Making the Cat Laugh (6 page)

Feminists, of course, are not supposed to admit that there is a man shortage. We have this horrible feeling that it will give ammunition to the backlash, who will jump up and down saying ‘Tee hee! Told you! Only yourselves to blame!’ But if there
were
a man shortage, hypothetically speaking, and it
stretched out arid and flat to the far horizon, then you see that little shimmering dot in the distance? The one coming steadily towards you, like Omar Sharif in
Lawrence of Arabia,
getting slowly bigger and bigger and more sinister, as the only sign of available life? It’s Vic.

‘Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, Vic,’ goes the prune-counting of the wised-up single woman each morning. ‘Rich man, poor man, Vic, beggar man, thief, Vic.’ Vic ought to be more substantially represented in this litany, really; but you get the gist. The really interesting thing, however, is not that single women are eating too many prunes. It is that Vic, like the devil, is everywhere, yet always comes as a surprise. When he’s somebody else’s Vic, you can identify him at once. Whereas when he is your own, and he is blatantly using your mains electricity to recharge his car battery again, you can’t.

‘Ooh, so when will I get to meet him?’ you say to a friend who recently went out with Vic on a first date.

‘Soon, I expect. He’s moved in.’

There is a short pause, while you tell yourself it’s none of your business.

‘Really?’ you say, non-committally.

‘It’s working out quite well, actually. I mean, being home all day he can take in the milk.’

‘Great.’

‘And he cooks meals and things, and above all he trusts me with his problems.’

‘What does he do, then, exactly?’

‘He’s such a free spirit. Ha ha good old Vic.’

‘No, but what does he do?’

‘He used to be a disc jockey. And he’s got so many schemes he doesn’t know where to start. He reckons he needs a mobile phone and some headed notepaper before he can really get going. But unfortunately he hasn’t got either at the moment.’

‘He sounds – er, laid back.’

‘Yes! Sometimes we laugh about it. I say he’s so laid back he’ll fall off and hurt himself.’

‘Ho ho,’ you say, politely.

They are not all called Vic, incidentally. It would make things too easy if they were. But I do feel it is worthwhile to list a few of the obvious warning signs, so that more women can be spared the misery of asking Vic, on some fateful day, ‘Did you only love me for my free battery-charging facilities?’ and then waiting for five agonizing minutes while he seriously weighs up the pros and cons. The term ‘free spirit’ ought to set alarm bells clanging; also Vic’s habit of abruptly crossing the road to avoid walking past his bank. Watch out, too, for his suggestion (curious for a free spirit, after all) that you take out wills in one another’s favour after only a brief acquaintance.

The really clever thing about Vic is that he feels most comfortable with women who are independent, for reasons beyond the obvious. To an independent woman, you see, the notion of sponging is so unthinkable that she can’t bring herself to accuse anybody else of doing it. But the sad fact is, there are people in the world who consider themselves perfectly eligible for relationships yet whose personal motto is the same as New Hampshire’s: ‘Live Free or Die’. And unfortunately they don’t all wear it on a T-shirt.

They will sack me when they read this. But how can I keep pretending to be single when I have recently entered a rather serious relationship? Ho hum, another nice job down the drain. Of course, I didn’t mean to get into anything so heavy. In fact, I struggled quite hard against it.

‘Don’t you understand?’ I moaned, sinking dramatically to my knees, and hammering my fist on the Axminster. ‘I just
can’t afford to get into this. I mean, literally. I
can’t afford
to get into this.’

It all started in June, when I took a few days’ holiday at a hotel on the north Norfolk coast, all by myself. I had envisioned a carefree time, joining boat-trip excursions to blustery sand-spit nesting grounds, pedalling my nice bike down poppy-lined B roads, and enjoying solitary meals in the hotel dining room with just a book for company. For of course (ha ha) I thought of it as ‘just a book’, then.

‘I’m taking Possession, by A.S. Byatt,’ I breezily informed the cats while I packed (hoping they would be impressed). ‘You know Possession, kitties: big one, really literary, Booker Prizewinner, everybody’s read it already, bit of a mouthful so they say.’ And I slung it in with the socks. None of us guessed what the future would hold – that after six warm days and nights of intimate contact with
Possession,
we would be locked in a tight stranglehold of book-and-woman relationship that would probably last for the rest of my literate life.

It is peculiar. I feel as though I have been married for forty years to the same book.
Possession
and I are not on the same wavelength, yet somehow I can’t break free, and there is no literary equivalent to Relate.

Last week, when somebody asked me to a dinner party, I said automatically: ‘Do you mind if I bring my book?’ And they said, er, no, of course not.

But they didn’t anticipate the change in me. We turned up at 7.30 (Possession and I) and sat quietly in a corner; and then we left together at about 10. ‘Are you sure everything is all right?’ whispered my host in the hall, as he showed us out. And I shrugged and raised my eyes to the ceiling, as if to say: ‘What I have to put up with.’

I got in the car and put Possession on the passenger seat, and thought back to our early days at the hotel, where my fellow diners often drew attention to my book at meal times.

I had thought it was funny, then, the way their friendly comments would have sounded frankly presumptuous had I been seated with a bloke instead. How would a chap react, I wondered, if strangers kept leaning over him to say to me, ‘Gosh, that’s a big one,’ and ‘But I can’t say I fancy it myself’?

Oh, what a Jezebel I used to be, when it came to books. ‘Use ’em up and cast ’em aside’ was my motto, as I notched up conquests on the bedpost, and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. I made bibliophile a dirty word. ‘Use it gently, won’t you?’ people said when they lent me books, and I laughed, callously, with a succession of’ Heh!’ noises. Living dangerously, I defied P.J. O’Rourke’s prudent advice that you should always read stuff that will make you look good if you die in the middle of it. Let death surprise me
in flagrante
with the
Jeeves Omnibus,
I cared not.

And now here I am, stuck in terminal monogamy with
Possession,
a book I shall certainly die in the middle of, because I shall never finish it.

I keep reading the same bits over and over again, you see, because the story glances off my imagination without sticking. ‘Try skim-reading,’ my friends advise me, but I am not that kind of girl. I weep, I rage, I do the kneeling and hammering thing on the carpet. But the book remains calm and implacable on the coffee table, its nice blue ribbon marking my place. I complain about
Possession
to my mum on the phone (‘We just don’t get on, mum’), and she says loyally: ‘Why don’t you bust up, like you did with old whatsisname, Henry James, that time?’

Sometimes, when you are unhappy in a relationship, it is good to talk about it. But it breaks your heart to think how casually it was undertaken in the first place. I mean, I only thought, ‘Better not take a funny book’ (since it sometimes disturbs people’s dinners when you suddenly bark explosively, sending bits of half-digested bread roll across the room); and
‘I won’t take any Anita Brookner, especially not the ones about lonely old maids reading in restaurants.’

Of such chance decisions are our manacles forged.

It is no good regretting it now. It is no good thinking of Dorothy Parker’s famous line, ‘This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly, it should be thrown with great force.’ I sit glumly in my living room, humming the tune to ‘A Fine Romance’ in a minor key, and guiltily running my eyes over the books pages of newspapers while pretending not to.

Possession
does not satisfy me: it is as simple as that. And all I can do is pace outside Waterstone’s on wet afternoons, feverishly wondering whether I dare run in, grab a copy of
Madame Bovary
and take it on an illicit ride in a cab.

I would like you to imagine the following narrative and see what is wrong with it. A woman, in Virginia, drives at top speed away from the house where she has just severed her husband’s penis. She is by nature a long-suffering person (as evidenced by her placid acceptance of her married name – Bobbitt – with all its connotations of finger puppets), but under the strain of the relationship she has finally snapped like a dry stick, and now she hares away from the grisly scene. She tosses the offending pizzle from the car window and drives on. All this may sound implausible, but in credibility terms it is easy meat compared with the next bit. For, shortly after, the police arrive, locate the member, pack it in ice and nee-naw it to a hospital (doubtless singing encouraging songs to it, to keep its peck – I mean, er, to boost its morale), where it is successfully reattached to a grateful Mr Bobbitt.

Now my point is this. If you leave a trowel in the long grass next to the shed, you can’t find it, can you? If you drop a clothes-peg on the kitchen floor and it bounces sideways, it can disappear for weeks. Yet for some reason Mr Bobbitt’s severed member was found easily by the side of a busy road. Is this not suspicious? If I were Mr Bobbitt, what would really worry me right now is not the imminent outcome of the court
case against Mrs Bobbitt, nor even the off-colour willy-jokes at my expense (‘It will never stand up in court,’ and so on). No, I would be thinking: do I have the right willy? What if those well-meaning state troopers, scouring the dusty roadside (‘There it is! We got it!’), actually located somebody else’s?

You may not remember the old German film
The Hands of Orlac,
but it is relevant, I promise. The plot concerned a virtuoso pianist who by a crushing misfortune loses both his hands in a railway accident, but whose career is ostensibly saved when a scientist secretly sews on some donor hands belonging to a freshly hanged murderer, whose dexterous speciality happened to be strangling and knife-throwing. Doubtless you can see where this is leading. The post-operative pianist peers at his big mitts (‘They don’t look like mine,’ he comments, but tragically lets it pass), and then tries to practise some scales, only to find that – musically speaking – his new fingers have ‘Geest’ and ‘Fyffes’ written all over them. It is peculiar. Then one day his fiancée’s newspaper is snatched by a gust of wind, and he automatically picks up a Sabatier, yells ‘Leave this to me!’, and hurls the knife with such deadly accuracy that it nails the paper to the floor. Naturally, there is a significant pause while she looks at him, and he looks at the knife, and then they both look at his sewn-on hands, with glum expressions.

Reports of Mr Bobbitt’s operation tell us it was only partially successful. In other words,
it is not the willy that it used to be
. Enough said, I think. Much attention Stateside has focused on the advisability of women taking the law into their own hands, and on the disturbing idea that here, in the Bobbitt emasculation, is the most terrifying of all female revenges. But of course it isn’t, not by a long measure. A proper job would involve detailed pre-planning, and in particular the planting of a look-alike willy on a main road (a stand-in!), possibly next to a large sign with ‘I think this is what you’re looking for, officer’ written in large letters upon it. In the sweetest of all
possible revenges, Mr Bobbitt would therefore emerge from his anaesthetic and say, ‘Funny, doesn’t look like mine,’ but cast such doubt immediately from his thoughts, as impossibly far-fetched.

Tattooed serial numbers would seem to be the answer, if any man is worried. But I doubt Mrs Bobbitt with her kitchen knife has started a trend, or anything. Most women are rightly repulsed by the idea of mutilation; if there is a nasty cackle of joy among certain feminists at the Bobbitt news, it’s just that there is something irresistibly hilarious at the idea of standing between a man and his willy, for however brief a span. I just hope the Hollywood Bobbitt films have thought of the
Orlac
angle. It would be a shame not to grab it up, rush it to the studios, and stitch it on sharpish. After all, it wouldn’t even matter if it didn’t quite fit.

‘Bob Dylan has been spotted looking at property in Crouch End …’ Scene: The well-furnished drawing-room of a large house in Crouch End, north London, one afternoon in August. Birds twitter in the garden beyond; a doorbell rings; a dog barks. From the hallway, a small shriek of surprise is followed by low murmurings of welcome. The door to the drawing-room opens briefly and an estate agent is heard to say, ‘Upstairs first, I think,’ before a woman, evidently distraught, rushes in, slams the door and grabs the telephone. She dials and waits, screwing up her face and tap-dancing on the parquet in anguish and impatience. Finally her call is answered by a man with a German accent.