Smut: Stories Read online

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ the mother chips in. ‘It may look like my home and it may look like my street but they can do wonders with scenery nowadays. Quite frankly I think I’m in a home already only they’re not telling me.’

  Metcalf writes something down as Lois smiles understandingly.

  ‘What it is,’ says Miss Beckinsale, ‘is that she wants a lodger.’

  The class sits up.

  With no mention of lodgers in the prep notes this, Mrs Donaldson knew, was another dart from Miss Beckinsale’s personal quiver.

  ‘She’s lost her husband and now she wants a lodger.’

  ‘I don’t want a lodger,’ said Lois. ‘There’s no room for lodgers.’

  ‘That depends how you sleep,’ said Miss Beckinsale. Somebody laughed. Mrs Donaldson looked. Somebody else was grinning.

  ‘They’ll be doing that thing,’ said her mother.

  ‘What thing?’ said Metcalf. ‘That thing they do,’ said Miss Beckinsale. ‘Young people, old people’ (a small whoop from somewhere); though it was a thing Miss Beckinsale normally never mentioned.

  ‘You mean,’ said Lois, ‘the thing you had to do before you had me?’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting. I never did that. I never did that with anybody. I was a Sunday-school teacher. You did. You do.’ And she banged on the table.

  None of this was typical. Whatever her riffs and ramblings, Miss Beckinsale has always given sex a wide berth.

  Liking banging the table she now does it some more.

  Mrs Donaldson always has a bottle of water in her bag and under cover of the commotion and hidden by her bag she bends down and pours some of it under the table.

  ‘Where did your husband fit in?’ Metcalf is saying to the old lady. ‘Did you get on?’

  ‘Ask her.’

  The water crept across the floor.

  Mrs Donaldson smiled sweetly at Metcalf.

  ‘I think Mother’s had a little accident.’

  ‘I never have,’ said Miss Beckinsale, though whether as Mother or herself wasn’t plain.

  ‘She doesn’t know she does it,’ said Lois. ‘She should be in care.’

  ‘I’ll get a nurse,’ said Metcalf. ‘To wipe up the wee. It’s all right for a nurse to do that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ballantyne wearily. ‘It’s all right for a nurse to do that.’

  As the class breaks up and while Miss Beckinsale is ostentatiously ‘coming down’ Ballantyne takes Mrs Donaldson aside.

  ‘Very good. Very good, though I’m not sure it entirely worked…Did Violet seem demented to you? I thought she was too much on the ball. Did she wet herself?’

  ‘She didn’t think so,’ said Mrs Donaldson.

  ‘Oh dear. Poor thing. Still, she is getting on and, though it’s hardly a clinical judgment, these days she’s often away with the fairies.’

  ‘One thing I can’t help noticing’ – and he rested his hand lightly in the small of Mrs Donaldson’s back, which she couldn’t help noticing either – ‘I can’t help noticing how, excellent as these scenarios always are, you perversely almost (because it’s so unlike the real you) always choose to play the unsympathetic line – the uncaring daughter, the unforgiving widow. Your ladies are quite hard.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can do emotion,’ said Mrs Donaldson.

  ‘In life,’ which was bold for Ballantyne, ‘or just in the lecture room? Are you still grieving?’

  ‘Grieving,’ said Mrs Donaldson. ‘Who for?’

  ‘Mr Donaldson.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ and his hand lingered on her back, ‘perhaps I could take you out to supper sometime. It might take your mind off things.’

  ‘What took him so long?’ said Delia. ‘I hope you said yes.’

  Mrs Donaldson had said yes and with some relief since the invitation did at least prove that if her escapade with Laura and Andy was common knowledge it had not reached the ears of Dr Ballantyne.

  This was the opposite of the truth. Having asked a student if she had ever seen anyone dead and received the reply ‘only my hamster’, Ballantyne had taken her and a couple of novices to mortality down to the mortuary for a view of some of the recently departed. Afterwards he had felt obliged to take the trio for a drink, which was partly restorative, but also because he had a review board coming up and he needed to plump up his entry in the staff/student interface box.

  IT HAD BEEN A STILTED OCCASION (‘Tell me, Rosemary, what is it that draws you to the bowel, which is normally a male preserve?’) but the day had been saved by Nigel, yet another surgical aspirant who thought the prostate was a growth area (‘Joke. Ha ha.’) and who, pursuant to his chosen speciality, breezily recounted legends of ancient sex. It was in the course of this rather tacky performance that Lockwood, who hadn’t yet spoken and who in turn was thinking of his interface box and hoping Ballantyne wouldn’t write him down as lacking in social skills, had felt he must make a contribution and so had told the doctor the rumours about Mrs Donaldson.

  Both the other students knew apparently though Rosemary said she didn’t believe it, and Nigel said Laura had told him so herself. Ballantyne said what business was it of theirs anyway and was surprised they hadn’t got better things to talk about. There was a pause.

  ‘Tell me,’ Ballantyne said, ‘where do you stand on the new polyclinics?’

  Betraying nothing to the students (‘Mrs Donaldson is a professional through and through’) and suppressing his longing for more information, Ballantyne far from being shocked found the news oddly encouraging. He had made his continuing interest in Mrs Donaldson clumsily and (as he knew himself) off-puttingly clear. That he had taken it no further could be put down to his own awkwardness where women were concerned but also to his timidity in the face of the self-possession and even superiority the widow radiated. Mrs Donaldson had frightened him a little. Now he was no longer frightened. When it came down to it she turned out to be no different from anybody else. He had been given a licence. They would have supper.

  Reassured about Ballantyne, Mrs Donaldson had still been left in no doubt that Miss Beckinsale was in the know and by the sound of it everybody else. So she asked Delia outright, who it turns out had never been in any doubt.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ Delia said. ‘I’m ten years younger than you. Sex with the children, supper with the supervisor, where am I going wrong?’

  ‘It wasn’t sex,’ said Mrs Donaldson.

  ‘What was it then?’

  So she told her, with the telling – and she realised this is what she had been missing – interrupted by shrieks of laughter from them both.

  True, Mrs Donaldson edited the story, saying nothing about her nights by the wall, but telling the tale did not rob her adventure of its allure but rather the other way about, so much so that when she got home that night she went straightaway to the waste bin and delving among the dry teabags, cold rice and tomato skins she thankfully retrieved the screwed-up scrap of paper Ollie had left her.

  AND SO IN DUE COURSE the new lodgers moved in, with two weeks’ rent paid in advance but no mention of any other conditions of tenancy or the flexibility of either party in the event of non-payment.

  As lodgers they were even less obtrusive than Andy and Laura, seldom seen in the kitchen for instance, with Ollie seeming to subsist largely on takeaway pizzas.

  Gwen was predictably unkeen.

  ‘Does she ever speak? I’ve been round twice now and both times she’s just scuttled off upstairs. He’s chatty enough but what’s with the hat? They look like buskers.’

  ‘They’re quiet enough,’ her mother said. ‘I scarcely know they’re there.’

  ‘A change from the last two. What’s he studying?’

  ‘Fashion, I think.’

  ‘Fashion? Well, I suppose you ought to be thankful he’s not gay.’

  ‘There’d be nothing wrong with that,’ said Mrs Donaldson primly. ‘I’ve been someone gay at the hospital.’

  Gwen groaned.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Fun,’ Mrs Donaldson wanted to say. ‘A laugh. Or a penance for having landed the world with such a joyless creature as you.’

  And yet, though she didn’t care for her daughter, she knew that some of this resentment could be put down to the fact that Gwen was right.

  What did she think she was doing at the hospital? What was she doing sheltering these two babes in the wood?

  It was unseemly. Bold face though she put on, it wasn’t her at all. But that was why she did it. It wasn’t her.

  No sooner were the lodgers installed than out came the eiderdown and Mrs Donaldson went back on sentry duty. It was an unrewarding tryst generally, with scarcely a sound coming from next door and so quiet that on one occasion Mrs Donaldson spent five minutes listening to them pumping away before she realised it was the sound of her own heart. Occasionally there was a muted wail which she took to be Geraldine but whether it was of grief or ecstasy it was hard to tell; it might have been sheer tedium.

  For her part Mrs Donaldson began to wonder if the hint Ollie dropped at the start had not been a hint at all. Had she just misunderstood? Or was it a con, a way of getting a foot in the door and as soon as they were settled in not to be referred to? After all it wasn’t something she could actually mention and it was not long before she began to feel she was making a fool of herself twice over.

  Still there were less momentous contacts. Meeting her in the kitchen one evening Ollie said, ‘Can I draw you sometime? Though I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Jane,’ said Mrs Donaldson. ‘If you like…The drawing. How? When do you want to do it?’

  ‘We can do it now, if you want…Jane.’

  So she sat down at the kitchen table while he did a very creditable drawing of her plus some smaller sketches, sitting like a small boy with the tip of his tongue between his teeth.

  ‘There’s a tradition of artists drawing their landladies or painting them. Did you know that?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Donaldson who was still not fond of the landlady category.

  ‘Mrs Mounter,’ said Ollie, all the time sketching. ‘She was the landlady of a painter called Harold Gilman. Mind you she was an old lady.’

  At which point Geraldine came into the kitchen and went straight out again.

  ‘Enough already,’ said Ollie. ‘Only can I ask you again?’

  ‘HOW DO YOU WANT TO DO THIS?’ said Ollie. He and Geraldine were sitting side by side at the foot of the bed, his hand holding hers. She looked unhappy.

  ‘Shall I give you a shout when we’re ready?’

  As Mrs Donaldson turned to go Ollie said, ‘Do you keep your clothes on?’

  ‘Oh, I think so,’ said Mrs Donaldson. ‘I think it’s probably easier, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  There had obviously been some discussion on the point.

  ‘Gerry was bothered you might just dive in.’

  ‘Me?’ said Mrs Donaldson. ‘Oh no. I’m just…’ and she was going to say a fly on the wall but that was a bit close to the truth.

  ‘I’m just an observer.’

  The long-awaited call had come about an hour before. They had spent most of the evening in their room and hearing Geraldine’s voice she took them to be arguing. But Ollie had come down to the kitchen as she was making some scrambled eggs on toast. She had given him some and offered to do some more for Geraldine only eggs weren’t her thing, apparently.

  As she washed up and Ollie was drying he suddenly said, ‘What about tonight? I know we’ve paid the rent but we could bank it. Andy and Laura used to do that, didn’t they?’ Mrs Donaldson agreed that they had, though without saying it was only the once. So while Ollie made Geraldine a cup of camomile tea she went back upstairs.

  Ollie gave her a shout when the two of them were safely in bed and Mrs Donaldson went in and sat on the dressing-table stool.

  Neither of them seemed in any hurry to get started, the boy sitting up against the bedhead with the sheet stretched across his flat belly just below his navel. Geraldine on the other hand had snuggled right down in the bed, peeping shyly at Mrs Donaldson over the top of the sheet.

  ‘How are things in the café?’ said Mrs Donaldson. ‘Is it all organic?’

  ‘Things in the café are fine,’ said Ollie. ‘It is all organic, isn’t it, love?’

  Geraldine nodded.

  ‘Not bread,’ said Geraldine.

  ‘Not bread,’ said the boy. ‘It’s wholemeal but it’s not organic. What was Mr Donaldson like, your husband?’

  ‘Ex-husband,’ whispered the girl.

  ‘Why?’ said the boy. ‘They weren’t divorced.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ whispered the girl as if this were a shameful fact.

  ‘I know he’s dead,’ said Ollie, ‘but that doesn’t mean he’s an ex-husband.’ He smiled at Mrs Donaldson and mouthed, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘you don’t like to talk about him.’

  Mrs Donaldson didn’t, particularly in these circumstances, but she just smiled as if it was of no consequence.

  ‘How long were you married?’

  ‘Twenty-five years.’ It had actually been thirty.

  ‘Nice.’

  He eased down the sheet a little and the girl used the slack to cover her face completely.

  ‘Gerry is a bit shy.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Mrs Donaldson. ‘So am I.’

  ‘Hear that, Gerry? Mrs Donaldson’s shy too.’

  He stretched out his leg and rubbed Mrs Donaldson’s knee with his foot. It was a nice foot, she thought, and more adult-seeming than his face. The toes were strong and sensible and the little toe not just an afterthought like hers. She was about to stroke his foot when Geraldine suddenly turned over and put her arm round the boy in the process dislodging the sheet altogether.

  ‘Whoops,’ said Ollie and quickly clapped his hand over his crotch and then laughed.

  ‘I don’t know why I bothered to do that,’ he said, ‘in the circumstances,’ and took his hand away.

  Mrs Donaldson smiled and tried not to take too much interest though registering he was more excited than he had let it appear.

  ‘Your turn,’ he said to the girl and unwound her from the sheet while she hid her face in his chest as he stroked her back saying, ‘Easy, lovely. Easy.’

  ‘Are you sure this is all right?’ said Mrs Donaldson.

  He nodded reassuringly and began fondling Geraldine with more purpose, kissing her shoulders and running his hands down her back to her bum.

  ‘You don’t mind if we just get on with it?’

  Mrs Donaldson shook her head, he gave her a thumbs-up sign and applied himself to the girl.

  ‘This is what she likes,’ Ollie said.

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘You did yesterday.’

  ‘She doesn’t want a running commentary.’

  ‘Maybe she does,’ said Ollie. ‘Do you want a running commentary because I’m just about to slip my hand between my girlfriend’s legs.’

  She screamed, though Mrs Donaldson was relieved that it was with laughter.

  Whereas Laura had flashed Mrs Donaldson the occasional smile and even winked at her over Andy’s shoulder Geraldine, sternly and wholly absorbed with the job in hand, seemed in no mood for such incidental pleasantries. She never once even looked at the older woman and had Ollie not made up for it Mrs Donaldson might have felt a touch unwanted. But Ollie made every effort to row her into the proceedings, politely pushing Geraldine’s knee down, for instance, so that the onlooker should have a better view of the action. And when he had Geraldine kneeling on all fours he leaned across and gave her hand a little squeeze saying to no one in particular, ‘I really like this.’

  The end when it rather lengthily came was less lighthearted with Ollie grim-faced and purposeful and Geraldine shaken by great shuddering sobs and the long despairing wail Mrs Donaldson had heard occasionally through the wall.

  The action over, Geraldine went straight off to the bathroom as Ollie lay on the bed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘We should have had a pill first and she’d have been more relaxed. How was it for you?’ And he grinned.

  ‘It was nice,’ said Mrs Donaldson, politely. ‘I enjoyed it. Thank you very much.’

  ‘I’m not sure it was value for money,’ the young man said. ‘I’d have liked a touch more abandon. Which there would be normally you know, one to one?’

  ‘It’s understandable,’ said Mrs Donaldson.

  He pulled the sheet back over him.

  ‘How did it compare with Andy and Laura?’

  ‘I think,’ said Mrs Donaldson, ‘that they’d done it before. Had somebody there, I mean.’

  ‘Yeah? This is a first for us, as you could probably tell. Were we a bit awkward?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mrs Donaldson, ‘that was what was refreshing about it. It was…genuine.’

  ‘And what about Andy? How does it compare? You know, the thing itself?’

  ‘Oh, I think they’re much of a muchness,’ she said untruthfully. And then she heard herself saying, ‘I’d have to see them side by side.’

  ‘Steady on.’

  At which point Geraldine opportunely returned from the bathroom and Mrs Donaldson said good-night, going back to her bedroom feeling rather pleased that she had managed to be a bit cheeky.

  That apart, though, she didn’t feel the session had been a success or quite the adventure she had been hoping for. Maybe the encounters were losing their novelty.

  Waking in the small hours she thought she heard the girl crying.

  A FEW (UNEVENTFUL) WEEKS LATER Mrs Donaldson had a morning session. She was now working virtually full time, though having gone through the repertory of symptoms and situations, her homework at least was less burdensome than it had once been and she was seldom if ever at a loss.

  A new term had begun and since this was the first year Mrs Donaldson scarcely knew any of them and nor was Ballantyne there to help. The initial stages of tuition had always interested him the least. True, the ignorance of the students gave him umpteen opportunities for sarcasm in which he was happy to indulge except that having begun by showing off a good deal he had got the idea (rightly) that this wasn’t a side of him Mrs Donaldson much cared for. So with his self-restraint not always reliable he sometimes, as today, chose to absent himself from these early sessions altogether, which was easier when, as on this particular morning, the SPs were old hands. Terry was here with a strangulated hernia and another outing for his tangerine underpants, Delia with chest pains that might be a heart attack but which would turn out to be indigestion and Mrs Donaldson who had a bunch of indeterminate symptoms with which she regularly presented herself as suffering, she was certain, from cancer.