Boys and Girls (46 page)

One other evening recently, we were in the drawing room watching a delightfully titillating DVD directed by somebody called Tinto Brass (odd name, I agree – Italian, Alan was telling me, although if that's true you'd rather more expect him to be called Brasso, wouldn't you really? Anyway). Yes – watching this film (he has a thing, old Brasso, about young ladies' bottoms, and who can mind?) – and we had a bottle of Scotch between us, new discovery, Glenmorangie Port Wood Finish, indescribably mellow, and Alan was pulling on a fine
Havana and marvelling at the wonderful truth that no one was about to barge into the room and complain about the stink, condemn the film for objectifying women, and nor to suggest that we had both had quite enough whisky for one evening, thank you.

‘You see – what it is, Blackie, is that we don't really need them. Women. Not, you know – all the bloody time. They make you
think
you need them … maybe they have to think it themselves. But because they make sure they're always
around
, they lead you to believe that their presence is vital. When clearly it isn't. I mean – look at us. Fine, aren't we? Perfectly happy. Got our own little ways, and no damn harpy to mess them all up. But do you know what they'd accuse us of? Do you? Tell you: misogyny. Yes, oh yes – that's what they'd say. Whereas I would call it self-sufficiency. Well … self as in … I mean I don't think that on our own, Blackie, either of us would be that – self-sufficient, no. But as a
couple
we are – oh yes, by Christ. But that doesn't make us co-
dependent
. Does it? Don't know. Maybe it does. But it's
women
, in my view, who despise men, not the other way around. And there isn't even a word for it, so far as I'm aware – not misanthropy, no, that refers to the whole of mankind. But a woman's hatred of men – there isn't even a word for it, so therefore, they would have you believe, such a thing can't possibly exist. Wrong. Look at TV: man puts up a shelf, what happens? Bloody shelf falls down. Woman sighs, wags her head, rolls up her eyes. Look at all the endless bloody articles in the papers and magazines: a woman, a mother – she has a cold and stoically gets on with her ten thousand cares and responsibilities: breast-feeding, slaving over and servicing horrible men, running the government, whatever.
But a
man
 …! Oh – he's convinced he's got
flu
, poor little hypochondriac diddums, and takes a week off work; woman, of course, becomes a long-suffering night nurse. And they'll illustrate it, this piece of blatant hokum, with a library picture of a red-nosed great fat oaf with a towel draped over his head and his feet in a fucking galvanised basin of steaming hot water. Just not
true
, is it? And at Christmas, Christ – the woman, she multi-tasks twenty-four fucking
seven
, as they will keep on saying, fucking journalists, so that everything is prepared and beautiful for the slobbo man who lies on the sofa watching football and drinking lager and buys her a crappy little present late on Christmas Eve in a bloody service station. Or, if she's lucky, Chanel No. 5. Again. Just not
true
, is it? Now women – I don't say they're useless. They're not. Obviously. But do you ever see an article
saying
they are? No you do not. Why not? Think I'll write one, just for the hell of it.'

Amusing, Alan's diatribe – diverting, yes – but irksome nonetheless because all through this latest little polemic of his I had been gamely trying to discern whether or not there was even a suggestion of plot somewhere lurking in this Italian film about young ladies' bottoms. Didn't matter, as it turned out – we didn't get close to the end of it, because just at that moment the doorbell rang.

‘Late, isn't it? Not expecting anyone are we, Alan?'

‘Course not, Blackie. We're never expecting anyone, are we? I'll just see who it is.'

Alan still held his cigar, and tugged on it briefly as he swung open the door. Delight, he later decided, was his overriding reaction when confronted by these two young girls there, lolling against the columns of the porch.

‘Hi,' said one of them – Nordic blonde her hair was, with almost creamy stripes. ‘Sorry to bother you but we're doing a charity walk, yeh? British coastline. And we were wondering if you'd like to sponsor us. Got a certificate here, and badges and everything.'

‘Sponsor you …?'

‘Yeh,' said the other one – smaller, darker, with bright-green eyes, which you don't often see. They both wore the same school blazers – maroon, with a pinkish piping. ‘Like, you agree to give us so much per mile we cover, see? All the money, it goes to this, like – charity? It's all written down here. It's official, and everything.'

‘I see. It's rather nippy, isn't it? Why don't you come inside so we can discuss it?'

‘OK then,' agreed the blondie brightly.

And they must have felt it, you know, Alan was reflecting – nippy, he meant – because look at them, won't you? Just these little pleated skirts, and nothing on their legs.

‘Come into the, um – room, yes? And then you can tell us all about it. Yes, that's right – just in there. First door. Good good.'

‘Nice house …' murmured the smaller, darker one, with bright-green eyes (which you don't often see).

‘Oh I'm glad you, um … we like it, yes. Look Blackie – two young ladies here in quest of our sponsorship. That's right, isn't it? Sorry – I didn't catch your names …'

‘I'm Lucy,' said the blondie, ‘and this is my friend, Crystal.'

‘Crystal … and what bright-green eyes you have, Crystal. Don't often see it.'

‘Yeh,' she agreed. ‘People are always saying that.'

‘Come over here,' offered Black, sitting up and craning his head around (very pleased indeed that he'd managed to snap
off the television just before everyone had walked into the room). ‘Maybe you two girls would like a, um, I don't know – drink of some sort? There's chocolates there, if you …'

‘Yes, girls,' enthused Alan. ‘Do sit. And then you can bring us up to, what is it? Speed. Yes.'

‘Really nice house …' said Crystal again. ‘You got any Coke?'

‘Um – think so,' said Alan. ‘Diet, probably – suit you? And you, Lucy? Coke? Tell us about your charity walk. They're going to do a walk for charity, apparently Blackie. Coastline – that right? British coastline. Not all of it, presumably.'

‘No,' said Lucy. ‘South. Hastings. Bognor, round there. It's the school's idea, but we're quite into it now. And you, you sort of sign up for so much per mile, see? Any amount you want.'

‘Hm. And how many miles do you think you'll cover?' asked Alan idly (and he was thinking that the both of them, you know – they really did fill out nicely those little white shirts of theirs, ties just slightly awry).

‘Well – don't know, really. Depends on the weather and stuff. We're doing two overnight stopovers so, could be … don't know. Fifty miles? What you think, Crystal?'

‘Jesus – fifty miles!' Crystal hooted. ‘That sounds like endless.'

‘Yeh …?' doubted Lucy. ‘Might not be fifty. Forty, maybe. Don't know.'

‘I see,' said Alan, smiling and nodding and really quite gleeful. ‘Well I reckon we could stretch to … hm, what do you think, Blackie? Oh – this is Black, forgot to mention. And I'm Alan, by the way. Sorry – should've … Yes. Well let's see now … say, what? Pound a mile? How's that sound?'

‘Tell you what would sound better,' Black was chuckling. ‘
Two
pounds a mile. How about that?'

Lucy was clapping her hands in delight.

‘Oh yeh – oh wow! That would be great. Oh wow thanks a lot. Most people, they go oh OK then – ten pee. And it is for charity, after all.'

‘Indeed,' agreed Alan. ‘Now then – two Cokes, is it?'

Lucy paused, and looked up cheekily.

‘Um – look, I know it's a bit, um … but you don't have any ice cream, do you? I could really just go some ice cream. What about you, Crystal? Like some ice cream?'

Crystal nodded eagerly. ‘That would be great … but it doesn't, you know, matter if you haven't, or anything.'

Alan glanced over at Black, and briefly their eyes gleamed in fusion.

‘Well it just so happens,' he said, ‘that you two young ladies are in luck. What's more, you might even learn a little bit about the coastline in the process. We can have our ice creams on the beach …!'

Lucy and Crystal eyed each other, slightly uneasily.

‘Sorry …?' Lucy ventured. ‘Don't quite …'

‘Well follow me and all will be revealed. Blackie – you'll pop up in the lift, will you? Meet us up there?'

‘Oh wow!' cooed Crystal. ‘You got a
lift
 …?'

Black was already on his feet.

‘All mod, er …' And then he tailed away. ‘You know – what is it? Cons, yes.'

‘Shall we go? I promise you, you'll be amazed. But in a pleasant way, rest assured. And don't, um – worry, will you? You're perfectly safe. Coming?'

Lucy and Crystal had a swift and whispered conversation
– a thing of eyebrows, squints and elastic lips. They both stood up and were smiling, indicating to Alan and Black their willingness to go for it with a puppylike eagerness overlaying a more modest undertone of sisterly courage and mutual support.

Their reaction upon stepping into the room was more than Alan could have wished for. He had briefly left them just outside (could hear their muffled giggles, bless them, through the panels of the door) while he rapidly set up a gorgeous sunset, the sounds of the gulls and then the lapping of waves at the shoreline. The sand was warm to the touch.

‘Oh –
wow
 …!!' they yelled in unison. And they repeated it several times more and increasingly softly as they wandered in wonder at the seaside – fingertips outstretched, though reluctant to touch, and eyes as wide as wide.

‘Well girls!' Black regaled them, coming into the room and closing the door behind him. ‘Never seen anything like
this
before, I'll warrant.'

Lucy seemed reluctant to disengage the sweep of her eyes from over all of this magic around her.

‘It's just … oh my God, it's just so …! Isn't it, Crystal? It's so
real
 … the look and the noises and … even the
smell
, Jesus …!'

‘Mm,' nodded Alan, quite as pleased as ever he could recall. ‘Salt and ozone and just the merest hint of Sarson's vinegar. Took a while to get it right …'

Black was in a deckchair, holding the blade of his hand across his eyes to shield them from the livid orange glow of the slowly sinking sun.

‘Well come on then, Alan! Ice creams all round, I think.'

‘On my way, Blackie. On my way.'

Yes I am – oh God yes: I am. On my way, yes yes yes, and very much so. Because this bit is nearly new, and I love it so much. Blackie, he arranged it all for my birthday. I nearly wept with joy. He'd somehow tracked down a derelict nineteen-fifties ice-cream van – I know, I know: just so thoughtful. And he'd had it sawn down the middle, longways, and completely and beautifully restored, the half of it, inside and out, and now it stands so perfectly against the whole of the far wall. It had to be assembled on site – and still he managed to keep it all a secret. It's powder-blue and a deepish cream and covered in hand-painted pink lettering and original tinplate signs showing all the varieties of cornets and lollies of the period, each of them sixpence. And does the whippy ice cream nozzle actually work? Why of course it does, and splendidly. I have become quite good at this – and the girls, very gratifyingly, are watching me now as I do it – twirling the cone around in my fingers as the ice cream squeezes out, just to create the ideal whirl. Flakes – we get them wholesale – I now slide into the finished works of art. A grunt of satisfaction from Blackie, squeals of nearly rapture from these two lovely girls – and then Alan plonked himself down in the remaining deckchair. And even the following day, he wholly failed to put into words the extraordinary stab of sensation that jolted him when Lucy, smiling impishly, sat down across him and put an arm about his shoulder. But it was as nothing compared with the very next instant when she blobbed her ice cream onto his nose, laughed quite gurgily, and then licked it off cleanly, with a darting little tongue. Black had beckoned to Crystal, and she sauntered over to his side. He closed his eyes and swallowed quite hard – on the very teetering brink of a now-or-never moment. And then his fingers just barely grazed her calf – lay
there frozen, poised to take flight … and then in the peace that ensued, he slid it up softly the length of Crystal's leg. Crystal looked over to Lucy, who now was kissing Alan, and deeply, and came quite close to a chortle as she crouched down low and laid her head in Blackie's lap. He just longingly exhaled, more than content to just let her get on with it. Alan now stood and guided Lucy to a private section of the beach, and laid her down on to the sand. Only sighs and a gentle moaning, as the burning ball of sun was now extinguished; the scene was then one of indigo night, overlaid by whiffs, and then the stench of pleasure. Tomorrow is not a concern tonight.

It came, though – as next days will, no matter how tenaciously you cling in desperation to the one before, striving to keep a hold on it for just one moment longer. Not though, when it came to it, how Alan felt at all: he bounded out of his bed, wholly refreshed, noting only that it was a little bit past his time, and eager for coffee and Corn Flakes. When Tarzan was awoken by his chimp of a green and sunlit morning with a nice big cup of freshly macerated jungle juice, and uppermost in his mind was just the coming joy of swinging through the trees on ropes of vine, this swiftly to be followed by an energetic bout of chest-thumping and the lowing undulations and then irrepressible echo of his very own siren call … well Alan for one knew exactly how he felt. It was the freedom, that's what did it – the absolute and uncompromised freedom to do precisely as one pleases with the added pleasure of knowing that one's sole cohabitee either shares with enthusiasm your tastes and urges, or else is quite careless and wholly indulgent to all of your other impulses, your every passing whim: those that are peculiar to you. A basic human right, freedom is –
that's what people say: but in truth it's a rare thing, very. We become inured to kowtowing at a horribly early age – civility, it's called, manners, selflessness, concern for the happiness of others … but all it comes down to, if, in the process, it messes you up, is a grinding pain in the bloody arse and a build-up over decades of yearning and resentment that one day when you realise that here is the pattern for, oh my Christ – just
ever
, the dam can burst with irreparable consequence. But the thundering stew of my turbulent waters, it has receded – the boiling of the mountainous waves subdued now, and tranquil, merely a pond with a shallow and silky surface. We live a very regular but not rigid existence, and this suits both of us. Clean and tidy – everything in its place. Order, within and without. Pleasing, and very calming. I am – very calm. And we don't discuss it, you know, but you can see quite plainly the selfsame thing in Blackie – he doesn't erupt at the slightest thing: life no longer appears to him as an eternal inconvenience, a jinxed and worrisome obstacle course, plotted by fiends and goblins. Doesn't even seem to need to dash off to the lavatory quite so frequently. He reads a lot – he's forever reading; just become a member of the Folio Society – he does so much love just the touch and heft of a beautiful book. (I got him a little present recently: Picasso's very late erotic – some would say pornographic – drawings and etchings, rather lovely edition; Blackie immediately dubbed it his Pubist period.) He goes out and encounters people less and less, that's certainly true, not through dread or evasion but simply because he has seen to it – and I, I hope, have abetted him in this – that all he desires is here, with me. And sometimes, in order to spike and enrich the warm and creamy everyday flowing and lapping of our lives together, treats and surprises are in order.