Romantic
Quest
She
sits propped against the rather dirty wall of the public library,
watching a teen-aged couple, arms entwined,, saunter into the sunlit
car park. She spits half-heartedly in their direction, then
takes an angry swig at her bottle before subsiding again into a
smelly and disconsolate heap.
Romance
means nothing to her, but just a few inches away, on the other side
of the wall, women are pursuing it eagerly. When Mark sneers
derisively they react with outrage and when Adam’s eyes narrow with
passion, and they sense his warm breath on their cheeks, they prepare
to respond.
But
the dream is suddenly shattered by a raised voice and they turn their
heads in mild curiosity. The woman at the enquiry desk is large
and loud.
She’s
waving a book.
Why,
she demands, is Peter Abelard arranged under A for Abelard and not W
for Waddell where she’s been looking for it?
The
argument rises and fades and the romance seekers return to their
dreams. But, just for a moment, they have glimpsed a tiny shadow of
Utopia in which each author has his or her allotted space on the
shelves and waits there dutifully, week after week, for the attention
of her (it is always her) disciples.
The
idea is so attractive that one of the group, encouraged by the
example of the large complainant, approaches the enquiry desk.
The assistant, who wears the standard librarian’s uniform of faded
lumberjack’s shirt, smiles encouragingly.
She
was just wondering, the petitioner explains, why the romances, unlike
the general fiction, weren’t in alphabetical order and whether it
might be possible to…
The
professional smile disappears. Does she wish to make a
complaint, the assistant asks? If so she’d better write to
the chief librarian. The tone implies that anyone who reads
that kind of rubbish is probably only just capable of composing a
note for the milkman.
In
any case, the reason’s obvious. Readers of romantic fiction
don’t care who writes it. It’s the genre they’re after.
The romantic fiction section has the library’s highest turnover.
And, in any case, they’re short staffed.
The
yawning gaps in the librarian’s defence invite a brisk attack but
the invading army is already in retreat. Romantic novel readers
do not enjoy the role of conqueror. They are, on the whole, a
pacific lot.
What’s
more – the defence presses home its advantage – no-one
no has complained in the last ten years.
Now
consider this deeply significant point. Is it really the case
that large numbers of women are willing to search through hundreds of
titles to find their favourite Barbara Cartland or Penny Jordan?
Or are so tolerant and uncritical that they will happily substitute
one for the other? If so, that looks like near-saintliness in a
quantity which amounts to a valuable national resource.
So
where are these gentle souls to be found, when they are not seeking
solace in the arms of Logan or Quentin between the covers of a Mills
and Boon romance?
Follow
them. It’s quite easy. They carry white plastic carrier
bags from which a slender volume peeps out. It has a red rose
on the cover and a picture of a dark, brooding man and a girl with
straight fair hair. Both are scowling. There’s one,
waiting outside the library for a bus which may or may not
come. Her bag is full of potatoes, margarine, cabbage and cat
food. She is hoping to strike up a conversation in the queue
for, at home, no-one listens to her apart from the cat and the
budgerigar. When she gets home she will write a letter to the
local paper about the wonderful doctors and nurses who took care of
her when she was in hospital, who listened to her and allowed her to
rest. She will not write to the hospital authorities for she
does not like to bother such important people with her unimportant
gratitude.
There’s
another one, in Marks and Spencer’s, carrying two toddlers
and a pushchair upstairs to the children’s clothing
department. Yesterday she waited in all day for the electrician
who did not come. Last week you might have seen her in a
hospital waiting room, apologetically curbing her fractious youngster
while the consultant discussed his weekend’s exploits on the golf
course.
And
there’s another standing outside the school gate. She
is worried about her children but hesitates to intrude on the
teacher’s time unless summoned officially. Nor will she
exceed the statutory ten minutes allowed on parents’ evenings.
At Christmas her face will ache with exhaustion and with the effort
of smiling gratefully as she is handed a present of tea towels or an
iron.
Once,
when young, these women were told by their headmistresses that
it was their life’s mission to be the conscience of their spouses
and children, to keep the national morality bright and shining, to be
thrifty and hardworking in a world of extravagance and disorder.
And
so they spend their holidays cooking and washing up for their
families in seaside caravans. They retrieve their husbands’
dirty socks from under the bed and clean the family’s shoes.
When they return from their lowly and underpaid jobs they scrub the
household lavatory and fetch in the coal. And they accept their
children’s laziness and rudeness, their husbands’ insensitivity,
society’s indifference, for they are the patient angels on whose
uncomplaining shoulders rests all the virtue, honour and quiet
courage of the nation.
Is
it too much, then, to ask that some small consideration should be
given to their unvoiced needs? That a beer-swilling accountant
should plant his wife’s name in violets or arrange for a small
orchestra to serenade her on the morning of her birthday? That
a Manchester United-supporting welder should whisper his
adoration in a small boat at dusk in the middle of Lake Coruisk?
Is
it too much to hope that one day a library assistant will appear, not
in a lumberjack’s shirt, but in a long dark skirt and high-necked
blouse, with a cameo brooch at the throat and her hair swept
back into a graceful bun? She will wear horn-rimmed spectacles
and will look so enchanting that the smouldering figure who
leans nonchalantly against the non-fiction catalogue will stir
himself to approach her counter, will prise the date stamp from her
grasp, remove her glasses and take the pins from her cascading hair.
Then,
covering her weakly protesting mouth with his, he will pick her up
and carry her off through the pink mist which enshrouds Sainsbury’s
car park.
And
if they are ever seen again it will be high over the Alps where, from
a hot air balloon filled with gardenias, the sounds of tinkling
laughter and gurgling champagne will float gently down through the
clear air.
And
when all over the town women are smiling enigmatically and men are
looking thoughtful, it will not matter that the library is an
assistant short nor that the romantic fiction remains unsorted.
For
its readers will be so very, very few.
Anne
Hill
This second story explores even more deeply the need that human beings have for romance, however we may choose to define that word.
The
Friends of Miss Slingsby
For
a woman who lived alone and did no entertaining, the second-floor
flat was ideal. But at this time of year, when
the children had gone back to school and the sunshine lovers had
retreated indoors to their first autumn fires and the park opposite
her window was beginning to take on a shabby and neglected air, Miss
Slingsby began to feel constricted and in need of a
change.
She
broached the subject with Mrs Bannister.
“Yes.
I thought it was about time you was going off. Where will it be
this time then? Peking again? Or that place where they
wear them grass skirts and flowers and not much else?” Mrs
Bannister gave a disapproving sniff and brought her duster down
violently on an already dust-free occasional table.
No.
this time it would be Venice. She had so many friends there –
Signora Baldoni, those pretty Campaneschi twins, the Giardinis,
Signor Faborelli who made such beautiful gowns… and
Peggy, of course. She was particularly anxious to see
little Peggy. How would she have made the transition from her
restaurant kitchen to the great Palazzo? With dignity and
grace, of course, and with more than a touch of common
sense. She had her feet on the ground, that one. She
wouldn’t let her change of fortune go to her head.
Miss
Slingsby closed her eyes, remembering Peggy, dressed in floating
white silk, on the arm of her handsome count, while all the
bells of the city erupted around them. Why,
there might even be a baby. And Miss Slingsby
thought of Carlo’s brooding expression and dark eyes that
followed Peggy’s every move.
Yes,
there would certainly be a baby.
Miss
Slingsby was only vaguely aware of Mrs Bannister’s
voice in the background, droning on. Didn’t hold
with foreign parts herself. Preferred Southend. You knew
where you were with Southend. You could drink the water and you
didn’t have strange men taking liberties.
Miss
Slingsby sighed. Yes. It was high time she went back to
Venice.
How
elegant, Miss Slingsby thought later, looking at the gleaming maroon
paint and delicate scrollwork. Elegant – and just a little
old-fashioned.
Entering
the train, she gazed around her with great satisfaction at the dark
plush upholstery, polished brass lamps and starched white table
cloths. How delightful to be able to begin one’s little
holiday here on Victoria station, to step off the dusty platform into
an atmosphere which already held a warmth and mystery which
were wholly Venetian.
“Excuse
me, Signora.” Miss Slingsby smiled happily at the young man
who touched her elbow. “Signora… ” there came into her mind a
picture of herself as she once might have been, with long
dark hair, in a red dress and, perhaps, a flower… “You
will like me to show you your compartment, I think.” He
bowed slightly and Miss Slingsby observed that his eyelashes
were thick and silky against his olive cheeks and that a heavy
lock of hair fell forward onto his brow as he bent to
pick up her case.
“What
is your name?”
“Julio,
Signora.” He indicated a white bell push at the side of the
mirror. “You will please to ring if there is anything I can
get for you – at any time, Signora.”
How
graceful he is, Miss Slingsby thought, watching him arrange her case
at the foot of the bed. Like a gazelle. And
there came into her mind a momentary vision of a woodland
glade, with Julio as Pan, seated on a grassy mound while she
danced dreamily to the sound of his pipes.
When
he had gone Miss Slingsby reflected on her good fortune in having
such a gift for making friends. Why, she had only to strike up
a conversation and, in no time at all, intimacy
developed. In just a few moments she had learned that
Julio was single, had been an attendant in the Orient
Express for three years and was ambitious to join one of the
great liners as a cabin steward.
Mrs
Bannister disapproved of her always travelling alone, but
for Miss Slingsby it was the only way. How else could
exercise her talent for instant friendship?
It
was all too charming, she decided at dinner – the whole atmosphere.
The hushed voices, soft smiles in the lamplight, the meals
which were like religious ceremonies with white-coated acolytes
bowing deferentially on every side, the feeling of being
fragrantly and luxuriously cocooned in a delightful
dream, leaving outside all that was in the least cold or
uncouth.
She
found it so entrancing that she was anxious to prolong it. To
put off for the moment when she would have to leave it for sleep.
Daringly
she pushed the white button.
“You
rang, Signora?”
“Oh
Julio, I’m sorry to call you so late.”
“Not
at all, Signora. It is my pleasure.” And it really is,
Miss Slingsby thought. There was something about the way he
looked at her, his eyes meeting hers directly, which seemed to say,
“We two are of a kindred spirit, my dear. We
understand each other so well.”
When
he returned with the hot milk he put the tray down and handed her the
glass in a napkin. “Be careful, Signora. It is a
little hot.”
Later,
lying back on the cool pillow, Miss Slingsby wondered if he had
deliberately allowed his fingers to touch – almost to caress –
hers as he handed her the glass. It must have been intentional,
surely. He would be far two well practised in his
trade to allow such a thing to happen accidentally. And as she
fell asleep it occurred to her that he must have made the bed
she was lying on. His hands had smoothed the sheets, had
arranged the coverlet. Had stroked the pillow on which she lay.
But
she must not be selfish, Miss Slingsby thought next morning.
The difference in their ages was enough to make any liaison
just a little inappropriate, perhaps. But if dear Vanessa, who
had been foolish enough to allow her jealousy almost to ruin Peggy’s
chances, were really penitent and a meeting with Julia could be
arranged? Well, who could tell what might happen?
The
train gave a sudden jerk, sending some cornflakes from the
bowl, which she had inadvertently overfilled, onto the white cloth.
How foolish she was being. For, of course, Julio and Vanessa
could never meet. That way – she had been that way before.
Miss Slingsby gave a shudder.
“Everything
is to your liking, Signora?”
“Yes,
thank you, Julio. It is all very nice.”
“Thank
you, Signora. We should be in Venice soon after
lunch.”
Miss
Slingsby smiled happily, thinking of the crowded platform
that awaited her. How she longed to be with her dear, dear
friends again.
First
they would go to Manzoni’s and the children would each have an
enormous ice cream. She could already feel the little, soft
arms creeping gently round her neck and hear the secret joyous
whispers in her ear. Then off to Harry’s Bar to
catch up with the news. There would be so much to tell, such
laughter and embracing, and in just a few hours she would
see them all.
Peggy
would be there. And the count of course. The
contessa -but the contessa was dead. How could she have
forgotten? And a fleeting spasm of - what was it?
Regret? Guilt? – crossed her brow.
But
the Duc D’Orsini would be there, certainly, and Moira, his
lovely Irish wife, Quentin, always so restless and impatient when
away from the Grand Prix circuit, Jenufa, the Hungarian
countess who had run away from her cruel…
“More
coffee, Signora?” The way he looked at her. One would
think she was the only passenger he had to look after.
For
a moment she imagined him pouring coffee for both of them
on a little sunlit balcony, while below them sparkled the clear blue
waters of the Aegean. Would he feel patronised
and offended if she left him an extravagantly large tip?
Regretfully she decided that he would. A pity.
In the
compartment which Miss Slingsby had finally vacated, Julio went
methodically about his duties, emptying tissues from the
waste bin, cleaning the wash basin, changing the bed linen.
He
picked up the broken comb with its wispy grey hairs and dropped it
distastefully into his plastic sack. He had worked so hard on
this lonely Englishwoman. And she had seemed worth it, with her
well-worn Gucci luggage, her crocodile shoes and tasteful, expensive
clothes. And what tip had she left him? A miserable three euro
coins in a paper bag. He swore irritably. He
must be losing his touch.
His
irritation increased still further when he saw the passport.
The passengers would have dispersed by now and this would mean a trip
to the station-master’s office and endless, time-wasting form
filling. Sven, the Swedish ex-seaman with whom he lived, would
have prepared an elaborate meal and would be disappointed it was kept
waiting.
He
glanced out of the window.
To
his surprise, the woman was still there. She was smiling
vaguely and holding her arms forward in a curious gesture.
She appeared just like someone being welcomed by a crowd. Yet,
apart from her, the platform was completely deserted.
He
glanced down at the passport in his hand. The same thin,
bespectacled face, the same wispy hair. Name, Rebecca Slingsby,
born in London, 1952. Occupation, romantic novelist.
Anne
Hill
