Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
Bill and I stood on the deck of the Cunard liner Ascania gazing morosely at the rain-drenched sheds and docksides of Cunard's Liverpool dock. It was November of 1952, and we had coughed up the princely sum of $140 each for a one-way passage to the U.K.
'Welcome to England,' I said glumly.
'It doesn't look too promising, does it?' Bill said.
'Maybe we could see if we could go over to Ireland from here; it looked marvellously green and sunny when we sailed past it this morning.'
'Good idea,' he said.
'Aw, what the hell; where is Horsley Woodhouse from here? We may as well get it over with.' My recollection of our trip from dockside to 'Uncle' Alf's farm on the outskirts of the ancestral village home of Bill's mother is as foggy as the weather at the time. I do remember arriving at the farmyard late in the evening in a taxicab we had hired at the train station. We were made welcome and spent our first night in England between the cold and clammy sheets of an equally frigid upstairs bedroom.
Naturally we were treated to a two-bit tour of Uncle Alf's farm. It was sufficiently similar to farms around the world that old Alf cleverly provided us with knee-length gum boots to save our 'city' shoes from the abundance of barnyard 'oompah'.
I saw for the first time the 'state of the art' egg production factory with dozens of hens confined to small wire individual enclosures that automatically counted and collected the eggs. A most interesting exercise altogether, except, of course, for the hens involved.
'Yez don't loike Trixie, do yez,' said Bill's auntie. Trixie was an ancient English bulldog bitch who had taken a liking to me. Whenever we were sitting in the drawing room, Trixie would waddle over and rest her huge head in my crotch. If I held my legs together when I saw her approaching she simply laid her head on my knees. The problem with all of this was that, like most of her breed, Trixie was a non-stop drooler. As a result, I had a damp, slimy spot on my crotch and two more smaller ones on my knees. Had I been wearing sensible worsted it might have been less noticeable, but I was wearing a dark blue serge suit and felt this situation was not acceptable for gear I expected to wear on a semi-formal basis for the next year. I began to use my feet to keep Trixie at 'leg's length' in order to frustrate the dog's attempts to demonstrate her affection. The inevitable result was Bill's aunt's comment that 'Yez don't loike Trixie, do yez?'
Meanwhile, a vigorous argumentation was going on amongst Bill's various aunts and uncles living along the village High Street regarding with whom and when he would share hospitality during our stay. After three days we were told that 'Uncle' Wilf would be coming to pick us up.
I was further reminded of the Spartan conditions of English country life when Bill came upstairs while I was packing for our move.
'You're wearing gloves!' he exclaimed.
'What a perceptive fellow you are,' I said. 'Yes, I am wearing gloves. Shall I tell you why I am wearing gloves?'
'Yeah, why are you wearing gloves?'
'I'm wearing gloves because it's so fucking cold up here I can't bend my fingers without them!' I could see my breath condensing as I spoke.
'Yeah, it is a bit cool, isn't it?'. Bill weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds and was well insulated from the frigid temperatures.
'Tell me about it!' I said.
I was packed and ready well before 'Uncle' Wilf's arrival. Trixie was slobbering on the cuffs of my trousers as I stood in the hallway. A few effusive 'thank you's' and meaningless promises later and we were on our way to the village and what I prayed for was central heating. While Bill sat in Wilf's drawing room repeating the 'News from the Canadian Relatives' I wandered down the High Street in search of a pub and a dry cleaner, not necessarily in that order. I found a cleaner first and dropped off my suit pants. I was half way through my second pint at a nearby pub when Bill caught up to me.
'Uncle' Wilf had a sexually aggressive daughter who surprised me with her unexpected enthusiasm one evening when we found ourselves alone in the upstairs hallway. Stark mental images of me in Dartmoor prison garb succeeded in preventing me from following my normal lustful urges. There was also the matter of her age. She was definitely healthy enough, but was she old enough? I guessed her to be about fourteen. What was the legal age of consent in England? I may have missed a good one there, but I rationalized by telling myself that the risks were too great. Actually, I think I was just spooked by the situation. No guts!
Dave, one of the local gallants Bill had met at 'the local' offered to take Bill and me to a public dance at Derby one Friday night. There was a good crowd, an acceptable five-piece band, and a bar. There was a balcony that ran around three sides of the hall where the 'wall-flowers' sat, watching the proceedings below with carefully contrived disinterest. A stunningly beautiful blonde girl sat alone at a table near the railing.
'What's her story, I wonder,' I said to Bill.
'According to Dave, she's Miss Nottingham, no less. Apparently she loves to be asked but she just won't dance, I've been watching her off and on for the last half-hour and she's stiffed at least three guys who've gone up to her.'
'Obviously lacking the necessary smooth technique,' I said smugly. 'Observe and learn, dear boy,' and so saying I started up the stairs. Her 'magnificence' didn't deign even to glance in my direction until I'd pulled up a chair and seated myself next to her. 'Nice dance,' I said cheerfully, manufacturing a 'Mickey Mouse' smile. She turned slowly and fixed me with a look a novice might have assumed on a first visit to a leper colony.
'Yes, nice,' she said flatly as she turned back to watch the dancers below. My loins stirred restlessly as I contemplated the magnificent way in which she filled out her white angora turtleneck sweater. As my entranced gaze travelled upward I noticed for the first time a patch of scar tissue that extended up above the top of the sweater nearly to the jawline. Aha! I thought,.. a clue. She's been burned. Perhaps this accounts for her legendary reticence.
'Are you going to sit there and tell me I've come all the way from Western Canada just to get stiffed by the most beautiful woman in the British Isles?' She seemed to like that approach.
'So it seems,' she said with a slight smile.
'Let me ask you,' I said, 'Why do you bother to come all the way to Derby for a dance when you have no intention of dancing?'
'I like to watch,' she replied.
'You like to watch,' I said. 'Amazing. In which case I should think you'd just love to watch good movies.' It was a shot in the dark.
'As a matter of fact, I do. I love a good flick.' she said, turning back with a smile. Bingo! I thought, and hastened to capitalize on this social breakthrough. 'Great!' I said. 'I'll be coming to Nottingham in a day or so. Why don't you give me your address and phone number so I can call you?'
'I don't mind,' she said casually. 'Do you have a pen and paper?'
'I observed but I don't think I learned bugger all,' Bill chuckled when I returned to our table by the dance floor.
'Quite right, I didn't get a dance but I got something else quite interesting,' I said with a self-satisfied smile.
'Like what?' he laughed. 'A pat on the head?'
'No, my dear boy, not a pat on the head. She gave me her address and phone number. We've got a date, to be arranged at my convenience. Here, have a look.' I slid the piece of paper across the table top for them to view briefly.
'Bloody hell' said Dave, shaking his head in amazement.
Two nights later I walked up to the front of the little row house where Miriam (for that was her name) lived and rang the doorbell. To my amazement the door opened immediately and she slipped out, fully suited up and ready to go. So much for meeting the folks, I thought.
I don't recall anything about the movie we saw or the discussions we had going and coming from Miriam's home, which I presume speaks volumes about the level of entertainment we enjoyed. I vaguely recall her telling me that she worked at the Raleigh bicycle plant. I suspect that pretty well everyone worked at the Raleigh bicycle plant. Or was that in Derby? Whatever.
I clearly recall our conversation at her doorway after we arrived at her home. 'Have you ever been to London?' I asked.
'No.'
'Well, I'll be heading off there in a few days; I thought maybe you'd like to come down for a day or two. We could take in a few shows.'
'Oh, I don't think that's on,' she said.
'There are fabulous restaurants,' I added enthusiastically. I didn't know what the hell I was talking about, of course. 'So whatta you think? Would you like to come down?'
'I shouldn't think so,' she said unenthusiastically.
It was obviously time for me to play my trump card. 'But I may not get back to Nottingham. We may never see each other again!' I tried to affect a slight break in my voice.
'That would be too bad,' she said calmly. 'Ah, well, ships that pass in the night.'
Good Lord! I thought. This is the kiss off. What a fantastic impression I must have made. Ships that pass in the night, indeed! I think I've just been torpedoed!
I raised her hand melodramatically toward my lips, then decided to kiss the back of my hand. To hell with her! 'Ta, ra, then,' I said, turned, and walked slowly away. I sure showed her!
Since my business in Nottingham was abruptly terminated I caught an early train to London the following day. From St.Pancras Station I travelled by London Underground to Piccadilly Circus. I had a thrill of anticipation as I mounted the escalator and stepped out onto the busy intersection. Wow! One of the great cities of the world, and I didn't know a soul. Terrific! New worlds to conquer! Was I lugging my big suitcase with me while I was doing all this? I can't remember.
I checked in at Canada House like a good little tourist and was sent to a bed and breakfast home in Acton, far west near the end of the Central Line of the Underground. I considered myself fortunate to have found such a comfy haven so quickly. The young Irish couple were friendly and her Dublin-born father was a delightfully knowledgeable visitor with whom I had long walks and enjoyable discussions. But there was one significant problem; I was becoming hypothermic!
I thought I had experienced serious cold in Derby. How little I knew! Each night I would crawl between the cold sheets and wait for warmth and sleep. After a few minutes I would reach down for the extra blanket folded at the end of the bed. After a few more minutes of subtle refrigeration I went to the closet and retrieved my cashmere overcoat and placed it above the blankets before crawling back into bed. But the cold was piercing and relentless. I was sure I risked becoming a victim of subtle nocturnal death by freezing.
I still hadn't the heart to tell my Irish hostess that I was quietly freezing to death in her upstairs rented room. After all, the price was right: 3 pounds ($8.40 Cdn.) per week for bed and a lovely breakfast, and she was such a sweetheart. But we were talking survival here! I took the train into Central London the following day and started a hunt for adequate lodgings. I found myself in due course at the tiny upstairs office of the 'Blackbird Booking Agency' in Soho. A tall strikingly attractive brunette was assigned to my case. I should say she assigned herself to my case, in that she was the only person there. Her name was Juno. Her long legs and splendid bosom were gradually causing me to lose my concentration. After rejecting three potential lodgings I had viewed I was sitting across from her in her tiny office.
'A thought has just occurred to me,' she said, thoughtfully.
'All thoughts are welcome,' I said.
'Well, I sort of half-promised my boy friend in Paris I might visit him for a week or so this Christmas.'
'So?'
'So, I've been thinking you might be interested in staying there for a while when I'm out of town.'
'Sounds okay to me. Where is it?'
'Curzon Street. You might find it a bit pricey.'
Curzon Street! The heart of the elitist Mayfair district I was to learn, but in my blissful ignorance I remained unimpressed.
'Sounds reasonable, when can I see it?'
'I'm through here at five. Why don't you meet me here and we can go on over.'
'I'll be here,' I said. We took a taxi from her office shortly after five and went to her flat at 31 Curzon Street.
Juno unlocked the door and we walked up two short flights of stairs to Flat 4. We entered a living room roughly twelve by sixteen feet, carpeted by a green figured rug of acceptably recent vintage.
There were stuffed armchairs and settees in abundance and a cupboard at the back of the living room that opened up into a compact cooking area, and wonder of wonders, a steam heating radiator below the picture window overlooking the front street. There was a bedroom at the back of the flat with a single bed, a closet, and a bureau.
"You'll be amongst the famous ghosts here,' Juno said, smiling mysteriously.
'Ghosts?'
'Indeed! Lord Disraeli lived nearby just at 27 Curzon Street and Lord Henry Wotton of Oscar Wilde's 'Picture of Dorion Grey' used quarters in Curzon Street.'
'I'm not frightened, I already look like that,' I said.
'So what do you think, do you like it? I warn you, it's a bit pricey.' I thought longingly of the steam heating. Warmth! I was also thinking longingly of Juno's magnificent breasts and long silk-clad legs. Perhaps a drink or two would make a sensible start.
'How much?' I asked absently.
'Seven quid a week' she said without blinking. Obviously a try on, I thought.
'Good, I'll take them, er,..I mean I'll take it. I'll pay cash.'
'Lovely, I'll make out a receipt.' She seemed mildly surprised when I didn't dicker.
'Have you got time for a quick drink?' I said. 'We could do this more comfortably in the pub down at the corner.'
'Good idea,' she said. 'I could do with a bit of a bracer.'
'Oh, so could I,' I thought wistfully. My brain was fantasizing wildly. Was she or wasn't she? I mean, how about a girl living on her own in a fully furnished flat in the most exclusive area of London. I ask you!
'What'll you have, then?' I asked when we'd found a table.
'Something dry, a Tio Pepe, perhaps.'
'Right, a Tio Pepe.'
When I returned to the table Juno had lighted a cigarette, crossed her long, black silk-clad legs, and adopted a serene 'Who the hell cares' attitude.
While I was at the bar she had written out a receipt on a blank piece of paper:
'Cheers!' I said, and glanced at the receipt as I took a sip from my pint.
'Does that look all right?' she asked.
'Yeah, fine,' I said, reaching for my wallet.
'You wouldn't want to change that to a month, would you?' she said calmly, taking a sip of her sherry.
'A month? I never really thought about it,' I said. 'What about your boyfriend? Will he mind?'
'Oh, bugger him, he won't care.' Curiouser and curiouser, I thought. Is there really a boyfriend?
'Okay, it's a deal. So I owe you twenty-eight quid.'
'Make it twenty-seven pounds ten.'
'Fair enough!' I said, counting out the cash. I was about to tell her she could take a day or two to clear out her gear when I realized that I hadn't actually seen any personal gear. What the hell was this? Maybe there was no boyfriend in Paris, either. Was this some kind of a scam? How could she do such a thing to a nice clean-cut boy like me? Abomination!
'Thanks awfully,' Juno said, as she tucked the bills carefully into her wallet. Then she tossed back the remainder of her drink, stood up, reached over to shake my hand, said 'Cheerio' and walked briskly out of the pub. My goatish expectations and my erection were diminishing simultaneously as I sat watching her long legs and impeccable bum disappear from my view forever.
The next day I phoned Bill and gave him our new address and promised to meet him at St. Pancras Station on the following Saturday. He insisted on calling it 'St. Piecrust'. I assumed he was joking. That afternoon I walked a block to Shepherd's Market to buy the necessary supplies for Bill's arrival dinner. The domestic rabbit at the butcher's looked too good to resist. I bought a couple of pounds together with small potatoes, carrots, butter, spices and so on and so on. Thus laden down with essential comestibles I nearly overlooked my most important destination; the liquor store. So I stopped at the local vintners, happily on my route to the flat. While the proprietor was wrapping a couple of bottles of good Italian white wine I let my eyes roam over the rows of bottles on the shelves.
'What are those tiny bottles there in the middle shelf?' I asked, pointing over his shoulder. He turned and looked back.
'That be Watney's Stingo,' he said.'Strong stuff that.'
'What is it, then? Some kind of wine or something?'
'Hard to say, lad. I only know from what I'm told that it's got a kick like a mule. Yessir, strong stuff!'
'You'd better give me half a dozen bottles,' I said, skeptical of his dire warning. After all, the bottles were tiny, probably didn't hold much more than four ounces, tops.
'Please yourself,' said the merchant, with a knowing smile as he put the tiny bottles in the bag.
Friday morning I awoke to what would become an historic London 'pea souper'. Planning a visit to the local pub in the market I found that I could barely see my own feet on the sidewalk, probably because I was wearing socks and shoes. I opted instead to give myself an early start to the train station. I waited from half an hour before scheduled train arrival time until half an hour after its arrival but saw no sign of my buddy. I finally decided that we had missed each other somehow. Visibility was getting worse by the hour so I took a cab and returned at a decreasingly slow pace to the flat. Bill was sitting on the stoop with his suitcase beside him.
'What the hell happened to you?' I said grumpily.
'I was just about to ask you the same question,' Bill replied with a little chuckle.
'Whatta you mean?'
'I mean I waited around for about fifteen minutes and finally decided you weren't going to show up, so I took a cab and came on over. I've only been here for about five minutes.'
'Well, I'll be buggered. I stood right by the gate trying to watch everybody getting off the train. I don't know how the hell I missed you. It's a good thing I gave you the address. You're such a clever lad.'
'Thank you, I agree. Kinda spooky, this weather, eh?'
'Could be we're in for a real old 'Jack the Ripper' style 'peasouper', I said ominously.
'I might like that.'
'You mean you won't be the only one in a fog for a change?'
'That was unkind,' Bill said, looking hurt.
'Sorry, I'll try to be kinder and gentler in the future. Now let's get your bag upstairs. I've got booze and food so we won't even have to find us a pub.'
'Well, this is it,' I said as I unlocked and opened the door to the flat. 'Our little home away from home.'
'Very comfy, I'm sure,' Bill said, strolling over to the front window. 'Lots of furniture, interesting but pedestrian view, I assume, if the fog ever lifts.'
'Nothing wrong with an occasional 'foggy day in London town',' I hummed.
'Spare me,' Bill muttered. 'Sinatra you ain't.'
'I have my fans,' I said testily. 'Now, behind these large doors are a small 'fridge' and a 'cooker'.'
'What the hell's a 'cooker'?'
'Try real hard and you may figure it out. Never mind, any cooking around here will be done by me.'
'That's a comfort,' Bill said. 'Speaking of comfort, where do I sleep?'
'Don't you want to see the cooker? By the way, do you like pheasant?' A feeble attempt at distraction.
'Great! I love it! Where do I sleep?''
'Ah, yes; where do you sleep? That's something I wanted to talk to you about. Just follow me,' I said, walking into the bedroom at the back of the flat. 'Actually, that's the one shortcoming; there's only one bed and it's a single.'
'One bed! What about the sofa in the living room?'
'I've tried it. It's too short for me, so it's bound to be too short for you. By the way, I was here first so I 'boneys' the bed.'
'Are you sure we couldn't just flip a coin for it?'
'Sorry, out of the question. Besides, I paid the rent, so I'm entitled. Cheer up, though, I have a solution in mind.'
'Do tell,' Bill said morosely.
'Well, lucky for you it's a double spring mattress, ergo, we simply put the top mattress down here on the floor and Voila!, another bed.'
'You're telling me you want me to sleep on the floor?' Bill said incredulously.
'What's the matter with that? It will actually be more comfortable than what I'll be sleeping on, and it beats the hell out of that walk-in freezer they called a bedroom up at Derby, and you won't have my face in your elbow all night.'
'You mean your elbow in my face, don't you?' he said.
'Whatever. Christ! I haven't even had a drink yet!'
'Hmm, or your toenails in my ankles. Right! I'll try it.'
'Good,' I said, 'that's settled then. Let's have a drink.'
'Good idea!'
In the kitchenette I started some potatoes and peas to cook and shoved the rabbit sections into the broiler. I took the top off a jar of Cumberland sauce and set it in a pot of hot water to warm.
'Do you wanna try some of this Watney's Stingo?' I asked.
'Why not? There aren't much more than a couple of swallows in a bottle from the look of them.'
'The bottle store guy said it was quite potent.'
'Oh, bugger him,' Bill said, taking a sip. 'It tastes sorta like port, eh?'
'Whatever you say. I think I'll just stick with the white bingo.' I went over to the cooker and checked the progress of the rabbit and the vegetables, then went over and sat facing him again.
'So how did you make out with the Queen of Nottingham?' he asked.
'I didn't!'
'You're joking!'
'Nope, unless you think of a firm handshake and a deathless epigram as 'making out'.'
'An epigram?'
'Right! I gave her my best pitch and she stiffed me. When I told her, almost with tears in my eyes, that I might never see her again if she didn't come to London, she laid the epigram on me.'
'What was the epigram?'
'Ah, well, ships that pass in the night.'
'She said that? You must have been devastated, poor boy.'
'I was deeply wounded,' I said dryly. I opened another bottle of Stingo for him.
'I'm sure you were.' he said.
'On the other hand, however, I ran into Elfie at the coffee shop up at the corner yesterday so I feel a recovery coming on already.'
'My, you are a lucky fellow. But what about the dumb Irishman who she spent all her time with on the boat?'
'You mean 'with whom' she spent all her time?'
'Oh, thank you! You boring syntactical prick!'
'Very good! Excellent word! Nine out of ten on that!' I said. 'Actually, I'm a boring grammatical prick, but never mind. The answer to your question is that, miraculously, they were just in the process of bidding each other a fond farewell.'
'There must be a God after all,' Bill said solemnly.
'The possibility looms,' I said. 'Anyway, I'm meeting her there tomorrow; we're going to do something.'
'How rippingly jolly,' Bill said sarcastically.
'Quite so! Now how about some food?'
'Great idea, I'm starved! While we're eating I'll tell you about Uncle Wilf taking me out to see the dam bomage. Apparently, if the German bombers got lost during a raid or couldn't drop their bombs for any reason they just jettisoned their bombs and headed for home.'
'Forgive me for interrupting, but did I hear you say 'dam bomage'?'
'That's what I said, 'dam bomage', oh, damn, did I say that? I meant 'bam domage'. No, that's not right! What did you say was in this stuff?'
'Never mind,' I said. 'You were warned. Pull up a chair, I'll load up the plates here at the cooker'. I placed two large pieces of rabbit on Bill's plate and filled the rest with vegetables. 'Lovely fresh vegetables,' I said, setting his plate in front of him. I served myself and pulled up a chair across from him. 'So tell me all the rest of the news from the dynamic little village of Horsley-Woodhouse.'
'Just the same old crap,' he replied, wrapping his mouth around a generous portion of grilled rabbit. 'Boy, this pheasant is delicious,' he said.
'Glad you like it,' I said with a straight face. 'So, did Uncle Wilf's horny little daughter manage to get you alone at all?'
Bill looked up with a quizzical expression on his face.
'What makes you think she's so horny?'
'Because she took a run at me once when we were alone upstairs.'
'You're joking!'
'I don't joke about things like that,' I said. 'I made an instant decision that she was potential jailbait, so I backed off, which wasn't easy, I assure you; she's a real tiger! How old do you reckon she is, anyway?'
'Maybe fifteen, I never really thought about it.'
'She's twelve, actually, just had a birthday a month or so ago.'
'How the hell do you know that?' Bill said. His eyes had widened and he had a stricken look on his face.
'I asked her brother, of course. Jesus! I hope you didn't do anything with her!'
Bill flushed red. 'Son of a gun' I never dreamed she was so young. She's fairly well developed, actually.'
'I know, it can be very misleading. You could be in deep doodoo, though. Has your back been itchy lately? I have an idea they still give the lash for that over here. A bit old-fashioned, but I definitely approve.' Bill had turned slightly pale.
'Not to change the subject, but how did you enjoy the rabbit?'
'The rabbit? What rabbit?'
'The rabbit you were just eating, don't you remember?' I said, straighfaced.
'I thought you said it was pheasant!'
'Actually, I didn't; I just asked you if you liked pheasant; it was sort of a rhetorical question. I was afraid if I told you it was rabbit you wouldn't eat it!'
'You're probably right.'
'But it's good, isn't it?'
'As a matter of fact, it is,' Bill admitted grudgingly.
'I can tell you something else you might find edifying,'I said comfortingly.
'Like what?'
'Like I was only joking about how old your little cousin is; she's actually fifteen.'
'For sure?'
'For sure, I guarantee it.'
'Christ's mother, that's a relief.'
'I'll tell you something else you'll like.'
'What's that?'
'I'm not going to pick on you for at least a week'
'Oh, Heaven be praised! Thank you, thank you! You've given me an absolutely marvellous reception to London, private chauffered limousine at the train station, clear pollution-free atmosphere for the first time in years, a luxury flat with my very own comfy floorbed, a fabulous food menu, healthful aperitifs, the whole truth and nothing but the truth about my juvenile relatives! What did I do to deserve such bounty?'
'You didn't have to do a single thing, pal; I only wanted to show you I love you!'
'I hate to think what it would have been like if you didn't like me,' Bill grumbled. 'As a matter of fact, I'm feeling a bit drowsy right now; maybe I'll go in and try out my new fart sack.'
'I'm sure you'll love it,' I said. 'Sweet dreams.'
I washed the dishes and did a bit of letter writing then started yawning myself. I got ready for bed and crawled between the sheets. I leaned over before switching off the light. 'How is it down there, pal?' I asked quietly. There was no answer. Great stuff, that Stingo!
The following morning we awoke to an eerily silent London. Out on the street I had the impression that I was scuba diving in turbid water. Visibility was down to less than two feet and everything was done in slow motion.
Bill had become chummy on the boat with a carpenter called Wally who lived in Dagenham far down by the London Docklands. In spite of the nearly hopeless transportation conditions Bill was determined to visit him.
'If I can make it as far as the tube station the rest should be a piece of cake. They don't worry about fog on the underground.'
'What about at the other end?'
'No problem; I'll just phone Wally. He said he'd come down and get me.'
'I'm tempted to come with you but I promised 'Blue Eyes' I'd meet her at the coffee shop so I'd better show up, just in case.'
'She'll never show in this weather,' Bill said.
'You never know. She might be just as nutty as you are.' I regretted not being able to see the expression on his face. While we were standing on the front stoop talking, blurred faces without bodies were floating past us. Unseen persons talked in muffled tones to their friends; a taxi came past at a speed of roughly two miles an hour with a man, presumably the 'passenger', walking along in front with a flashlight to guide them.
'Right, then; I'm off!' Bill announced.
'I couldn't have phrased it better myself. Oh, sorry, I promised I'd be nice, didn't I?' I said with a laugh, and headed west along Curzon Street. After ghosting my way along to the corner I entered the little coffee house. To my surprise and delight I saw the round white face and golden hair of Elfie sitting at a side table. She was studying a map.
'I was afraid you might not come, what with the fog and all,' I said, kissing her hand with a gallant flourish.
'It would take more than a little fog to keep me away,' she replied.
'That's nice,' I said. 'Would you like some more of whatever it is you're having?'
'No, I'm fine, thanks.' I ordered a plain black coffee.
'It looks like we'd be best to walk down to Green Park and take the Victoria Underground from there. If we transfer to the Central Line at Oxford Circus we'll have just one stop to Tottenham Court Road.'
'Good idea. I've seen some buses operating, but if they had been going any slower they would have been going backwards. If we went by bus it could take us a month.'
'They're not much more than a warm place to sit in these conditions,' Elfie agreed.
'Right, then, let's go,' I said. I paid the bill and we set off down Hyde Park Lane.
'So how long may I expect to have the pleasure of your company in London?'
'I'm not really sure, a day or two, maybe. I should really get on over to Holland.'
'What's the big hurry? Not that it's any of my business, of course.'
'That's all right. I need to talk to my parents about some domestic problems.'
'Theirs or yours?'
'You're very perceptive, aren't you?'
'Just too nosey, perhaps. Anyway, if they're yours, I hope you get everything sorted out.'
'Thanks, I hope so, too.' We had been sitting on one of the wooden benches in the station at Green Park and stood up as the train came rushing into the boarding area.
Understandably, the British Museum was only sparsely peopled when we arrived.
'I think there are more dead bodies here than live ones,' I said. 'We should do a body count.'
'That's sick,' Elfie said.
'Sure is,..sick unto death'
'That's enough!'
'Enough, enough, the maiden cried; at last, at last, I'm satisfied!'
'What's that from?'
'A rude song we used to sing at college.'
'You must tell me the rest of it some time.'
'I don't think you'd like it much.'
'What's it about?'
'It's about a great big wheel and a cock of steel.'
'You're right, I wouldn't like it. What would you like to visit first?'
'Well, since we're already on the subject, let's go and visit the mummies. I'll try to spare you a pun.'
'That would be nice.'
I noticed for the first time that the fog had invaded the great halls of the museum itself. The domestic coal fires in the city had been lighted and were turning the grey fog into a thick brown nimbus that enhanced the uncanny mood that pervaded the hall.
'See anybody you know?' I said.
'Not so far,' she said, 'although that one propped up there reminds me of you.'
'You mean that incredibly handsome one in the corner?'
'I don't see any that fit that description,' she replied coolly.
'Touche!' I said. 'By the way, do you know what the practical Brits were doing with the mummies before some sensible person put a stop to it?'
'I'm almost afraid to ask.'
'They were grinding them up and using them for fertilizer! Went through upwards of a million or so, I understand. You might even have ingested some ancient royalty-enhanced 'veggies' yourself, in a second-hand cannibalistic way, of course. Don't you find that interesting?'
'I find it disgusting, actually.'
'Really? Wait until you hear this one. The ancient Egyptians didn't know how to embalm brains effectively. For some reason they never removed the top of the skull, although trephining would presumably not have been beyond their capability.'
'I'm not sure I want to hear this,' Elfie said.
'Just hang on, it gets interesting. They took a rod and punched it through the ethmoid bone, that's just back of the nasal septum and it's the thinnest bone in the skull. Then they took long things like button hooks and pulled the brain out bit by bit. If you were royalty or upper crust they put the bits in a jar and saved it for burial, then they filled the skull cavity with beeswax and spices. Isn't that amazing?'
'I think I may throw up.' Elfie said grimly.
'I thought you'd enjoy it,' I said sympathetically. 'Come on, let's see if we can find the Elgin Marbles; that ought to settle your stomach.'
'These were stolen, quite frankly, from the Greek Parthenon in a sort of roundabout way,' I said as we stood in the Duveen Gallery. 'Lord Elgin was an ambassador to Constantinople who paid a hefty price to get them from the then Sultan of Turkey. He subsequently fell on hard times and sold them to the British Government for less than half of what he had paid for them.'
'Serves him right, I say, but I wonder why no one in Greece said, "I think we're losing our marbles!"'
'That's very funny!' I said. 'Quite close to being a joke!'
I was particularly entranced by the English Literature section in the Manuscript Saloon. Original Chaucer manuscripts from the Canterbury Tales, no less! Sometimes barely legible scrawlings from Jane Austen, James Joyce, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Virginia Woolf, and on and on. Two copies of the Magna Carta! Letters written by Henry VIII, Elizabeth I, Churchill and Napoleon. Incredibly beautiful illuminated biblical texts, a copy of the Gutenberg Bible and Shakespeare's First Folio. All quite mind boggling. We wandered through the ancient Egypt collection, past the Rosetta Stone and the head of Ramses II.
'I'm pooped,' I said. 'What would you say to a spot of good old-fashioned English cream tea?'
'I'd say 'spot on' old cock.' We'd suddenly gone English!
'I say, ripping! There's a restaurant right here; no need to go outside and risk getting lost.'
We had our choice of tables and were soon served with a pot of tea, a pot of hot water, a plate of scones and dishes of whipped cream and strawberry jam.
'Just give a shout if you want more hot water, ducks,' said the kindly gray-haired waitress.
'Will do, love,' I replied with a smile.
'This looks lovely,' Elfie said. 'What a good idea you had.'
'Dig in,' I said, proferring the plate of scones. 'You know, we've barely scratched the surface of this place. It would take a couple of months to see it all. Whatta you say we finish this lot and call it a day?'
'If that's what you want it's all right with me.'
'Have you made up your mind yet about going to Holland?'
'Actually, I've been thinking I may take off tomorrow. I hate this fog anyway.'
'Can't say as I blame you; I've barely got to know you, though. I'll be going over to Innsbruck the first week in the New Year, maybe you could come down for a few days.'
'Oh, I shouldn't think so, besides, I wouldn't know where to find you, would I?'
'That wouldn't be a problem. I'll be going to the American Express office every day; all you'd need to do is write to me there and I'd meet you. If I miss you at the Bahnhof I can meet you at the American Express office; everybody does it.'
'I'll think about it,'
'I hope you change your mind; I'll be watching for your letter.'
'I think I should give some thought to heading for my hotel now,' she said, glancing at her watch. 'I'd like to get a real early start tomorrow for a number of reasons, including this stupid fog.'
'That's funny, Bill and I have been sort of enjoying it.'
'That's probably because you've never seen it enough to learn to hate it.'
'That's perfectly true; we've never ever seen fog like this. Ever!' I paid the check and we walked out and down to the train station. 'Would you like me to see you to your hotel?'
'My, you Canadians are so polite. People don't bother with that here. No, you take your train and I'll take mine. Thanks for a nice day'. I kissed her hand when we came to the station then watched her disappear down the escalator without a backward glance.
'Huge bloody place, that British Museum, you should go there some time. It's quite fantastic! I said, when Bill showed up late in the evening.
'Don't bother me with trivialities,' he said loftily.
'What the hell's the matter with you? I said. 'You got a bean up your ass, or somethin'?'
'I think I'm in love,' Bill said dramatically.
'In love? Good Lord, now I know you've flipped your lid.'
'Seriously; this is the real thing.'
'Bullshit! I've heard that from you before. So who's the lucky maiden this time, pray tell.'
'Don't be such a goddam cynic for once in your life, okay? Anyway, it's Rachel, Wally's sister. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw her. Glossy black hair, great big brown eyes, fabulous body, the works.'
'Did you actually talk to her?'
'Of course I talked to her, you asshole; she's quite intellectual actually.'
'Bit of a funny accent, I would think.'
'Well, naturally; but that's not her fault, is it?'
'Come to think of it, if her accent is no harder to understand than the one your Mom must have arrived with in Canada thirty years ago, she'll probably survive.'
'That's a bit hard. Besides, who said anything about taking her home?'
'Well, you are going to marry her, aren't you?'
'I'm not saying I'd go that far,' Bill said defensively.
'So when do you plan to boink her?'
'Jesus, I don't know why I bother even to talk to you!'
'Communication, pal! It's important for us to fornicate,---sorry, I mean communicate.'
'Not that important,' Bill said peevishly.
'Good, you're probably pissed anyway!'
We sat quiet for a while, each with his own thoughts until I decided it was time to make amends. 'Wanna go for a little walk?' I said.
'See who we can bump into?' Bill replied, with a brief chuckle. He seemed to have recovered from his pique.
'Maybe we could find that Overseas League place that keeps sending us invitations. I think it's just south of Piccadilly somewhere.'
'Worth a try,' Bill said, 'Let's go!'
As soon as we stepped outside we saw that the fog had worsened. Motor traffic had come to a complete standstill. By following fences and sidewalks we were able to make our way toward Piccadilly. At one point we were approached and passed by a 'floating head' completely swathed, except for the eyes, in a large handkerchief, presumably in an attempt to filter out some of the choking 'smog'.
We crossed Piccadilly opposite what we assumed was St. James's Street but soon found ouselves unable to find the Overseas League and concluded finally that we were becoming progressively closer to being hopelessly lost. We headed north again until we had crossed Piccadilly, then groped our way along until we came to a lighted doorway. To our relief the door was not locked and we made our way up a few stairs to a pleasantly lighted salon, heavily carpeted and with comfortable-looking armchairs scattered about.
We were approached by a smiling elderly retainer in uniform, brass buttons agleam. 'Can I help you, gentlemen?' he said.
'I'm afraid we're lost,' I replied. 'We were trying to find the Overseas League, but I'm afraid we've gone hopelessly astray.'
'Indeed you have,' he said. 'You're on the wrong side of Piccadilly for starters.'
'We know that,' Bill said. 'We tried the other side and consider ouselves lucky to have found the main drag again; it's really weird out there!'
'All we were looking for was just a cozy pub in the first place,' I complained.
'You chaps veterans?' the old boy asked.
'Canadian Navy!' we chorused.
'Then you may have gotten luckier than you think; this is the Royal Air Force Club.'
'Can we get a drink here?' Bill said hopefully.
'Of course,' said the old fellow, 'providing I accredit you as foreign ex-service men.'
'And do you?' Bill asked. 'I've got my mess membership in my wallet.'
'I'll take your word for it; what would you like?' he said with a smile.
Two and a half blissful hours later we lurched happily out of the club and attempted to orientate ourselves for the journey back to the flat. We couldn't actually see any better, we just didn't give a damn what we bumped into.
Passing closely in front of the Londonderry Hotel I was just able to make out the beautifully trimmed topiary effect of the trees lined up along the retaining wall at the front of the hotel. Each one was set in a small hooped white-painted half-barrel. The trees themselves were cone-shaped and the total height of each was not much more than three feet.
I looked back toward the hotel entrance; it was invisible in the fog, the doorman nowhere to be seen. We were in a tiny isolated world of our own. I reached down and encircled one of the barrels, lifted it and balanced it on my hip. It was not very heavy.
'What the hell are you doing?' Bill hissed.
'I'm borrowing one of these little topiary darlings, is what I'm doing.'
'You must be daft! That's theft, they'll throw you in the slammer for that over here.'
'Maybe they'll transport me to Australia; that'd be good.'
'I don't think they do that any more.'
'Just pretend you don't know me. You can walk five paces behind me if you like; that way you won't be implicated.'
'Aw, the hell with it, I'll just take my chances.'
'It's not much of a chance; you'd be taking a bigger chance trying to walk behind me. You'd probably get lost.'
'I still can't figger why you swiped that thing, anyway. You must be nuts!'
'I didn't swipe it, stupid, I borrowed it. And I did so because, in case it hasn't occurred to you, we don't have a Christmas tree! We can't have Christmas without a Christmas tree, now can we?'
'I suppose you're right; I never thought of that.'
'Why am I not surprised? Here, you carry it for a while.' When we got back to the flat we set it dead centre on the round living room table.
'We're going to need some decorations, I guess.'
'Clever lad,' I said. 'I know just the shop down in the market that's got everything we need.'
The next day we rose promptly at noon and set out for the little specialty shop, with a brief detour to a pub for a couple of pints of alcoholic therapy. Thus invigorated, we made our way to the little shop to make our Yuletide selections.
'Look at those strings of neat little lights,' I said. The shop had set up a tiny tree and festooned it with the tiny lights; red, green, yellow, blue, blinking off and on in sequence. 'We'll have a box of those,' I said, 'and one box of tinsel should be plenty for starters, wouldn't you think?'
'Yeah, plenty; how about some of this angel hair?'
'Why not? Go for it.'
Each day as we passed the little shop we stopped in for another item for the little tree: tiny mirrored glass globes, clip-on blown-glass birds with threadlike tails of drawn glass, and of course, a sparkly star for the very top of the tree.
'Now there's a Christmas tree to be proud of,' I said one night as I lounged back in the sofa.
'I'll admit it lends a homey effect,' Bill said. 'When do you plan to return it?'
'Return it? Who said anything about returning it? I've become so attached to it I'm thinking of taking it to Austria with me.'
'Get serious.'
'Right! Well, I guess we'll wait until the fog lifts, then we'll give it some serious thought.'
'That should be interesting,' Bill said skeptically.
'The serious thought won't be very interesting, but the returning might be.'
'Amen to that.'
We had dicovered that the fresh fish from the market was far superior to the 'packed in ice' we had been accustomed to at home and had been savouring plaice and sole and skate for dinner on a regular basis. In fairness to my mother, although she tended to overcook most meat and fish at the best of times, having it sit in the oven for an extra hour and a half while awaiting my return from the hockey rink did nothing to enhance the flavour.
'I never knew fish could be this delicious,' I said to Bill one night.
'Nor did I,' he agreed. 'I never used to like fish. Even the fish and chips taste better over here.'
'It's the newsprint from the paper they wrap it in; gives it that special flavor.'
'Bullshit!' Bill said.
'No! Not bullshit! Newsprint! Pay attention. Don't take my word for it, ask any native.'
'I might just do that,' Bill grumbled.
The fog worsened, if possible, overnight. At times visibility got down to less than a foot. Street people, what few there were, literally couldn't see their grimy hands in front of their grimy faces. I rose first and went into the living room. It was cold in spite of the steam heating. I could hear the muffled sound of church bells, and once the bells of an ambulance groping its way toward a hospital. I walked back into the bedroom where Bill was lying on his back snoring contentedly.
'Wakey, wakey,' I said 'Drop your cocks and grab your socks.'
Bill obviously thought in his groggy state that he was back in the navy. He managed a smile of relief when he remembered where he was. I was about to tell him to hit the deck when I realized that he was already on the deck.
'What's up?' he said.
'The sun's up, you just can't see it, that's all. Come on, I've got something to show you.'
'Like what?'
'Come on, you lazy bugger, you've got to see this for yourself.'
Groaning loudly, Bill struggled to his feet and followed me into the living room.
'So, whatta you think?' I said, gesturing toward our Christmas tree. I had plugged in the extension cord and the decorations twinkled brightly, and between the star at the top of the tree and the ceiling hovered a dark brown vaporous cloud of smog.
'Well, I'll be buggered,' Bill exclaimed. 'This is some kind of a trick, right?'
'Not a trick, it was there just like that when I came in from the bedroom.'
'Then it's a bloody miracle!'
'Wrong again. It's not a bloody miracle: what it is is a patch of 'world-acclaimed London bloody pea-souper'.
'I'll be buggered!'
'You said that! Say it once more and I'll think you're serious!'
'I did? Well, I guarantee I've never seen anything like it. I should probably write home about this,' Bill said.
'Now that would be a miracle,' I said.
Bill and I had found a small restaurant in Soho about a block from Piccadilly Circus that served breakfast of two eggs, bacon, toast and unlimited coffee. When you bear in mind that partial rationing was still in effect this was a pretty good deal. And when you bear in mind that we paid only two shillings and sixpence (thirty-five cents Cdn.) It was a hell of a deal!
One day I asked Bill if he'd like to walk up around the corner in Soho to see where the Blackbird Booking Agency was located. When we arrived at where I expected to see the overhanging sign, there it was---missing!
'Maybe you got the wrong street,' Bill suggested helpfully.
'No way,' I said, 'these other shops were all here too. This is really weird.'
'Maybe you got the name on the sign wrong.'
'Whatta you mean?'
'I mean maybe it didn't say Blackbird Booking Agency at all; maybe it said Blackbird Hooking Agency!' He laughed uproariously.
'Very droll,' I said crossly. 'That might be funny if it weren't so sick.'
'Sorry,' he said, struggling to keep a straight face, 'but you did say she was a rather tarty-looking thing, and you admitted you were lusting after her long legs and big chest.'
'That's true,' I said wistfully.
'And what about that traffic jam of hookers hanging around our doorway every night when we come home? Maybe it's not such a coincidence after all.'
Bill's comment had got me thinking. Maybe there was something to what he said. Although the rent had seemed reasonable enough to me at the time, my judgement had been somewhat impaired and the locals I had told about the rent seemed to think it was rather steep.
As for Bill's comment about the hooker traffic it was true that some nights there would be two or three females standing right in our doorway scrutinizing the passersby. After the first few nights it had become a routine exchange of bawdy comments lacking any serious expectation. It was a bit embarrassing when we brought home one of our legitimate female acquaintances, but the girls usually had less to say and moved off to one side.
I began to think of other clues; Juno's mysterious flexibility with respect to the time of her stay in Paris, her apparent lack of concern with respect to a damage deposit, bearing in mind that the flat was completely furnished. Maybe it had been my honest face. All very puzzling!
Except for occasional misty periods the fog had pretty well gone by the Saturday following Bill's arrival. We'd had a chance to show off our Christmas tree to our buddies from the 'Ascania' and another new friend or two and I was giving serious thought to returning it to its rightful home.
'What'll we do with the decorations?' Bill enquired ingenuously.
'Whatta you mean?'
'Well, we just can't leave them all on there, can we? We can't, can we?' I gave him my Cheshire cat grin.
'Oh, shit! We can! I shoulda known! Oh, what a bloody hoot that'll be, a completely decorated Christmas tree. But how do we return it without getting caught?'
'I've thought of that,' I said. The next day I phoned through to the Londonderry. 'Londonderry Hotel,' answered a switchboard girl with a delicious Irish accent.
'Would you put me through to the manager's office, please?'
'Right away, sir.'
'Mr. Donnelly's office,' said another tasty brogue. I hung up.
A couple of nights later Bill and I went to see 'Guys and Dolls'. The fact that we were sitting in the cheap seats 'Up in the Gods' as it was called, didn't bother us in the slightest. The entire original cast was playing, including Stubby Kaye. I was impressed but decided against joining the Salvation Army. There was a thin mist drifting along the Haymarket. Nothing like the 'pea-soupers' we'd enjoyed previously, but enough to make things indistinct.
'I think tonight's the night,' I said.
'For the tree?' Bill asked.
'For the tree,' I said cryptically. 'But leave us first wet our respective whistles for the task to come.'
'Amen to that!' Bill intoned. When we were thrown out of the pub around midnight, we headed straight for Santa's workshop.
'Maybe we should put a sheet or a blanket or something over it,' Bill suggested nervously.
'That oughta get us arrested for sure,' I said. 'What the hell, 'tis the season to be jolly! Nobody's gonna give us a second glance.'
'I hope you're right!'
'Trust me! I said.
'Why does that assurance fill me with mistrust?' Bill said nervously. 'I hate it when people say that!'
Back at the flat we unplugged the lights cord and wrapped it around the base of the tree, then set off for the hotel. The streets were nearly deserted so we made quick progress, holding the tree between us with the sidewalks to ourselves. We had passed the hotel a number of times in the previous week and were interested to see the vacancy left by the hostage tree had not been filled. There was only a damp circular outline on the concrete parapet.
'See anybody about?' I whispered.
'Coast is clear so far,' Bill replied.
'Just proceed as planned, then,' I said with evident relief. We were just placing the tree in its former resting place when I heard Bill hissing desperately.
'What's your problem?' I said.
'Christ Almighty! It's the doorman! I didn't think they worked this late!'
'Either did I, to be perfectly honest,' I said. I looked up and saw a large gentleman in a green braided overcoat and a top hat approaching. He had a determined mien.
'Shut up and let me do all the talking,' I said.
'So what'll be so different about that?' Bill muttered grimly.
'Good evening, sir,' I said jovially as the doorman lumbered up to us.
'Now then, what have we here?' he said. I had to take a moment to decipher what he had said with his heavy Irish brogue. I thought at first he was talking about my hair.
'Christmas decoreyetions, myte,' I said in my carefully practiced Cockney accent. 'A bloke can tell from your 'titfer' (Cockney slang: 'tit for tat','hat') that you're in charge around here. We'll be doin' the lot by Christmas.'
'I'll have to check this out,' he said officiously. 'What's your names, then?'
'Sykes,' I said, 'Ron and Bill Sykes. Don't worry, myte it's all in order, innit? You can check it out wiv Mr. Donnelly, we dealt directly wiv 'im; it has his full approval.'
'Mr. Donnelly isn't in his office at the moment!'
'Best not to sye a dicky bird to anyone on night shift, then, but please yourself. You may need an extension cord for the lights, eh? Well, we'll be off, then, cheers!' I tipped my hat and set off north along Hyde Park Lane. Bill was close behind me. I glanced back from the coffee shop corner and saw the doorman. He had not moved and was staring at the little tree, scratching his chin and looking perplexed.
The next night we paused up at the corner and looked over toward the Londonderry. To our surprise and delight we saw the little Christmas treee sitting where we had set it, but brightly lighted and twinkling on and off. A small group of passersby were standing before it, laughing and pointing at its various features. The doorman was nearby smiling indulgently,
'Obviously making sure that no one is going to get the foolish idea of making off with it!' Bill said with a chuckle.
'Obviously,' I replied. 'That would be stealing!'
— The End —