STORIES
Norma Meacock
From THINKING GIRL
8
My landlord, at the time of which I speak, was a golden–
bearded, early- middle-aged philanderer who'd changed his name
from Brombergen to Brombert, earned a considerable salary in
advertising, with many perks, and made the most of them. He found
me in desolation after Girly had kicked me out in favor of her rosy
shopboy. I was wandering up and down the streets of Bloomsbury
and round and round them, unseeing and cold - it was winter, too -
when Brombergen-Brombert touched my elbow in search of a sala–
cious story and an opportunity for a fuck. On that occasion I denied
him both but got a room. A year later, the longevity of men's sexual
vanity being as it is, he was still in hopeful pursuit. "Look, Brom–
bergen-Brombert," I'd say, "no dice." "Please call me Maurice,"
would be his reply.
One evening, chaste for Jockey, I sat at my table writing ran–
dom thoughts in a sixpenny notebook. B-B tapped at the door and
peered round it. "Tragic big deal," he announced glumly, advancing
on me. "I'm alone." "Alone?" I raised a brow. "My wife's away,"
he explained. "I can't get hold of Effie and Titty's working." "Un–
burden yourself," I said. "Only let me share your bed this night,"
he pleaded, "and you may arise tomorrow a virgin, for me. I know
you love another and prefer to maintain yourself for him. It's merely
human, to be honest, female, contiguity I crave. Otherwise I'm a
dead duck. I've had night terrors ever since I was a kiddy. I sup–
pose it's an unusual request but if I get into a highly nervous state
I shan't be able to carry on with my work and I've got an important
client to see in the morning. Look, it's gone midnight and I'm flat
on my feet. Have some human sympathy can't you."
