Not while There's Breath

Not While There's Breath?
(Approx 2,600 Words)

THE two ladies sit well away from the other diners, couples of mixed
ages and, no doubt, clandestine relation. (Married couples so seldom
dine out alone these days). They sit side by side on their red plush
couch. They've talked quietly enough through dinner, washed down with
claret, cr?me de menthe, and brandy. The blonde is more buxom, and
wears red satin with sapphires, while the blue-rinse-lady wears purple
and pearls. From their appearance, I'd say they're ladies of substance,
owing nothing (as one might say), for current tenure. Behind their
screen of ferns, they sit gorgeous and plump, like two exotic birds in
a Samoan paradise. Yes, they've had a few. At least, enough to forget
their oasis is hardly soundproof. They're back on the gin now.

Once more, Rose, the blonde, the buxom one in red, breaks off to
attract the waiter's attention. An arm appears above the foliage; the
upper part shakes rhythmically as the hand turns in lazy circles,
allowing her sapphires to send showers of brilliants between the
unadorned fingers of the leaves.

At his post at the bar, the waiter smiles, straightens, inclines his
head, and begins another silent journey across the red pile.
On his last visit, he'd said he was a great fan of hers, had a number
of early recordings. She'd said, `Tish! What's a young feller like you
doing listening to that old stuff? Go on with you, I don't believe a
word of it.' He'd assured her he preferred jazz and blues to any of the
modern stuff. After he returned to the bar, she said, `T'cher! He's
just after his tip. Must think I was born yesterday.' But her wishing
would have its way. After a moment's reflection, she added, 'Still, I
suppose he could have one or two. What do you think, Molly?'

As the waiter approaches this time, just like a girl at her first dance
unable to return the smile of a boy from across the room, Rose falls to
primping her hair. But she's learned a great deal since that first
dance. When he arrives, she keeps him waiting an appreciable time
before turning her face up to his, when she engages his eye
shamelessly.

He is unquestionably handsome with his mass of black hair, flashing
teeth and broad shoulders. Her bronzed fingers stroke his hand from
wrist to fingertips and, in a husky voice, she says, 'Two more,
darling. Large ones. And make sure you keeps coming. I'll let you know
when I'm satiated. Come to that, we both will.' Her companion chuckles
at the double entendre, though Rose keeps a straight face.

Seemingly unruffled, the waiter smiles and turns away. Ah, but did she
lift an eyebrow? Bestow a certain look? For suddenly she exclaims,
'Here! Did you see that, Molly? The saucy little bugger! Winked at me,
he did. The saucy little sod!'

Through blue spectacles studded with sequins, Molly gazes after the
waiter. Her coiffure glistens as though created from newly-oiled steel
wool. One is amused by the idea that, though this effect pleases her
tonight, it would doubtless lead to litigation should tomorrow morning
prove this to be a fact. She chuckles and prods Rose gently in the
ribs.

'Well, you know what they say, Rose. It's never too late. You're still
a handsome woman. If you're looking for a toy-boy, I'd say there's a
bloody good chance going to waste there!' She finishes with a loud
whoop, then bursts into laughter and Rose has to choke down the last of
her drink before she can join her.

This is not discreet laughter, you understand; not the controlled mirth
one has grown accustomed to in one of the South Coast's finest hotels.
No, rather it suggests mirth born of a lifetime's intimate knowledge of
men's costliest weakness. However, as Rose and Molly are heavy smokers,
their laughter quickly degenerates into a bout of fierce coughing where
each is obliged to relieve the other with vigorous back slaps until,
still breathless, Rose wipes away a tear, puts a hand to her bosom, and
gasps, 'Oh God, Molly! What? Go through all that again? You must be
joking!' While taking a last look at the retreating waiter, she picks
up her gold Dunhill to light another Benson and Hedges, takes a long
pull, and says, 'Oh, dear; you shouldn't make me laugh like that. You
know how it makes me cough. Mind you...' with a final chuckle, 'It's
worth a thought.'
'Oh, Rose, do give over,' Molly scolds. 'You're incorrigible. Honestly,
will you never grow up?'

Rose replies that she certainly hopes not. 'Not while there's breath in
me, please God.'

Again they laugh loud.

It's mid-summer. The evening being hot, every door to the terrace is
open. Until these bouts of unbridled laughter, the only sounds had been
the splash and pull of the sea, the murmurings of the other guests, and
the grand piano - played quietly by a pomaded sleek-haired pianist
wearing a white tuxedo very tightly. Unconcerned, the pianist continues
to stroke pianissimo Gershwin to melancholy life.

Suddenly, Molly lets out another whoop. Her sides are aching, she says,
but she's glad she came.

'Haven't laughed so much in ages. You always does me the world of good,
you do. Better than a dose of tonic, you are, Rose.'

The waiter returns, salver aloft. (I like people who add a little style
to things, so I've already warmed to this waiter). He wears the
wine-coloured bolero jacket and black gabardine trousers very well
indeed. One wonders, do red cummerbunds indicate the rutting season for
waiters? Rose watches more closely this time as he rolls and weaves
through the tables like a public-room steward on the Q.E.2. Perhaps he
was once, only to fall in love with a passenger, as they do. Certainly,
he's no part-time student. Perhaps her own mind transports to past
shipboard romances, Caribbean nights, waving palms, silver sands turned
blue in the moonlight. Certainly no truculent student would have so
much flare as he makes ritual of dusting their table in the manner of a
conjuror preparing for the climax of his act. Preliminaries over, and
with consummate grace he produces the two gin and tonics with the same
panache as a magician producing white doves.

Whether by design or accident, Rose has moved farther along the seat,
away from the waiter, as well as her black velvet evening bag. She
leans sideways to retrieve it, unavoidably exposing most of her bosom
to the conjuror, who is not disposed to avert his eyes. She takes out
another twenty-pound note and closes his fingers around it.

'Keep the change, darling,' she says, patting his fist, 'It's worth
every penny just to watch you work.'

He smiles. 'And very good of you to say so, madam.'

Now the pianist plays a few slow arpeggios which materialise into 'As
Time Goes By.' Rose picks up the cue immediately and breaks into
unbidden song:

'You must remember this,
A kiss is still a kiss;
A sigh is just a sigh...'

She sings well, her voice still rounded and full of melodic power. She
sings quietly while Molly's eyes follow the waiter.

'Don't you think... ' she says, after a while, 'Don't you think he's a
bit like him? In looks, I mean? Only in looks, of course.'

Rose's voice trails off as her eyes follow the waiter for an instant
before falling away, her mind slipping into reverie, looking beyond
him, reuniting with times and places now existing only as images flying
away through space and time at light's irrecoverable speed.

She gives an almost imperceptible shiver then takes a long pull on the
cigarette, as though to restore her spirits. 'Yes, I suppose so. I
think I see what you mean. Same cocky walk, same supercilious look
about him.' She gives a shrug. 'Mmm. Come to think of it, perhaps I
could get myself shop-soiled with that young man!' Again they both
laugh, but moderately this time, trying to avoid another bout of
coughing.

'Mind you,' Rose continues, 'I'm assuming they've got a bit more about
them today than when we were kids. Otherwise he needn't bother!'

They laugh again.

'God, yes,' agrees Molly, 'I should say so. The things they get up to
today! Strewth! Our mothers would turn in their graves if they knew the
half of what goes on today. Oh, that reminds me, Rose, did you happen
to see that play on Channel Four last night?'

Molly carries on but Rose pays no heed. With that same backward stare
she presumably gazes at live theatre in the past. The waiter sees her
and smiles, unaware she looks through him, not at him.

'Which brings me nicely to asking you something, Rose. D'you mind if I
ask you something? Something really personal?'

Rose collects herself, 'Of course not, darling. You know me. A few more
of these and you can have my bloody PIN number!'

Molly jabs her in the ribs again. 'No, not that, silly. Something a
little more important to a woman than that, darling. At least, I would
hope so.'

'Aye, aye! Going all serious on me again, are we? Honestly, Molly,
you're always on about the old days. Every time you comes down here, so
all you want to talk about is bloody years ago. Why don't you - '

'Ssh, Rose. Ssh, dear. I want you to try and be serious for a minute.
No, I mean it. Drink up. I'll get the next one.'

They finish their drinks. Rose's glass has been hitting the table with
a little more weight for some time now. 'Well, crafty mare, what d'you
want to know this time? Here! You're not writing a bloody book or
anything are you?'

Molly strokes her hand.

'Rose, I was thinking about that play. It's strange... really strange.
It reminded me of when we was kids. Got to thinking about the three of
us. Before the war. Back in the thirties. Canning Town; Star Lane;
Walmington Street? all that. Of course that's not there any more, is
it? Walmington Street. Gone in one bloody night! Bombed flat. And the
Red Lion. Bastards! Anyway, as I was saying, I was thinking how it was
funny we both ended up in love with him. Well, you know what I mean.'
She pauses, searching for words. 'I was wondering?. I mean? would you
be willing.?' She hesitates, unwilling to finish the sentence. She
turns away, but turns back almost immediately and slaps the table hard,
causing every head in the room to turn and focus on their oasis.

'Bugger it, Rose! I want to know what he was like. You know? what 'it'
was like. Only I've always wondered what it would've been like with
him?. You know?'

The room is suddenly silent; even spotlights appear to dim. Leaning by
the bar once more, the waiter surreptitiously slides a little closer,
while the pianist extends a semi-breve into a pregnant rest before
continuing even more softly.

Rose doesn't answer immediately, but looks again into the shadows,
beyond the waiter. Once more he smiles; once again she ignores him. But
nor does she answer Molly.

Fearing disappointment, Molly is obliged to pursue the question. She
urges, 'I don't mean later on, Rose. I mean that first time. Only they
say you never forget your first.' She gives a hopeless shrug. 'Not that
I'd know anything about that of course - being too young to remember.
The old bastard. I hope he's still frying!' But her tone is softer when
she adds, 'Oh, but if only you knew the number of times I used to think
about him and me. Well, once upon a time. Well you know I did.'

Rose collects herself, and sighs, 'Is that all, sweetie? Is that all
you want to know? D'you mean to tell me that's been playing on your
mind all these years? Bless you sweetheart, you could've asked me that
any time this last fifty years.'

'Maybe, Rose. Maybe. But it was hardly the thing one talked about in
them days was it? Not years ago, I mean. In them days we had a pretty
good idea what went on behind closed doors but we didn't see the
necessity for... well, you know..... Not like they do today.'

Rose screws her cigarette into the ashtray. 'No, I suppose not. I
suppose you're right there.' Taking a deep breath, she says, 'Right!
Well, if you really want to know, I'll tell you. It was at his cousin
Audrey's wedding....'

Rose now relates a miserable tale.

It appears that, on the floor of a cold, dark, attic lumber room, and
to a handsome, black-haired, but sexually ignorant, totally
unpractised, over-virile young man, wearing celluloid collar, boots,
and double-breasted suit, Rose had surrendered her maidenhead - almost
fully clothed. The tale is punctuated here and there with such appeals
from Molly as , 'Oh no? No, you can't mean it?' until Rose ends with a
final, 'And that's the God's honest truth.'

'Oh, dear,' says Molly. 'I wish I hadn't asked now. I really do.'

Rose sighs. 'There's a word for it today. Hold on, it'll come to me in
a minute. Something to do with Jack's elation.'

'Premature ejaculation,' asserts Molly, nodding smugly. 'That's what
they calls it today. Story of my life, that.

'And that was it then?' she says.

Rose screws up her nose. 'Mmm.'

Suddenly her face lights up again. 'Oh, but here! You must hear this.
Guess what he said to me afterwards. Go on, have a guess.' Molly shakes
her head. 'Oh, wait till you hear this. This is the best part.' Rose
shifts her buttocks once or twice. 'I haven't told you this.

'I'd sat up to light a cigarette. (Woodbines in them days, a course).
I'd struck a match. Could see him in the gloom, lying there, you know,
all breathless after his short sprint! But talk about laugh. Modest,
see? Rushing to cover himself he hadn't tucked his shirt in properly,
had he? Left a fly undone, and there's this bit still sticking out.
Looked like a bloody great tongue, it did! "Bloody cheek!" I thinks to
myself. And he's lying there with that silly look they get. You know
the one I mean?'

'Oh yes. Like, "Look what a good boy am I," sort of thing?'

Rose nods. 'Mmm, you've got it. Mind you, I'm not saying nothing about
that. It's nice to see sometimes. All depends. Depends if you're
grateful or not, I suppose.

'Anyway, I lights the cigarette, and guess what he says?' Molly shakes
her head. 'He says, "Let's have one of those, Rose."

'So I gives him mine, don't I? (Like you do, being all romantic). Now,
guess what he says. Go on, guess.'

Again Molly shakes her head. 'No, Rose. Can't think.'

Taking a deep breath, Rose exclaims, '"Lipstick!" That's what he says.
Bloody lipstick! "Ugh!" he says, "Can't stand the taste of lipstick.
You know I can't."'

Rose now looks suddenly sad, and the two sit silently until she adds,
'I've never forgotten that, Molly. You know? I mean to say? I ask you,
what a thing to say.'

Molly nods wisely. 'I know,' she says, 'it's terrible.'

After another silence, Molly is the first to speak. 'D'you know, Rose,
I reckon we was born a generation too soon. There's never been one half
decent. How about you?'

Before answering, Rose raises her arm to beckon the waiter again. Once
more the wrist turns in lazy circles. Seeing her, he smiles, inclines,
straightens up, and again comes forward.

'Bugger it,' she answers, 'Let's find out, shall we?'

End