Ma’s plain sorrow through the walls. ‘Yes, I care for you,’ Howard’s voice rises. ‘I love you, baby. And I love Nina, too. Both of you.’
‘I don’t know, Howard. You don’t ever show it.’
‘But I’m blocked as a human being!’
I say to Nadia: ‘Men are pretty selfish bastards who don’t understand us. That’s all I know.’
‘Howard’s an interesting type,’ she says coolly. ‘Very open-minded in an artistic way.’
I’m getting protective in my old age and very pissed off.
‘He’s my mother’s boyfriend and long-standing lover.’
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘So lay off him. Please, Nadia. Please understand.’
‘What are you, of all people, accusing me of?’
I’m not too keen on this ‘of all people’ business. But get this.
‘I thought you advanced Western people believed in the free intermingling of the sexes?’
‘Yes, we do. We intermingle all the time.’
‘What then, Nina, is your point?’
‘It’s him,’ I explain, moving in. ‘He has all the weaknesses. One kind word from a woman and he thinks they want to sleep with him. Two kind words and he thinks he’s the only man in the world. It’s a form of mental illness, of delusion. I wouldn’t tangle with that deluded man if I were you!’
All right! A few days later.
Here I am slouching at Howard’s place. Howard’s hole, or ‘sock’ as he calls it, is a red-brick mansion block with public-school, stately dark oak corridors, off Kensington High Street. Things have been getting grimmer and grimmer. Nadia stays in her room or else goes out and pops her little camera at ‘history’. Ma goes to every meeting she hears of. I’m just about ready for artery road.
I’ve just done you a favour. I could have described every moment of us sitting through Howard’s television oeuvre (which I always thought meant egg ). But no – on to the juicy bits!
There they are in front of me, Howard and Nadia cheek to cheek, within breath-inhaling distance of each other, going through the script.
Earlier this morning we went shopping in Covent Garden. Nadia wanted my advice on what clothes to buy. So we went for a couple of sharp dogtooth jackets, distinctly city, fine brown and white wool, the jacket caught in at the waist with a black leather belt; short panelled skirt; white silk polo-neck shirt; plus black pillbox, suede gloves, high heels. If she likes something, if she wants it, she buys it. The rich. Nadia bought me a linen jacket.
Maybe I’m sighing too much. They glance at me with undelight.
‘I can take Nadia home if you like,’ Howard says.
‘I’ll take care of my sister,’ I say. ‘But I’m out for a stroll now. I’ll be back at any time.’
I stroll towards a café in Rotting Hill. I head up through Holland Park, past the blue sloping roof of the Commonwealth Institute (or Nigger’s Corner as we used to call it) in which on a school trip I pissed into a wastepaper basket. Past modern nannies – young women like me with dyed black hair – walking dogs and kids.
The park’s full of hip kids from Holland Park School, smoking on the grass; black guys with flat-tops and muscles; yuppies skimming frisbees and stuff; white boys playing Madonna and Prince. There are cruising turd-burglars with active eyes, and the usual London liggers, hang-gliders and no-goodies waiting to sign on. I feel outside everything, so up I go, through the flower-verged alley at the end of the park, where the fudge-packers used to line up at night for fucking. On the wall it says: Gay solidarity is class solidarity .
Outside the café is a police van with grilles over the windows full of little piggies giggling with their helmets off. It’s a common sight around here, but the streets are a little quieter than usual. I walk past an Asian policewoman standing in the street who says hello to me. ‘Auntie Tom,’ I whisper and go into the café.
In this place they play the latest calypso and soca and the new Eric Satie
‘I don’t know, Howard. You don’t ever show it.’
‘But I’m blocked as a human being!’
I say to Nadia: ‘Men are pretty selfish bastards who don’t understand us. That’s all I know.’
‘Howard’s an interesting type,’ she says coolly. ‘Very open-minded in an artistic way.’
I’m getting protective in my old age and very pissed off.
‘He’s my mother’s boyfriend and long-standing lover.’
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘So lay off him. Please, Nadia. Please understand.’
‘What are you, of all people, accusing me of?’
I’m not too keen on this ‘of all people’ business. But get this.
‘I thought you advanced Western people believed in the free intermingling of the sexes?’
‘Yes, we do. We intermingle all the time.’
‘What then, Nina, is your point?’
‘It’s him,’ I explain, moving in. ‘He has all the weaknesses. One kind word from a woman and he thinks they want to sleep with him. Two kind words and he thinks he’s the only man in the world. It’s a form of mental illness, of delusion. I wouldn’t tangle with that deluded man if I were you!’
All right! A few days later.
Here I am slouching at Howard’s place. Howard’s hole, or ‘sock’ as he calls it, is a red-brick mansion block with public-school, stately dark oak corridors, off Kensington High Street. Things have been getting grimmer and grimmer. Nadia stays in her room or else goes out and pops her little camera at ‘history’. Ma goes to every meeting she hears of. I’m just about ready for artery road.
I’ve just done you a favour. I could have described every moment of us sitting through Howard’s television oeuvre (which I always thought meant egg ). But no – on to the juicy bits!
There they are in front of me, Howard and Nadia cheek to cheek, within breath-inhaling distance of each other, going through the script.
Earlier this morning we went shopping in Covent Garden. Nadia wanted my advice on what clothes to buy. So we went for a couple of sharp dogtooth jackets, distinctly city, fine brown and white wool, the jacket caught in at the waist with a black leather belt; short panelled skirt; white silk polo-neck shirt; plus black pillbox, suede gloves, high heels. If she likes something, if she wants it, she buys it. The rich. Nadia bought me a linen jacket.
Maybe I’m sighing too much. They glance at me with undelight.
‘I can take Nadia home if you like,’ Howard says.
‘I’ll take care of my sister,’ I say. ‘But I’m out for a stroll now. I’ll be back at any time.’
I stroll towards a café in Rotting Hill. I head up through Holland Park, past the blue sloping roof of the Commonwealth Institute (or Nigger’s Corner as we used to call it) in which on a school trip I pissed into a wastepaper basket. Past modern nannies – young women like me with dyed black hair – walking dogs and kids.
The park’s full of hip kids from Holland Park School, smoking on the grass; black guys with flat-tops and muscles; yuppies skimming frisbees and stuff; white boys playing Madonna and Prince. There are cruising turd-burglars with active eyes, and the usual London liggers, hang-gliders and no-goodies waiting to sign on. I feel outside everything, so up I go, through the flower-verged alley at the end of the park, where the fudge-packers used to line up at night for fucking. On the wall it says: Gay solidarity is class solidarity .
Outside the café is a police van with grilles over the windows full of little piggies giggling with their helmets off. It’s a common sight around here, but the streets are a little quieter than usual. I walk past an Asian policewoman standing in the street who says hello to me. ‘Auntie Tom,’ I whisper and go into the café.
In this place they play the latest calypso and soca and the new Eric Satie
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