Читать книгу Veronica Tries to be Good, Again - Michael K Freundt - Страница 2

Returning home to Newtown had the feel of a backward step about it but Veronica pushed the thought aside as she parked her car outside the little semi-detached. She sat in the car and stared at the frowning roof over the little verandah, the single window – her room, and the single door into the hallway; a single room-wide house, just four rooms deep, with a back shed where, Sally, her mother lived. Yes, she was coming back but she was coming back home. This was hers. Yes, this was home and the niggling thought about a backward step faded and disappeared.

She carried suitcases, bags, and boxes from the car into her house and into her room and thought about the simple but effective language Ben had used in his note to her; and thoughts about language led her to thoughts about a client that she was due to meet in a few hours which would interrupt her moving-back-in. Language played a very important part in her work with her female clients; and most predominately the language of sex.

Valda Mirabella, a thirty two year old retrenched bank executive, decided to stop worrying about being unemployed - the constant rejections were humiliating - and to have a go at the jobs that her husband, Andrew, had always wanted her to do: being a wife and mother. She had never thought of those jobs as employment, she thought of them as most men thought of them: as things one did while waiting for a job. Like everything she did, Valda Mirabella, gave it her all. She worked hard at her job at the bank and when that disappeared she worked hard at being unemployed, which was really the problem; but then she realised that the house was a mess, the routines were unworkable, her two daughters were perpetually disorganised and angry, and something had to be done. Her first thought was to give a local unemployed woman a financial helping-hand and hire a housekeeper but during one of her daughter’s vitriolic tantrums, Valda was informed in language crude and hurtful that SHE was an unemployed woman and more ‘local’ than anyone. After slapping her daughter’s face, which only made things worse, she had to face a few realities, and one of those realities was the possible immense satisfaction she knew could be gained by doing a job well. Does that still apply when the jobs are “wife and mother”? She hated the word ‘housewife’. It didn’t take long. In fact, she was a little surprised at the ease with which the words ‘home-maker’ slipped into her vocabulary of things called ‘work’; and life, like everything she did, she did with gusto.

Within three months she had the ‘mother’ part under control. She took an unusually lenient path in the wrangling of her wayward daughters. She opted for a supporting role rather than an authoritarian one. This outraged Andrew but Valda convinced him to let her have her head but warned him that it was going to be rough. It was. Valda, with Andrew’s silent support, allowed her daughters, Michelle and Lucy, to do, or not do, whatever they wanted but with only one limitation: that they could not move out of home. The girls took to the new arrangement like foxes in a fowl house. The ensuing months included incidents involving the police, a shop detective, several truant officers, three headmasters, a clinic for sexually transmitted diseases, a less-than-happy family welfare mediation, and four social workers. It is not an exaggeration to say that after six months the girls were exhausted and fully believed that their messy lives were due entirely to other people, especially their parents, and had little to do with their own choices. Their parents could not be faulted: they had been rock-solid in their love and support. The climax, or as the family would latter affectionately refer to it - their ‘major plot point’, came when the patient parents had to bail them out of jail but, calculatingly, allowing them to spend a night in separate cells, without light or a bed off the ground. When Valda and Andrew arrived at the police station, late, the following morning the girls saw them as guardian angels and liberators. The girls were more than happy to let their parents continue, well, begin really, their parenting. Calm and sanity were restored to the Mirabella household.

So much for the ‘mother’ part; the ‘wife’ part was another thing entirely.

Determined not to leave a job only half done, Valda, a social acquaintance of Alison Killcare, the wife of a one-time client of Veronica’s, finally sent an email to “The Blue Site”, Veronica’s new online portal. It took only two interviews for Veronica to understand that the way forward involved sex, it’s expression, and particularly language.

Valda, a stickler for procedure, was easily convinced to give Veronica’s method a try. A solution is what she wanted and it was the need of a solution that had urged her to contact ‘Susan’ (Veronica’s working name) in the first place. It took a little more convincing for Valda to understand that language, or the lack of it, was at the heart of the solution.

Veronica used a busy city café, The CitySpace, for her private interviews. There were booths around the periphery of the interior and Veronica, using her working name, befriended the current manager, a young tattooed woman called Kelly, and was very up-front with her about what she was doing with her clients in the booth in the far corner.

Valda sat patiently waiting for the cafe ritual to be completed: staff introductions, pleasant but tedious small-talk, coffee-ordering, snack-refusals, and promises of speedy service.

“What do you call Andrew? Andy?” asked Veronica.

“I call him Handy,” said Valda without a hint of humour.

“Oh!” said Veronica with a cheeky smile.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” said Valda in her usually dry, matter-of-fact tone. “It’s a joke. He isn’t. I change light-bulbs.”

“Right. So what do you want him to do sexually?”

Veronica knew that Valda had probably thought about this question, but she was certain that Valda had never articulated a possible answer.

“I want him to ...”

“Yes ...?

“I ...”

“Valda, I know how difficult this is. We don’t have to catch a train. Take your time.”

Valda was sitting stiffly upright and holding her breath.

“Valda. Valda, breathe out. Let it go.”

She did so and her shoulders and her whole body slumped like a punctured tire.

“A few deep breaths. Come on.” Veronica knew when a diversion was necessary. “Where have you travelled overseas?”

“What?” Valda looked a bit annoyed at the divergence from the task at hand and the apparent and slightly disappointing likelihood of more small talk.

“What countries have you been to?” Veronica was unwavering in her tack.

“Japan, Italy, the Netherlands, France.”

“How’s your French?”

“Not good. All I managed was the daily niceties and restaurant words.”

“And how did they go?”

“OK, but usually only after several repeats.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know, I’d try to order in French but the waiter would look at me blankly until I was forced to point to what I wanted on the menu. He’d then repeat my order in that supercilious tone of theirs and what I heard was exactly, I thought, I had said. Uh! So frustrating.”

“It’s a universal story.”

“Yes, but what I heard him say was exactly what I said.”

“Obviously not.”

“But the French are so dismissive of tourists.”

“Well, in my experience, they are usually appreciative at the attempt. Look, your tongue hasn’t had the experience at French pronunciation. You can’t speak French with English pronunciation, which your tongue is an expert at. You have to speak French with French pronunciation; and to do that properly you have to teach your tongue to say those words correctly otherwise your French listener won’t know what you’re saying. It’s possible that your waiter’s ear didn’t recognise the sounds you were making.”

“And your point is?” asked Valda, now, a little annoyed.

Veronica chuckled. “My point is exactly that. I want you to say words that your tongue probably has never had to make before.”

“Well, that’s true.”

“So, it’s just you and me. This is a busy place; this booth is stuck in a corner, and despite the noise and the busy staff we’re as private as we can be. So, what do you want Handy to do?”

Valda was looking into the near distance, not looking at anything, really; looking inside herself; looking at herself. Then she said in a whispered voice as if telling a forbidden secret, “I want him to put his tongue in my vagina.”

“Sorry? I didn’t hear you,” she lied.

Valda leaned forward and raised her voice to a slightly louder whisper,“ I want him to put his tongue in my vagina.”

“Good. Great. Now look at me when you say that.”

Valda, with hesitation and obvious difficulty, re-focused her gaze on Veronica. “I want him to put his tongue in my vagina.”

“Good. So what actual words would you say to him?

“What?”

“How would you say that to him? In the privacy of your own bedroom; by the light of your bedside lamp.”

“Oh, we never have the light on.”

Veronica made a mental note but didn’t respond. “I want you to use the actual words you would use in such a situation.”

“You make it sound as if such a situation once existed.”

“Take your time.”

“I would ask him...”

“No no,” interrupted Veronica. “Think of me as Handy. I’m Handy. If you want me to put my tongue in your vagina, what words would you use to ask me to do that?”

Valda looked at her as if she had been asked to run for parliament.

Veronica smiled and as nonchalantly as she could she sipped her cafe latte and said, “Valda, it’s just us.”

“OK? Handy...”

“Yes, ...”

“Handy, please put your tongue in my vagina.”

“Don't say please. There’s no reason to be polite.”

“Right. Handy, put your tongue in my vagina.”

“Good. Good. But you have known this man for most of your life. You've heard him fart.” Valda gave no response. “Haven’t you?” Still nothing. Veronica registers the implication and ploughs on. “You are intimates. Would you use those words? Those exact words?”

“Are you trying to make me say…?”

“What?”

“Is it that word you want me to say?” asked Valda almost defiantly, with a little anger in her voice.

“Is that what you want to say?” challenged Veronica.

Valda looked into the near distance again; looked inside again. “I’ve never said that word before, and would never say that word.”

“Valda, I understand what you mean but I’m willing to bet that you have only ever heard that word said, shouted, in anger and to insult and to inflict as much personal damage as possible. It’s not the word; it’s how the word is used that is the problem. It’s only offensive when it’s used offensively. It’s an informal noun that describes a vagina, a personal and wondrous thing. It doesn’t have to be said like a bricklayer.”

“OK, but no. I don’t want to use that word.”

“Even in the privacy of the darkness of your own bed?”

“It's not the bottom of a pit.”

“OK. Let’s put one light on. What would you like to say to Handy in the privacy of your own bed with a little light spilling out from the en-suite?”

“Look; I understand what you are trying to do but, no, I would never use that word.”

“OK. I understand.” Veronica knew when to back off. “So, in the privacy of your own bed, with the light spilling in from the en-suite what would, what could you say to Handy?”

She could see Valda taking in this advice. She looked as if she was preparing herself to swallow a bitter pill. “Handy,…” and then she softened her tone, almost sighed it. “Handy, I want you to put your face in my crotch.”

“Say it again, to me.”

Valda’s eyes wandered slowly to meet hers. “Handy, I want you to put your face in my crotch.”

Veronica tried to hold her gaze. “And?”

“… and I want you to lick me. Lick me.” And she put her hand over her mouth as if to stop more naughty words escaping. She blushed deeply. ”Oh Susan.” And she laughed like a pale pink schoolgirl.

Veronica laughed with her. “Do you like saying that?”

“Oh yes.” She said through her fingers, and then,” Put your face in my crotch.” And she took her hand away. “That's what I want to say. Put your face in my crotch. Lick me, Handy.”

“Say it again”.

“Put your face in my crotch. Lick me, Handy.”

“Ok. I want you to…”

“Put your face in my vagina. Lick me Handy.”

“And again.”

“Why?”

“You need these words to be familiar, easy. Again.”

“Put your face in my vagina. Lick me Handy.”

“Again.”

“Put your face in my vagina. Lick me Handy.”

“Again.”

Suddenly Valda’s expression changed. She gasped and looked away as if seeing something for the first time: something she didn’t expect. She looked back at Veronica and said, “Susan, what if he wants me to, to, return the favour?”

Later she smiled to herself at the linguistic challenges of Valda Mirabella and wondered, had she, herself, changed over these five years? Yes, of course, her work and her clientele over the last five years had also changed; they were still human beings whose parental mismanagement and/or inadequate social learning had caused personal problems with relationships, of problem-solving, and sex; but now her clients were predominately female. This had a lot to do with her decision to abandon her professional website - that lawyer of her ex-husband; what was her name? Dunbar, Dunstun, something, anyway had hacked her website, how else did she get information that worked against her in the custody hearing over Jack? So, now, a new site and a new clientele.

Veronica had a curious attitude to her own sex; not curious to her, of course. She thought her attitude was completely rational, sensible, and enlightened. However she also understood that she needed to keep these views to herself: they were politically incorrect in the current social rulebook of the society in which she lived. They were however fundamental to the way she treated her clients.

She saw human beings as the dominant animal species on the planet and their dominance was solely due to their level of brain function; and in particular, their ability to imagine. This ability is the basis of, not only all problem solving, invention, and what is right and good about the human race, but also all misunderstanding, manipulation, and what is wrong and bad about the human race.

Many animal species, especially birds, give the task of attracting a mate to the male: the peacock effect. Humans, not Mother Nature, have given that task to the female. So deep is this task entrenched into the behaviour of humans, in both sexual and social, that it is fundamental to the way females behave and how males, and perplexingly, other females, expect them to behave. Female attractiveness and its attainment permeate all aspects of human existence. This law of attractiveness is mainly obeyed by what the female of the species puts on her body, and this arrangement and adornment, with shape-changing clothes; colours, unguents, baubles and paint, now define her. Mothers forbid their daughters to leave the house unless all of these accoutrements are to the mother’s liking. Well, they try; and some daughters disobey their mothers by being too liberal with their self-adornment. It’s all about what women put, or don’t put, on their bodies. The social laws that govern this adornment have changed over time and it is a continuing source of personal and private amusement, and often annoyance, for Veronica to witness females judging other females based on their choice of adornment when their own choice of adornment is judged and criticised in return. Uniform adornment - uniforms, although never acknowledged - is common in all walks of life and in both sexes. You can tell someone’s occupation and sometimes how they vote, and what they think, by the cloth and decorations they wear; but, ironically, the female’s biggest challenge is to please other females. This seems futile since isn’t the peacock effect meant to affect the opposite sex?

Feminism has complicated everything, like Green politics has complicated the meaning of the political Left and Right. It’s failed and succeeded in equal measure: succeeded inwardly in the way women think of themselves, and the way men think of them, for that matter; but failed outwardly in the way most men, and some women, believe females should be rewarded.

Veronica is a feminist. She not only thinks women are equal to men, she knows that some women are better than some men. Men know this too but would never admit it in a simple sentence. She also knows that some men are better than some women.

For the purposes of her work Veronica understands that it is not the differences between men and women that are the problem - men and women are basically the same - it’s the way men and woman are taught, are socially confirmed, how their imaginations are manipulated that cause social and personal dysfunction; in the same way that the administration - the church, the temple, the mosque - of a belief system is what distorts and perverts that belief system, not the belief system itself.

The way humans deal with each other, or not deal with each other, depends on language. Her gardener, Neville, - well not really a gardener, more of a person who comes around once a fortnight and cuts all the plants in the garden - would be a much more normal human being if his parents had had the words, the language, to talk about what they thought was wrong with him when he began to show signs that something was amiss. The words they did know, “he’s just a bit slow”, “well, that’s Neville, for ya”, “No, Neville can’t do that”, “In his own good time”, were all his parents used and all they thought to use: they didn’t know any others. Even in the private darkness of their own bed they talked about the noisy neighbours and the failing tomatoes, rather than Neville’s intellectual handicap; his cognitive learning difficulties and his very poor school grades. Neville got no special treatment; “Why should he have special treatment, he’s a normal little boy, just a bit slow, that’s all.” His parents belief that his teachers were interfering, and ignorant of their situation - Think of the cost! - left those at his school, who thought they had a responsibility to say something, nowhere to go. Neville will probably always live with his parents and pass his time obsessively occupied with anything and everything to do with Lego and the movie Grease. That is, when he wasn’t butchering Veronica’s front garden in Newtown where she lived again with her mother Sally - in the back shed (she tried calling it a granny flat but it had entered the lexicon of the household as the back shed because that’s, well, what it was), keeping Jack’s room free for his increasingly infrequent weekend visits.