Flaming Sussex

‘And she claims to be an expert on posture, of all things – she’s the Lady President of the American Posture League. She’s written a book, God help us. Slouching Towards Gomorrah. And she’s a divorcee,’ she said. ‘Her first husband was called Fruity.’

‘Was he?’

‘I simply cannot take seriously a woman whose ex-husband is called Fruity, can you?’

‘No.’

‘And her second husband was called Minty.’

‘Minty? Are you sure, Miriam? You’re not making this up?’

‘Of course I’m not making it up, Sefton.’

I only asked because Miriam herself spent much of her time during those years with various unsuitable Fruitys and Mintys, while I spent much of my time when I wasn’t with Miriam in the company of Sluggers and Rotters and other ridiculously named low-life Soho characters. I rather miss the nicknames and sobriquets of the dog-end days of the thirties: they were, I see now, for all their squalor, the last days of innocence.

‘The woman is mounting a campaign, Sefton,’ Miriam continued, and she was certainly someone who knew a campaign being mounted when she saw one, so I suppose it must have been true.

‘What sort of a campaign?’

‘A campaign to marry Father, Sefton!’

‘Really?’

‘Yes! She might as well be wearing a veil and carrying a bouquet, for goodness sake. It’s quite ridiculous.’

‘Would you like another cup of tea, Miriam?’ I thought this might calm her down.

‘No, I don’t want another cup of tea. I want you to take this threat seriously.’

‘Of course I take it seriously, Miriam.’

‘Do you, though?’

‘Yes. Entirely.’

‘She is bogus, Sefton, that’s the problem.’

‘Bogus?’

‘Yes. She’s a singer.’

‘What sort of a singer?’

‘Opera. Allegedly.’

‘Allegedly?’

‘Well, I’ve never heard her sing. She may be terrible. Father seems to think she’s marvellous. And she’s American – did I say?’

‘Yes, you—’

‘American par excellence. She’s like … Uncle Sam—’

‘Uncle Samantha, perhaps?’

‘But I can tell you, I think her excellence is rather far from par.’

‘Far from par,’ I repeated.

‘Correct. She is flirtatious and gay.’

‘You’re gay and flirtatious, Miriam.’

‘Yes, but I’m twenty-one years old, Sefton, I’m supposed to be gay and flirtatious. This woman must be – I don’t know – fifty if she’s a day.’

‘Fifty?’ I said.

‘Fifty!’ said Miriam. ‘And she’s a terrible boozehound.’ Like Morley, Miriam had a habit of adopting hardboiled slang more suited to the pages of Black Mask magazine. Her other favourite tough-guy Americanisms included ‘the bum’s rush’, referring to what or where I never quite understood, and the term ‘spondulix’ for money. In later years she also adopted the habit of saying ‘OK’ in response to everything. I was surprised, though, I must admit, that this threatening American was a drinker: Morley strongly disapproved of what he called spiritous drink. She clearly had him under her spell, a spell that Miriam seemed determined to break.

‘She is cloying and giddy,’ she continued. ‘She is dramatic and frowsy. She has this dreadful false laugh, and these ridiculous eyebrows, and eyes that just … winkle you out.’

‘I’m getting the sense—’

‘She is a mean, snobbish, vile, raddled, primped, crisped and bleached sort of a beast, Sefton.’

‘I—’

‘With this ludicrous heaving embonpoint. Constantly projecting.’

‘She—’

‘She belongs in a straitjacket, frankly.’

‘That’s a bit strong, Miriam,’ I said.

‘A bit strong, Sefton? She is fake, man. Completely fake! She recently sang the virgin in Gounod’s Faust, for goodness sake.’

‘But—’

‘She is oval and—’

‘I get the impression that you’re really not keen,’ I said.

‘Whether or not I am keen, Sefton, is entirely beside the point. Theirs is a friendship that is frivolous, fraudulent, purposeless and dangerous.’ A more accurate description of Miriam’s own relationships with men it would be difficult to imagine. ‘She has a dangerous hold on him, Sefton. Like Wallis Simpson. And you know what they say about her and her Shanghai tricks.’

‘Speaking of friendships,’ I said, not wishing to encourage Miriam to speculate any further upon Mrs Simpson’s much rumoured amatory skills and virtuosities out loud in an East End pie and mash shop.

‘Yes?’ said Miriam, leaning forward in her chair. ‘Might I cadge a cigarette, Sefton?’ Cadge she did. ‘Would you mind?’ I dutifully lit her cigarette, she tossed back her head, took a deep gulp and relaxed. ‘Go on,’ she said, gesturing with her cigarette.