The Ex-Wives (6 page)

It was that sort of day. Well, year. Gloomily, he put George on his lead and left the flat. He stopped at The Three Fiddlers for a pint. His piles were so painful that he didn't sit down; he stood at the bar. In this position the weight on his feet made his corns throb but this was marginally preferable to the other
thing. He had wedged cotton wool as well as corn plasters against his toes but they still pressed against the sides of his espadrilles, the thinking man's bedroom slippers.

None of his ex-wives had understood a simple fact: he didn't want to be a hypochondriac – nobody did – he just happened to have a lot of things wrong with him, mostly of a vaguely undignified but not life-threatening nature. He didn't seek the bloody things out. He didn't
want
them. Bitterly, he remembered Penny's shrill giggle when she first opened his bathroom cabinet. ‘What're they all
for
? No, don't tell me!' Strong and vigorous, she had no patience with any sort of infirmity, and less so as their marriage progressed. Erotic back-rubs became brisk ones; brisk ones became progressively brusquer until they ceased altogether. ‘Well they don't do much good, darling, do they? Why don't you go to your funny little osteopath?' When he was bedridden, the approaching rattle of the supper-tray took on an accusatory clatter, a
still-in-bed?
clatter, and she started forgetting the pepper mill.

It was a shame she wasn't ill herself more often because he was wonderful with ill women. Like many so-called hypochondriacs he was as interested in other people's symptoms as his own. In fact some of the most tender moments of his previous marriage
to Jacquetta had come each month when she suffered her crippling period pains. She had had migraines too, an affliction Penny had airily dismissed as neurotic. ‘Christ,' she'd said, ‘you must've been a right couple of crocks.' That was long ago, when she was still interested enough in his past to be jealous.

It was late. The pub was empty except for Buffy, the bitter aftertaste of his various marriages and a couple of old girls called Una and Kitty, who always bagged the seats near the fire. They had men's voices and the compacted, pressed-meat complexions of serious boozers. Buffy was fond of them, but their wrecked faces always made him uneasy – did he look like that, or would he soon? Besides, he didn't feel like any sort of conversation today, even the amiable but minimal kind he would have with them.

He walked up the street, pausing briefly to enter the smokey inferno of Ladbrokes to see if his horse, Genie Boy, had won. It hadn't.

In the months to come he tried to recollect his state of mind that Friday afternoon. Bitter and gloomy, oh, yes. Vaguely cosmic too. His company had been spurned by Archie Bingham, and you couldn't get lower than that. His exes were living with other men, more harmoniously than they had ever lived with him, they made that perfectly plain, and his children
were growing up without the benefits of his jovial good nature and panoramic breadth of experience. Did none of them realize what they were missing? He nearly tripped; the blithering pavement had been dug up, yet again. This time it was something to do with British Telecom. A pit was revealed; within it hung a knotted tangle of wires. You opened up somebody, and look at the mess inside! Divorce did that; surely it was a better idea to keep the lid on? Women were always prodding around inside him, tut-tutting like workmen, shaking their heads sorrowfully, sucking through their teeth and occasionally bursting into hysterical giggles. What was so bloody funny?

That was how he was feeling towards women in general, towards life itself, when he stopped outside the chemist's. He was, of course, a regular and valued customer at this shop. The same with Victoria Wine, opposite. He sometimes wondered what might happen if he ever moved away; how either establishment could possibly carry on.

He went in;
ping.
A blast of warm air caressed his face; perfume filled his nostrils. He paused on the threshold. A mysterious sense of well-being flooded through him.

Did it? Did it already? Even before he saw her? Yes!

Or was he just a corny old romantic, a silly old fool?

He felt it – warmth, happiness. He crossed the shop, past the racks of flowery spongebags and the cards of sparkling hairclips. Mr Singh, the pharmacist, didn't seem to be around, and the usual assistant was busy with a customer.

‘It has its own tingle scrub,' she was saying, ‘to tighten the pores.'

Then he heard a voice. ‘Can I help you?'

He turned. A young woman got to her feet. She had been kneeling on the floor, stocking some shelves, that was why he hadn't seen her.

‘Hello!' His voice sounded ridiculously hearty. He felt himself blushing. At his age! ‘You're new,' he said stupidly, just for something to say.

She nodded. She was enchanting. Utterly, entirely enchanting. Slender, shy, beautiful; halo'ed, somehow, in innocence. She wore the usual pink overalls; above it her face was delicate and translucent. Limpid brown eyes, pointed chin, achingly stem-like neck. My God! She was like a sapling, a silver birch. She was like a single daffodil, surrounded by coarse plastic blooms. How on earth was he going to ask her for a packet of suppositories?

‘Er, is Mr Singh around?'

She shook her head. ‘He's just popped out to the post office.'

How could he discuss his piles with this radiant creature? If only it were the other assistant, the big motherly one, but she was still busy. It was the old French letters syndrome: why, when one wanted to buy something embarrassing, was one faced with the prettiest salesgirl? If only he could ask for something impressive – special pills, say, to curb his incredibly powerful sexual drive.

‘Anusol Suppositories, please,' he said. ‘Oh, what a bag of infirmities is man!'

‘Anusol? What's it for?'

‘Haemorrhoids. Humiliating, I know.'

‘It's all right, I won't tell anybody.' She smiled at him. ‘Where are they?'

He paused. ‘Er. The usual place.'

‘No – I mean do you know where they're kept? The suppositories?'

‘Ah. Up there.' He pointed to the cabinet behind her. She reached up. Her sleeve fell back, exposing a slim bare arm and a shadowy armpit.

‘I'm going to the cinema tonight' he said, suddenly reckless, ‘and it's agony sitting down.'
Come with me. Come out tonight. Like all ruins, I look best by moonlight
.

‘What's on?'

‘About six different films. Have you noticed how
lovely, big things like cinemas have been divided into little cupboards, yet lovely little cupboards, like grocery shops, have been made into enormous big Waitroses? All the wrong way round, in my opinion. Still, you're too young to remember.'

‘We only had a tiny cinema anyway, where I come from.'

‘Where's that?'

‘Melton Mowbray. Me and pork pies.' She fetched down a packet. ‘Twelve or twenty-four?'

‘Twenty-four. And I need some Algipan and some Multivite . . .' He fished in his pocket. ‘And I've got some repeat prescriptions here . . .'

‘Mr Singh will be back in a tick.' She took the bits of paper. ‘Simvastatin,' she read.

‘That's for my heart.'

‘Fibogel,' she read.

‘That's for my bowels.'

She gazed at him. He felt her tender curiosity bathing his internal organs. His embarrassment disappeared; he surrendered to her. He was all hers – his body, and all it was still capable of.

‘What I really need is a complete set of new parts,' he said. ‘Trouble is, the guarantee's expired.'

She laughed. ‘I know about Algipan,' she said, fetching the bottle. ‘My Mum was prescribed it.'

‘Did it work?'

‘Well, she's dead now.' Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears.

‘Oh, Lord.' He fumbled in his pocket but all he brought out was a sort of compost – a sediment of disintegrated bus tickets and so on.

‘I'm sorry,' she sniffed. ‘Don't know why I said that.'

‘Are you all right?'

She nodded. She wiped her nose, like a child, on the back of her hand, and bent her head to look at the prescriptions.

There was silence. Something had happened. When she looked up, her face was drained.

‘Russell Buffery,' she whispered.

‘That's me.' He gazed at her. ‘What's the matter?'

She didn't reply. At that moment the other assistant strolled over, smiling.

‘Hello.' She turned to the girl. ‘This is one of my favourite customers. Isn't he nice? Remember Uncle Buffy, on
Children's Hour
?'

The girl stared at him. Then she slowly nodded.

‘Uncle Buffy and his Talking Hamster.'

‘Hammy,' said the girl.

‘I didn't make up the name,' said Buffy. ‘They did.'

The girl said: ‘I used to listen to you, with my milk. That was
you
?'

Buffy nodded. ‘Both of me.'

‘Go on,' said the other assistant, ‘do Hammy for her!'

‘Why not Buffy?' He had always felt hurt, that Hammy used to get more fan mail than he did. He had grown to loathe his little sidekick. ‘I can do other animals, you know. Hens. Grasshoppers.' He made a small, scraping sound with his teeth. ‘I can do a marvellous W C Fields.'

‘Do Hammy!'

He sighed. Oh, well, at least he was famous for
something.
And it was delightful, that he had spoken to this girl when she was little, even if it had been through a radio. He raised his voice to a squeak. ‘
Well bless my cotton socks! Who's that coming through the dell? That rough little fellow with the twinkle in his eye?
'

‘That was Voley,' said the girl. ‘The rough little fellow with the twinkle in his eye.'

‘You remember?'

She nodded. ‘The vole. He was a burglar. He stole all the squirrels' nuts. Once I tried to open the radio, to see if you were all inside.'

‘Never a good idea,' said Buffy, thinking of the knotted British Telecom wires.

‘You were famous,' she said.

‘Except all my fans were under five.'

‘I used to wonder what you looked like.' Tilting her head, she inspected him. ‘You're not like I thought.'

‘Why? My ears aren't all furry?'

‘Oh, I don't know,' she said, and sighed. When she looked up her eyes were glistening with tears again. Why? ‘What happened, anyway?'

‘The writer had a nervous breakdown. Couldn't handle all the sex and violence in the stories. So they got rid of us and brought in –'

‘Timmy McTingle and his Little Red Choo-Choo Train.'

‘Bit Freudian, I always thought.'

‘I never liked him as much.' Her face cleared; she smiled again. It was extraordinary, watching the weather-changes on her face. Suddenly the shop was flooded with sunlight.
Ping.
Some customers came in. Just then the music started and they all broke into song,
Pennies from Heaven,
the bottles dancing on their shelves, lights chasing around
L'Oreal
and
Dispensary.
The spongebags, bellows-like, grunted the rhythm; on their display cards, the golden hairclips clattered their applause.

They did, in his middle-aged, susceptible heart. She had stepped into him, like a deer into a thicket, turning round and round until she had made herself the warmest of nests. He felt her there, lodged in him, even as she answered the phone, cupping it
against her shoulder, and another customer came in and asked for something or other. It was the strangest sensation.

He walked down the street. There was a lift in the air, a quickening of London's pulse. Cars hooted, buses were crammed, the sodium lights flickered on, one by one, down the Edgware Road. For the first time in months he didn't feel excluded; he felt he had rejoined the bright, sliding stream of the city. She probably thought he was a boring old fart. Maybe she was a dream. Next time she wouldn't be there. But just now he was so utterly undone he had even forgotten to buy the
Standard
.

THINGS AREN
'
T AS
they appear. Celeste was learning this. Take Kilburn High Road; the shops in it. You thought they were selling one thing and they turned out to be selling something totally different as well. The florist's shop sold discount videos. The window of the post office was heaped with porcelain shepherdesses and packets of chamois leathers. She was surrounded by tricks and illusions. Some of the shops lied outright. Matthews Greengrocers was full of office equipment; a shop that said it sold office equipment was full of saris and canteens of cutlery. She walked past them on her way to work, past men holding cans of lager in front of them like votive offerings, at 8.30 in the morning! When she came home the shops had mysteriously been replaced, like
stage props; windows were barred and new stalls had appeared on the pavement selling bin liners and Irish leprechauns. She couldn't get a grip on the place. The neighbourhood seemed like a pack of cards being shuffled behind her back.
Got you!
it sniggered.

She didn't like the way men looked at her, either. In the evenings they still carried cans of lager, but they were more pressing. It didn't do, to dawdle. She walked briskly even when she had nowhere to go. Sometimes she had to dodge into shops, the hot breath of them blowing onto her face, the
can I help you
's. She felt sickly and bewildered. Even her body was something she had to re-learn. Men fixed their eyes on it but it was not quite her own, not yet. Her arms hung from her shoulders, her toenails were there, okay, but she felt she had been taken apart and reassembled. She had to check that everything was in place.

Nesta helped her; Nesta at work. ‘It's one thing to be pale and interesting,' she said, ‘but honestly, Celly, you look as if you've seen a ghost.' She sat her down. ‘You've got a bone structure to die for,' she said. ‘Build on it.' Nesta had worked in the shop for a year and she was familiar with all the new products. ‘I'd give my right arm for your eyes,' she sighed. In the mid-afternoons, when the place was
quiet, she held a mirror up to Celeste's face and gave her make-up lessons. It was soothing. At work, Celeste became reacquainted with her skin and dusted powder onto it. ‘Cleanse, tone, nourish,' chanted Nesta, like a prayer. ‘They'll be around you like bees round a honeypot.' Her voice was wistful; she herself was plain and plump, though she had a devoted boyfriend who arrived each day at six o'clock prompt and loaded her onto his Honda.