The Grace in Older Women (10 page)

‘I’ll put the music on. Go in, Lovejoy.'

Tryer has this wailing music, his idea of enticement to the
multitudes. It comes from a faulty compact disc player that blares out over a
Tannoy thing, loudspeakers and dangling wires. He started unrolling a dirty
banner. He always has a fag between his lips, goes unshaven. But, I thought
enviously, he has Chemise, regular grub, and a career crusading against the
ungodly. Can you ask for more?

'Take that end, Lovejoy.'

It read ADMISSION FREE EVERY SECOND PATRON. Quite clever, because
couples will go in for a giggle, and loners wait then slope in silently. Hence,
it's only rarely a customer gets in for nowt.

Chemise put her head from the side door as we got the banner tied
along the vehicle.

‘Wotch, Chemise.'

'Lovejoy! I thought it was your voice!' She was delighted to see
me, and embraced me with a savagery you don't often get outside of total war. I
almost vanished into her cleavage, struggled up after a prolonged asphyxiation.

'Hello, love.' I sucked fresh air in, reeled about a bit.
'Business good?'

Tryer watched, smiling foolishly at his loved one as he hung out
shingles of admission prices. It was a daft question, really. More rust than
last month, I noticed. The tyres were bald as a bladder. The engine was already
pooling oil on the macadam. Times were hard.

She grimaced. A pretty woman can get away with doing that.
Chemise's grimaces are a tribulation because she starts with a handicap. Yet I
really do mean I like Chemise, in the sense am fond of. The Sex Museum is her
idea. It's kept them in bread since they paired off, which is a novelty for
Tryer. He's like Jox but without the money, if you follow. She's average
height, has uncontrollable brown hair, a figure that's oddly lopsided as though
she's had some auto accident, with legs of skeletal thinness and large feet.
Her cleavage is something else, but her shoulders are also kiltered. Buck
teeth, a forehead with permanent wrinkles. But I like her, so that's that, I
don't honestly understand why women score off each other about appearances,
because every woman has her own beauty, Chemise included. It isn't necessarily
what you see, what's to grab in the throes of orgasm, a snooty comparison of
shapes. It's not even the business of smart fashion - her dress costs
thousands, little Cinderella's only discount sale garb - that competition thing
women do. It's the woman's gracious merciful sethat counts. And the one with
grace wins hands down. Women don't know this. They think everything is youth,
shape, and marvellous clothes. Try telling them, they think you're having them
on.

'Business? Awful, Lovejoy.'

'I'm hungry, love. Any use asking?'

'Don't be silly. I'm just getting rid of some extras. Help us finish
them off. Come in.'

See what I mean? A gorgeous woman could become Lady Bountiful,
dishing out grub to ruffians like you. With Chemise, it's come and help her get
rid of excess grub. Grace and mercy go together, so I went in.

The trailer's in two sections, one for living in, one the Sex
Museum. Her microwave's often on the blink but this time was going okay. Those
gas cylinders always worry me in case they go off with a bang. And a loo, a
shower behind a plastic curtain, two bunk beds that fold into bench seats.

'Everything but hope!' She did another grimace. I think.

'More than me, love.' I sat down while she brewed up. She had
breakfast ready, beans, eggs, potato cakes reheating, cereals, bread, and a
toaster. My mouth watered while she cooked and Tryer clumped about on the roof.
'Got anything new?'

'You mean old, Lovejoy.' She smiled, exquisitely beautiful. Her
eyes became brilliant with humour. 'I know you.'

'Well, I can ask.'

'Some odd old items, Lovejoy. Job lot, an auction. He only bought
them because they were at the end of the sale.'

'I look?'

'Have your breakfast first, Lovejoy.'

She called Tryer. It was agony, waiting with a steaming hot plate
of grub in front of me dragging my mouth down and my hands twitching. As soon
as Tryer sat at the let-down table I was off, whaling in like a stoker
shovelling coal. I ate everything within reach. She started buttering another
load before we'd finished the first, talking all the while of the places they'd
been, how poorly they'd done through the Midlands, police.

'It's the bloody watch committees, Lovejoy,' Tryer said. 'They had
us out of three towns on the trot before I'd got the handbrake on. Right,
darling?' He calls her darling without embarrassment, a rare thing for our
level of society.

'They know us, Lovejoy.' Chemise was really downcast. 'It's this
new morality.'

'No, love. It's your name.' My mouth was crammed. Speaking, I lost
vital crumbs, which narked me. Starved of calories, here I was spraying the
damned things into mid-air, but I had to sing for my supper. 'Worst name you
could choose.'

'And how often do the peelers move you on?'

Two out of three,' from Tryer. 'Bad spell, four in five.'

A thunderous knock deafened me on the panels. A voice boomed, 'In
there! Watch committee! Open up!'

'See?' Chemise wailed. 'Now look! They're here.'

'Hold on, love.' I got up. swallowing fast. 'Stop there, Tryer.' I
didn't want him interfering. Lies were called for. My game.

The bloke standing there was typical. Clipboard, waistcoat, a
clerk's view of the universe. Pinstriped suit, for God's sake. I thanked
heaven. The watch committee had played into my hands. They'd sent me a duckegg.

'Yes?' I wished I had a napkin to dab genteelly at my mouth, but
Chemise doesn't run to such. I'd have to tell her when I'd got rid of this
nerk.

'Get this off this car park!' Like all his kind, he bawled the
command, though I was well within earshot.

'Why?' A gentle puzzlement lighting my countenance.

He was narked, having to look up at me. He tried to thunder. 'Your
Sex Museum is a disgrace! As the authorized watch committee officer, I order
you off! This town is respectable!'

'Sex Museum?' Now I was baffled, frowning. 'This isn't a Sex
Museum. Whatever gave you that idea?'

'Your banner! ' He mocked me, beads of sweat on his forehead,
almost dancing with rage.

Stepping down, I looked. My brow cleared. I could have filled the
Shakespeare Memorial Theatre. My acting felt that good.

'Tryer?' I called, truly sincere sadness slumping my shoulders.
'Those kids again. Come and see.'

He emerged, mystified. 'What?'

'Them desecrators've draped the exhibition.' I pointed. 'It's a damned
shame. Every time our Humanistic Encounter Exhibition reaches town.'

'What exactly are you implying?' the committee man bawled.

‘It's no good, Lovejoy,' Tryer said dispiritedly.

But I was halfway through a meal. God only knows where I'd get the
next. I halted, determined. St Alban facing doom.

'No, Tryer,’ I said firmly, trying to signal him to shut up for
Christ's sake. 'No. We must stand firm.' I turned, tearful, to the goon. 'Sir,
I wish to protest about your town schoolchildren and your security services. No
sooner does our travelling exhibition reach your town than we endure insult. It
was the same at Ipswich.'

'Ipswich?' He glared at the banner, back at me.

'Insult after insult. The Arts Council predicted this!'

'Arts Council?' he said, eyes darting uneasily.

'Of course. We are supported by the Arts Council,' I said gravely.
'This exhibition is aimed at disadvantaged minorities who, poor things, can't
encounter others similarly oppressed by humanistic relationships.'

'Lovejoy,' Tryer was saying. 'Give up. I'll move on.'

Nobly I faced the ungodly, smiling with proud heroism. God, but I
was good. I felt myself welling up. 'No, Tryer. How could we face the Minister
for the Arts? Didn't he promise parliament to speak out
for
travelling exhibitions that help the suffering?' I gazed at the
official, brimming pure soul, and spoke with quiet martyrdom. 'Sir. Your vile
and unlearned youth with fascist malevolence defiled and desecrated our
attempts to help those in need. But even with such horrid opposition, we will
open our doors.
In one hour!
Even if
you bann us!' I finished in ringing tones.

A crowd assembled at such goings-on in the Leisure Planet car
park. Some carried skateboards, sports bags. I appealed.

'See what the town's yobbos have done! Defaced our exhibition!
Just because it is concerned with living life!'

'Shame, that,' a bloke muttered.

A lady piped up. 'There's too much interference from the town
hall.' Women get more bitterness in their voices. I could have kissed her.
Agreement rose. More people paused to listen.

'Thank you,' I said fervently. 'You see, sir? These good family
folk can see it instantly. You let your vandals replace our banner by this
monstrosity! And blame us!'

'He's right!' another lady chipped in. 'They sprayed the public
lavatories last week. It shouldn't be allowed!'

'I know the town hall is overworked . . .' I knew I needn't
complete the sentence. A roar rose from the onlookers.

'Over bloody worked?' a man exclaimed. I'd touched a nerve. 'The
town
hall
? A load of parasites, I'll
tell you.'

'What about the trees on the bypass?' the first lady demanded,
angrily prodding the council man. Tell me that!'

'Landscapes and gardens is a different section - '

Too many bloody sections at that bloody town hall, if you ask me!'
from a beer-face.

'Ladies and gentlemen,’ the clerk tried, desperate, ‘I do assure
you that-'

A crone said grimly, 'He's trying to get out of it!'

'Please.' I appealed to everybody. 'If our original notice could
be . . . We don't want to cause bother.'

'Right!' The clipboarder grasped at a straw. I thanked people,
smiling sadly as they started to disperse. He took out a pen. 'What was on your
notice? The wording? I'll replace it.'

Hell fire, I thought in despair. What had I called us? 'Er,
Encounter Exhibition.'

His eyes narrowed. 'That wasn't what you said.'

I said, quiet but resigned, if it's too much trouble - '

'No, no! It will be ready in half an hour.'

He wrote and vanished, like the poem's angel. We went back in. I
attacked my congealing fry-up.

'Here, Chemise. Where's the toast?'

'Coming!' She hurtled about the confined space. 'That was
marvellous, Lovejoy! He's right, Tryer. Our name's wrong!'

We dined with more speed than elegance, then went through to the
Sex Museum in the trailer to see Tryer's mysterious job lot.

It's not bad, as displays go. It consists of bays just wide enough
to stand in, the partitions crudely tacked to a frame. Chemise put the light
on. No windows, just overhead glass for enough basic glim.

‘It's been rearranged since last time, Lovejoy,' she pointed out.
'See the dildoes? First two alcoves.'

' "Dildo Through The Ages".' I read the card. 'Er,
good.'

The implements were all newish. Wooden, with belts and without,
leather, plastic composition, bakelite, even beeswax phalluses, small to
gigantic, anatomically precise to bizarre.

'Automated sex dildoes are separate from the manual.' Chemise led
me. Tryer doesn't agree. But the electronic and battery must be separate.
Different concept, right?'

'Right, right.' I had to agree, being unable to see the point of
the entire thing, but Chemise thinks it's the only career. For all I know it
might do a deal of good.

I felt off colour. Maybe I'd eaten the meal too fast, or maybe I
wasn't getting fed often enough. But I started sweating.

'Are you all right, Love joy?'

'Aye, fine.' I wasn't. I laughed to stay her worry. 'Just all this
passionate sex with none coming my way!'

Then I was down with a bump, clammy and woozy. She called for
Tryer, dashed for a flannel. By the time she started laundering my face I'd
sussed the problem.

Near where I was slumped on the trailer floor stood some small
boxes. Nothing special, just various shapes dusty and worn. They were on a
shelf Tryer reserves for erotic postcards. This was the cheapest section. You
can still buy these postcards for a postage stamp. This won't be the case for
long, because they're getting rarer with every tick of the clock. Tryer has all
the common ones: 'Hold to Light' cards - you peer through a pinhole and see a
lovely girl bathing or being passionate. Each card seems innocent, with maybe a
sailor holding up a lifebelt at a porthole, as in W. H. Elliam's famous example
- still priced at three pints of beer, no more. Go for them today while they're
dirt cheap. Tomorrow's too late.

The next alcove held a display of nipple jewels and penis rings,
rather clumsily pinned on a cork board, with descriptions written in a
painstaking scrawl. I'd told Tryer the details of them some time back. Most
were cheap, though one was 14-carat gold. Penis rings come in two sizes. One is
small, the size of a sleeper earring, for putting through the foreskin or under
the glans penis, very like a nipple or an ear is pierced. Usually engraved with
a sentimental inscription, though why anybody'd want it decorated beats me. The
other sort's larger, to go round the penis. This embellishment is coming back
into fashion, would you believe, and women - especially wives, odd to relate -
are the instigators, who want to doll up their blokes. Ask any specialist
jeweller. It beats me. I always want to know if it's painful. Shops in exotic
cities sell them to males of a certain proclivity who intend to declare mutual
betrothal in unusual ceremonies. The real oddity is that women mostly buy them
for an illicit 'marriage' ceremony, in which the ring is slipped over their
secret bloke's organ, to the accompaniment of prayers, chants, incense from a
thurible, and blessings. I went to one where a respectable married woman wed a
boatman down the estuary; they were lovers and wished to plight their troth
unknown to the outside world. There was quite a party afterwards, consummation
on the floor right there and then, ring in place. I wanted to ask the bloke if
it hurt, but the girl I was with whispered I wasn't to and how dare I ask.
Propriety gets everywhere these days, so I'll never know. You can tell these
'shatter' rings from their relatively larger size; they're usually jadeite or
nephrite jade, with bright green preferred. I've seen them in onyx, cheap old
serpentine, and genuine gold. Silver's in vogue for dark skins, they say, with
alabaster long in fashion among Earth groupies, for occult reasons.