The Pretty Silk Headscarf – Jane Pugh
April 1st, 2009 | Published in Volume V: Antiheroes
Here’s to the secret of my success! Am I a rich man? What, are you mad? Have I led the field in science or art? No, can’t say I have. Have I scored the winning try for Cornwall? I wish I could say so but it would be a lie. No, my success is with the maids. They come flocking! Form an orderly queue girls. That’s it, you’ll all get a chance.
We have dances in our village. And you could argue that the secret of my success lies in the fact that I can cut a rug. Twinkle toes, that’s me. I comb my red hair, put on a nice shirt, and we’re off.
The dances are hot and steamy. The band members play their instruments with one hand and mop their sweating faces with the other. I swing the girls back and forth, inside and out, up and down. They don’t know what’s hit them and in their confusion they look so pretty, like little cakes with icing and on the top.
At the end of the night, the girls have had a little chat and decide amongst themselves which one is going to let me walk them home. They’re very fair, they take it in turns and I’m pretty game for blondes or the brunettes, little ones and ones with a fuller figure. I’ve got red hair so I’m the gold medal and my friend’s got blonde hair so he’s the silver. My friend doesn’t mind because he’s hopeless at dancing, Two left feet, two flat feet. I get him sorted and all’s fair in love and war and we take the girls home, shake hands, wish each other luck and regroup the next day to find out who got a kiss, who got a feel or who got a slap.
But no it’s not dancing that’s not the key to my success.
I can sing as well. I’m you’re regular Frank Sinatra. My hands might be rough from the daily toil of life but my voice, sweet and soft, is like grabbing a handful of icing sugar and throwing it in the air.
There was one particular girl, blimey, she was a looker. She eventually left the village to work in Liberties, London. Liberty should’ve been her name because that’s what she took and often. Cost me a fortune. Nothing worked. Her mouth was like a little raspberry tart but every time I reached for it, it was like she whipped it back in the fridge to save it for later. I sang to her, a desperate man, I plumped for Blue Spanish Eyes because she had blue eyes, not that she was Spanish but it was near enough. And you know what she did? She laughed. It quite put me off my stride. She said the song reminded her of her Uncle Willy because it was his favourite song. I said ‘What’s so funny about that?’ She explained that Uncle Willy was a bit strange, he liked wearing tweed skirts and wool stockings and sitting in Plymouth teashops. I was really beginning to think I had bitten off more than I can chew when Liberty finally let me kiss her. And very pleasant it was too except that she kept breaking off as a fresh bout of giggles overwhelmed her. In the end I said ‘Stop thinking about your Uncle Willy, just put him out of your mind.’ And she said ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help it. He keeps popping up.’
We had a bit of an argument about it and so I didn’t see Liberty after that. I was just about to through in the towel and give up on women entirely when everything changed in my life.
I got ill. TB. Before I could say ‘infected lungs’ I was in my candy striped pyjamas on the isolation ward with a load of miserable, boring blokes who had nothing to do all day apart from lose at draughts and moan about trapped wind. I thought my life was over. I’m not the type to get the glums but I tell you, the thought of staying on that ward for months made my heart as heavy as heavy cake.
The sun rose again the day I found out that there was a ladies TB ward. The problem was that, to us chaps, the women’s ward was strictly out of bounds. It was like trying to infiltrate the Maharaja’s palace of the eternal virgins getting on to the women’s ward. I had to think of something and fast. And then Uncle Willy popped into my head just as he’d kept popping into Liberty’s. And it is through him, Good Old Uncle Willy, that I learnt the secret of my success:
I found a nurse’s uniform hanging out to dry in the laundry room.
We had a bit of beetroot with our tea that night so I dabbed a bit on my lips.
Then I found a silk headscarf abandoned by a visiting wife. It had pretty sailboat motif and smelt of setting lotion.
I used my own razor to shave my chin and then I realised I’d have to shave my legs as well and my chest. Blimey, what a job.
I sneaked out and cross the lawn, stubbing my toe on the concrete bird bath. The language that steamed out of my root vegetable mouth, let’s just say, it wasn’t very ladylike. I reached the French Windows and was trying to jimmy the lock, thinking to myself ‘It’d better be worth it’, but oh it was! There they were – two rows of pretty ladies like Turkish delights in a dusted box. All scrubbed clean in the nighties bought from Littlewoods catalogue.
I was just about to fling off my headscarf and reveal my true gorgeous and manly self when the Night Nurse popped in to switch off the lights. I took a dive into the nearest bed, unoccupied I hasten to add, and in the darkness I lay with my heart pounding whilst all around me it was still and quiet and beautiful. It was so peaceful in there I’d never been so relaxed. I was just about to tiptoe out of there before I fell asleep and copped it in the morning when I heard a whisper ‘Pauline, are you all right, dear?’ Pauline tried to say she was all right but her tears stopped her. She started to cry as if her heart would break and mine was about to break too, I felt so sorry for her. I peeked over my blankets to see the ladies get up out of their beds like doves flying from a dove cot.
Pauline was missing home. She missed her mum and her boyfriend and her little brothers and sisters and she was scared she was going to die. We might joke about the TB ward but we were properly ill. The women soothed her brow, and fed her grapes, and gently teased by taking her temperature, reckoning she was a strong as an ox and would live. Then they swapped their TB stories. Some said having TB wasn’t nearly as bad as child birth. One lady, thin and serious, Shelley, said she was grateful to TB because, now that she was in isolation, her husband couldn’t knock her about. And they gave her a hug too and said that she should leave him. One widow said she’d got used to being on her own with the kids but she missed the sex. And they all shrieked at her naughtiness but they liked the fact that she was daring. It made others confess too, saying how they missed their husband’s arms about them. One old lady said that she lived on a hillside farm and she didn’t want to leave because the ladies on the ward were the best friends she’d ever had. And they all, thinking about it and weighing it up, agreed with her sentiments.
And I agreed too. My legs were fair itching like crazy having shaved them but I lay there quiet and still like a freshly baked loaf cooling on the rack. I lay there listening to the girls talking into the night until one by one they all padded back to their beds and slept. Pauline was only young and she was still scared so Shelley got into Pauline’s bed and held her close. She laid awake all night, her eyes too tired to shut, stroking Pauline’s hair.
The secret to my success is not dancing or singing it’s because I shaved my legs! I understand women now because for one night I was one and I have seen and heard the secret world they share. I understood Uncle Willy now, sitting knees together, amongst women in Plymouth teashops, the crafty old fox, and every time I’m with a lovely lady, after we’ve been out dancing or singing songs at the pub, I make sure I stay awake until she’s asleep, I lie awake all night if I have to, and I stroke her hair.
I’m glad I knew Shelley’s husband and I’m glad a couple of us hit him and told him that if he ever laid a finger on his wife again, we’d show him what for. Yes, when I look in the mirror and look at my sharp eyes, I’m glad that I’m a man but I’m also glad I kept the headscarf.