CHAPTER V : A BOTCHED BEGINNING.
I received an unexpected telephone call from Diana who asked me if I would like to accompany her to the Picasso exhibition at the Tate Gallery. I said, willingly, and we met at South Kensington Station, took the tube to Parliament and a bus, along the Thames, to the Tate. The day was warm and she looked lovely and fresh in a summery dress, looking all of fifteen, budding breasts and all. Hair well done, a minimum of makeup, flat shoes and lovely legs. She was affectionate and we spent an hour or so joking and giggling, and perhaps annoying the other visitors, over the horrors of Picasso. She was of the same opinion, that is, a philistine in my mold. I asked her why she had not left for Paris and she said, tell you later, but I got an inkling of cancelled plans when she remarked somewhat contemptuously that Reginald would have loved the exhibition. We walked part of the way back and entered a cinema and then took the tube to South Ken for a snack at Barino’s before she boarded the number fourteen bus to Fulham. She had started working at an import-export business where French was a requirement and seemed happy with her job. So weekdays were out and we made a late afternoon date for the following Saturday.
When we met we had a cappuccino at a coffee bar and instead of going to a movie I asked her to come home to see my room and to be able to talk. All week I was working up my courage to at least start something with Diana, if only a kiss. I imagined but was not certain that she understood my predicament of timidity and inexperience. In any case, in my cramped little room we sat on my bed, half lying down, and talked. She told me that Reginald wrote to her a letter breaking off their engagement because he fell in love with another girl. At first I was shocked and terribly upset, she said. But within a week I understood so many things about him, about us. My pride was hurt but I was not heartbroken because I did not love him. I thought that perhaps, after all, I was lucky. He had undoubtedly a strong personality and he dominated me just like he ruled over all of us at the English Students’ Club. He had energy, I have to give him that much, and organized everything and saw to it that the events were a success. But with a cool mind and not a little resentment I quickly realized that he managed to create a persona that was in fact false. He was not the intellectual he projected, his poetry was trashy and so were his short stories. They were devoid of any true emotions or feelings. His guitar playing was just strumming the same notes over and over again covered by a loud, harsh voice totally lacking melody or subtle timing. My God, how could I have been so blind not to see all those things at the time? He was not even a good lover. He was selfish and only cared for big, fat Reggie. I hate myself for my infatuation and succumbing to him. Sometimes I despise myself as much as I despise him.
I caressed her hair but could not get myself to kiss her. She was a lovely girl and it was the right moment and I was paralyzed. I didn’t know how to kiss. I would make a fool of myself. Would I be able to put my tongue in her mouth? She would know at once I was utterly inexperienced. A disgraceful situation for a nineteen year old. She was experienced, had made love to a man, held his penis, maybe even sucked him. I did not even know what the female genitalia looked like. My mind was feverish. She leaned her head on my shoulder and I just held her unable to take it half a step further. We talked of many things but the right moment had passed. The next Saturday she invited me for dinner at her house. I was to meet her mother. Listen, she said, please don’t think we are trying to trap you. Trap me? I said. I would have never thought that. I am hardly a marriage prospect. I have just finished my “A” levels. Yes, she said, I know, and, in any case, after old Reggie I shall think it twice over before I decide to get married. My mother expressed a wish to meet you because I told her so many nice things about you. I laughed. Please tell me some of those nice things because, for the life of me, I cannot think of a single one. She laughed, too. There you have it. The first one is your modesty. The second, your politeness and consideration. Thirdly, that you are good looking in a gentle and moral way. You are not a lady killer like Omar. Oh? You know Omar? I asked. Yes, I met him once at Annie’s. He’s very good-looking but he’s what I call a lady killer because he has no respect for women and treats the civilly but cavalierly and casually as if old Omar, his sexual relief and pleasure come first. I warned Annie about him, she claims she is aware and prudent. I hope so. I hope so too, I said.
The flat on Fulham Road was on the second floor of a well-kept but uninspiring red-brown-brick building similar to all the others left and right, whose only difference was the street number, seventy-three as opposed the seventy-one on the left and seventy-five to the right. An iron railing extended on either side of the two entrance steps and looking down one could see the windows of the basement flats, which reminded me of our past peripatetic strolls with Omar in search of young female occupants. I was nearly exactly on time, eight o’clock. Dinner time for the English in full summer daylight. The street door was unlocked and I entered and climbed to the second floor. Diana opened the door and said, Oh, there you are, come in. Mummy, George is here. No kiss, no handshake. The English reserve handshakes only for serious occasions and kissing is, in any case, a recent worldwide cultural development. Oh dear, you shouldn’t have, Diana said when I gave her the bottle of wine I brought along. I walked into a small sitting room, simply furnished with a sofa, two armchairs and a Khan el Khalil marquetry table as delicate as Diana. A slender, white-haired woman appeared out of an equally small dining room. She smiled at me and extended her hand. How nice to meet you, she said, with a lovely smile on a face that must have been beautiful long ago. She saw the bottle and also said, you really shouldn’t have. Give it to me, dear, I’ll open it and we can have a drink before supper. She’s nice your mum, I told Diana, what’s your father like? Short, plump and English. That’s why I’m quite short. English like Reggie half the size? I asked. No, no, quite the contrary. Reserved, few words, dry sense of humor, as piercing a glance as an x-ray but opinions kept in check. And something one would not expect, a football fan. Not a very successful marriage. I think I kept them together. Mrs. Fremantle came in with a tray, bottle and wine glasses. She poured the wine handed us the glasses and sat down. I noticed a white blouse under a dark blue jacket and a long skirt of the same color. Small breasts like Diana and thin legs.
Blue eyes, I said. Very kind of you to pass them on to Diana. She laughed. I also passed on some qualities which are not so nice. I don’t believe it, or at least Diana has not exhibited any of them, I said. Don’t go washing our dirty linen, mother. I don’t want George thinking I’m a shrew. Not a shrew, my dear, just very outspoken when you are annoyed. Diana made a face and her mother said, Oh well, we’d better change the subject then. How do you like London, George? It’s a wonderful city and I felt at home here from the very first moment. Do you think you would ever like to settle here? That is a taboo question, mother. Why? She looked at Diana. George might think you are scanning the terrain for a possible match between us. Good Lord, no, she cried. It was an innocent question. Please Diana, let me answer, I intervened. If I married in Egypt or Greece it would be difficult to bring a wife from there. Even if she spoke English it would be hard to adapt and live a normal family life in England. We would never really feel at home and our constant thoughts would be with our families and our old country. The only possible scenario for a life here would be for me to find a job in England and marry an English girl. In which case I would raise children that were more English than Greek and my Greek identity would languish and ebb away. I wouldn’t like that. So on the whole, remaining here for good is unlikely. There go my chances, cried Diana in mock despair.
The wine is quite lovely, George, said Mrs. Fremantle. Let us take our drinks and move to the dining room. I have cooked a typically English dish as a change from the spaghettis, pizzas and curries you must be stuffing yourselves with. It’s a beef roast with boiled potatoes and plenty of gravy and for dessert a special pudding of Somerset where I come from. Simple and healthy, as you see. Mrs. Fremantle served us and we began eating and to keep the conversation going but also out of curiosity I asked if she enjoyed her years in Cairo. Oh yes, she said. They were the easiest years of my life. I call them the glorious years. Cairo is not the cleanest of places and it is certainly an extraordinarily noisy and crowded city but we lived in Zamalek in a lovely ground floor flat with a garden. I had a servant at home to do the cleaning and trail behind me to hold the parcels when I went shopping for groceries, meat and fruit. It was perfect. We had a gardener as well and Charles had a chauffeur to drive him around because he could not envisage driving in the madhouse streets of Cairo. Another blessing was that our little Diana loved the English School. The school bus picked her up in the morning and brought her back in the afternoon. All in all, three glorious years which were cut short by Suez. Originally, we had an option of staying on a little longer as Charles was not a diplomat and the rotation system was not as rigid. But as usual, politics intrudes to cause havoc with the lives of the simple people. I cried my eyes out when we had to leave. Charles was transferred to Paris but I put my foot down and returned to England so that Diana would finish her G.C.E. I had not the stomach to keep house for Charles in Paris with absolutely no help and not a word of French to my name. As you see, I am getting on in years. Diana, of course, spent a year with her dad and she speaks fluent French. For a spell we thought she would get married but she was lucky and came out of it unscathed. I looked at Diana and she smiled sweetly. Oh Reggie was not that bad, she said. Mrs. Fremantle almost jumped off her seat. Stop it, Diana, are you trying to annoy me? I saw him just once and when that awful letter of his, breaking the engagement, came, I celebrated. It was badly written, whining and hypocritical. This little girl who is anything but stupid was shocked but thank God she was jarred out of her hypnosis.
The wine had loosened us and the conversation flowed easily. After the pudding we moved to the sitting room and Diana showed me the little hole in the fireplace out of which a tiny mouse comes out to pick at the tit bits of bread she put there for it. If I ever get a heart attack you shall be the cause of it, Diana, Mrs. Fremantle said. With this and that, I left the house at around eleven. Mrs. Fremantle told me she was also looking forward to meeting Annie when she arrives in London. I left thanking them and felt I ought to shake hands at least with the mother but since I was not emigrating to America or the North Pole and would be seeing them soon enough with Annie, they did not offer their hand. A handshake was superfluous.
I went out with Diana three or four times after that but the blockage never lifted. When we went to my room I was unable to approach her sexually. With every successive encounter I was frustrated more and more. I wondered what she thought of me. I imagined she would think I was an utter idiot, a ninny, incapable of a simple show of affection, a fleeting kiss on the lips, a little show of emotion and intimation that I liked her beyond the good fellowship, the humdrum conversations we had, the films we saw and the snacks we had in the coffee bars. Couldn’t she break the impasse when it dragged for so long? Talk to me about it, ask me point blank why I did not kiss her? Ask me if I did not like her looks, her face, her slender body, ask me even if I was queer. But then, obviously, that is not the role of the woman. The man is the hunter, the stalker, the aggressor, not the woman. Diana was patiently, good-naturedly waiting for it to happen. The emotion, the kiss. But it never did and I could not even tell Omar about my predicament. I was too ashamed. I was afraid that even if he did not laugh to my face, he would consider me a pathetic case, a lost cause. It had become unbearable for me to see her any more. I needed to break clean of that untenable situation. I was sick of my room and dreaded her telephone call. I told Omar I wanted to move and he told me there was a room for rent next to his. He lived in 95, Queensgate not far from Drayton Gardens where I lived. I hurried to his landlady and booked it straight away. It was smaller than mine and more expensive but it had the necessary furnishings and a sink with hot and cold water. The street was classy and wide with tall trees on both pavements, with a large hotel opposite, company offices here and there and a Barclays and Westminster bank at the corner. Two days later I was arranging my clothes in a small cupboard and drawers and stacking my books on a narrow shelf. When I finished I felt a vast relief. No more Diana, no more embarrassment and awkwardness, no more frustration and discomfiture, I had to forget about her.