Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
Fred and Mary were an archetypical middle-class English couple who lived in a modest house in Maida Vale. They had been high school sweethearts and were married late in their teens; their two daughters had long since grown up and were married. One of them already had a young child. Fred had been his supervisor when Bill had started work as a salesperson at Simpsons Clothiers on Piccadilly.They became friends and a week later Fred had become his landlord.
When Bill and I arrived at their house we were greeted like royalty. We were up late as they questioned Bill about every facet of his adventures in Europe. Sadly, in all of their years neither of them had ever set foot on the soil of Europe. We were finally shown to our bedroom which still had the same frilly twin beds much the same as they were when the girls had last slept there.
By the time we entered the kitchen the next day Fred had long since gone to work via the Bakerloo Line. Mary fed us a traditional English breakfast of fried tomatoes, sausages, eggs, toast and coffee. We ate like hungry travellers which, in fact, we were. We carried on in this greedy manner for three days before I found out that eggs, meat and sugar were still rationed. How embarrassing! And how touching! They had made no mention of the fact that we were using up their ration cards at a startling rate.
Bill and I spent the rest of the day walking around the parade route looking at the temporary grandstands being raised in every conceivable location.
'Ten bloody quid to sit on one of those hard planks to watch the big parade?' I said. 'That's outrageous!'
'I agree,' Bill said. 'Anything to screw the tourists, though. Janet says she and her buddies are going to find a seat on the kerb around four o'clock in the afternoon the day before.' He knew the moment he spoke that he would have been better off to have bitten his tongue. I looked at him and noticed that he was slightly flushed and staring straight ahead.
'Janet?' I said curiously. 'Not the same Janet we met in Igls, surely.'
'As a matter of fact, it is,' he replied hesitantly. 'I, uh, ran into her on Piccadilly one day after I returned from Austria.'
'Bullshit you ran into her? You duplicitous prick! You had her London address before she ever left Igls, admit it! Why didn't you say something before now?'
'Well, you seemed quite fond of her and I was afraid you might be upset if I said something.'
'Well, I am upset, you treacherous shit!' I decided that it wouldn't be an appropriate time to tell him that I had been in touch with American Express twice since our arrival to see if there was a letter for me from the little Belgian girl I had been boinking on a regular basis at Saalbach.'So you courted her for a month in London and then came on to Europe and never even mentioned her; some friend you turned out to be!' I said caustically. Bill was either too embarrassed to speak or unable to think of any appropriate comment. 'So how is the little darling?' I said at last. It pained me to ask.
'She's okay--basically,' he replied. 'I may need your help, though!'
'Whatta you mean--basically?'
'Well, she has a bit of what I guess you'd call a 'female' problem.'
'Whatta you mean, a 'female' problem?'
'Well, she thinks maybe she's pregnant.'
'Kee--rist! You mean to tell me you were boinking that sweet young thing and you didn't even have the common sense to wear a 'safe'!
'I only did it once--I swear to God! One thing led to another and that's why I wasn't prepared; it just sort of happened, that's all!'
'Just once, eh? That's what they all say!' I said bitterly. 'So what's all this got to do with me, anyway?'
'Well, if she is pregnant she's decided that she wants to have an abortion; obviously I'll have to pay for it. I guess I'll have to borrow some money from you.'
'How much money?'
'About sixty quid, apparently,'
'So you do the screwing and I do the paying! You're marvellously generous with my money; maybe I should send along a liittle note with my donation.'
'You don't need to be cruel,' he grumbled. I knew that, but I was enjoying it, albeit with a modicum of shame.
'There is an alternative, you know,' I said placatingly.
'Like what?' Bill said morosely.
'Well, as we both know, she is a lovely-looking girl and a sweet one at that. You could always just go ahead and marry her; she could have the baby and you could live happily ever after! I'd even volunteer to be the 'best man' at the wedding, which is only logical anyway!'
'Christ Almighty!' Bill exclaimed, 'if she told her parents she was married they'd go absolutely 'apeshit'; she already has her return ticket to South Africa. She's apparently engaged to some rich young lad down there; this was supposed to be one last junket for her and her buddies before she settled down and got married---forever!'
'Then she can have all the babies she wants, providing the abortion doesn't render her sterile, which is sometimes the case.'
'Gimme a break', Bill said, 'I've got enough to worry about already without that kind of comment.'
'Not to worry, Billy my lad---I think you've handled everything marvellously; you've no idea how proud of you I am.'
'I can just imagine,' he said gloomily, 'anyway, she said she thinks she may be pregnant; she'll get the results on Monday morning.'
'Hope springs eternal in the human breast,' I quoted. 'I can hardly wait!'
We were still dawdling about Monday morning when Mary tapped on the bedroom door and said there was a phone call for him. He was gone for about ten minutes and I knew from the moment he returned that he had received good news. There was a wide smile on his face, the furrow had gone from his brow and he was walking confidently and erect, you'll pardon the expression, I'm sure!
'Good news!' he said cheerily. 'The tests were negative!'
'Well, Glory be! This calls for a few choruses of 'Happy Days Are Here Again!' Bill settled for about half a jar of Robertson's Orange Marmalade with his breakfast.
We had time to go down and pick up a supply of ration coupons to replace the ones Fred and Mary had used up on us before making our way back to a pub at the south end of Park Lane. We each tried a glass of the Devonshire hard cider the publican was promoting.
'That's quite smooth,' I said, 'not as sweet as the apple cider I'm accustomed to,'
'That's because it's 'hard' cider the publican said. 'It has to be treated with respect.'
Ever the thoughtful planner, I had brought my rucksack, packed with my sleeping bag and extra sweaters and we had our botas slung around our necks.'I feel like we should have something like that to keep us warm through the night,' I said, and so saying I removed my bota and handed it to the publican.
'There are a few drops of red wine left in there; would you empty it then rinse it out and fill it with cider, please?' Bill waited and then had the publican do the same for him. We paid him and as we left he said 'Try to find a spot near a First Aid station, that stuff's mighty potent!'
'We'll be careful,' I said with a laugh.
There were already small clusters of people sitting on the kerb along Piccadilly. We walked along slowly, scrutinizing the various groups as we went. We had traversed only about a third of the street when we found them. 'There they are, over there,', he said. I looked over and saw a hand waving. As we walked closer I saw that there were four of them.
'Hey there, Ron, you've grown a beard since the last time I saw you,' Margaret laughed.
'Ran out of blades,' I said laconically. 'How are you, Margaret?'
'Great! Hi, Bill! I guess you've met everyone except these two, Ron.' She introduced the two other girls and then said 'Of course you know Janet!' My heart did a bit of a flip-flop; I don't know why, but it did! There indeed was Janet, with her soft wavy brown hair and perfect white skin. She extended her hand and I bent to kiss it; very romantic, I thought! When I looked up she was staring at me with her large brown eyes; her cheeks had flushed and there was a tight little smile on her lips. Was she wondering if Bill had told me everything about their problems?
'So how are you, anyway, Janet? Where did you go when you left Igls? Surely you didn't go straight back to London.'
'Of course not, we went to Florence for a week and then spent a week in Rome.'
'I was disappointed when you left Igls without leaving a forwarding address, I could have sent you postcards.'
'But we did leave one!' she said, with a look of disbelief. 'I slipped a note under your bedroom door just before we left. I'm sure I had the right room!' Bill was within earshot but when I glanced over at him he was staring straight ahead as though completely deaf to our conversation. The deceitful son of a bitch! I could almost hear him saying 'Sorry, I just flat out forgot! Honest!' Janet's mouth had tightened perceptibly and I could just imagine what thoughts were racing through her mind.
By eight o'clock the light drizzle had turned into a steady rain but the kerbs had filled up with spectators and there were a few areas where people were standing behind the kerb sitters. I finally pulled the sleeping bag out of my rucksack.
'Would you like to use this?' I said to Janet.
'Nah, I'll be right,' she replied, 'I've got waterproof pants and a hooded slicker plus lots of warm jumpers; thanks anyway.'
'Let me know if you change your mind,' I said.
'Anybody want a shot of apple cider?' I asked. There were no takers so I had an opportunity to show off my 'dripless bota-swigging' technique. Then I rolled out my sleeping bag and crawled in. I never dropped off to sleep but it was dry and warmer. I was able to reflect about the apparent idiocy of people who were prepared to stand for twenty-four hours in a chilly rain for the privilege of cheering a class-conscious woman married to a foreign-born Greek, whose father had been a first cousin to the Tsar of Russia, whose uncle had been a Nazi sympathizer and whose grandmother had been married to a German. Mention those facts to most Brits and you would likely be rewarded with a punch in the nose! But I had grumbled about it to Bill all week. We must be nuts! I said.
The truth of the matter was that ninety percent of the millions of people who celebrated the event, even those jolly folk in East London who had planned the 'knees up' for weeks cared little for the significance of the ceremony taking place a few miles away at Westminster. The worlwide appetite for pomp and circumstance was being played upon, at the same time enhancing the mystique of the monarchy.
'So tell me about Florence.' I said to Janet. I had managed to place my sleeping bag in such a way as to have our heads only a foot or so apart.
'Well, nothing personal, but the natives there call it 'Firenze'., she said. I found it difficult to believe that anything she said with that adorable accent would offend me. 'So what can I tell you about it? It isn't a large city, only about half a million and lies near the River Arno. I sound like a tour guide, don't I?'
'You sound fine,' I said, taking another mouthful of cider. 'Carry on, I've never been in Northern Italy. I think that's where the Medici used to hang out, isn't it?'
'Exactly!' she exclaimed, obviously pleased to tell me something with which she was familiar. 'Most of the family is buried in the Medici Chapel near San Lorenzo Church. The Medici-Riccardi palace faces the San Lorenzo across a large piazza. The Medici Museum is typical of the upper class residences. The ground floor is a private fort with a graceful courtyard. The upper stories house the handsome bedchambers; it's really quite beautiful, practical too!'
'I imagine you were getting a bit weary of palaces, art galleries and cathedrals by the end of the week,' I said.
'We were, actually, how did you guess?'
'The finest art in the world is concentrated in a few cities, unfortunately. It's impossible to take it all in with a one week time limit without suffering from 'museum overkill'.' I had been taking regular squirts of hard cider all the while and was feeling the effects. 'How was the food there?' I asked.
'Quite marvellous, really, and not too expensive! The Etruscan food depends less on pasta than the Southern Italy fare; lots of game and fish and similar things. I tend to agree with you about art museums, though; there's a limit to how much of that stuff you can take in. If the truth be known we found Rome much the same and the crowds were awful, even at that time of year!'
'You could always have gone 'rodelling'!' That provoked the big smile I had missed before and I assumed she had forgotten her recent tribulations for a moment.
'We had fun, didn't we!' she said wistfully.
As I have mentioned, the while she was telling me about Italy I was slaking my thirst with the fermented apple juice of Devonshire. 'I'm getting rather sleepy, my dear; I thought maybe I'd rest my eyes for a few minutes if you don't mind.'
'Of course I don't mind, silly! Close your eyes and I'll talk to you later!' What a lovely, sweet girl she is, I thought as I drifted off. When I awoke I had an uncomfortable hangover, my mouth tasted like a barefoot Mongolese parade ground and my eyes were glued partially shut. I looked over at Janet; she was sleeping like a babe. Bill was curled up at her feet, dead to the world, his clothing sodden. The rain had begun to seep throught the sleeping bag and I desperately needed to empty my bladder, if I hadn't already partially done so.
'Yo, Bill, wake up!' I said. He seemed to be marginally comatose so I wriggled out of the sleeping bag and shuffled over to where he was lying and kicked him, moderately gently. He opened his eyes with a groan and looked up at me. 'You wanna use the sleeping bag?' I said.
'Jeez! That would be great!' he said, 'I'm goddam near frozen to death.'
'Well, there it is, help yourself. Incidentally, don't wake up the little sweetie, she's warm and waterproof and sound asleep, besides you'd damage the bag if you tried to squeeze her in there with you---I'm talking about the sleeping bag, of course!'
'Ha, ha, very funny, I'm sure!' He was struggling to his feet when I headed across the street toward the row of lavatories I had spotted in the park. There were about thirty of them lined up from north to south and I headed for one I judged to be near the middle. As I was about to open the door I heard the tramp of marching feet approaching up Piccadilly. Good Lord! I thought, surely the procession can't be starting already! I glanced at my watch; it was a quarter to four! I found out later that leaders of the troop were on a practice run to guarantee that it would know the route perfectly when the real thing took place.
There was a dim light from a lamp standard on Piccadilly and when I opened the door to the portable 'loo' I was pleasantly surprised to see that it was spotlessly clean and there was absolutely no odour. I thought it was possible that it had never been used. These days there would probably be complaints that there was no colour television!
I locked the door, dropped my pants and sat down; it was so quiet it was tomb-like and best of all, I was out of the rain. I had seen no one else standing in a queue and assumed it would remain like that until daybreak. Why wouldn't I stay here, not very warm but dry at least? Why not indeed?
The only inconvenience was the fact that the toilets did not have covers and as I closed my eyes and lay back against the wall I speculated on the possibility that I would awaken with my lower bowels everted. Great Caesar! What a shocking possibility; on the other hand I was reasonably sure I wouldn't suffer a prolapsed uterus! In the event, being young and fit, I awoke dry and rested and without the sign of a haemorrhoid. The toilet seat had left a deep groove in my rear end which I subsequently referred to as 'a ring around my rosie!' Otherwise, no damage! Bully for me! It was eight-thirty in the morning and as I walked back to Piccadilly and saw all the poor sodden people lying like wet bags of potatoes on the sidewalk I was reminded for a moment of the inscription on the base of the Statue of Liberty:
Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free...
Well, I thought, at least they're breathing free, but I had a fleeting desire to run along the sleeping ranks to shout out the news of clean dry housing for all. On the other hand, if I did that, I'd probably find long lineups at every 'Crapper' when I needed them most. To hell with it! So much for my momentary burst of beneficence! I located my group and sat down on the sidewalk thinking once again that there was a thread of idiocy running through us all. I later discovered that the lights were on at Buckingham Palace and had been since four or five in the morning, so it was a sort of shared suffering. I decided that even sitting in the cold and wet was better than being one of those poor aged bastards who had to wear ermine-trimmed robes and suffer through the entire ceremony. Or even worse, the Queen, poor bitch, having to endure the agony of worldwide popularity and love!
One of the girls had brought along a portable radio so we were able to listen to Richard Dimbleby droning on and on describing the tedious mixture of royal protocol and religious folderol which went on for what seemed interminable hours at the Abbey and during which Elizabeth had been crowned, anointed and sworn and received the homage of the Lords of the Council. It was early afternoon by the time the first contingent of the procession appeared, headed by the Gordon Highlanders of the Royal West African Frontier Force. There followed an incredible parade of one hundred and fourteen different regimental representatives of the military from every country in the British Commonwealth. We were fortunate enough to be situated in the first portion of the parade route but it was early in the evening before the last troops had passed to the end of the route.
We had, in fact, seen Winston Churchill and his wife and cheered as loudly for them as for anyone who passed. Apparently he had pulled out of the procession after a delay later and had simply returned to Downing Street. Good thinking!
It rained steadily throughout the time of the procession and I recall seeing the water dripping in steady streams from the brims of the hats worn by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the Ghurkas. There were numerous delays as a result of the enormous length of the procession and I well recall various regiments standing in place for nearly ten minutes without moving. Their webbing, which had been meticulously Blancoed with whiting for the big event had dissolved and was dripping down the fronts and backs of their uniforms. Incredibly, about two in the afternoon I saw members of the Saint John's Ambulance Corps leading a young girl away. She was presumably in the early stages of hypothermia and was barelegged and wearing only a light cotton print dress.
'Her mother is obviously married to one of the brilliant weather forecasters who've spent the past three months coming to the conclusion that this will be a typical warm June day,' I said cynically.
'They're probably all rigged up for lots of cases of heat stroke!' Margaret said, shaking her head.
I was amused to learn later that we had one thing at least in common with the Peers of the Realm; it seems that those in the transepts of the Abbey had not spent hours of contemplation and fasting after all, as was later evidenced by the mass of sandwich wrappings, paper bags and napkins which littered the floor. Empty Fornum & Mason and Harrods tins and jars were in evidence (no hampers) and the cleaners found scores of gin, brandy and whiskey bottles abandoned below the chairs. Along with a variety of precious stones which had fallen from their expensive settings was found a very costly diamond necklace which was not claimed for several weeks.
Like the icing on a piece of chocolate cake which children carefully set aside till last, the Royal Carriage did not pass until over a hundred other ranks and carriages had passed before. There was a rearguard of a dozen dignitaries, mostly on horseback and followed by the Royal Grooms and two divisions of the Sovereign's Escort, and then the procession was over.
'So what'll we do now?' asked one of the girls.
'Maybe if we ask politely they'll do it all over again,' I said and was roundly booed.
'There's going to be a sensational fireworks display down at the Embankment if anyone's interested,' said Margaret enthusiastically. There was no response.
'We're right near Green Park subway station' said one of the other girls, 'maybe there'll be something happening down at Piccadilly Circus,' she said optimistically.
'Yeah, like 'chaos in a rainstorm'--- terrific!' I said grimly. 'Look, there just happens to be a snug little pub in a hotel up at the top of Down Street in case anyone's interested. Serves a lovely pint of Guinness!'
'All I'm interested in right now is a nice warm bed; I'll take a rain check, thanks!' Janet said wearily.
'Me, too!' chorused Margaret. The other two girls remained speechless. They subsequently declined our kind invitation.
'I guess that leaves you and me,' I said to Bill. 'You coming?' He was coming so we hugged and kissed Janet and Margaret and shook hands with the other two girls then turned and walked away up Down Street.
'The end of a beautiful friendship,' I said. 'Do you think you'll see her again?'
'I hope so; I'll phone her tomorrow, she'll be asleep tonight!'
'Probably better if you don't see her again, actually.'
'Whatta you mean?'
'Well, with your lack of self-control you're liable to lose your head again and you know what that can lead to!'
'That's a particularly cruel remark!'
'Sorry, I know how much you must be suffering---you prick!'
'It begins to look like I'll never live this down,' he grumbled.
'That would be appropriate,' I said.
The little bar was starting to fill up with the post-procession crowd but we found a table and were able to place our orders for pints of Guinness. 'God, that goes down a treat after all that cider, dunnit? I said.
'Yes, it do, dunnit?' After a couple of pints each we had overcome our hangovers and recovered our appetites and were glancing hungrily in the direction of the steak and kidney pie being eaten at the next table. It was only a matter of time before we were placing our orders.
'Do you have a dry red house wine in carafes?' I asked the waiter.
'We have a very nice Bordeaux.'
'Would you care for a drop, Bill?' I asked.
'I suppose a little wouldn't hurt,' he said grudgingly.
'Right then, bring us a litre of the house red,' I said to the waiter. 'And don't forget the HP sauce!' He raised his hand to show he had heard me.
'Do you think drinking could become addictive?' Bill asked after the waiter had hurried away.
'Of course not,' I said with feigned indignation. 'Where would you ever get a foolish idea like that?'
By the time we left the bar the crowds had diminished but it was still raining steadily. Miraculously, a taxi was coming up the street with its 'For Hire' sign glowing brightly. I raised my hand immediately in contravention of our established code of cheapness and the taxi pulled in to the kerb.
'Hop in, Billy, it's my treat,' I said, and leaned in to give the driver the Maida Vale address then chucked my rucksack into the luggage space beside him.
Fred and Mary had seat tickets given to them by their employer but after checking the weather had opted for viewing the Coronation and the subsequent procession in relative comfort on their small black and white television set rather than freezing their butts off in the open. Their decision was confirmed when I told them of our uncomfortable sojourn and my secluded method of acquiring a 'Ring Around My Rosie'.
I excused myself after three quarters of an hour and headed gratefully for my bed.
Two days later Bill and I boarded the Dutch vessel "Rijndam" and headed back to Canada from Southampton. I never saw or heard from the South African girls again. Whether Bill did so I never asked and expect I will never know now that he is no longer amongst the living.
Conceivably I was 'travel-whipped'; I can think of no other reason for my paucity of memories of the ocean passage to Canada. I have a few disconnected memories; the food was better than that served on the 'Ascania', the table waiters seemed less obviously 'different' from those on the 'Ascania' and I have absolutely no recollection of where we were lodged in the boat. I learned to hate 'Shane' after listening to the young boy shouting his name futilely for some time when they showed the movie on a small screen in one of the meeting rooms.
There was a delightfully pretty young girl on board whose home was in Toronto. She was accompanied by her mother but I chose to flirt with her anyway. Her obsession at the time was Formula One racing cars and she prattled endlessly about Watkins Glen which I had thought previously was a cough medicine. She had scraped her nose somehow and I felt constrained to write her a short memorial ditty:
Tilted up in such a way
It qualifies as retroussé
Your nose my dear
Is scraped, I fear,
Contused beyond repair,
It's not becoming
At your age
To bark your nasal appendage.
Nothing came of that, of course, but it helped to while the time away. Bill and I picked up the car in Sarnia and headed west. We were somewhere in Wisconsin when my eyelids became heavy and I asked Bill to take over the driving duties. He took the wheel and I crawled into the back seat, stretched out and closed my eyes. About an hour and a half had passed before I clambered back into the front seat. Something didn't seem right but I was reluctant to say anything until I figured out what it was. It finally got through to me; the sun was in the wrong place! We had started out early and driving west the sun had been shining through the window on the driver's side. Now, an hour and a half later, it was shining through the window on the passenger's side. We were driving in the wrong direction! How the hell could that be? We were still on the main east-west highway. I finally turned to Bill.
'I think we're going in the wrong direction,' I said. Bill glanced at me with a skeptical 'you're pulling my leg!' look on his face 'What the hell are you talking about?' he said. I pondered the situation for a moment before explaining my theory to him. I could see I had his attention.
'You didn't stop for a pee or anything while I was asleep, did you?'
Bill pursed his lips as he thought back. 'As a matter of fact I did; I pulled into a service station for some gas about twenty minutes ago.'
'Did you leave the car?' I felt like Sherlock Holmes.
'Yeah! I went in and had a cup of coffee and a pee, now that you mention it.'
'The game's afoot,' I thought in true Holmesian fashion. 'Was the car in the same place when you came back out?'
'No, as a matter of fact, it wasn't; they had to move it to let another car up to the pump.'
'And you didn't notice that they'd parked it facing east, right?'
'Right, I guess.'
'Now that we agree on that I guess all you have to do is make a U-turn so we can start back toward home!' I said with a smile.
'Shit! I can see you're going to dine out on this one!' he grumbled.
'I promise to take it easy on you,' I said with a chuckle.
As we drove into Calgary I thought it loked much like it had when we left. Well, we'd been gone only seven months,.....what the hell did I expect?
— The End —