Strange Taste LIVE 6: Reflections

Georgie:

‘I remember how the lights flickered, then came on, as the train entered the tunnel. I was struggling to keep my eyes open. I felt totally shagged if I’m honest. That night, I admit, I’d enjoyed myself pleasuring him. His lack of maturity only made me want him more. He intrigued me, gave me the impression he was lonely, struggling to cope with life. In need of love. Like me. I felt sorry for him, cared about him, missed him already, couldn’t wait for nightfall.’

Georgie smiled fondly to herself.

‘My brief encounter with Janis induced exhilarating sensations in my body. It hurt me to think I might never see her again – or meet Lindsey. I prayed for Lindsey in bed that night, prayed she survived. Then there was the morning’s little episode, playing with Matt on the bed while Kayleigh, so desperate to have a baby, watched us. I hoped she fell pregnant. We all tried hard enough that day, that’s for sure!

No wonder I felt so tired and dreamy. I caught my reflection in the window. With any luck, I hoped, I might just grab forty winks.’

Him:

I prepared the house meticulously for her arrival. She impressed me with her attention to personal hygiene, the way she prepared herself for me in the bathroom, the subtle dab of scent behind her ears, her oral cleansing routine. She’d want to prepare herself again that night, bathing in the morning, after our never-ending night of love. I turned on the transistor radio on the kitchen windowsill, made myself a lemon squash, sat at the kitchen table, making lists of things to do on the back of some old envelopes.

I Am Woman was playing, intermittently, on the wireless. Feeling myself stir with eager anticipation, I stopped writing, shut my eyes, and pictured her:

Georgie – my woman.

There were seven sachets of fungi in the freezer compartment: toadstools, wild and magic mushrooms, all of them hand-picked on my bike rides to fields and forests, leafy glades, deadly-secret retreats. I remember seeing the couple in the woods, lying, spreadeagled on a blanket, making love under the hot sun, surrounded by wild mushrooms, toadstools. Guess that’s when my fetish started, when I was at my most impressionable age, fourteen.

After quaffing my squash, I opened the fridge door. Fortunately, there was enough food left for me to cook her breakfast in the morning. When I gave Georgie her surprise: eggs, bacon, mushrooms, spread, white sliced bread toasted under the grill. The butter was rock hard. I took it out to soften under the balmy sun, extracting two fungal sachets from the freezer box to defrost before stewing their contents.

She’d break our family tradition when she came that night, arriving at the front door. I found the key in a wooden bowl of knickknacks, kept it in the knife drawer, went to the hall, checked the meter, unlocked the door. I’d used up all my change on my dreaded call to Katie, hoped the power lasted all night, imagining the lights going out just as Georgie climbed onto the bed. She would need hot water for when she prepared herself for me, our aftermath, when we bathed together, and I soaped her breasts. I couldn’t shake the image of her lying naked, still, and cold, in the bath out of my mind.

I plodded off to the scullery to fetch some coal.

The coalman always knocked twice before entering thru the back door in case I was still in bed. I’d stand and watch him leaning forward, pouring out his dirty cargo like a human chute into the dingy coal hole, choking on clouds of dust, coughing, shouting,

‘Coalman!’

He charged me 60p a sack for anthracite, the hard jet-black coal that burned slowly in the stove, giving out intense heat.

My anthracite was stored behind three splintery wooden boards. Never tried to move them for fear of creating an almighty avalanche of coal and dust. I loaded a heap of fuel into its scuttle, carried it to the stove, lifted the cast iron lid, and poured it in. Next, I lit the gas wand with a taper, and thrust the flaming poker into a hole at the base of the stove. That’s how I heated the boiler! It took hours to heat up enough water for a bath. Suppose I could always have boiled a saucepan of water for Georgie, if she fancied a cat’s lick before she came to bed. My hands, face, nostrils were tarred black with coal dust. I ran upstairs to wash, stripping off my soiled clothing in the bathroom, rinsing the heat from my flushed face, shivering as the chill of cold water spilt down my chest.’

Georgie:

‘I felt the need for me to find love grow inside my heart like hunger gnawing the belly of a starving war-child. It didn’t help that my life had no sense of purpose, no pre-conceived plan, or career. I was a farm girl, pure, and simple. At least, I used to be pure when I lived in Adelaide.

I still recall my sheltered life in Rose House, a short walk from the girls’ church school I attended from the age of four. The beautiful Church of St Mary the Virgin where they still worship every Sunday.

Adelaide is famous for its beautiful churches.’

Georgie’s thoughts revert to her controlling mother, a birch-strict upbringing she imposed on her daughter since her early childhood.

‘Prayers before, after meals. Prayers at bedtime. Prayers of thanks for sun, soil, wind, rain! Prayers for my dead dad. How I miss frolicking in the hayloft with him. Even prayers for his dearly departed sheep! Since his death, my mother exerted fanatical control over me. With that control came my punishments: smacking my bare arse if I didn’t eat my greens, washing my mouth out with soap and water if her little girl blasphemed. Rachael even used my daddy’s leather strap to lash me on the many occasions I feigned illness in my vain attempts not to go to school.

The prohibitive mental and physical abuse I endured, behind closed, doors as a child left me emotionally scarred. At the age of sixteen, when I’d grown up into a young woman, I dared to answer back, to fight, to question. Rachael diminished and shrank, frightened of losing her authority over me, her daughter’s recriminations, the risk of being exposed as my child abuser. She threatened to send me to a convent where I could repent of my sins in silence. I told her to go to Hell. Unless she wanted to read about her sins in our local paper, hear them aired on the radio or have them raised, my red hate-flags, in front of our friendly churchgoing neighbours, she would set her precious daughter free. The die was cast, our umbilical cord cut, no going back. Rachael paid for me to travel to Europe. She never expected to see or hear from me again. In return, I vowed to stay silent.

I left the crowd of tourists at the Victoria Memorial, wandering into Green Park to find a shady tree, grassy patch, time, and space, to think. I checked my wristwatch. It was noon. The sun was at its zenith. There wasn’t a cloud in sight. I felt hot, flustered. Why did I have to sweat so much? The scorched grass was littered with sunseekers, office workers using their lunch hour to top up their already-brown suntans. Several women stripped off to their bras and briefs, basking on towels, creating spectacles for hordes of shirtless male admirers. I wished I could join them. There wasn’t time, not if I wanted to enjoy a last night of passion. Surprised by own daring, I came up with a plan for the night, a possible way for me to start a new life.

I unzipped my overnight bag, ruffling through the carefully folded shirts, jeans, panties. My gold open-toed sandals were inside, along with my make-up bag, toiletries, favourite scent, my soft padded pouch. I unzipped the pouch. They were still in there. My intimate precautions. Tonight, I’d make love naturally, flesh-in-flesh, without the cumbersome feel of a sheath. This daunting prospect left me giddy with excitement! My heart skipped a beat! Butterflies flitted inside my stomach! For the first time since the party, I felt my appetite return. 

I walked across the crowded park until I found a sandwich bar off Piccadilly, bought a cheese and onion bap, banana, Penguin, can of Tab. Then sat outside, watching the world go by. The street was packed with sightseers, double-decker buses, taxis, queuing at red lights opposite the hotel. I took a mouthful of bap, dreaming of how romantic it would be for me to partake of posh afternoon tea, then dance myself dizzy, with him – at The Ritz.

Revitalized by lunch, I walked the length of Piccadilly until I reached the statue of Eros, its fountain, splashing my hot face with water. Then I shopped in earnest, buying sexy lingerie at Ann Summers Wardour Street, a stunning pair of scarlet satin hot pants with a matching singlet from a trendy boutique in Carnaby Street.

Satisfied I’d made all the purchases necessary for an unforgettable night, I spent the rest of the afternoon sightseeing, dozing on the Tube between stops, hatching my secret plan.

Before my train was announced, I tried ringing Janis from a booth at Victoria Station.

No reply.

I caught the Horsham train as the light began to fade, hiding inside the toilet cubicle with the latch hard down. There, I underwent my final metamorphosis, emerging as a beautiful imago, for my unsuspecting lover after dusk!’

Him:

‘By suppertime, I’d damp dusted, dusted, and brushed the whole house, paying attention to the cleanliness of my mum’s bedroom and bathroom. I fluffed the pillows on her side of the bed, electing that Georgie should lie there, then checked beneath the stack of dad’s men’s magazines I kept hidden from view on the tallboy shelf. There were three sheaths. I suppose three was enough. I quickly stowed them under my pillow.

Once I’d made the bed, it was time for my exercises. I lifted my Bullworker, kneeling in front of the mirror, pulling the stiff cables, compressing its unyielding piston barrel until all the muscles in my arms, legs, neck, chest, and abdomen ached, were tensed, and toned. Admiring my v-shaped torso, I adopted a few super-man poses, amused by the sight of myself, a sweating Mr Universe, I threw the device in the tallboy, then went to the kitchen.

The coals were burning brightly in the stove: great news, there’d be plenty of hot water for Georgie, with a second bath-full for when we soaked off in the morning. I removed the gas wand, turning off the gas; the last thing we needed was an explosion! The radio played Let’s Stay Together, then the seven o’clock news came on. I opened a can of beans from the larder, grilled two slices of toast, then sat at the table, scoffing my meagre dinner, listening to the latest headlines. The Vietnam War was over. The last US combat troops would leave in a month. But the Troubles in Northern Ireland persisted. I wondered if the world would ever find peace. At least there were The Olympic Games to look forward to – and my school exam results.

I switched off the radio, covering my worn-out face with my hands: one of life’s failures. Instinctively, I knew, I’d failed my Chemistry, Zoology, and Botany A Levels – even with my superior knowledge of fungi. Since my mother’s hospitalisation, I had lost all hope, finding it impossible to concentrate at school or study at home. I struggled to deal with my gnawing obsession. Then there was the weekend and holiday job at the airport which I couldn’t afford to lose; I must return to work, full of apologies to Katie, next weekend. And the sixteen-pounds-a-week widow’s pension, I drew from the Post Office – on the strength of a letter signed by Mary four years ago.         

The sachet of fungi had defrosted. The butter on the ledge was soft. I took my non-stick saucepan and sweated the mushrooms until they’d coloured, adding the water, stirring my cauldron attentively, seasoning to taste. Following the girl’s overdose, it was important to dilute the broth to the right concentration if I didn’t want to endanger Georgie’s life. I planned to administer the drug orally to her in bed, over breakfast. When the mushrooms were fully cooked, beige, and tender, I strained off the jus, placing it in a stoppered sloe gin phial to cool in the larder, saving the wildest, magic, toadstools in case she fancied an omelette.

Once I’d washed up and dried, I went upstairs to shave, brush my teeth, change into my best striped, white shirt, navy flares, my stacked shoes. I hung my favourite stainless-steel medallion, St Christopher, patron saint of travel, around my neck. It made me feel manly. Increasingly nervous, edgy, incredibly excited, I sat on the edge of my bed and waited…’   

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