Janice Gentle Gets Sexy (12 page)

The entrance by Troilus into his lady's chamber while Pandarus pleads the hero's case, she reads. A favourite piece of Janice's. And she sucks heardly at the chocolate bar.

This Troilus ful soone on knees hym sette Ful sobrely, right be hyre beddes hed .
..

Momentarily she allows herself to transpose Troilus for Dermot Poll but buries the thought of it immediately. Their union had begun with the purity of a lily flower and who was to say it might not stay that way? Like the chaste love of Dante and Beatrice? She reads on. It is all much safer in books.

Reading
Troilus and Criseyde
serves only to increase Janice's vagueness about sex. In practical terms Janice was comfortably vague. Sometimes when she was sitting in the bath she would look down, past the three large rolls of white flesh, and observe that mysterious place, deep in a forest, without being at all privy to its secrets. She tried not to think that in order to get
her
both parents must have experienced this thing at least once. But this was such a disturbing notion that she usually pulled out the plug at its inception and let the thought vanish down the gurgling waste. One day, she always vowed, one day
...
In the meantime her books did not contain any reference to it because she did not want to get such an important thing wrong. Love she knew, for love was within her. But sex? She knew it not. And she had no desire to invent it.

She reads on, still waiting for the knock, still taking comfort from Troilus, who placed his faith in love so strongly that it reflected itself back upon him, sweetly blinding him from the truth that its object would finally betray. The bedroom scene, Janice Gentle thinks, is one of the most enchanting in fourteenth-century literature. As a matter of fact, thinks Janice, she had rather hoped Sylvia Perth would take the role of Pandarus in the bedchamber herself and sort of
throw
Dermot into bed beside her, as Pandarus threw Troilus in next to Criseyde, once Janice had located him. Now
that
isn't going to happen, is it? She sighs. Life has been seriously unkind, considering that all she has ever really wanted is to seek, to find and love and worship back.

'But al shal passe; and thus take I my leve.' The noises outside continue.
At
least, so far, the knock has not come. '. . . thynketh al nys but a faire,' she reads. 'This world, that passeth soone as floures faire . . .'

Yes, she thinks, that is the tragedy. That the world is so potentially fair, yet made so ugly. A deep and tragic beauty. She is best set apart from it until the
ti
me comes when it will bloom for her. Christine de Pisan knew this; Langland knew this; Chaucer knew this. Life is a journey in which the valiant banner of beauty must be flown. She will not write of ugliness. How brave, she thinks, those Canterbury pilgrims were, travelling the ancient and dangerous byways with only their stories and their small number to keep them safe. But she will also be ready to travel when the time comes. Alas, it seems more remote than ever. With Sylvia Perth gone, to whom can she turn? And where can she get enough money to continue this Quest of hers? (She remembers the bank manager and shudders. Never. Never. No. No. No.) At least the travellers of yore knew exactly where they were going. Janice doesn't even know that yet. At least Canterbury Cathedral was accessible, even if footpads and forests made it tricky. And at least they all had enough money sewn about their persons. Janice doesn't know how much, if any, is at her disposal. She sits on, hearing the noises outside, wishing they would go away, waiting for the demanding knock to come as Gothic souls might wait for Armageddon. And she decides to do the only thing possible in the circumstances.

Nothing.

After all, Sylvia Perth turned up magically upon her doorstep all those years ago. Why should not another? It is as likely as anything else.

She continues to read, turning her mind from the hubbub beyond her door. On the page all is serene and elegant.
Vous ou Mort.
What are the oaths and scuffles in the corridor to that?

Janice sits silent, save for the flicking of a page and the slightest murmuring of the words as she reads. Across the room the machine sits silent. It, too, is waiting for a spark that will kindle it to life.

*

The
Little
Blonde Secretary puts the cover over her machine, tidies her desk and takes her bag to the Ladies'. She puts paper all over the seat and does a little pee before coming out, washing her hands, and fluffing up her hair. She peers at her eyebrows, which need tweezing, she thinks, and returns to her office. Through the half-open door she sees the Boss Masculine, cigarette in mouth, telephone at ear, brush one of his shoulders with his free hand. Disgusting, she thinks, and heads for the homeward tube, her little metal heels clacking quickly along the pavement. A workman gives her a wolf whi
stle
, to which she returns a haughty look. All the same, she takes it as her due. She takes care of her appearance and cannot grumble if they wish to show their appreciation. She is feeling slig
htly
miffed since the plain (and slig
htly
smelly) girl who works the switchboard has announced today that she is having a baby. The
Little
Blonde Secretary was surprised to find out that she was married at all, really, given that hairstyle. Clack, clack,
clack, go her heels and she cla
tters down the station steps in a trice.

'Guess what?' says Derek, forking in whole lumps of fish and swallowing almost without chewing. 'I've ordered the suite for the bathroom and you should just
see
the taps.'

'Chew, Derek,' she says.

He begins to describe them. He smiles as he does so. Out come those teeth again with little bits of fish attached to them.

'When you have finished what is in your mouth, Derek,' she says.

He gulps and begins describing them again. Brunei, when first he beheld the joys of ironwork, could not have been more enthusiastic.

The Little Blonde Secretary Bird feels better. She likes Derek to be occupied. Nobody else will have anything like those taps since they are newly over from France. When, one day, their home is complete and they begin to entertain, people will be very, very impressed. It's a shame they haven't had much opportunity to see their friends since they moved here, but what with one thing and another there just hasn't been time . . .

'Lovely,' she says, and adds some water to the teapot. On the kitchen table is a note she had made to herself. It says, 'Eyebrows!' and is underlined several times.

Derek pushes his plate away and begins reading the catalogue for extractors. He will watch
Coronation Street
first (she likes him to digest his food properly) and then begin measuring up.

*

Square Jaw is humming to himself as he makes his way out of the Rawalpindi and back to the car. He has bought lamb pasanda, chicken mughlai, Bangalore okra, special dhal, stuffed paratha and plain nan (remembering that Melanie prefers these to rice). With a selection of relishes, and mango ice-cream. His heart is once again light. He is doing the right thing. He is courting her as she asked. Is he not?

Melanie is also humming. She has decided to push the boat out after all and makes fish kebabs, steak au poivre, and pavlova. The magazine menu also suggested mango ice-cream, but it is not a fruit she cares for. Besides, there is quite enough to eat and, she simpers into the fish marinade, they don't want to be sitting up eating
all
night now, do they? He will understand from all this what she means by tokens of love. She smiles and hums again. Won't he?

*

Red Gold has persuaded Mrs Lovitt to cover for her in the afternoon. 'I have something to deliver to Lambeth Palace,' she says, 'and I need to wait for a reply.'

If you are going to lie successfully, she remembers him saying before a television interview, then lie outrageously.

Mrs Lovitt is impressed. Lambeth Palace!

'I wish I could say more,' whispers Red Gold, 'but I am sworn to secrecy.'

Mrs Lovitt's eyes bulge. She practically genuflects. And only from Cockermouth. Truly the Church is taking a serious approach to the North-South divide. Mrs Lovitt is from Guildford and has had nothing to do directly with Lambeth Palace
ever.

Red Gold slips away. She intends to call into a department store first and use their make-up.

Her heart beats painfully.

Her hands tremble.

Love.

She could almost faint with the prospect of the wicked act before her.

No, Arthur, she says, when his sad face invades her excitement, I have been a good wife and have atoned for not loving. This is my reward. Just one look, one meeting perhaps (her desire for this is too powerful not to hope), and then, no more. Just this one thing. To see him again, to talk to him. What harm can it do? Just this once?

*

When the ambulancemen came to collect the body, they found there were two. One very dead, one alive and groaning. The corridor was warm and airless. Mr Jones stood to one side to let them pass. They sniffed.

'Been here some time by the smell of it,' said one.

The other put a clean white handkerchief to his nose and nodded.

Mr Jones picked up his tool-box, stepped over the body and stood close to them. He was interested in what they had to say.

'Must have been here for days. Phew!' They spoke in unison and with some relish.

'On the contrary,' said Mr Jones with dignity, feeling in some way this was an aspersion on his efficiency as caretaker. 'It has only just occurred.' He stepped closer. They recoiled anew.

'Christ,' said the one with the handkerchief. 'It's him.'

Warm air, closed-in corridors, body heat and pickling vinegar create an odour not unlike the rotting of corpses or unwashed feet. Mr Jones was asked to leave the area and he did so thankfully. His onions called. From the slowly cooling body of Sylvia Perth came the fragrance of Arpege and Ottoman roses. Breathing free again, the ambulancemen advanced on the injured policeman and made as if to tend to him. Good manual training made sure that the living were always dealt with first. Sergeant Pitter whimpered as they made to move him, and suggested they should deal wi
th the corpse first. He wanted ti
me to build up to the idea of going anywhere; at that precise moment the corridor floor and his position upon it seemed the best and only place to be, and he was rather afraid of bursting into tears or something disgraceful if this comforting space were taken from him.

They carried Sylvia Perth with her mingled scent of Arpege, roses and death juice very gently down the stairs and settled her comfortably in the ambulance. Then they went back for the injured policeman. Without enthusiasm he heard them returning slowly up the stairs. He had just found a position in which the pain, though acute, was bearable, providing he bit the end of his tie and thought of Mrs Pitter's marmalade pudding. The mind plays useful tricks when the body is under siege. The two ambulancemen came on resolutely and stood over him. He relinquished the pudding, though not the tie, and looked at them.

They returned the look and both had the simultaneous thought that they had seen this officer before. But where? The one scratched his head, the other looked inquiringly. The policeman stared from one to the other with pleading eyes.

'I know you'll do your duty by me,' he said, and also wondered where he had seen them before.

It was the phrase 'do your duty' that gave it away. Light dawned for the two ambulancemen. The last time Sergeant Pitter had uttered that phrase in their presence it had been under very different circumstances and in a very different tone of voice. Then it had been said with intimidating sarcasm shortly before PC Pitter, the energetic police recruit eager for promotion, had stove in their placards and upturned their emergency-fund stall,
fair
pay
for
ambulancemen
their placards had said before being ground into the pavement by an exceptionally well-polished boot. Twelve weeks of no pay, the vilification of politicians and the tag of killers by default in the tabloid press left a deep impression. The dispute may have been years ago but the memory was fresh for ever in their minds.

They nudged each other to affirm recognition and narrowed their eyes.

'It
is
him?' said the one. 'It is,' said the other. 'Right?' said the one. 'Right,' said the other.

They rubbed their hands and spat on them. Sergeant Pitter did not altogether like that gesture. He had seen it once or twice preceding a particularly gruesome wrestling match. With some embarrassment he found himself saying, 'Be gentle with me.' They spat, rubbed, advanced again and bent towards him.