The thought came to her in the pulsing shower as she
waited for the hot water to come back. A
forty year-old memory of Clive, who worked for the Civil Service and was proud
of it, displayed his Civil Service Car Club membership disc in his sturdy navy
blue Rover. She’d mused over that badge
even when they were together, and she did so again now as she soaped
herself. He’d taken such pride in his
life, she was sure he’d displayed that badge to show his greater membership and
professional position in the Civil Service.
Because he was – Clive - very civil.
Proper, in his tweed jacket and dark cavalry twill slacks - casual wear
for evenings and weekends - soft Viyella shirt. Neat, but odd for a man in his
late twenties, when most men she knew were wearing tight velvet trousers,
flowery shirts and silk neckerchiefs.
She laughed aloud as she remembered her drunken ministrations
on drunken Nigel one night as he sat vomiting between his legs; she pushing his
head down with one hand while the heel of her other firmly trapped his necker against
his bony knee, effectively strangling him.
She couldn’t imagine Clive ever vomiting in a pub car park.
The hot water returned in time to calm her shivers.
She stepped into it, rinsing and remembering Clive’s Bristol basement; dank and
dingy. She’d always been concerned about
his piano as he worked his way through his classical-seduction repertoire. He’d
quickly understood which melodies stirred her to wild emotions and would
carefully introduce them, a few bars at a time, until finally he played Chopin’s
Polonaise Opus 53 in A flat major throughout; allegro ma non troppo. Looking
back, theirs was more of a Nocturnes arrangement but she was young and in love
with love, so. What Clive didn’t know
was that her analytic mind was systematically assessing his technique. But that was alright, she had a choice. Congress was silent and perfunctory. Afterwards he would thank her, get up and
wash his hands. Things might have
continued this way had it not been for his ski-ing trip to Zakopane. She’d always admired his allegiance to his
father and Poland.
Having need of his camera, to capture the beauty of
the mountains, he arranged to meet parents, sister and brother-in-law halfway, at
Thatcham. They’d dine, hand over camera and meet the new girlfriend, more or
less in that order. Father was charming,
as was sister. Clive conversed almost
exclusively with mother. Now, there are
social protocols without which relationships can neither commence nor
develop. Formal introductions are made,
there follows mild and discrete appraisal in the form of small talk and a
decent acknowledgement by way of eye contact, if not in speech. A cordial parting salutation normally sets a seal
on the nature of future encounters.
Clive’s mama gave few of these and hardly had the braised kidneys been
cleared than judgement had been decided, swift and brutal. The crack, once begun, widened.
Back from ski-ing, hapless Clive resumed his life and
quasi-courtship. He liked her hands, he’d
said. He liked to straighten her
fingers, balancing one hand at a time, palm down on his as he reviewed their
genetic acceptability. ‘You have good hands; they are slim, soft, long fingers,
good nails.’ This, she knew. He went from appraisal of this singular
feature of hers to one of his own body parts.
‘I have a good forehead. It is noble, high.’ She
was not a fool; slim hands and a noble forehead do not a relationship
make. Neither was she interested in
subjecting any more of herself to racial scrutiny when she knew mama would have
a say in it. The end was not well
received.
Clive was shocked, naturally. He’d obviously considered himself a fine catch: noble forehead, Shooters
Hill Grammar and the Civil Service Car Club.
Her failing was the gentleness
of the let-down; they never believed
she was serious. But at least Clive didn’t
accuse her of having someone else. She’d
always felt that, deep down, he knew. He asked for friendship of course; the usual
bargaining. She agreed,
tentatively. A clean break was always preferable
she thought though when, a week later, he called at the flat, just passing by
he’d said. Of course. Crispy brand new denim, gay shirt (checked
not flowery) and horror; red cotton neckerchief tied with well-ordered gay
abandon. His forced cheeriness, staccato,
over frugal milk-less coffee barely carried them over the time it took for him
to run through his prepared questions. Then he was gone. She’d miss the piano.
The shower pulsed tepid. Time to get out before the lasting memory of
her morning ablution should be a cold one.
