Brenda would invite me round to her house, the odd meal, doing odd jobs for her... an impossible task trying to hold the crumbling walls and woodwork together. Thought of Vie and her "Odd Job Man", the one with the glaring eyes. Brenda too, marching me straight down the road to Matrimony. To her a solution ... not the best, not what she would prefer ... nevertheless .... I did have maybe one or two virtues, a slight possibility ... prodded in the right direction.
Unfortunately for her, I remained recalcitrant, as always, as ever, when someone attempts to put me into harness, could quite clearly see the end of that particular road. Quite compatible, she leaning very heavily on me through the trauma of disposing of her husband ... It had come about, she meeting the children in the street on their way home from school, one sunny afternoon, this by coincidence or design is a matter of conjecture.
Strangely, her life on the streets had made her blossom, after the initial shock waves, after slowly recovering her equilibrium, after finding men who suddenly no longer wanted to return her to the street, to keep her, offering anything she may ask. She had developed an awareness, a confidence in herself. No longer prepared to suffer creeps unless they paid ... money up front. Oh yes, she quickly learnt that one... None of this coming quickly then running away ... dumping her. She was vague ... as if not wanting to bring the subject up when I tentatively asked why? ... of the men she met ... surely there were those with money, surely one or two she could have started another life with? She remained none committal on this point. That episode, those missing months in her life never mentioned again... some rare evenings, she would have a strange look on her face .... perhaps remembering other evenings waiting, waiting for a car, a face. "Preparing a face to meet the faces that she met", preparing herself for whatever hazards the night may bring.
Her husband must have had a considerable shock when she so boldly walked back into the house after creeping out like a mouse, into the snow, into the darkness, vanishing like a shadow. Must have had a shock at the transformation, the way she sat, long, elegant legs crossed, pleated black skirt up, almost to her thigh, cigarette lit, head thrown back, blue smoke drifting in the Sunlight towards the ceiling. No pinafore, no knitting, no running about after him, getting his slippers, no getting his tea ... none of that, rather the reverse. Him hovering, unsure of anything other than the sudden urge to fuck her, this new woman whom, he assumed, had walked back into his deprived existence. She laughed openly at his so obvious assumption ... demanding to know "how much". How much he would pay! What the consideration would be! His mouth falling slightly open, now completely unsure of himself. Certainly her diction was still precise, almost perfect ... but unable to believe his ears ... entwined with beautiful expletives. He heard her telling him to "Get the Fuck out of the house" her voice quietly controlled, unhurried, quite obviously in command of the situation ... enraged at this, he tried to summon up an attitude, perhaps attempting to intimidate this image of his wife. But she would have none of it, remarking quite coldly that she would cut his bollocks off if he started all his old domineering tricks. This, enacted in front of her open mouthed children. Was this so smart lady really their mother?
Perhaps my attraction for Brenda, both understanding the streets, we knew "where our beginnings end". I could talk to her in a language she had learnt, learnt the hard way, the bitter way.
The man had run. Unable to do anything else, overwhelmed, had gone off at a tangent somewhere ... never saw him hanging about King's Cross ... the probability being that he already had a replica Brenda, the old model, stowed away somewhere, someone willing to say "Yes dear", "No dear". Irrelevant ... the man had gone.
Niciun comentariu:
Trimiteți un comentariu