The Apple (6 page)

With my most cordial best wishes
…

Emmeline looked up from her reading.

‘Well?’ said her father. ‘What’s your opinion of this fellow?’

Emmeline folded the letter in her strong fingers and wedged it under the saucer of her teacup. Then she gazed past her father’s shoulder at the snow-frosted window, her eyes half-closed. The grey terraced houses of Bayswater, the iron lamp-posts and the hearse-like delivery carts, had lost some of their solidity for her; they were semi-transparent, shifting ephemera in a monochrome kaleidoscope.

‘He can’t spell “paroxysm” or “conscientiously”,’ she remarked, in a faraway tone. Her eyes grew more and more unfocused. She was picturing the lush fields of Georgia, endless acres of fertility. Her man’s property was a vast bed of soft green enlivened with ripe cotton, a wholly mysterious substance she imagined resembling snow-white poppies. And, standing erect in the middle of those fields, his hands on his hips, there he was, silhouetted against the cloudless sky, his outline shimmering in the heat. An ecstatic dog ran up to him, leaping against his chest, licking his neck, and he embraced it, laughing. To the far left, in the corner of her mind’s eye, stood a dark figure, a Negro bearing an uncanny resemblance to an illustration in
Dred: A Tale of the Great Dismal Swamp
, one of several novels by Harriet Beecher Stowe in Emmeline’s bookcase. ‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘he keeps slaves.’

Dr Curlew harrumphed. ‘Is that the only reason you wrote to him?’

Emmeline blinked, looked away from the window, returned home to England.

‘Have another chocolate, Father,’ she said.

‘Might you perhaps write to him again?’ asked Dr Curlew. ‘Or is he past saving?’

Emmeline lowered her head and smiled, blushing a little.

‘No one is past saving, Father,’ she replied, and fetched up the letter and photograph. The mute form of Gertie was hovering in the doorway, waiting for permission to clear the table. Luncheon had run overtime; Dr Curlew must call upon his patients, and Miss Curlew must retire to her bedroom, her favoured place, always, for correspondence.

The Fly, and Its Effect upon Mr Bodley

M
rs Tremain opens the door of her house in Fitzrovia, to find a formally dressed, bleary-eyed, somewhat desperate-looking man standing on the threshold. This is not unusual in itself, although eleven o’clock in the morning is rather early for the first customer. Most men who get a hankering for a whore before midday pick one off the street and conduct their business in an alley, especially on these balmy summer days when no one is likely to catch a chill. Only in the evenings, when gentlemen have been drinking port and reading pornography in their clubs, and when a sumptuous meal has turned their thoughts to cigars and fellatio, does Mrs Tremain’s house become a bustling attraction.

‘Why, Mr Bodley!’ she exclaims delightedly. ‘Where is Mr Ashwell?’

As all the best prostitutes in London know, Mr Bodley and Mr Ashwell are inseparable. Not in the sense of being Sodomites, for they are happy enough to trot into different rooms when each of them has been given a suitable female companion. But they are chums. They confer in all things, including the choice of brothel, the choice of wine, the choice of girl, and afterwards they compare their findings.

‘Ashwell is asleep, I expect,’ mutters Mr Bodley. ‘As all self-respecting men-about-town should be at this time of day.’

‘Some of us are early risers, Mr Bodley,’ says Mrs Tremain, motioning her guest to step inside. ‘You will find half the girls are available to you immediately, and all but one of them within half an hour, if you can bear to wait.’

‘Wait?’ says Mr Bodley mournfully. ‘I can wait forever. I shouldn’t have come. I should be at home in bed. I should be in my grave. My whoring days are over.’

‘Oh, don’t say that, sir. Come see what we have for you.’

Mrs Tremain takes him to the parlour, where two young ladies are seated on the floor, barefoot, dressed only in their undergarments. Their white petticoats puddle all around them, touching at the hems. Their corsets are loose, sagging off their naked shoulders, the loose clasps glittering. Their hair is up, but untidy. They smell of stale perfume, soap and strawberries (a red-stained straw punnet lies discarded and empty in the corner, indicating the street-market origin of their breakfast). In the morning light the lack the erotic allure lent by lamplit shadows, and instead look domesticated, like a litter of puppies.

Girl Number One is a pale, freckled lass whom Bodley vaguely remembers having tried once before. Girl Number Two is wholly unfamiliar to him, a sloe-eyed Asiatic with lustrous black hair.

‘Mr Bodley, meet our newest,’ says Mrs Tremain. ‘She is from the Malay Straits. Her name is something like Pang or Ping, but we call her Lily. Lily, stand up and greet the gentleman.’

Nudged under the elbow by Girl Number One, Lily scrambles to her feet, and curtseys. She is perhaps four foot eleven, but very beautiful.

‘Fuck, sir. Fuck,’ she says, brightly.

‘We are teaching her English, sir,’ says Girl Number One, ‘beginning with the essentials.’

Lily curtseys again. ‘Fucky fuck, sir. Fucky fuck fuck.’

‘Charming,’ says Mr Bodley.

‘Fucky fuck muck-a-muck wuck.’

Girl Number One smirks, and pulls at Lily’s skirts, signalling her to sit down. ‘We’ve not had much time, sir, to teach her. But she’s powerful willing.’

Mr Bodley nods, then turns his face theatrically towards the heavily curtained window, his jaw set hard.

‘The willingness of comely girls, the novelty of foreign flesh, the smell of strawberries – none of these things can mean anything to me now.’

‘Oh dear,’ says Mrs Tremain. ‘Is it as bad as that?’

‘Worse, worse,’ sighs Mr Bodley, perching his bottom on the armrest of a chaise longue, and resting his palms on his knees. Disconsolately he stares at the Persian rug under his polished shoes. ‘In this house, the candleflame of my manhood was snuffed out.’

Mrs Tremain takes a deep breath, licks her lips, and comes out with it.

‘You haven’t a complaint about us, I trust, sir?’

‘A complaint?’ says Bodley. ‘No, no, madam. I have always found your house to be hospitable in the extreme. Although …’ (he looks towards the curtained window again, his face stoical in grief) ‘something unfortunate did happen here last time I availed myself of your hospitality. What bearing it has on my current state of distress, I cannot say for certain.’

‘Distress? Oh, mercy, sir: I don’t like to hear that. Not from a valued customer such as yourself. You didn’t use Bella, I hope?’

‘Why? Is there some problem with Bella?’

‘Not any more, sir. She’s gone.’

‘I don’t believe I ever had Bella.’

‘Just as well, sir.’

‘Although … what would have happened if I had?’

‘Nothing untoward, sir. We use only the best, the purest, the friendliest, the healthiest and the delight-fullest girls here, sir. Until they cease to be so. Then they must go elsewhere.’

Girl Number One examines her fingernails. Lily leans over to see what is so remarkable about them.

‘I believe it was Minnie I had,’ says Mr Bodley, his brow wrinkling with the effort of recalling the name.

‘A paragon, sir,’ affirms Mrs Tremain. ‘No part of her falls beneath perfection.’

‘Indeed not, indeed not. Only, I could not help noticing … when she was positioned before me, on her hands and knees, with her dress pulled up to expose her arse-hole and cunt, for we had not yet established which of these I would select …’

‘Yes?’

‘A fly settled on her left buttock.’

‘A fly, sir?’

‘A common fly. A fly such as one sees buzzing around a fruit stall in the street.’

Mrs Tremain blinks slowly. The temperature in the room is rising gently as the day advances.

‘Well, it
is
summer, sir,’ she reminds her guest. ‘There are millions of flies about. Is it really so miraculous that one of them should have got into our house?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘We keep a clean house, sir. The Queen’s palace won’t be as clean, I’ll wager. But we must keep it ventilated, sir. That’s part of good health: ventilation. And where there’s an open window, a fly may enter. And even be so bold as to settle on a girl’s behind.’

‘Understood, madam. I don’t mean to criticise …’

‘The fly didn’t crawl somewhere it shouldn’t, I hope? I mean, somewhere that might have come between you and your pleasure?’

‘No, no, no. It flew off at my approach. Minnie and I were soon conjoined. I was fully satisfied, and in fact paid her extra.’

‘And yet today you are distressed?’

Mr Bodley embraces himself with his arms, and inclines his head pensively to one side.

‘I’ve been thinking, madam. About that fly. About flies in general. Flies feed on rotting matter. They lay eggs in it. The maggots that decompose us when we are dead are laid by flies.’

‘I assure you Minnie is very much alive, sir. She’s in the bath just now, but if you were to give her fifteen minutes, I’m sure she would be able to demonstrate to you that she is frisky and entirely maggot-free.’

‘Yes, but that’s exactly it, don’t you see? We are alive for but a fleeting moment. Millions have lived and died before us, millions will come after us, and for what?’

Mrs Tremain’s shoulders slump visibly, despite the puff sleeves of her dress. It’s five past eleven in the morning, far too early to solve the libertine’s recurrent crisis of will.

‘I’m a purveyor of pleasure, sir, not a clergyman. However, I can assure you that we have plenty of clergymen coming here. A man can spend only so much time pondering Death before he gets an appetite for other things.’

‘Well, my appetite is gone. Quite gone.’

Mrs Tremain regards Mr Bodley for a few seconds, taking his measure. Then she winks towards Lily, saying, ‘Would you consider a few minutes with Lily, sir, free of charge? If she fails to kindle your … your candleflame, we shall know how serious the problem is. If – as I’m confident will be the case – you are quickened to action, the price will still be reasonable. Lily is inexperienced, after all.’

‘Fucky fuck fuck,’ Lily pipes up.

‘No, no, really I couldn’t,’ groans Mr Bodley. ‘What would be the point? Even if my flesh were to respond according to its animal design? I am a normal, robust man, this girl has lips and tongue and all the rest of it. There is no impediment to our carnal competence. Except its sheer pointlessness, madam. I have performed this act thousands of times before.’

‘As have
we
, sir,’ Mrs Tremain reminds him, but he is lost in his own lamentations.

‘Thousands of copulations. Thousands of repetitions of the same motions. The stroking of necks and cheeks. The baring of the breasts. The unclothing of the hindquarters. Ministrations to ensure the cunt’s lubricity; ministrations to ensure the cock’s rigidity. Always the same sequence of frustration, negotiation, expectation, capitulation, then, uh …’

‘Release? Rapture?’

‘Alleviation.’

Mrs Tremain sniffs. ‘You are an idealist, sir, and your idealism is making you miserable. Most of us manage to find joy in routine pleasures. Like eating, sleeping …’

Mr Bodley snorts irritably. ‘I’ve been sleeping damn little lately.’

‘Ah, there you may have your problem, sir,’ remarks Mrs Tremain, suddenly inspired. ‘Sleep is essential for the soul’s good health. I make sure all my girls get a portion of sleep every night. Otherwise they’d go mad, I’m sure. Which may be what’s happening to you, sir, if I may be so bold.’

‘No, I have merely stared deep into the abyss of human futility …’

‘How did you spend last night, if you don’t mind me asking, sir?’

Mr Bodley reacts as if someone has just flicked his nose.

‘Last night? Uh … I spent it with Ashwell. We went to a rat-fight in Whitechapel, almost got ourselves murdered. Then we found a place to drink, and drank. Then the sun came up and I caught a cab home. Unable to recall the location of my bedroom, I dozed for perhaps an hour in my vestibule. Then a volley of letters was pushed through the mail slot in my front door and hit me on the face.’

‘And the night before?’

Mr Bodley frowns with the effort of penetrating so far back into history.

‘I was with Ashwell again. We went to Mrs Foscoe’s in Brompton Road. Ashwell promised me that two of our old dons from Cambridge would be there, getting whipped. They never came, but we had to get whipped while waiting; it would’ve been impolite not to. Then I had a little accident which required immediate attention. Ashwell said he knew a doctor, a good friend of his, in Beaufort Gardens. But we were so drunk, we ended up in Hyde Park, and I fell into the Serpentine while attempting to wash. Then … uh … my memory is indistinct. Something involving horses, I think, and a policeman.’

‘I suppose you slept much of the next day, sir?’

‘Scarcely a wink. I had to go see my father, to explain certain matters arising from a publishing venture of mine. Also, the people upstairs have bought a dog, a very argumentative dog whose throat I have not yet found time to cut.’

‘I see,’ says Mrs Tremain. Indeed, she observes that her guest’s eyes are bloodshot and that his hands are trembling.

‘But these are trifles,’ groans Mr Bodley. ‘Mere flotsam on the vast accumulated ocean of pointless endeavour. All human satisfactions are lost to me.’

‘Just mislaid, I’m sure, sir,’ says Mrs Tremain, in her most soothingly maternal tone. ‘The sleep’s the main thing, I believe. You are weary, terribly weary, I see that now, sir. Wouldn’t you like to lie down in one of our spare beds? We’d barely charge you, sir. A night’s sleep for the price of a glass of good wine.’

Mr Bodley stares stupidly at her. His lower lip swells, making him look like a boy of six.

‘I haven’t a nightgown with me,’ he protests feebly.

‘Sleep naked, sir. Our beds are warm, and it’s summer.’

‘I can’t sleep without a nightgown,’ says Bodley, covering his eyes with his tremulous hands. ‘It’s not natural.’