someone from church, whose daughter had been invited (but refused) to attend, and had immediately thought of her errant sister. Of course, Gabs would almost certainly say no, but it was worth a try.

  To her great surprise, Gabs said yes, and after only minimal hesitation. The idea of the Basic Theology class both entertained and intrigued her, and while she was going for all the wrong reasons (Steph knew her sister too well to have any illusions on that score), at least she was going.

  “Basic theology for fallen women!” she’d cried delightedly.

  “Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” Steph had said.

  “You couldn’t have put it as well as that,” countered Gabs rather unkindly.

  “Besides, there’ll be men too, I expect,” Steph reminded her.

  “So much the better,” Gabs said. “I know. You could come with me. You could hold my hand.”

  “Since when have you ever needed your hand held? Anyway, I don’t need the course,” Steph replied, with justification (Steph was, incredibly, still a virgin).

  “I don’t need it, but it might be fun.”

  “Everything you do seems to be fun.”

  “Too right. Otherwise what’s the point?”

  So far, Gabs had rather enjoyed the meetings, although they would certainly have been more entertaining if the members had included at least one kindred spirit. As it was, everyone was terribly earnest, and there had been confessions and tears and a great deal of Catholic guilt. When it had come to her turn, Gabs had been unrepentant and had shocked her fellow members with her frank disclosures of her goings-on.

  “You don’t — you don’t actually get paid for doing that?” one member had asked when Gabs had “confessed” to a particularly bizarre practice (mercifully, Father Cuthbert was out of the room at the time).

  “It’s my job. Course I get paid. You get paid for doing your job, don’t you?”

  “Then why are you here?” someone had made bold to ask.

  “Because,” said Gabs, “you never know. I just might have something to learn.”

  It was clear from the start that poor Father Cuthbert didn’t know what to do with Gabs. He couldn’t really ask her to leave, since she behaved nicely, waited her turn, and listened attentively to what everyone else had to say. On the other hand, he obviously thought she was a bad influence, and her lack of any kind of conscience bothered him.

  “Have you thought what this is doing to the marriages of these — these men?” he’d asked.

  “Not my responsibility,” Gabs had replied. “After all, I don’t ask them to come. They come looking for me. And if it wasn’t me, it would be someone else. Someone not nearly as good,” she’d added in an undertone.

  “What was that?” Father Cuthbert was rather deaf.

  “Nothing,” said Gabs, reaching for the last chocolate digestive.

  But now there would be just the three of them. Despite what she’d said to Steph, Gabs wasn’t at all sure why she’d agreed to meet up, and she wasn’t sure about Alice and Mavis, either. True, they both seemed pleasant enough, and Alice at least appeared to have some sense of humour, but they were both so serious. Of course, they probably had reason to be, since they both claimed to be in love with other people’s husbands, but without Father Cuthbert to tease, Gabs thought the meetings might be a bit flat.

  Gabs herself had never been in love. While she had been violently attracted, many times, she was wise enough and experienced enough to suspect that there was a considerable gulf between sexual attraction and real love. But of one thing she was sure. When she did meet the right man — and she was sure that sooner or later this would happen — her days as an escort would be over. Others might have disagreed, but Gabs had her principles, and among these, loyalty had always been one of the foremost.

  Had she known what it was to be in love, it is doubtful whether Gabs would ever have taken up her unusual calling. As it was, she fell into it more or less by accident.

  The accident was called Gavin — an uncouth young man, ill-favoured in appearance, with few social skills and no sexual experience whatsoever. Gabs had taken pity on him at a party, one thing had led to another, and she had ended up introducing him to the kind of riotous, glorious, and unconventional sex that most men can only dream about. Gavin’s thanks had been profuse, and his words had remained in Gabs’ mind long after Gavin himself had left it: “You are so so good at this! You’ve changed my life!”

  Gabs wasn’t accustomed to being good at anything. While Steph had been to university, she had left school at sixteen with no qualifications and little hope of earning any kind of decent living, and had drifted aimlessly from job to job, earning just enough to get by. But now she had it on authority that she was actually good at something. Admittedly Gavin had had no one to compare her with, but she knew that what he’d said was true. She was good at sex. When she came to think about it, she felt good at sex. Totally unembarrassed, completely confident, and perfectly happy in her own body (which in itself was a considerable asset), it suddenly seemed that she was made for the job. All she had to do now was to find her clients.

  This of course took time. No one can set up in Gabs’ line of business overnight, and she depended on word of mouth rather than scrappy advertisements in phone boxes (and since the advent of mobile phones, phone boxes themselves were in short supply). Besides this, Gabs didn’t want anyone to have any illusions about the services she provided, and to that effect she produced her list of terms, which clients were required to read before they’d so much as taken off their shoes. But once the rules were read and understood, she proved both generous and inventive, and that, together with her growing collection of props, contributed to her success. At the time of the theol
ogy lessons, Gabs had as much business as she needed and was making a very comfortable living.

  Now Gabs made herself a sandwich and changed into jeans and a sweater. She ran her fingers through her hair, touched up her eyelashes, and applied a crimson slash of lipstick.

  It was time to go.

  The First Meeting: February

  Mavis waited in her living-room. It was a very long time since she had invited anyone to her house, and she was surprised to find that she was feeling quite apprehensive. She wanted — no, she needed — the continued contact with Alice and Gabs, but wasn’t at all sure that the friendship (if that was what it was) would survive beyond the safe, if rather stifling, confines of the presbytery. Like a plant removed from its pot, it could just crumble away at the roots, leaving the three protagonists to flounder on their own once more.

  It wasn’t that Father Cuthbert had been particularly hospitable or that she had enjoyed his obvious disapproval, but he had taken control of the meetings, and on the one or two occasions when feelings threatened to run high, it had been Father Cuthbert who had sorted things out.

  Would that be her job now, Mavis wondered. Did that responsibility belong to the host, as well as the provision of the crisps and the wine? She hoped the wine would be acceptable (Mavis knew very little about wine) and that the crisps weren’t stale. She tried one, and it seemed fine. Cheese and onion flavour. Of course, not everyone liked cheese and onion. Perhaps she should have bought some salt and vinegar as well, or plain. Plain would have been safer. But there was no time now to go shopping for plain crisps.

  She checked the room once more and closed a small gap in the curtains. There was a clean hand towel in the bathroom, and Mother was tucked safely up in bed. She hoped very much that the house didn’t smell of urine, as she suspected it sometimes did. She herself was so used to the smell of her own home that it was hard to tell.

  The cat put his head round the door. For once, his expression was obsequious, pleading. He probably sensed that he was not welcome (he wasn’t) and that it would be better to approach with tact rather than his usual belligerence. Mavis shooed him out and shut him in the kitchen, where she left him snarling unpleasantly.

  Alice arrived first. For a few moments, the two women hesitated, as though wondering whether or not to embrace. Nowadays people tended to greet one another in a kind of kiss-fest — mwah, mwah — one cheek and then the other, but Mavis had never felt comfortable with this. They hadn’t kissed at Father Cuthbert’s, but then it would hardly have seemed appropriate. In the end they shared a brief, self-conscious half-embrace, and Mavis took Alice’s coat and led the way into the living room.

  “This is cosy.” Alice sat down in a corner of the sofa. “You — you live with your mother, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Mother’s in bed.” Mavis started to open a bottle of wine, but her hand was shaking and the corkscrew slipped.

  “Here. Let me,” said Alice, taking the bottle from her. “I’ve had a lot of practice with corkscrews. Too much practice, my doctor would say.”

  Mavis smiled. “Thank you. I rarely drink. Not that I don’t like it,” she added quickly. “It’s just that drinking on your own isn’t much fun, and Mother’s not supposed to drink. It doesn’t agree with her pills.”

  “Don’t you drink with your — with your —”

  “With Clifford? Yes, we do sometimes. But there’s not much opportunity. He’s usually driving, for a start. But we share a little hamper at Christmas and on my birthday.”

  “And I guess your mother has another early night?”

  “Yes. And I’m afraid I give her an extra half sleeping pill. Is that awful of me?”

  “Not awful at all. The name of this game is survival, isn’t it?” Alice poured wine into two glasses. “I’d give anything to share a little hamper with Jay, but we don’t even seem to have the time for that.”

  Both women were relaxing and beginning to talk more freely when Gabs arrived. Gabs had no problem with kissing, and embraced them both warmly.

  “Fucking cold, isn’t it?” she said cheerfully, throwing her coat over a chair and making for the small gas fire. “Real brass monkey weather.”

  Mavis was slightly shocked by Gabs’ language and had never understood the connection between brass monkeys and cold weather, but she tried to take it in her stride. She offered wine, and Gabs accepted a glass of white. “Right. Where do we start? Not the same without poor old Father Cuthbert, is it? Who’s in charge?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s in charge,” Mavis said uncertainly.

  “Tell you what,” Gabs said. “I’ll be Father Cuthbert.” She lowered her voice. “Now, dears, have you all been thinking?”

  The other two laughed.

  “Gosh! You sound exactly like him,” Alice said. “But you forgot the prayer.”

  “Let us pray,” Gabs intoned. “No, on second thought, let’s not. Let’s get down to the gossip. Much more interesting. Who’ll go first?”

  Alice and Mavis looked at each other.

  “Oh, I’ll go first, then,” Gabs said. “Well, I’m not changing my ways, that’s for sure. For a start, I’ve got a living to make.”

  “But you told Father Cuthbert that you were seriously thinking about it,” Alice said.

  “Poor old soul, I had to let him think he was doing some good. But no. No chance.”

  “How do you — how can you — I mean, what makes you do it?” Mavis asked. She had been longing to ask this question.

  “Well, funnily enough, I quite enjoy it. I know that sounds odd, but it’s a fact. Oh, I don’t mean I enjoy it sexually. No orgasms or anything like that. Perish the thought.” She laughed. “But I’m good at it, and my clients enjoy themselves, and it pays well. What’s not to enjoy?”

  Mavis could think of lots of things not to enjoy about having sex with strangers, but she didn’t like to say so. Fortunately, Alice had a question.

  “How do you find your — clients?” she asked. “Where do they come from?”

  “Word of mouth, mostly.” Gabs got a pack of cigarettes out of her bag, looked at them longingly, and put them away again. “Reputation. That’s the best way. The least risky, too.”

  “I suppose it can be dangerous,” Mavis said. “On your own with a strange man?”

  “Yep. It can be. But I’m pretty good at looking after myself.”

  I’ll bet you are, Mavis thought, not without admiration. “I could never do what you do,” she said. “Not in a million years.”

  “Oh well. Each to her own.”

  “Do the same people come to you regularly?” Alice asked.

  “Oh yes. I’ve plenty of regulars.”

  “Do you ever get women?”

  “No.”

  “And would you? Do — something with a woman?”

  Gabs laughed. “No. Definitely not. Never thought about it till now, but no. ’Fraid not.”

  “I suppose you have to have health checks,” Alice continued (another question Mavis wouldn’t have dared to ask).

  “Oh yeah. My doc knows me well. I’m clean. And I’m very careful. Plus, all my clients have to have a shower first. I insist on that.”

  “So if you enjoy your work and the Catholic guilt thing hasn’t kicked in, why did you go to Father Cuthbert’s little gatherings in the first place?” Alice asked. “It seems like a waste of time for you. And for him, come to that.”

  “Good question. It was my sister’s idea, and she was so chuffed when I said I’d think about it, I didn’t like to let her down. Besides, it’s been a laugh, hasn’t it?”

  A laugh? Those long evenings at Father Cuthbert’s a laugh? Mavis had experienced many emotions during her visits to Father Cuthbert, but never mirth. But then Gabs was one of those people in whose lives “having a laugh” seemed to feature quite largely. Mavis herself couldn’t remember the last time she had, so to speak, had a laugh.

  “Don’t look so worried, Mavis,” Gabs said. “And don’t mind me. Steph says I
don’t take life seriously enough, and she’s probably right.”

  This was a Gabs Mavis hadn’t seen before. At the presbytery she had tended to keep her counsel, listening rather than talking, paying due respect to Father Cuthbert without actually agreeing with him. She had never sworn, and she certainly hadn’t talked of orgasms. Mavis herself had never said the word to anyone, even Clifford (there’d never been any need), and once again found herself admiring Gabs’ refreshingly direct approach. And Gabs’ spiky dyed-blond hair, her scarlet lips, her bat-black eyelashes, the studs in her nose and eyebrows, and the hint of a tattoo snaking up her neck from under her collar — these all added up to someone who behaved and dressed as she wished, letting others think what they liked.

  And Alice. Alice too appeared confident; at home in her own skin. She was certainly not as outspoken as Gabs and appeared generally more conventional, but she had a certain poise. Yes. That was the word. Poise. She was older than Gabs, of course. Mid-forties, perhaps? Mavis wasn’t good at guessing people’s ages, and nowadays it was so hard to tell. People coloured their hair and everyone seemed to wear jeans, so they were all becoming increasingly similar. Mavis herself had never worn jeans, feeling that she hadn’t got the right shape for trousers. Besides, Clifford liked her in skirts, and she found herself dressing to please Clifford, even when he wasn’t there.

  Mavis reached for the wine bottle. “More wine, anyone?”

  Alice felt herself unwinding. She was tired, and the combination of the warmth from the fire and the wine (not very nice wine, but it did the trick) was making her sleepy. She watched with amusement as Mavis tried to conceal her embarrassment. Was Gabs being deliberately provocative, or was she just being herself at last, free from the confines of Father Cuthbert and the presbytery? Time would tell. Whatever Gabs was playing at, Alice couldn’t help liking her. She was fresh and unselfconscious and different. In Alice’s world, people were always trying to create an impression, but as often as not the effort involved masked any genuine characteristics. With Gabs, her act — if that’s what it was — seemed effortless. Idly, she wondered whether Gabs would do an interview — it would certainly make an interesting feature — but decided not to ask her. Not yet, anyway.