London Transports

by Maeve Binchy

  I urge you to be circumspect about this for your own sake, but please do not regard this as legal advice, which it certainly is not.

  I wish you success in whatever you are about to do, but with the reservation that I think you are unwise to be about to do it at all.

  Kind wishes,

  John Lewis

  Dear Mr. Lewis,

  Thank you very much for your letter, I knew I could rely on you to help me, and despite all those stuffy phrases you used I can see you will act for me. I understand completely that you have to write things like that for your files. Now, this is the bones of the story. Charlie, who is the villain of the whole scene and probably of many other scenes as well, is a very wealthy and stuffy banker, and he asked me to marry him several times. I gave it some thought and though I knew there would be problems, I said yes. He bought me an engagement ring and we were going to get married next June.

  Because you are my lawyer and can’t divulge anything I tell you, I will tell you privately that I had a lot of doubts about it all. But I’m not getting any younger, I haven’t been in so many shows recently, and I teach dancing when I’m not in shows. I thought it would be fairly peaceful to get married and not to worry about paying the rent and all that.

  So Charlie and I made a bargain. I was to behave nicely in front of his friends, and he was to behave unstuffily in front of mine. It worked fine, a bit gruesome at some of those bank things. Merchant bankers en masse are horrific and Charlie did his best with my friends. I wasn’t going to let him down in his career and he wasn’t going to interfere in mine. If I got a dancing part, so long as I wasn’t naked, I could take it.

  And it was all fine until Tom Barry’s party, and when I woke up Charlie wasn’t there, he had left a note and taken my engagement ring, the rat. He said…oh well, I’ll make a photostat of the note, we’ll probably need it as evidence. I’ll also write out his address and you could get things going from your end.

  I suppose it will be all right to pay you from the proceeds. I don’t have any spare cash just now.

  Warm wishes,

  Jilly Twilly

  Photostat of note:

  Jilly,

  Now I’ve finally had enough. Your behavior tonight is something that I would like obliterated from my mind. I do not want to see you again. I’ve kept my part of the bargain, you have failed utterly in yours.

  Perhaps it is as well we discovered this before we were married. I am too angry to thank you for the undoubtedly good parts of our relationship because I cannot recall any of them.

  I have reclaimed my ring. You may keep the watch.

  Charles

  Dear Ms. Twilly,

  You have utterly misunderstood my letter. I really cannot act for you in any way in your projected action against Mr. Benson. As an acquaintance, may I take the liberty of reminding you once again of how unwise you would be to start any such proceedings? You are an attractive young woman, you seem from my short meeting with you to be well able to handle a life which does not contain Mr. Benson. My serious and considered advice to you, not as a lawyer but as a fellow guest at a party, is to forget it all and continue to live your own life without bitterness. And certainly without contemplating a litigation that is unlikely to bring you any satisfaction whatsoever.

  Yours sincerely,

  John Lewis

  Dear John,

  Stop telling me what to do with my life, it is my life. If I want to sue I’ll sue. Please have the papers ready or I will have to sue you for malpractice. You have wasted quite a lot of time already. I am enclosing a copy of the letter where Charlie mentions my marrying him. It will probably be exhibit A at the trial.

  Kind wishes and hurry up,

  Jilly

  Darling Jilly,

  You must know that the bank can’t put any money into the ridiculous venture you suggest. I didn’t come to America to meet show-biz people and interest them in your little troupe of dancers. I know that it must be disheartening for you not to get any backing, but in six months’ time we will be married and you won’t need to bother your pretty little feet about a career. I love you, Jilly, but I wish you wouldn’t keep telephoning the bank here on reverse charges because I am here only for a conference and it looks bad to get several calls a day, all about something which we haven’t the slightest intention of doing.

  Look after yourself if you can,

  Charles

  Dear Ms. Twilly,

  These chambers will have no further correspondence with you about any legal matters whatsoever. Kindly go through the correct channels, and approach a solicitor who will if necessary brief counsel for you.

  Yours faithfully,

  John Lewis

  Dear John,

  What have I done? Why is this kind of thing always happening to me? I thought we got on so well that night at Tom Barry’s party. Did I tell you by the way that Charlie was quite wrong? Tom Barry was not one of his friends, he was a mutual new friend that we had met with Freddy who was one of Charlie’s friends. So I didn’t break any bargain by behaving badly.

  I just thought that the publicity of a big breach-of-promise case might give me some chance of being noticed. People would hear of me, I’d get more jobs. You see without Charlie or my ring or anything I have so little money, and I was only trying to claw at life with both hands.

  It’s fine for you, you are a wealthy, settled barrister. What would you do if you were a fast-fading, poor little dancer betrayed by everyone? I’m nearly twenty-six, my best years of dancing are probably over.

  It was my one chance of hitting back at life, I thought I should grab it. Anyway, I’m sorry, I seem to have upset you. Good-bye.

  Jilly

  Dear Jilly,

  My letter may have seemed harsh. I do indeed see what you mean about grabbing at life, and I admire your pluck, believe me I do. What you need is not so much a court action, it’s much more a good friend to advise you about your career and to cheer you up. I don’t think you should get involved with anyone like Charlie, your worlds are too different. I only vaguely remember him from the party at Tom Barry’s but I think he was a little buttoned up.

  You need somebody younger than Charlie Benson.

  Perhaps you and I might meet for a meal one evening and discuss it all, totally as friends and in no way in a client-lawyer relationship. If you would like this please let me know.

  Cordially,

  John

  Dear Monica,

  I’m afraid I won’t be able to make the week-end after all. Rather an important case has come up and I can’t leave London just now. I know you will be disappointed, still we did agree that I should do everything possible to advance my career, so that is what I’m doing. I hope the week-end goes awfully well, looking forward to seeing you soon.

  Love,

  John

  Dear John,

  I was sorry about the week-end. Daddy and Mummy were sorry you were kept in London. Daddy kept saying that all work and no play…you know the way Daddy does.

  I came to London last Tuesday. You weren’t in chambers and you weren’t in your flat, even though I phoned you there lots of times up to midnight. Maybe Daddy is right and although we all want to advance your career, perhaps it is a question of all work and no play.

  Love anyway darling,

  Monica

  Darling John,

  How can I thank you for the lovely, lovely weekend. I always wanted to go to Paris and it really cheered me up. It was such a relief to be able to talk to someone so understanding. I’m afraid you must have spent a fortune but I did enjoy myself.

  See you next week-end,

  love Jilly

  Dear Monica,

  I must say I thought your phone call to the office today was hysterical and ill-timed. I was in consultation and it was very embarrassing to have to discuss my private life in front of others. I do not know where and why you have got this absurd notion that we had an understanding about getting married. From my sid
e certainly we have no such thing. I always regarded you as a good friend, and will continue to do so unless prevented by another phone call like today’s.

  You may check your letters from me to see whether any such “understanding” was mentioned. I think you will find that nowhere do I mention marriage. I find this an embarrassing topic so will now close.

  John

  Dear Tom,

  I appreciate your intentions in writing to me with what you consider a justifiable warning. I realize you did this from no purposes of self-interest.

  Still, I have to thank you for your intention and tell you that your remarks were not well received. Ms. Twilly and I are to be married shortly, and I regard your information that she has had seven breach-of-promise actions settled out of court as utterly preposterous. In fact I know for a certainty that the lady is quite incapable of beginning a breach-of-promise action, so your friend’s sources cannot be as accurate as he or you may think.

  Under other circumstances I would have invited you to our wedding but, as things are, I think I can thank you for having had the party where I was fortunate enough to meet my future bride and wish you well in the future.

  Sincerely,

  John Lewis

  Seven Sisters

  * * *

  It was very odd that they should live in Seven Sisters, Pat thought for the hundredth time. It seemed too much of a coincidence that anyone who was giving a wife-swapping party, with uninhibited fun and carefree swinging for sophisticated couples, should just happen to live in a place with the group name of Seven Sisters. She had said so to Stuart as well.

  “They have to live somewhere,” he said unhelpfully.

  Pat had studied the A to Z.

  “I don’t really see why they call it Seven Sisters, it’s more Hornsey really,” she complained.

  “If they’d called it Hornsey you’d probably say that that was even more suggestive,” said Stuart mildly.

  For two weeks before the party Pat lived on a high level of anxiety. She examined her new set of underwear with a worried frown. It was red and black, the black bits were lace and, in one instance, a rosette. Again and again she tried them on in the bathroom and examined herself critically in the mirror. She looked so very white, and the dark colours made her look almost dead. She wondered whether this would fire all the men with lust, whether they would be driven insane by the combination of dead white skin, red silk and black lace, or whether one of the women would take her aside and advise her to use a fake tan lotion. The awful thing was that there was no one to ask. Even if she were to write to this appalling magazine where Stuart had first seen the article about wife swapping and had replied to one of the box numbers, she still wouldn’t get a reply in time.

  Over and over she rehearsed what she would say: “Hallo, lovely of you to ask us…what a super house.” No, she couldn’t tell this terrifying harlot who owned the house in Seven Sisters that it was lovely of her to have invited Pat and Stuart, since Pat and Stuart had in their corrupt and pleasure—seeking way told the Seven Sisters lot that they wanted to come and take off their clothes and go to bed with a load of strangers. The more she reminded herself that this is what they had arranged to do, the more faint and foolish she felt.

  Even though she tried to put it from her mind, she wondered if there would be time for any conversation before they got down to action. Would she find herself stark naked in a corner talking to some other naked housewife about the children’s drama group or the new supermarket? Would Stuart stand naked laughing with new people about the tomatoes they grew in their allotment?

  That was the kind of thing that happened at the ordinary parties they went to…tame little evenings where people kept their clothes on, and didn’t mate with each other, and discussed how expensive the season tickets on the train had become, and how hard it was to find a doctor who could spend two minutes listening to you. Tame evenings, dull evenings. Getting in a rut, becoming old before their time, suburban even though they hadn’t yet reached their middle-class suburbia, no excitement, nothing very different, nothing that made them gasp.

  Two children, the national average, Stuart working in a bank…

  God Almighty! …Suppose some of the bank’s clients were at the party! It wasn’t so ridiculous. People don’t live beside their banks, some of them could easily live off the Seven Sisters Road. Had Stuart thought of that? She had better tell him, they could call it all off. It would be foolish to imperil his whole career…. No. He must have thought of it and rejected it. He was utterly set on going to this party now. He would only think she was groping around for some excuse.

  …nice little flat, no garden unfortunately, but then they went to the allotment at weekends. Children very strong and happy, love their school. Debbie in the school play again this term, and Danny hoping to be picked for the third team. Lots of friends at school always running in and out of the neighbours’ houses, too, and playing in the adventure playground at the end of the road. Not an earth-shaking life, but a happy one…even the school principal had said the other day…

  Sweet God!…Suppose the school ever got to hear of this! How utterly shaming for Debbie and Danny to be branded the children of perverts, sexual freaks. They might even be asked to leave lest their family shame might taint the other children. Relax. How could the school hear of it, unless other parents, or indeed some of the staff, were there being uninhibited and swinging in sophisticated adult fun?…Yes, of course, if anyone was there, a conspiracy of silence would have to be maintained.

  …anyway the school principal had said that he had enormous admiration for the parents of today, since they made so many sacrifices for their children and were so supportive and aware of all their needs. But he felt sure that this effort was repaid in a thousand ways by the fact that they lived in a peaceful community, far away from the wars and tensions and differences that rend other countries.

  Stuart had said that people who went to these parties were normal, ordinary, good, respectable citizens like everyone else. He said that all they were doing was trying to push forward the frontiers of pleasure. They were trying to add to the delights of normal sexual love between a married couple…and be less selfish about it…by offering to share that love with other married couples. He had read, and he believed that there was a lot of truth in it, that this kind of generosity, this giving of your rights in your partner to other friends, was an act of love in itself. And, even more important in these treacherous days, it completely bypassed the need to be “unfaithful” to the other partner—there would be no forbidden lovers, or illicit affairs. It would all be out in the open. It would be healthy and good.

  Stuart talked about it with the enthusiasm he had when he first talked about his allotment. His eyes had that gleam that they once had when he had planned a life of self-sufficiency. The rest of London might starve, might poison itself with nuclear fallout, but Stuart and Pat and Debbie and Danny would grow what they needed for survival on their little allotment, and, a-ha, who’d laugh then? Pat had asked mildly how Stuart would protect his runner beans and cabbages against twelve million starving Londoners if they were the only family which had managed to be self-sufficient. Stuart had said it was a technicality.

  The Saturday and Sunday gardening continued, it had lost its first flush of real excitement, but nowadays it brought them a gentle pleasure. Perhaps this would happen with wife swapping, too, Pat thought. Soon the heady excitement and flush of enthusiasm would pass, and they would settle into a weekly wife swap happily and resignedly travelling to Seven Sisters, or Barking, or Rickmansworth, or Biggin Hill.

  Stuart seemed so alarmingly calm about it all. This as much as anything disturbed Pat. She had asked him, did he think he should get new Jockey shorts.

  “No, love, I’ve plenty up in the wardrobe,” he had said, mystified.

  “For the party,” she had hissed.

  “Why should I need new Jockey shorts?” he had asked, as puzzled as if she had said he should buy
a new transistor radio. “I have nine pairs upstairs. I tell you, I have plenty.”

  As the event drew nearer Pat worried more about Stuart. Did he have no nerves, no feelings, that he could take it all so calmly…the fact that he had written to a box number and a woman with a voice like a circular saw had telephoned?

  She had never given too much thought to their sex life. It had always seemed very pleasant and adequate, and she certainly didn’t regard herself as frigid, not in the sense of the women’s magazine articles on the topic. She couldn’t remember saying that she had a headache, or that she didn’t feel like it. There was, she supposed, a sort of sameness about it. But then, for heaven’s sake, some things are the same. The taste of a bar of chocolate or a gin and lime is always the same. The sound of Beethoven’s Fifth or Johnny Mathis is always the same. Why this great urge for something different?

  Pat was hurt and puzzled. She had read about women who discovered that their meek and conventional husbands actually liked bondage or violent pornography…so perhaps she should feel relieved that Stuart had suggested only nice old middle-class wife swapping. Still, Pat felt aggrieved. If she was prepared to live for the rest of their days with their life as it was now, saving for the house, going on a trailer holiday once a year, and making love comfortably in the darkness and privacy of their own room twice a week, then it was somehow ungrateful of Stuart not to feel the same about it.