Bad Girls Good Women

‘Tell me,’ Mattie implored.

‘Ah, it’s all bollocks. All of it. That’s my consolation. But I’ll tell you, if you want to hear.’

Mattie chewed her way through her tough steak and the floury chocolate pudding that followed, listening, entranced. He told her stories of Alex, and Sybil, and Larry, stories of first nights and tours and try-outs, triumphs and disasters.

When the burgundy was all gone he started on brandy, in a fat balloon glass. He had become briefly animated, embellishing his stories with comic accents and breaking into his thunderous belly-laugh, but the brandy seemed to puncture his euphoria. He sank back into his chair again, staring over Mattie’s head.

‘And now here we are. Washed up in fucking Yarmouth, dining out with a little girl stage manager.’

‘I’m not a little girl,’ Mattie said softly.

After a moment he said, ‘I know that. I’m sorry.’

Their eyes met, and it was Mattie who looked away first. She saw the waiters standing impatiently by the door. The chairs were stacked on all the other tables.

‘I think they want us to go.’

‘Who gives a fuck what they want?’

But he fumbled for the bill that had been placed at his elbow an hour ago. He slapped the pound notes on to the plate, and they stood up together. The waiter opened the door for them with an ironic bow.

Outside, the air broke over them like an icy sea-wave.

Even Mattie gasped, and John lurched sideways. His legs seemed to buckle under him and he clawed at Mattie for support. She leaned into him, trying to support his weight.

‘Oh, Christ,’ he murmured. ‘A cripple. A fucking legless cripple.’

They tottered together to the nearest lamp-post and leaned against it, washed by the impartial yellow light. John stared into the gloom. The waves crashed dully in the distance, but there was no other sound. They were alone, cut off by the lateness, the dark, and the muffled sea.

Fear turned over like a sick lump in John Douglas’s stomach. He was afraid of everything, the entirety of life beyond this circle of light. And the girl’s hair was close to his mouth, a metallic-shining mass of curls. He shuddered, and then he bent his head and buried his face in it.

She stood still, sturdy, holding him up.

‘Come home with me, Mattie,’ he begged her, knowing that he couldn’t bear it if she refused. She was so warm, so full of bloody life.

‘All right.’

It was as simple as that.

They began to walk, zig-zagging, with Mattie’s arm around his waist. He was too heavy for her, too drunk to be controllable. They reached the sea-front and the wind flattened them against the wall. A ball of screwed-up chip papers scudded past their feet.

‘This way,’ John said grandly, and they leaned forward into the salty blast.

He was staying not in digs but in a small hotel at the far end of the front. They stumbled up the steps and Mattie caught a glimpse of a sign in the front window announcing Vacancies. The doors were locked, and John pressed his fist against the bell push, mumbling.

After a very long time a dim light blinked on over their heads. A yawning boy opened the door and gaped at them.

‘Where is the night porter?’ thundered John. ‘Why should my friend and I be kept waiting on the front steps?’

‘I’m sorry . . Mattie began, and then with a flutter of relief she realised that the boy wasn’t interested in anything except getting back to his bed.

He bolted the door behind them and disappeared. John took a key from a row of wooden pigeonholes and held it up for Mattie to see. ‘Number thirteen. Not a difficult one to remember, luckily.’

She followed him in silence. The hotel smelt pungently of air freshener and boiled vegetables, and then they passed the bar and the hoppy stink of beer was momentarily dominant. Mattie thought of the travelling salesmen congregated in there in the empty evenings. Past the bar they negotiated a flight of stairs, and reached John’s room. After several stabs with the key he found the door and opened it. Mattie looked back down the bare hallway, and then she followed John Douglas into room number thirteen. The ceiling light was very high up, a fringed and bobbled shade pendent in a grey, shadowy space. The room seemed full of shiny brown furniture, ranks of unmatching wardrobes and glass-topped dressing tables. The double bed had shiny wooden head- and footboards, and a green candlewick cover. The curtains were faded green velour and the carpet was a third shade of green.

Mattie wondered, Am I going to do this, here?

John Douglas took off his overcoat, and put his hat and scarf on one of the dressing tables.

‘Excuse me a minute,’ he muttered. He went out of the room, and Mattie heard the clank and flush of a lavatory. She stood motionless, still in her thin coat, waiting. John came back and closed the door. He came to her, and with his big hands began to undo her buttons. When he saw her bare shoulders he was breathing heavily, with his mouth open. He touched the scattered golden freckles with his fingers.

Mattie felt nothing, except the cold air of the room on her skin.

With a sudden blundering movement John pushed her backwards on to the bed. He fell on top of her, squashing her with his weight. Experimentally, Mattie reached up and put her arms around his neck. He kissed her face and told her, puzzled, ‘You taste of salt.’

The wind had blown the sea-spray into her face.

He licked her cheek gently. There was tenderness in it, and it touched her. She turned her head to find his mouth, but he had drawn back a little. He was lying with his eyes closed, and she listened to his breathing. It was a moment or two before she realised that he had fallen asleep.

Mattie looked up at the tiny light above them. Even the feeble speck of it seemed to hurt her eyes, and she realised that she was exhausted. Slowly and gently, inching herself sideways, she extricated herself from John Douglas’s heavy limbs. She went across to the bathroom and washed herself in cold water, then crept back into the bedroom. John hadn’t moved. He looked like a big, crestfallen child. Mattie struggled to pull off his trousers and jacket, and he grunted and pitched away from her. Under his clothes he was wearing long underwear, his big hands and feet protruding from the ribbed cuffs of it. She felt hot with her efforts, and with sadness, and with the burgundy fuming in her head.

Mattie half undressed herself and pulled the covers up over both of them. The weight of him in the bed beside her felt strange, but it comforted her. She fell asleep at once.

When she woke up again it was daylight. She frowned at the tall rectangle of light in front of her, and then it resolved itself into a window, with thin sunshine filtering through greyish net curtains. There were green velour curtains framing the net. She remembered, and turned under the bedcovers to look for him.

The bed was empty, although the pillows on the other side were dented and creased. He had been here, then.

Not a dream.

The room was empty too, for all the lowering, shiny furniture. Mattie drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She lay and listened to the sounds of doors opening and closing, distant hoovering, a car passing outside. She was thirsty and her head felt muzzy.

The door opened. John came in and closed it with a gentle click, before he looked and saw that she was awake. He stood at the side of the bed, peering down at her. Then he sat down heavily on his own side. He was wearing a startling, red paisley dressing gown.

‘I’m sorry,’ he offered at last. ‘That wasn’t a very attractive display, was it? I don’t often drink like that, although it may surprise you to hear it. Can’t afford it, for one thing. And when I did I used to be able to hold it. But I’m an old man now. Failing in every direction.’

Mattie broke into his monologue. ‘Fifty-four isn’t old. Not if you don’t let it be.’

She remembered how he had looked last night, in his underclothes. She felt pain for both of them, but John laughed. He was snorting a little, running his fingers through his hair so that it lay back flat, like a badger’s. He stood up again and walked restlessly around the room, then stopped at the window to stare through the mist of grey net towards the sea.

In a low voice he asked her, ‘Do you want to try again?’

Mattie tried to blot out the room and its depressing furnishings, and the dusty, heavy green folds of fabric shrouding them.

The room didn’t matter. They were here, that was all.

She was troubled more by the sense that nothing else mattered, either. Whether John Douglas made love to her against this shiny wooden headboard, or not. It wouldn’t make any difference. It wouldn’t be a cataclysmic moment, not like in the stories. Except that there had been that moment of tenderness last night. That stayed with her, like warmth and wetness still on her cheek.

Afterwards she had undressed him and he had been vulnerable.