Some of the Life and Times of
Kitty Malacourt and Her Family
Kitty Malacourt woke up one day and realised that it would be her last, her last Tuesday. She didn't panic as one would have thought she might, in fact she felt kind of relieved as one does when one is through with the business of living. Don't ask me how she knew, I'm just the writer but I can tell you that Kitty Malacourt knew with as much confidence as a paranoid president who sees threats everywhere.
So what did she do? Well not much really, she couldn't. Her health wasn't so good, thickening veins around her heart, a weak bladder, a love of taxis and little money ensured she didn't go out too often. Of course it was her seventy - five - year old heart that killed Kitty, quicker than she expected.
To tell you the truth she always woke up, well she had for the last couple of years - thinking that today was her last. She was tired you know; I mean she'd buried all her friends and her one daughter Susan had shot off to America in search of fame and glamour when Kitty was still at that age where she only had to dye her hair once a month. They exchanged the usual Christmas and birthday cards almost every year but otherwise there wasn't any contact. What is there to say anyway when there was nothing to say in the first place? They both silently agreed.
Upon arrival in America, Susan – just call me Sue - had done a couple of weeks as an extra in a chorus line.
‘Lovely legs,’ said the manager, eyeing them up and down but when Susan -just call me Sue - had turned down his advances after week two she suddenly found herself without a job. She probably would have had sex with him if he'd been clearer and not played the caring manger/ father role.
If he'd just said:
‘Susan, Susie or Sue, or whatever the hell you call yourself; I've got a thing about legs, call it a fetish, if you like, I don't care. The thing is I'd like to fuck you and stroke your legs whilst I'm at it and in return you can stay in the chorus on the proviso you let me have my way once in a while when the wife is not around.’
She probably would have said:
‘Yeah ok, use a rubber and I wanna be centre in the front row.’
She wasn't naive. In fact, after he told her there was no place for her in the line up, she’d gone home in slow time and put all the pieces together and went back a few days later to see him, determined to set up the exchange but by then he'd hired someone else. He did say sorry and was sincere when he said “come back next season.” It was too late, her pride was hurt. He was just being honest. Sure, he was sore when she turned him down but he didn’t hold grudges, if she'd come back the next day, given him a little sample, she probably would have been on the front row and now? - Who knows?
He'd had everybody in the chorus line; it was a perk of the job. He didn't really notice their faces and he hardly ever remembered their names but the legs...he liked long, long shapely milk coloured legs, that’s how he would describe them. He noticed all the differences, the little stretch marks like traces of shooting stars that the girls covered up by using expensive makeup, the mass of sandy freckles, the childhood accidents; he didn’t care, it was the long outline that drew him in. He could recognise and pick out a pair of ‘His legs’ coming across the street or when they were going on stage all dressed the same, with their hair the same, he could and often did say to himself, ‘that’s the one with the quarter dollar red birth mark on her left thigh or that’s the one with the pale thin pencil lined scar on her knee, right in the centre.’
Sometimes he lay awake at night unconsciously caressing his penis remembering the stories of how the girls got their scars or how they felt growing up with their little moles, they were like his bedtime stories, they comforted him like a hand might have smoothed his once had been hair. He liked to stroke the legs, squeeze them a little; sometimes that was enough, certainly as he got older that was enough. Whereas in his younger days he liked to boast to his drinking buddies;
‘Had me usual pair of legs today. Very nice, ve-rry nice. This one, you should have seen her, she was all over me like a rash, couldn’t get enough. Might have her again tomorrow but then again probably not. There’s plenty more to try.’
His friends admired him, they were envious of him. Here was a man who knew what he wanted - tall firm white legs as seen in advertisements, crossed - legged - drinking - whiskey legs and draped - over - red - cars legs. He'd tried other legs but it wasn't the same. The non white women never made it, they couldn't give him - Frank, an erection and so had no purpose.
Most of the women who came to audition for Frank were not bad dancers, some were really talented.
Most were from similar backgrounds to Susan's; ballet and tap dancing lessons from five years old on Saturday mornings to keep them occupied and out of the way. Then they practiced on Sundays in-between meals and church in front of the mirror and during the week if circumstances allowed it; and all dreamed of being in the national ballet of England or America, or where ever they were from, but no one ever dreamed that they'd work for Frank. Not that I am suggesting that every small town manager of a two bit troupe is like Frank; no, some remember your name. No it's just that all those sweet little girls like Susan who have a bit of talent or none at all, maybe it would be kinder to re- direct their energies early on. I'm not saying don't have dreams; we all have them. Go for it! There are enough people in the world ready to knock you down, knock you up, knock you around and I'm not one of them! No, dreaming’s good but remember be careful out there! It’s a big doggy eat little doggy world - unless of course you have friends looking out for you -and they don’t last.
Anyway Susan - just call me Sue - ended up as a cocktail waitress in 'The Gentlemen's Club' in Los Angeles in-between the Silver Dollar motel and Uncle Henry’s Fried Chicken restaurant , so it wasn't too bad. ‘The Gentlemen’s Club’ had a pink neon sign outside that proclaimed:
'Girls! Girls! Girls!'
And in yellow neon lights a curvy woman tilted slightly forward serving drinks was depicted.
Susan - just call me Sue - got to wear a short blue skirt and a stripy matching waist coat with nothing underneath but her thin black underwear. All generously provided by 'The Gentlemen's Club'. And the men who came in admired her legs and other bits and gave her bigger tips if she leant over them. So she made lots of money, enough to buy her own house and a red convertible. Life was good. She met some guy, had a couple of kids and the girl she sent off to expensive ballet lessons every Saturday, convinced that fame evaded her because her mother had sent her to Mrs. England's at the top of Win's chippy on Salford Old Road.
I say all this, I mean about the marriage but I'm not quite sure, I'm just supposing; I mean she was heading that way. She started to see Ben, one of her regular customers, the manager at the local car show room, hence her getting her car on a good two year dealship.
Now, I started off telling you about Kitty. Hmm... Kitty. She was ok, a bit spiteful at times, mean like a spoilt child. I think she was a bit jealous of Susan's dancing talents. When she was younger, she'd go out every Friday and Saturday night dancing with her friends, Mary and Norma. They danced to Big Band Sounds and when Rock and Roll became popular, they danced to music performed by six piece bands of angry young men that were desperate to cut a record and to lose their virginity. (The order changed depending on the moment.)
Kitty fancied herself as a bit of a dancer. She fancied herself as 'Miss. Salford, Best Dancer 1956 and 57.' She'd lie in bed at night, one hand behind her head, and blow smoke at the ceiling like the angst women she saw on the screens at the Palace after work on Saturdays. She imagined herself, dancing crazily yet gracefully on a crowded dance floor with Mary and Norma, oblivious to everyone: when in walks Mr. Handsome who's macho but gentle underneath, and a fantastic dancer, he begs her in front of everyone:
‘Please go into competitions with me! Please! You are marvellous! Such perfection I have never seen! Please, please say yes. I know I have a lot to learn but we could make the consummate couple.’
She thinks for a moment, one hand on her perfect sized waist, her perfect pert breasts pointing towards him, she’s dressed in an immaculate red twin matching skirt and jacket, her other hand, all long elegant fingers is placed casually on her chin, she is smiling a small all knowing smile, the whole world is looking towards her, waiting on her answer and finally she agrees and everybody breaks out into spontaneous applause, such a relief! He cannot keep the joy out of his eyes, he tries to control himself but his face says it all, he has been saved! She saved him! The next bit is them, well her winning all the competitions all over Salford. She stays with him because 'he's a sweetheart.'
She goes over these scenes again and again, night after night until she's smoked all she can and sleep calls. Of course you know there was no Mr. Handsome, no competitions and Kitty knew deep down that she was just an average dancer like most of the mill girls she worked with who had similar dreams.
Kitty's Dad didn't like her going out.
Every Friday and Saturday night, he'd dig himself into his brown armchair, hold up his newspaper and roll his eyes. He couldn't say anything; she contributed most of her wages now to the household because her brother Tom hadn't worked much since the war owing to him looking for his dead pal Pete Moore. And whether he was searching for his pal or working, he still needed to eat and to have a bed at night.
He’d wander up and down and around main streets, pushing at half glass doors with varying names and engraved patterns, some were more smoky than others, other drinking establishments had more people, less people. It didn’t matter how determined or how sure he was, there was no Pete. Generally people were nice, they’d say ‘He’s not here mate’ and look around for someone to exchange small sad uncomfortable smiles with or they’d put an arm around him and pat his back, buy him a half pint of best bitter and try to explain to him as gently as possible that Pete Moore, well, he was dead and he wasn’t coming home. Sometimes they tried shock tactics and they’d say;
‘He got his head blown off in the war in front of you. You were stood right next to him. You were covered in his blood and brains. Don’t ye remember? Don’t ye remember?’
And they’d peer at him intensely for a reaction and - nothing.
Tom didn’t remember, all he knew was that he couldn’t stand around chatting while Pete was missing, he must find Pete and tell him what? He can’t remember exactly what, something bad is going to happen, he knows that for sure. He throws back the half pint in two or three easy gulps and continues. Something terrible is wrong, he doesn’t know what it is, he can feel it in the pit of his stomach, it’s like a rat eating him away but he knows as soon as he sees Pete everything will be fine. Just thinking about seeing Pete floods him with sweet lightness, such a relief; just for a few brief seconds until he remembers Pete is missing and he must, he must find him before the thin empty grey floods him and the noises come again.
Sometimes Kitty's brother Tom was alright and he could work, but for some reason only known to himself, some days he would wake up and he'd take it into his head to go looking for Pete Moore. This went on for years until one day, when Susan was about two, he didn't come back; the police found him wandering up and down High street shouting:
‘Has anyone seen Pete? Has anyone seen Pete? Where's Pete? C’mon someone knows where Pete is.’
He was put in the mad house for a while, fried up, drugged up; saw his family on Sundays between two and four, he eventually got discharged and worked in the 'The Queen's Head' as a glass washer until he retired and returned to state care because none of his family could be found. He died in a nursing home with ‘lovely gardens.'
You know, I don't know why Kitty's Dad disapproved of her going out. She dressed decently, came in at a decent hour and well as the phrase goes, 'She was Respectable.'
The most she ever did was take off her shoes and wiggle her toes in the dance hall. She flirted a little but she always walked home with Mary and Norma.
Parents worry too much, they always think that their children are going to do what they did or what they wanted to do but never had the courage.
Kitty met her husband Albert not at the Civic Centre where the dances were held, no, in the market on a Saturday morning in June. He worked for his uncle selling fruit and vegetables. She noticed him first and thought him outstandingly ugly. His nose was too small for his face, his eyes too close together and his smile too wide, but something about him made her insist to her mother that she'd go to the market the following Saturday and every Saturday until they started courting and he started to bring the shopping round when he picked Kitty up. They went to the cinema and dances until they were married and afterwards now and then. At first they lived with Kitty's Mum and Dad whilst they waited for their name to go to the top of the council waiting list. And they saved and bought little bits for their modern two bedroom house in the sky where they lived all their lives. When they moved into their own home, Albert decided that at twenty one they were too old to go to the dances. Kitty didn't mind, she had her own home and her Mum was around the corner.
At first they rowed like most people do who live in the same house, but they soon found their way together. She tolerated his spitting into the sink each morning and talking with his mouth full. He tolerated her sitting on the toilet flicking through the catalogue and never cleaning the cooker properly. They made up silly songs as they cooked together on Sundays. He always backed down in arguments; she always cleaned the light switches. They bought furniture on the never- never, clothes from the market and wore hand knitted jumpers his mother made with sleeves either too long or too short. Susan came as did a new record player, and a long three - piece suite that was to last them twenty seven years. It was covered in big swirling bumpy violet and gold flowers on a green background that Susan used to unconsciously trace with her fingers until her mother told her in an absented minded voice:
‘Stop that, will you, love? You’ll dig a hole.’
Many a ten minutes was filled in looking for coins that rolled under the dark gold frilly trim that hung shamelessly all the round the bottom.
Yeah, they had their moments, as do we all.
Albert died about ten years before Kitty, in fact right after he retired. Which, let's face it, was a blessing, because if he'd died before well, she would have got a reduced pension and probably lived a life of poverty. Susan never came back for the funeral which shocked the neighbours and hurt Kitty no end. She didn't send Susan a Christmas card that year.
So here we are, up to Kitty's last day. You might be pleased to know, she died laughing, which is not a bad way to go. She was watching the BBC nine o'clock news; the news reporter Stuart McDermott was introducing the news items, when one after another his two front false teeth fell out -
Blom,
Blom
They landed on the news desk for the whole BBC news watching public to see, they announced themselves independently on the expensive light grey veneer desk.
Mr. McDermott’s face betrayed nothing.
Kitty began to giggle and chortle, laughter gushed up and out of her like a fountain, and before the poor unfortunate Mr. McDermott had time to grab the two defectors and automatically slip them back in again, Kitty's blue velvet seat was as wet as her face. Then the sudden stabbing pain began and the lights started flashing and dimming intermittently, the TV become a blur, there was the sharp pain that shot through Kitty Malacourt’s whole body like lightening without hardly a breath in-between - one, two, three. Dead.
The newscaster read on like a true professional and at times during the twenty five minute broadcast forgot sometimes that he too wished he was dead.
Kitty’s body sat splayed in the chair, her head slumped forward; her chin sat resting on her chest in its creases waiting for Dolores, the home help to let herself in the next day and inform the appropriate authorities.
