Sunday Best (9 page)

We were interrupted at this juncture by a little round lady who suddenly appeared from behind one of the curtains, and who gave me the impression she had been there all the time. She was smiling with the aftertaste of eavesdropping, dismissed the girls summarily, announcing that she would look after the gentleman herself. This made her, I suppose, the owner of the shop and she frightened me a little. From what she had overheard, she knew that after the weary week of ladies, just looking, I was indeed a serious customer. ‘Very nice,' she said, pulling out a black indispensable loaded with sequins, obviously the most expensive of her collection and hardest to push.

‘No,' I said firmly. I regretted the loss of my four giggling girls. I preferred not to be taken too seriously.

‘No, my wife wouldn't like that at all.'

‘Very good taste. Always in fashion, sequins,' she insisted, draping it across her short squat, ungainly body. ‘Nice for a family function,' she persuaded. ‘Not so well, she isn't, your wife? I'm sorry to hear,' she went on. ‘Always troubles. But such a lucky woman. I should have a husband so interested. Believe me, Mister, I could put on a bridal gown' – I
shuddered at the thought – ‘would he notice? Ethel, he'd say, so where's my dinner? Ach, men,' she mused, ‘such a lucky woman, your wife. She was very ill then? How long she in hospital?'

‘My wife has been in a nursing home,' I said, upping my income a little. Ethel was duly impressed and taking her cue guided me over to a shrouded rail, where whispered her haute couture that could never be pushed to hospital clients. ‘Is nice a nursing home,' she mused. ‘People of account. But what difference,' she said. ‘You should only have your health and strength. Very ill she was, your wife?'

Even if an illness was cured, it was clearly not beyond Ethel's range of discussion.

‘My wife is very ill,' I confided. ‘She will not get better. They are discharging her tomorrow because they can do no more.'

‘Oy oy,' she keened. ‘Such a life. I'm sorry, Mister. But you never know. The modern miracles. Who knows what they can do? Miracles they make nowadays. She got an incurable?'

She had to hear the word said. She herself could not pronounce it even in a whisper. It was an obscenity, titillating to hear from another's mouth, but for oneself, unutterable. So I gave it to her, loud and clear.

‘My wife has cancer,' I said. ‘It has gone too far.'

She gripped my arm. ‘Mister,' she said confidentially, ‘life is full of trouble. But we get over it. Believe me, we get over it. God is good. But a man shouldn't be alone. Is not good a man with thank God his health and strength should be alone.' Ethel had already buried my good wife and put me squarely on the market. ‘Excuse me, you don't mind I should ask.' She was no longer pulling out dresses. What was on her mind was certainly of greater importance. ‘You're not a Jewish man,' she said, stating the worst so that my denial could only give her the greater pleasure, and I felt, indeed, that I couldn't possibly let her down. ‘Of course I am,' I said.

She warmed to me and gave me a pang of conscience. ‘In
shul
I don't see you.'

‘No,' I said. ‘I don't live around here.'

‘Is far you live?'

Her indirect method of questioning was tiring me a little, so I gave her an address in the most elegant quarter of town, and I knew by her stunned silence that Ethel was impressed. So now she knew, or thought she knew, my religion, and what
with the nursing home and my address, she had some inkling of my income. Only one thing she didn't know, and that was my status in society. I could have answered her next question without her prompting.

‘You make a good living?' She was indirect again. ‘In the properties, I suppose.'

‘No,' I said. ‘I'm a doctor.'

She smiled. I had everything. Money, position, education, and I saw her shift me on to the top line in her books. I hastened to add that I was a surgeon – might as well go the whole hog, I thought – and that I was known as Mister.

‘Oh Doctor,' she said, notwithstanding. ‘Such a lovely profession. You should only keep your health and strength.'

‘Now about my wife,' I said, bringing her back to the present situation.

‘Ach, your poor wife,' she said. ‘So why in her condition must she wear black? Something gay she needs. Flowers. Flowers are in this year. They're all wearing them, all the young girls. Even me, Doctor.' she laughed, pointing to the undulating spread of red dahlia across her torso, ‘and believe me, I'm no chicken.'

But I insisted on black, and withdrew from the first rail a silk dress that had held my eye ever since I had entered the shop. She took it from me and held it at arm's length. ‘Very nice,' she said. ‘Very feminine.' She draped it over her front, and managed in the gesture to drain the garment of any vestige of femininity it once had. I took it from her and, unable to resist it, put it against my own body and walked over to the full-length mirror. I could see her bewildered face in the reflection. I realized my mistake, and hastily explained that I was trying it for height.

‘She's rather tall, you see,' I said weakly.

‘A tall woman,' Ethel marvelled, from the limit of her fifty-nine inches. ‘Such trouble I should have. But it takes all sorts, Doctor,' she said.

‘I'll have this one,' I said, getting back to business.

She took it from me and examined it. ‘A mistake you haven't made,' she said. ‘Very nice. Mind you, is not what I call a good buy. Is not very expensive, but then, is not expected to last like for instance, this one.' She was at the sequins again.

‘I'm not buying for durability,' I reminded her.

‘Still,' she said, unwilling to acknowledge her
faux-pas
, ‘a
good dress you never throw away. Now what about a nice coat. Phoebe,' she called over. ‘Forward, Phoebe. Model the coats for the doctor.'

Phoebe tried on one coat after another. I knew that all of them would have looked better on me. I fell for a black one with an astrakhan collar and cuffs and, without bothering to check on the price, I asked for it to be wrapped. Although I was impatient to investigate the underwear department, I thought it politic to leave that choice in Ethel's ham-fisted hands, stressing first that my wife liked frills, ribbons and bright colours in her lingerie, and giving her an idea of what I was prepared to spend. Phoebe was dispatched to make a selection, and she returned it for my inspection. I had to take a hold on myself as she laid out the frilly petticoat and mesh tights, and when I saw the lace panties, I fairly lost all control. I told her quickly to wrap it all up, and to total my bill. Accounts was Ethel's department, and she added it up with relish. I asked Phoebe to pack each item separately, for that seemed to me a more hideable proposition than one large package. Ethel checked the bill many times over, and to my surprise and probably to hers, it amounted to far less than I had feared, and I resolved to go on shopping expeditions more regularly, to boutiques in various districts, armed with sufficient cash, and the woeful tale of my moribund spouse. Life looked infinitely pleasing, and I smiled at Ethel and felt sorry for her ugliness.

‘Come again, Doctor. Don't be strange. A lovely selection I always have. Every season something new.' She bit her lip suddenly as she realized her gaffe. ‘For a friend, perhaps,' she added quickly. ‘Where is there a lady, I'm asking you, who doesn't like from time to time a new outfit. You like you should leave me your address. I should let you know of end-of-season sales.' Poor Ethel was unwilling to let me go, having sensed that in my given situation, she was unlikely to see me again. I shook my head, sadly I hoped.

‘All right,' she said. ‘So no dresses. You come sometimes. A little chat with an older woman. It helps sometimes, believe me. You have troubles, Doctor. But don't we all have troubles? Come, come. Don't be strange.'

I smiled at her, and then I did a most inappropriate thing. I felt sorry that I had deceived her, and it was probably to give the lie to all I had told her. I pinched her bum, and I left the
shop. As I went through the electronic door, careful this time not to participate in my leaving, I heard her saying to Phoebe, ‘Not like a Yiddishe gentleman. Not a bit,' and I wondered whether or not I had conned her.

I was impatient to get home. I toyed with the idea of a taxi. I could hide myself more happily inside a taxi than I could on public transport, and I dared not risk any encounter, laden as I was with an orange parcel that screeched the purple legend of ‘Femina Boutique'. On both sides too, so no concealment was possible. I hailed a passing cab and gave him the address of a street not too far from my home, from which I hoped to make my way through the back lanes unseen. I hoped that my wife like the good neighbour she was, would be doing her duty by Mrs Johnson next door, so that I would have the house to myself in which to try on my wares. Inside the taxi, I could not resist the temptation to take a peep at what I had bought, and in spite of my excitement, or perhaps because of it, it was hard to stifle the creeping thoughts of that rotten father of mine. One day, I shall tell you about him, not everything of course, but all that you need to know. Not now, though, because I don't want to interrupt that journey home with my wardrobe, and my ecstatic anticipation of trying it on. Because even on reflection, and in the telling, I can experience once again, that joy of becoming myself. And this joy, and its supreme moments were worth the gnawing irritation of its inevitable concomitant.

I had my fare ready so that I could slip out of the taxi unobserved, and I let myself into the mercifully empty house, still hiding my gear under my coat and feeling like a housebreaker. For although in my Sundays I felt at home and completely identified with myself, when I was dressed otherwise, my study, my home and all its tangible furnishings were suddenly strange to me. They were the property of someone else, someone other than my real self. I had never any doubts as to which one of us was real. It was in my school clothes that I was playing a part. In fact, for a good ninety per cent of my waking life, I was living a lie. So it was not surprising that, as I crept through the dining-room up to my study, my Sundays under my arm, and already in my mind a woman, I felt like an intruder, with the same kind of fear that a burglar must experience when there is the odd chance that he won't get away with it.

I locked my study door and laid the clothes out on the bed. I wanted to take my time, and to examine each item hollow, the better to savour the effect when I put them on. As dear Ethel had said, ‘Like nothing it looks on a hanger, Doctor. Take it. Try it. You don't like it. So bring it back. Something else perhaps you fancy. I don't believe in an unsatisfied customer. How else should I keep in business? Listen, Doctor,' I recalled her saying, ‘a satisfied customer always comes back.'

Not this one, dear Ethel, I thought. It's new pastures for me next time. And I had a frightful vision of entering a boutique the other side of town, and delivering my tale of woe to the
patronne
, who turned out, after a little closer scrutiny to be none other than a slightly ageing Ethel. ‘So long your wife takes to die?' I heard her say. Again I felt guilty for my story, not on my wife's behalf, but because I felt sorry for Ethel's gullibility.

I started on my make-up, not too fastidiously this time, for I was anxious to try on my clothes. Then I stripped completely, and started with the underwear. I don't expect you to understand my feelings. You probably think I am perverted, or if generous, you will allow me insane. But I am neither of these. I am myself, with possibly a greater difficulty in trapping my own identity than you have. In any case, I care not what you think, but had you seen me that day, fully dressed in my new clothes, you would have envied me, and wished, man or woman, that you could be likewise.

I dressed completely, without once looking in the mirror. And then I hesitated before the final confrontation. And when I braved it, I gasped. Every item fitted superbly, and I knew that I was beautiful. I stood looking at myself for a long time, occasionally lifting up the dress and coat, to delight in the colours of the frills underneath. I drew up a chair, and sat opposite the mirror, crossing my legs to reveal discreetly the breaking of the black. Then I stood up and marvelled at the drama of the colour. Black was a colour full of suggestion and promise. It was the colour of my own self, my facsimile. I wondered whether I had been aware of it in the boutique. Why indeed had I insisted on black? And then I realized, that somewhere along the line, consciously or otherwise, I had made the decision to go to Mr Johnson's funeral in drag.

It was becoming quite obvious that I had neglected to visit Mrs Johnson since the day her husband died. The post-mortem had been performed and I was publicly in the clear. The funeral was to take place within the week, and I had already told my wife that due to pressure of work in school and Mr Parsons's absence – I said nothing about its cause – it would be impossible for me to take the time off. All the more reason, she supposed, that I should call and pay my respects. I waited for an evening of the mid-week, when I felt that other people would be present because, much as I was excited by the memory of Mrs Johnson, I did not particularly wish to be alone with her. On the other hand, if Tommy chose to open his mouth, it would be preferable if no one else were in earshot. It was a risk either way. But I had no choice I had to go and see her, otherwise my continued absence would be considered an effrontery. So after school on the Thursday, I knocked at her door. I think Tommy must have been its permanent sentry. He opened within seconds of my knocking, and the hostility in his eyes was fixed, as if he'd been expecting me. I raised my hand to rub his hair, as a gesture of sympathy, but quickly had second thoughts, since he might attribute to such a move the natural concern of a father. ‘How are you, Tommy?' I said, trying a man-to-man approach. ‘Are you looking after your mother?'