Not While There's Breath...

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0 height="100%"><tr> <td valign="top" width=200 BGCOLOR="#003333" TEXT="#F7F7FF" background="12ad4c00dduajq.gif"> <div> <TABLE BORDER="0" CELLPADDING="2" CELLSPACING="0" WIDTH="95" BORDERCOLORLIGHT="#C0C0C0" BORDERCOLORDARK="#808080" FRAME="BOX" RULES="ALL" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" > <tR> <tD VALIGN=TOP HEIGHT= 46 ><NOBR><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="46" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="91" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></NOBR></tD> </tR> </TABLE></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id61.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE=" selection of Short Stories"><U><B>More Stories</B></U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="stan hedges homepage"><U><B>Homepage</B></U></A></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> email: <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#A6CAF0" FACE="Times New Roman" >sonoflawrence@yahoo.co.uk</FONT></div> <div> (Not live link. Cur & paste)</div> </td> <td valign="top" BGCOLOR="#FFFBF0" TEXT="#080000"> <div>     </div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> Note:  This short story is from a collection called <I>'Listening to Mother'</I></div> <bR> <div> <B>Not While There's Breath...</B></div> <div> by</div> <div> S. T. Hedges</div> <div> (Approx. 2500 Words)</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> THEY met in the lobby around 7.30.  Given to flamboyant gestures, Rose is the everlasting blonde, now a little buxom.  She wears red satin with sapphires, while Molly, the blue-rinse lady, wears mauve with pearls, and seems somehow more refined.  However, both are obviously ladies of substance - owing nothing for current tenure, as their mother's might have said.  After much cooing and cuddling, they downed a few gins, then joined arms to stroll through to the dining room.  A handsome young waiter appeared immediately. But they ignored his seating suggestion, choosing a place well away from the other diners, a corner table within its own private jungle. Now they sit on their red velvet couch, gorgeous and plump as birds in a South Sea paradise.  </div> <div> The evening being warm, the doors to the terrace are open; so that, until now, the pianist's soft Gershwin, the plaintive wail of the occasional gull, and the desultory splash and pull of waves on the shore, have been enough to cover their conversation throughout dinner, a meal washed down with claret, crème de menthe and brandy.  So yes, they've had a few.  At least, enough to forget their 'oasis' is hardly soundproof.  And now they're back on the gin.</div> <div> Again Rose breaks off to attract the attention of the waiter.  Her arm appears above the foliage and the upper part shakes rhythmically when her hand revolves in lazy circles, while her many rings send showers of brilliants between the fingers of palms.  At the bar, the waiter collects his salver and begins another journey. </div> <div> On his last visit he'd asked politely if Rose had once been a singer. 'That's right, darling,' she said. 'But how on earth could a boy like you know that?' </div> <div> 'Dad was a fan, wasn't he?  Had a few of your old 78s.  I used to enjoy them too.  Wish I still had them.' </div> <div> 'Tish!' she said.  'Get on with you! What's a young feller like you doing, listening to that old stuff?  I don't believe a word of it.'  </div> <div> He'd assured her he preferred jazz and blues to any of the modern stuff.  After he left she turned to Molly and said, 'Tcher! He's just after his tip.  Must think I was born yesterday.'   But after a moment's reflection, she'd added, 'Still, I suppose he could be telling the truth. What do you think, Molly?' </div> <div> Which is perhaps why, as he approaches their table this time, she falls to primping her hair, in the manner of a young girl at her first dance unable to return the smile of a boy from across the room.  However, Rose has obviously learned a great deal since her first young dance; when he arrives, she keeps him waiting an appreciable time before turning her face up to his, when she engages his eye shamelessly.  </div> <div> With his black hair tied in a switch behind, flashing white teeth and broad shoulders, he is unquestionably handsome.  Slowly, her bronze fingers stroke his hand from wrist to fingertips as she purrs, '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.'  Molly chuckles at the <I>double entendre,</I> but Rose keeps a straight face.  Seemingly unruffled, the waiter leaves, but once out of earshot, Rose exclaims, 'Here! Did you see that, Molly? The saucy little sod! Winked at me, he did.  Well I never! The saucy little bugger!' </div> <div> Through blue spectacles studded with sequins, Molly gazes after him. Her coiffure glistens like a mass of newly-oiled steel wool, and it's amusing to think how she would react if, on waking tomorrow morning, she found this to be true.  Nothing less than some serious litigation, no doubt.  However, after a last chuckle, prods Rose 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 good chance going begging there!'  </div> <div> Molly finishes with a whoop of laughter, and Rose almost chokes on her drink as she joins her in a fit of uncontrolled laughter. This is not discreet laughter, you understand; not the controlled mirth one is accustomed to in one of the south coast's finest hotels.  It suggests a certain type of experience, mirth born off a lifetime's knowledge of men's costliest weakness, perhaps.  Be that as it may, as Rose and Molly are heavy smokers, such conviviality inevitably leads to one thing: heavy bouts of coughing, when each is obliged to relieve the other with a few back slaps.  </div> <div> Still breathless, Rose wipes away a tear and presses a hand to her bosom, saying,  'Oh God, Molly! Go through all that again? You must be kidding!' then takes up her gold Dunhill and lights another Benson and Hedges.  'Oh dear, you shouldn't make me laugh like that. You know how it sets me off.  Mind you,' she chuckles, 'I s'pose it's worth a thought!' </div> <div> 'Oh Rose, do give over.  You're incorrigible. Honestly! Will you never grow up?' </div> <div> 'Not while there's breath in me, please God.'  </div> <div> They smoke quietly for a minute or so.  Molly is first to speak. </div> <div> 'Oh Rose, it's great being here after all this time. I can't remember the last time I had a good laugh.  You always were a tonic.  I really miss that.'  </div> <bR> <bR> <div> With salver aloft, the waiter returns, wearing his wine-coloured bolero jacket and black gabardine trousers very well indeed.  Could red cummerbunds indicate the rutting season for waiters?  Both ladies watch closely as he rolls between the tables, perhaps reminding them of certain public-room stewards on the Canberra or the QE2.   He's certainly no part-time student. No truculent student could have so much flare as he makes ritual of dusting their table in the manner of a conjuror preparing the climax of his act.  Preliminaries over, with consummate grace he produces two gins and tonic with the same panache as a conjuror producing white doves. </div> <div> Whether by design or accident, during his absence Rose seems to have moved away from her black velvet bag.  She leans sideways to retrieve it, unavoidably exposing most of her bosom to the waiter, who is not disposed to avert his eye.  She takes out another twenty-pound note, takes his hand, closes his fingers around it, and from somewhere deep inside, says:  </div> <div> 'Keep the change, darling.  It's worth every penny just to watch you work.'   </div> <div> He smiles graciously. 'Thank you madam, and very good of you to say so.' </div> <div> The pianist now plays a slow arpeggio which slips easily into <I>'As Time Goes By' </I>and<I> </I>Rose picks up the cue immediately: </div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> 'You must remember this,</div> <div> A kiss is still a kiss;</div> <div> A sigh is just a sigh...' </div> <bR> <div> She sings well, her voice still rounded, still bearing traces of the melodic power that had once made her famous.  She sings quietly while Molly's eyes follow the waiter back to the bar. </div> <div> 'Don't you think, Rose... '  says Molly, hesitantly.  'I mean, don't you think he's a bit like him?  Only in looks, I mean. Only in looks.' </div> <div> Rose gazes after the waiter; her song falls away as her mind slips into reverie, and her face grows sad. She shivers, almost imperceptibly, lights a cigarette, takes a long pull, and sighs, 'Yes, I s'pose so.  I think I see what you're getting at.  Same cocky walk, same eyes.  You could be right about that waiter.  Perhaps I <I>should </I>give him a chance after all!'   Again they laugh.  'Mind you,' she adds, 'I assume they've got a bit more about them today than when <I>we</I> were his age, otherwise he needn't bother!'  </div> <div> 'God, yes,' says Molly, 'I should say so. The things they get up to today!  What?  Our mothers would turn in their graves if they only knew the <I>half!</I>  Oooh, that reminds me, Rose, did you happen to watch that play on Channel Four the other night?' </div> <div> Molly carries on though Rose pays no heed because, with that same look of nostalgia, she's still watching live theatre from the past.  The waiter smiles; unaware she looks through him, and not at him. </div> <div> 'Which brings me nicely to asking you something, Rose. D'you mind if I ask you something? I mean, something really personal?'</div> <div> Rose collects herself.  'Of course not, sweetheart. You know me. A few more, and you can have my bloody PIN!' </div> <div> 'Don't I know.  But no, something a little more important to a woman than that, darling.  Something I've been wanting to ask you for years.' </div> <div> 'Aye, aye! Going all serious again, are we?   Always on about the old days, you are.  All you ever want to talk about is years ago. Why don't you - '</div> <div> 'Shush, dear.  I want you to be serious for a minute.  Bear with me.  Go on, drink up. I'll get the next one.' </div> <div> 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 book or something, are you?' </div> <div> Molly strokes her hand. </div> <div> 'Rose, I was thinking about that play.  D'you know, it was strange... really strange. It reminded me of when we were barmaids together in The Red Lion all those years ago.  Still in our teens.  I was thinking about us three.  You know, before the war; in the thirties; Canning Town; Star Lane; Walmington Street… all that.  Of course that's not there any more, is it? Walmington Street.  Gone!  Gone in one night!  Bombed flat.  And the Red Lion.  The 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.'   Molly pauses, unsure how to continue.  'I was wondering….  I mean… would you be willing...'   But suddenly she slaps the table; the room falls silent, and every head turns.  'Bugger it, Rose! I want to know what he was like. You know… what '<I>it</I>' was like.  Only I've always wondered what it would've been like with him… You know?'  </div> <div> The room is full of expectancy.  Leaning against the bar, the waiter slides a little closer while the pianist extends a semi-breve into a long, pregnant rest.  But Rose, looking into the shadows once more, fails to answer immediately.  </div> <div> Molly pursues the question.  'I don't mean later on, Rose.  I mean that first time. Only they say you never forget your first.'  Here she shrugs, hopelessly. 'Not that I'd know anything about that, being too young to remember. The old bastard!  I hope he's still frying in hell!'   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, you know I did.'  </div> <div> Rose collects herself with a sigh. 'Is that all?  Is that all you want to know, sweetheart?  D'you mean to tell me that's played on your mind all these years?  Bless me, you could've asked me that any time this last fifty years.'</div> <div> 'May be, Rose, may be.  But it was hardly the sort of thing one talked about in those days.  Not years ago.  In those 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.' </div> <div> Rose screws her cigarette into the ashtray. 'No, I suppose not.  I s'pose you're right there.'  She takes a deep breath.  'Right! Well, if you really want to know, I'll tell you.  It was at his cousin Audrey's wedding....'  </div> <div> There follows a miserable tale where we learn that, while under the influence of several port and lemons, and whilst almost fully clothed, Rose had surrendered her maidenhead to a dark, over-virile, thoroughly inept young man wearing a celluloid collar, pin-stripe double-breasted suit and highly-polished boots.  Not only that, but the act took place on the bare boards of a cold, dark, third-floor lumber-room accompanied by the sounds of a glorious knees-up two floors below.  From time to time her tale is punctuated by horrified appeals from Molly: 'Oh no? No, you can't mean it?' until Rose ends with a final, 'And that's the God's honest truth.' </div> <div> 'Oh, dear,' says Molly. 'I wish I hadn't asked now, I really do.' </div> <div> Rose sighs. 'There's a word for it today. Hold on a tick, it'll come to me in a minute. Something to do with Jack's elation.' </div> <div> Molly nods, wearing a knowing look.  'Premature ejaculation,' she asserts, 'That's what they call it today. Story of my life, that.  And so that was it then?'</div> <div> Rose pulls a face, screws her nose and nods. 'Afraid so.  All much of a muchness, really.  Sorry to disappoint you.'</div> <div> Then, suddenly, her face lights up. </div> <div> 'Oh, but here!  You must hear this.  This is the best bit.  Guess what he says to me afterwards.  Go on, have a guess.' </div> <div> Molly shakes her head.  'No... What?'</div> <div> 'Oh, wait till you hear this.'  </div> <div> Rose lights up again, takes a deep drag, and settles herself into her seat.</div> <div> 'I'd sat up to light a fag. (Woodbines in them days, a course). After I struck the match I could see him in the gloom, lying there all breathless after his short burst!  Talk about laugh.  Modest, see?  Rushing to cover himself, he didn't tuck his shirt in properly.  With his flies half undone, there's this bit of shirt sticking out, see?  Like a bloody great tongue!  "Bloody cheek!"  I think to myself.  And there he is, lying there with that silly look they get. You know the one I mean?' </div> <div> 'Oh yes. Like, "Look what a good boy am I," sort of thing?'</div> <div> 'That's it. 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.</div> <div> 'Anyway, I lights the fag, and guess what he says?  Go on, have a guess.'  Molly shakes her head.  'He says, "Ah, just what I could do with. Got one to spare, Rose?"  So I gives him mine, don't I?  (Like you do, being all romantic).  <I>Now</I> guess what he says.' </div> <div> Again Molly shakes her head.  'Can't think, Rose.  Something nice and romantic?'  </div> <div> Rose takes a deep breath and exclaims, '"<I>Lipstick</I>!" That's what he says. Bloody <I>lipstick</I>!  "Ugh!" he says, "You know I can't stand the taste of lipstick!"'  </div> <div> Molly gasps, lost for words, and Rose becomes very sad. They sit silently for a while before she adds, 'I've never forgotten that, Molly. You know?  I mean to say…  I ask you, what a thing to say.'      </div> <div> Molly nods wisely. 'I know. It's terrible.  The way they treat you.  It's all nothing to them.'  </div> <div> After a long silence, Molly adds,  'D'you know something, Rose, I reckon we were born a generation too soon. There's never been one half decent.  How about you?'  </div> <div> Without answering, Rose raises her arm. The wrist turns in lazy circles. The waiter smiles, inclines, straightens up, and moves towards them.  </div> <div> 'Bugger it,' says she, 'Let's find out, shall we?'</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>The End</B></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id61.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE=" selection of Short Stories"><U><B>Return to index</B></U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="stan hedges homepage"><U><B>Homepage</B></U></A></div> <bR> <bR> <div> Copyright is reserved on all personal creative material, which may not be copied for redistribution to third parties without prior written consent. </div> <div> ©<FONT SIZE="1" COLOR="#A6CAF0" FACE="Times New Roman" > S.T. Hedges 2003</FONT></div> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>