In the corner of a small dim lit crowded bar. Around the corner from a cheese shop. Clementine taking out an orange ten shilling note. To purchase large brandies. As we sit together in a tight corner. Upon this reunion. Just when with the damp bleakness of this town the soul was freezing up. To see a face I know nearly laughing. Gay and gurgling. Free of pox and roller skates. Crossing her legs. Pulling her skirt down on white cold knees. Her strong big fingers around her glass. If the world is empty. The smile of another fills it up.
‘I got a positively devastating note from Gail. She was as it’s said these days slugged in the kisser by Jeffrey. Poor girl. Jealousy. Almost like my former nasty husband who can scratch but not punch. I was having a séance with an old old friend. And we afforded ourselves the privacy of an hotel. Just as we were rather savouring our quiet retreat who should come raging up the stairs pounding on our door but Roger. Demanding to find his wife. I had in my altogether to nip outside on the window ledge. Clinging to god knows what. While Roger with too much to drink and exceedingly riled stormed around the room searching everywhere. I was subjected, totally without garments, to the most harrowing experience. A group hooting, jeering and laughing collected in the street below. I shan’t forget it but how good to see you. Bygones are bygones. This brandy is quite the saving of me. I was on my way back to my flat. Awfully depressed. I get that way. Going from chemist shop to chemist shop all day. I don’t know what these people do for sanitary napkins. I just can’t get an order. But now you’re here, you must let me put you up.’
‘I couldn’t impose.’
‘I insist. I really do. I only live ten minutes away.’
‘Erconwald gave me the address of his laboratory.’
‘But my dear boy you could never stay in that zoo.’
‘He said there was a cubby hole with a couch.’
‘There’s an operating table and a dissecting slab.’
‘O.’
‘You must come home with me.’
‘That’s very kind.’
‘I’m always kind. Have all the scars to show for it. But dear boy. I can’t believe it. I’m really so glad to see you. You’re so young and well profiled, just as Gail says. Would it be awful of me to ask for another brandy.’
The bar packing tighter and tighter. No room left to stand. Drinks held up to the sides of cheeks. Outside were all the wet empty streets. And bubbling within. The voices smiles and deep throated laughter. Her hair swept back in a flowing curve and falling down around her shoulders. With white scalp in a parting down the middle. Tiny speck of dandruff there.
‘I may call you Clayton, mayn’t I. Well Clayton. Ha ha. Ho ho. Shall we have a party. Yes. We shall.’
Weaving along the granite pavements. A group of dark figures armed with parcels. Veronica dancing out in front as they follow in her wake. Take up the rear lugging my gladstone bag. Introduced to one hundred sudden friends in the city. Happy and forgiving. Gay and carefree. Offering drink, cigarettes and sympathies. All the days heavy hearted beneath the lead roofed battlements, shivered by dinner blasts, sopping at sea rescues and cold toed in debt. Now swept away warmly by good fellowship.
Up the steps of a terraced green doored tall house. Between pillars and iron black railings. Ascending more steps at the end of a long hall. Round and round landings. To one last at the top. Guests pour in under the eaves. To snug rooms. One leading to another. Patchwork quilts. Vases of flowers. Corks popping. Strife dispersed. And clacking them just beneath her ears Veronica cavorting with castanets.
Gentlemen waltzing. Others wincing. One woman and all these men. Discussing architecture. Sitting on each other’s lap. How tall and wide is yours. Hands into flies. Let me see. Tell by tugging and pulling. As one repairs backwards to the kitchen. And stands dithering with the fingertips playing wildly on the lapels. Maybe find some hot milk purring on the stove. Warm me up after a long journey.
‘O there you are. You must come out and see Victor do his dance. He contorts in his altogether.’
Clementine with a glass of milk. And a cookie. A naked gentleman against the book case. Gyrating to the click of Veronica’s castanets. And blushing shyly at his onlookers. Two chaps one sitting upon the other. They look up from a large scrap book. And back again. Turning with wide smiling eyes the pages. Of suspended perpendicular and horizontal pudenda. One could be back in one’s innocent castle. With straightforward serpents, bullfights and Gloria playing her instant orgasm. Where my last instruction to Percival was. When anyone asks again at the castle if the boss is in. Say yes. Deeply. In debt. And does not want to be disturbed.
The floor creaking under the weight of the bodies. Veronica twirling between the upright gentlemen tickling momentarily wherever there waved a tool. Till a fist, appearing through a cream panel of the door and followed by a big black greasy head with the face smiling, stopped the gathering dead.
‘How are you all in there.’
A big bellied gentleman entering, a belt across his navel. The rest of his clothing tucked up under his arm. A small spiky penis wagging as he elbowed his way up to Veronica. Planting a big smacking kiss on her cheek.
‘How are you Veronica.’
‘You did not have to break my door.’
‘It was only a friendly act to get into the festivities without frightening you with my sudden appearance all at once. Now for the love of God will you cheer up before there’s need of chastisement.’
‘You’re a horrid dirty person.’
‘I am not.’
‘You shat on my floor last time you were here. It still smells where I had to clean it up.’
‘My good lady I’m too flabbergasted to deny such an outrageous accusation. So I won’t. I’ll admit it. I did indeed shit on your floor. But only over there in a corner where it was out of the way.’
‘Disgusting.’
‘Would you have me risk my health using a water closet where the germs are high jumping up at you off the porcelain. Don’t be so unhygienic.’
‘Will someone please punch him.’
‘Madam I am at most times a pacifist but if any man posing as a woman here so much as twitches his prick at me the city corporation will want to know upon what authority demolition of the present premises was carried out.’
‘I will not stand for more of your barbarous indecorums.’
‘I am madam, to be sure uncombed unlicked untamed unpolished and uncouth but how dare you. How dare you bespeak of me as indecorous when I haven’t yet gathered me flesh together for a memorable pose upon a pedestal in the proper posture of saint and scholar. Both of whom no matter how much their piety and erudition had to move their bowels over the centuries.’
‘You bowel moved and made a sandwich of it. And put it in our picnic lunch.’
‘Madam I am wounded.’
‘And one of my dearest friends fainted unwrapping it.’
‘I am scourged. Cringe do I now before you on my knees. I deny it. The acccusation is an outright slap in the face of my rarest principles. Your fucking la de da dearest friend as a matter of fact objected to me taking an early morning shit out on the lawn with the bunch of you watching from the terrace like you had a winner in the last furlong.’
‘You so much as admit it.’
‘Admit. Nonsense. I deny it. And will report you and Lady Macfugger to the society of coprophagers.’
‘Get out of my flat. This instant.’
‘Not this instant. Not in any bleeding instant as yet unrecorded. Not till I’ve had me humpful bumfull.’
‘Please someone punch him for me. He shat in my hostess’s sandwich. Buttered it and put it in our picnic basket. Punch him.’
‘Madam I stand here. Stark naked before you with the belt across me navel for the sake of decency. I would wish harm to no man. Nor lady. But where a bowel must move in the cause of justice I have moved it. I was apprenticed to the cobbling trade. Anyone of you here take off a shoe and I’ll give you a sole. I crap in the tradition of my an
cestors unenfeebled by the pipe and water cistern.’
Veronica holding hands up to her face. The black belted figure grabbing the man of the embarrassed pink cheeks and shaking him by the clavicles.
‘And what do you think you’re staring at. I’ll corrugate your map till it would trip a goat, you cunt faced parrot.’
A figure emerging heavy shouldered into the fray. Stepping between the two naked men and letting loose with a right and left hook that spun the belted figure around once in each direction to fold in a heap on the floor. Hands gathering him up. Flinging him through the door and down the stairs. In a contortion of flapping limbs. Voices descending. As the body was dumped out the granite porched entrance. And I tip toed through a dark bedroom to peer out into the street. Where the white figure lay in the gutter struggling up, a shoe in each hand. Bending unsteadily to push them on the feet. To stand peeing. One hand shaking a raised fist up at the windows, the other squeezing off a few last drops. With a few words of defiance.
‘I’ll be back.’
Veronica coyly lifting her sweater over her head, unbuttoning three top buttons of her long sleeved underwear, pulling in her belly as it drops around her waist. Clattering the castanets as she weaves along the book cases and out between the playful gentlemen smiling as she sweeps by. Those whose hands were free politely clapping. Two austere elegant guests seated side by side, one’s hand on the other’s knee.
‘Alfred it’s so refreshing.’
Clementine with another glass of milk. Veronica cruising close wagging and shaking breasts. Faint night of clear sky. Shadows of mountains beyond the glistening slate roof tops. A small hunched man entering. The Monk Minor, Up from his casino in the cellar. Where roulette balls bounced till dawn. They said when his mother went on holiday he pawned her newly installed plumbing piece by piece to get started. To now move thinly through the gathering giving odds and taking bets on any human or inhuman possibility.
Clementine quietly retreating. Backwards. To stretch wearily out on a bed. Comfort me. To walk lonely into a city desperate. For the warmth of another voice. Asking your name. Thrice Glandular thank you. Or telling you the time of world it is. Half past bedlam. Put a hand up across the eyes. Feel something tugging at the flies. Two heads down there in the dark. One Veronica. Shouting.
‘Get away leave him alone.’
‘He was perfectly all right till you came.’
‘Take your hand off his penis, he’s staying here as my guest.’
Veronica shoving the figure out the door. Closing it. Gyrating back through the shadows. Sure footed since the roller skates and parasol. Leans down to smack my face. Softly with her breast mounds. Nicely on each cheek. Bring me back to my senses. Overloaded with the unsublime. More shouts up from the street.
‘That tiresome lout. Can you imagine Gail nearly took a bite. Ruined our whole picnic. Horrid monster. But why waste words on him. Let me get rid of everyone.’
Voices saying goodbye. Feet moving down the hall. Steps down the stairs. Shutters closed. Battened down. Lie here. Not so much in sorrow or self inflicted bitterness. But just ready for another tuesday. To say to everyone. Pardon my disfigurement. Wrought by the constant fear of snake bite blast and bullfight. And a double robbery recently of pieces of arse. One elegant the other low slung. Erconwald somewhere in a notebook has my heat of crystallization. Even the weight of my hopes. Measured by his axiometer. Dream of a world where there are patches of surplus women. Rushing to hand out a lifetime of cool fingers tickling the back. Don’t get killed in the rush of men. Undo my laces. Push off my shoes. Hear singing out on the night. Wiggle toes for warmth while Veronica’s standing there. With her body. Weaving back and forth. Come I have in from the country. To feel your breasts and taste your arms tightening around my chest. Never know when fifty eight small minded fuckers will appear on the horizon all at once. And begin to behave repugnantly. Where do I keep my feelings. Of ferocious anger. While I make all my pleasant replies. And pray. Dear God withhold the tranquillity no longer from your harassed servant. And please. If you don’t help at least one of us soon.
At the rate
The world
Is going
It will
Be
Poor old
Everybody
15
‘Darling do that as soon as you can again. Then I’ll put you in my scrapbook.’
White faint dawn. Veronica’s hair hangs down. Beads of sweat on her brow. Crouching over me. Wild grin on her face. Sitting up on it pumping and grunting away. Beams across the ceiling. A bird chirping at the bread crumbs on the window sill. Hardly a second’s rest through the night. Adding grocery bills. And through the zeros stare up and see her eyes. As she speaks down into mine.
‘You are my six hundredth and eighty first man dear boy.’
Horse hooves in the street. Bottles clanking on the steps of these buildings. With big barren cold sprawling rooms. The only warmth tucked up in the attics. Had a dream of Bloodmourn. Rushing up on the bridge of an ocean liner, slapping the captain’s face, taking over the ship and ordering stores of champagne and smoked salmon to be broken open on the quoit deck for third class passengers. Woke with Veronica up on top of me again. The hundreds of arms around her. The well ploughed pasture. Plenty deep for sowing. Sheets and blankets make us a little cave. To cavort in. While I write letter after letter to grand aunt. And get back the same reply.
Dear Auntie,
Please send soon moneys desperately needed to maintain me in the manner to which I must be accustomed or die.
Your devoted grand nephew,
Clayton
My dear Nephew,
Nothing doing, you are on your own.
Your devoted grand aunt,
Jezebel
Dear Auntie,
Only need a few thousand to buy livestock and tide me over till I get up on my feet and roar like a lion.
Your devoted grand nephew,
Prince Clayton
My dear Prince Lion Hearted,
Any roars you make will be out of your own lungs.
Your devoted grand aunt,
Jezebel
Stand barefooted on cold linoleum and pee. See down into a mews. From the narrow water closet window. Horses nibbling hay. Thought the whinnies in the night were stray guests caught in ecstasy on the stairs. Heard fists pounding on doors. Then thudding on jaws. Growlings and rantings through the streets. And whimpers near dawn. How to get out of here. While I still have a prick left at all.
‘Dear boy aren’t you coming back to bed.’
‘I thought I might get dressed.’
‘I’ve tired you out.’
‘O no I’m all right.’
‘I really am awfully sorry. Your walk is quite decrepit. Are you sure you’re all right.’
‘I think something has happened to me around the groin.’
‘I’ve discerned something quite jolly interesting there. If you wouldn’t mind I have my camera here.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t photograph me.’
‘Come come now don’t be childish and a mumble grumble. Then I’ll make you breakfast.’
Clementine standing in poses various. No spoilsport. Profiled in the flood light. Somehow makes one feel quite saucy. Even with the little there’s left. After the lot she’s taken. And now walking back and forth surveying. Sticking out her own chest and flexing biceps before each clicking of her camera.
‘I should have been born a man you know. It’s my overabundance of creative power. Being a woman is simply not enough for me. Dear boy you are quite flaccid. Come come now. Make it big and strong for Veronica.’
‘I can’t I can hardly stand.’
‘O dear what a waste. Let me give it a little tickle and kiss.’
‘No please leave it alone.’
‘Well that’s gratitude. Give you the hospitality of my flat. And the total freedom of my body. I mean are you quite content to stand there and say you can’t get it u
p for a little picture.’
‘Yes I am.’
‘Well perhaps if you had some breakfast then. Cocoa. And some bacon and eggs. You must think me quite cruel. To insist. But my pictures are culturally meritorious. Of course, ha ha, I have had occasion to sell them. You needn’t worry I’m not selling yours. A flaccid penis is only of interest if it can be seen in full erection as well. My boy friends are quite good customers. I’d be starving to death trying to sell sanitary napkins.’
A tiny table set for two. Little bird yellow throated and blue winged joined by another pecking on the window sill. A white bowl with porridge. Veronica sits with strong hands buttering a piece of toast. Kimono open to the navel. Could do worse than have her as house keeper. Be able to mix cement and milk a cow. Arrange flowers in the great hall. Hold exhibitions of her photography in the ballroom. Could be wild. Plead loss of scenic amenity when the county council tries to close it down.
‘Will you come back tonight dear boy.’
‘Well.’
‘You needn’t be frightened. I’ll leave you quite alone. If you wish. You’re so shy. Quite gracefully limbed. We didn’t start out so badly. I’m actually quite a good roller skater.’
Clementine heading down the stairs two at a time into the street. Head chilled hair wet. Cycles massing down the roads. A beep beep of an automobile. Early morning smoke from chimneys sweeping grey across the city. A mist over the park. A tram roaring by. Bell clanging. Could just barely get it up after breakfast. Swollen painfully pink. For a portrait.
Clementine passing the glass canopy of this hotel. A holly tree growing up from the basement. Buy a paper from the newsboy. A woman in a shawl with a chill child in her arms. Sitting on the wet pavement. Turn this corner here. Find somewhere for a cup of coffee. Follow the smell of the roasted bean.
‘Clayton, Clayton, wait for me.’
Gloria. Zooming out of the hotel. Running down the street. In another clinging dress. And black coat flying open.
‘Hey hi.’