Fragment from The Studio Couch – Alan Robinson
November 30th, 2009 | Published in Volume VIII: Lost and Found, Volume XIII: Smoke and Mirrors
Wednesday
On the tiles on a Wednesday night, with borrowed money. Rita never said a word. What’s her game? Doesn’t matter. It’s all happenin’. Saturday on a Wednesday. Bus full, o’people wi’ money to spend. SuperMac’s right. Never had it so good. No end to it, unless they call another war, which they won’t for a while now they’re buildin’ all these washin’ machines and hoovers.
The Savoy. Not like the posh one in Newcastle. On its way out. Usher’s trousers and jacket don’t match. Walls need painting. Here she comes and I haven’t worked out what to say. Same as ever, lovely uplifted smile, a kiss on the cheek, soft, powdered face.
“How are you?” Sounded as if I was enquiring after her health. Act natural for Christ’s sake.
“All the better for seeing you.”
Love her. That’s it.
“What are we seeing?”
“Richard Burton.”
“Never heard of him.”
Link arms. Don’t give a fuck. If we’re seen, we’re seen.
“How’s the strike going?”
“We’re winning. We’ll get the rise.”
“Well done”
“It’s the lads that did it.’
“Yes, because you motivated them.”
“That’s a big word.”
“I got six Ordinary National passes.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean owt. Here”
” You know I’ve got a sweet tooth. Don’t let me scoff them. Want a fag?”
“Thanks, I’ll smoke my own.” Hers are shite. Like Woodbines. Tell her that soon. Get her on to Players full strength.
At last, alone in the dark. Stockings are soft and raspy at the same time. Give me a hard – on just to touch them. What am I doing here? Married with two kids. Oh well.
Burton’s neither nowt nor summat. Posh voice with a Welsh tinge. Doesn’t look right in a checky shirt. ‘E’s not angry, Just a shite copy of Brando, bullying women till they cry. Hold her hand, near the leg, so I can touch the stockings. Worth the price of admission. Why am I joking? Do I love her?
“I like her dress”
“Mm. Smart.”
Insipid really. Never liked English Rose and neither does Burton. He fancies Liz Taylor, dark, man/woman handsome. Gill’s an English dandelion. What’s she thinking? Always seems happy with me. Never mentions Eddy. About a man who’ll never make women happy, this film. Plenty of them round here.
Burton and Eddy Fisher both want Liz Taylor, I reckon she ‘ll leave Fisher for Burton. Maybe Eddys get left. I hope.
Gill’s sighing. Cos the sweets are gone. When they’re gone, she gets restless. Would she with me? Once the sweetness goes? Doesn’t have to, does it? If it does, just leave. Not stay in sickness and in health. I was taught Jesus won’t like it if you don’t stay. He never stuck with a woman, or maybe he was just homo and none of it applied to him. He took twelve men away from their wives. Bollocks. This one’s taking me away from mine. Jesus in drag, she is. With a haircut and make – up. He was the bearded lady. Notice Gill’s got a wisp of hair on the chin. Am I getting a Billy Goat.
“Film a bit slow?”
“Not slow. Like wor’ street wi posh accents. I don’t mind. This is nice.”
“Keep it down please!”
Typical. Cinema’s empty and a wanker sits behind us. Lonely old wanker. Bit stiff, like an old soldier. If we snog it’ll aggravate his war wound.
Christ, I only meant to be affectionate. She gets worked up quick. Wet, you can smell her. Might confuse old soldier. It’s confusin’ me. Hard – on makes ‘s realize I prefer a Western, or I wouldn’t be doin’ this. She’s got me balls now, Christ she’s in! Doesn’t waste a minute. Should’ve gone to the back row. Never expected this. She’s got me dick out, pity she’s got cleaner’s fingers, Fuckin’ hell! A need air.
“Did you mind us leaving?”
” It wasn’t my cup of tea”
“Except for the last bit, eh?”
Good job it’s winter, and me coat’s coverin’ the wet patch.
Kiss her.
“Gill, I’m havin’ a great time…”
“Yes?”
“But I keep wondrin’…why you never mention Eddy.”
“Nor you Rita.”
“So…there’s no problems?”
“Problems come, you don’t have to wish them. What are you trying to say?”
D’you want to finish?”
Shit. I’ve spoiled it. ” So everything’s fine?”
“It will be. This is great. ”
” That’s all I need to know.”
“Are you all right? You’ve got kids. A haven’t.”
“That’ll sort itself out.”
“You sure?”
Don’t.
That squeeze, just the right time. So good it could almost be practiced.
Kiss. The answer.
3
Friday
Barely heard the door, thinks Rita. He comes in quietly, like a thief. Stealing in like he wants to steal away from us. Inhale the cig. Swab the pain. I’m gripping the bench as if it was a handrail and I was at sea. I feel sick. Can’t eat with him, can’t eat at all. Couldn’t eat those cream biscuits Jenny offered me today. The bastard!
Dad seems calm, thinks Jack. He’s usually excited on Friday, just passing through us on his way out. Has more than usual on Friday. Most people do, the drinkers’ tribe. Glad we’re going to Granddad’s. It’s normally nice on Fridays with Mam. She’s excited too, gets in the sweets, and we have a treat for pudding. Something’s different tonight. Angie on his knee doesn’t notice, Christmas every teatime for her. Mam’s biting her nails, our whole world could change this weekend. At least we’ll be at Gran’s, like being in a lifeboat while ship’s unsafe, and the captain’s not sure what to do. Feel sorry for Mam, she won’t have us or Gran, just him and his frustration.
“The kids look nice”
Little Angie’s warm limpet cuddle, how could I leave her?
“Here’s your dinner.”
“Are you not having any?”
“I’m going out.”
“Where you going?”
“Me Mam’s.”
“Right. Thanks hinny. Dinner looks nice”
Nearly said Don’t rush, but she’d hold that against ‘s.
“Give’s a kiss Angie darlin'”
Mmm. Wet, sloppy kiss.
“Bye A miss you Dad”
”Miss you too darlin”
Me and him don’t really speak, thinks Jack. The goodbye’s a formality. He’s alone again when he’s been alone at work. There are other people there, but I see him alone. He seems to make himself alone, carries a shield that keeps people away, except for Angie, his little dimpled cherub. They’re in a world of their own. She doesn’t want to go, but he gives her up with a lift of the hand, even her.
Mam’s fed up, angry with him. Glad we’re going, don’t want to see them argue or her cry. She should stay with us at Gran’s, we could stay till he goes back to work on Monday.
“Bye”. His wry smile, as in good riddance. To me and Mam at least.
Now we’re out, and there’s the sea air, the gulls, the buses jostle each other, trolleying toys, the toy conductors, the toytown Friday as we go to see Gran and Grandpa while Mam and Dad go another round. Or maybe she’ll see a friend, or go to Church, I hope.
Goodbye, Alec says silently. Peace and quiet. Stillness. Alone with overcooked dinner, gravy as brown as a new football, applied like sealant to the burnt chops.
Fuck it, I’ll have bread and butter. Thanks Rita. Why did she bother? I suppose we’re both going through the motions, but soon it will stop.
Dark. Must have fallen asleep. Spooky. Turn on Radio Luxembourg. Jack Jackson, playing Marv Johnson, voice like, what do they call it over there? Molasses. Without the telly I can even hear the sea. No screech, screech, screech. Wonder if the gulls are really harpies. Eunuch birds with sharp talons and killer beaks. Maybe they’ll take over one day. No future for us. We’re fucked.
Must have stayed at her Mam’s, unless she’s stopped at Jenny’s. Make the most. Skip bath. Tea, bread and butter, fag. Prefer it here to the snobby bit we used to live in. Only us rented. Too many old widows. Better off here. Modern. People are more down to earth, even that teacher over the road. Be nice if Gill was here, on the new studio couch, my arm around her, bet the sex would be great. She’s so wet. Hope she’s small. Not much chance, but you never know. Don’t know how much her and Eddy do it, don’t think there was anyone before him. What about when he was away at the war? Hope she hasn’t slept around. Is that why Dad calls her a tart even though she’s married? He’s not daft. Yet she’s so canny and soft.
Fuck. The door.
Shit, it is Rita, just when Jack Jackson’s gonna play James Brown
“Hi.”
Doesn’t sound frazzled but she’s looking through me.
“Where’s the kids?”
“At me mam’s. I need a break. Aren’t you going out?”
” Aye”
“I saw your Dad and Billy on their way to the Marsden Inn.”
” You have a night out if you want.”
“I’m stopping in. I’m going to have a bath.”
Don’t understand. Something’s snapped. Maybe this is it. The beginning of afterwards, indifference with a hint of bitchiness. Bitch’s brew.
The radio’s still on, Jack Jackson on top Do. More Marv Johnson. Maybe some more James Brown soon. Sod Billy and Dad, I’m staying here. Offer her a cup of tea. No reason why not. Stay civil.
“Want some tea?”
“No thanks.”
Fuck it. How did we get to this? From courting, to wedding day, to Jack’s birth, to this. Her in another room, trying to pretend we don’t exist for each other. Hope he doesn’t play James Brown now. That song, Prisoner of Love, makes’s cry. Shit, I’m almost crying now, me eyes are sore, what a fuckin’ mess. How much would a see the kids? Especially little Angie. Would she whisk them off? Never see them again, or hardly ever.
That would be fuckin’ hard. What about Angie’s wedding day. Who’d give her away? Maybe a should go out. This is shit, sittin’ stewin’ over the whole thing.
Make yourself get dressed. Get up. Up!
Lights are dim in the bedroom, bulb’s on its way out.
Christ, can hardly see. Something moved. It’s Rita, like a ghost by the mirror. Two of her, in white. Am I seeing things? It’s just her slip, a fancy one though. She’s got a strange look on her face, it’s like we’re caught in an eclipse. With a Jack the Ripper streetlamp beaconing the room.
She’s made up, like she’s going on a date. Has she got someone? Tit for tat.
Isn’t he a picture, thinks Rita. Overalls, greasy hair, still good-looking, bit sad, and why? Brought it all on himself, stupid boy. Still got my figure. Does he see that? Or is it not Rita Hayworth enough. One of us should speak but neither is. Why was I getting dressed up? What was the point?
“I thought you were in the bath.”
“I was. You fell asleep.”
“What’s the time?”
“The pubs are still open.”
“I’ll come back when you’re finished.”
“Help me – fasten this.”
Haven’t seen her like this for years. She looks good.
“Haven’t seen this dress for a while”
“Hold it, while I pull it up.”
Tight round the hips. Bigger than Gill’s. Fuck, Jesus, not now. Think straight. Keep a focus. Don’t drift.
“Now zip it.”
Jesus. Her neck, she’s wearing perfume. Must kiss, mustn’t kiss, back off, don’t touch, leave it there. She’s turning. She looks lovely, my wife, with a dirty come-on look in her eyes. She’s daring me. I’m falling, falling.
© Alan Robinson 2009