The Beat (10 page)

“What you think?” she asked Leigh. His eyes shifted in the mirror from his reflection to hers. He nodded. Prissie beamed and pushed him on the shoulder.

“Thanks kid,” she preened and waltzed out. She still had no idea where she was going but took the extra butch precaution of rolling up the last of her banknotes and thrusting them into her money pocket. Wow, it felt good. Prissie was off. Maybe for a cruise, maybe just to get out of the house, but she was feeling high and anything could happen. When she hit the street she started to have reservations. She wafted Brut but minced self-consciously. She ventured a few yards, then stopped. People were staring, something was wrong. What if she saw someone she knew? What if they saw her? The uneasiness started to set in. If only she could go back, but she couldn’t. She tried again. She walked along too fast to look in the shop windows. She walked as if with a sense of purpose she didn’t feel, for there was no purpose. She had no idea where she was going. The shopping area was small. Once down each side and she was sure people were starting to look. She tried the Save the Children shop. The sign on the door said it was open. It was closed. Back up on the same side of the road. Nothing to do. She sauntered towards the underground toilets sub-merged in the middle of the intersection. Surely that would occupy some time. The steps smelt as she went down between the railings. At least it was a change to go into the Men’s unchallenged. Her disguise was working that far. Inside it was like a rabbit warren lined in stained yellow tiles. It offended her aesthetically. Illegible graffiti scarred the woodwork. A chain clanged. The thud of its heavy metal handle reverberated as a cistern flushed reluctantly. At the bottom of the steps she stopped. Someone pushed past her and out, nearly knocking her off her feet. She smelt garlic and diesel oil. Her nose screwed up involun-tarily. There was a scuffling sound from the washroom. Two heavily set men, one in a tracksuit, looked out at her. The other was going bald. He looked at Prissie, spat on the ground and turned away. Prissie feigned disinterest and loitered near the entrance. The heavier man in the tracksuit continued to give the other a head job. He slobbered noisily. They took no notice of Prissie at all. Prissie hovered, then faltered a step nearer. It was hardly romantic but it would do. The balding man held onto the other’s shoulders and thrust his head back. His eyes fell on Prissie. She smiled, expecting an invitation to join in. He narrowed his eyes. “Piss off,” he hissed. He jerked his fist and elbow in an obscene gesture Prissie knew well. The other didn’t even pause in his activity. She scuttled back up the steps into the stark daylight. Trying to regain some dignity, she continued her saunter she knew not where. It had given her quite a turn, not good for her nerves or morale. Venturing a block further, she browsed past a sex shop. The windows were painted over and the door barred by western-style saloon doors. Summoning up courage she pushed through. The doors sprang shut behind her like a trap and she was there inside. Worried faces glanced up as magazines snapped shut. Prissie took in the scene as well as she could, then headed down one side to the magazines with titles she knew dimly. Her eyes ran along the glossy pictures sealed safely inside plastic covers. Above the magazines an array of leather hoods, flimsy leather belts, chains and armlets were displayed. There was also an unlikely sized black leather jock-strap. Her eyes turned. From the counter opposite a dildo as large as a table lamp flaunted itself amid the other wares. An inflated doll, gasping mouth, no hands or feet, spread its legs above the door. A cardboard sign pointing to the backroom proudly read “Videos”. Prissie’s eyes fell to the glass-topped counter and its array of boxes and jars.

“If you want me to show you anything, just ask,” the man behind the counter offered. Prissie nodded and continued to gaze around awkwardly.

“We’ve got all kinds of panties and things for you or your girlfriend,” the guy said helpfully, indicating a board of tawdry crotchless knickers.

“Thank you,” Prissie said and swallowed.

“Gay selection over to the back,” he added. Trying one last time, Prissie puffed up her chest, clamped her chin to her throat and saying in her butchest voice, “Thank you mate”, walked out through the door. She strode with her feet pointed out and her knees slightly bent, her hands thrust into her front pockets. Two paces down the street and someone whistled. Catcalled was more accurate. Someone catcalled her there for all to see. It was no good, she fooled no one. It just didn’t feel right. It just wasn’t Prissie. She caught a tram and crossed the city. No one sat next to her. The man opposite looked away for the entire journey. He had big balls; they sat splayed on the seat forcing his legs apart like a frog. Why couldn’t Prissie sit like that? She tried, then gave up and crossed her legs tightly at the knee. She played with her nails, scratchingoff the remnants of polish she found there. Finally the balls hauled themselves into an upright position and got off the tram. Only seated were they so visible. When the man stood they disappeared under the shadow of his stomach. Prissie remained on the tram stop after stop. At least nobody wolf-whistled her on the tram. Outside the hospital a woman got on with a small child. It was an overweight girl of about six. At sixteen she would look like her mother. They sat together in the seat vacated opposite her. The child was learning to speak French and repeated phrases parrot fashion after her mother as she crawled across the seat and tried to look out through the window. Prissie thought of Leigh. She felt guilty running out on him to face the music alone. He was her boy. She felt responsible for him. Perhaps he would be alright. Maybe the deal wouldn’t come anyway. Maybe they would accept payment later. Maybe he could screw for the stuff instead. Jayne had always had a pretty insatiable appetite in that direction. It wouldn’t be the first time Leigh had hawked his body. Prissie had never shared it, but others had, for a price. Why did she let him stay? The child opposite bounced up and down chanting, “Je m’appelle Gabrielle” and laughing all the while. Her mother smiled indulgently. Others smiled and listened in.

“Such a bright child,” a woman opposite observed to her companion. The mother smiled as if she had been awarded a ribbon for horse-breeding. The child laughed and started to crawl across to the seat beside Prissie. Prissie smiled down. The mother pulled the child back guardedly.

“No dear, stay with me.” The woman and her companion nodded wisely. Prissie decided to leave the tram. She alighted from the tram and crossed the road. She peered into the chemists to see the clock. A girl in a white uniform peered curiously back. It was still early yet. She hoped Leigh was alright. Another block of shops to browse past. Prissie thought she spied an “op” shop. Eagerly she crossed the road. It was only a dry cleaners. She caught sight of herself in a flaking mirror on the shopfront. Curiously the swelling didn’t look as out of place with the cheap check shirt. People would put it down to rough trade if they bothered to think at all. Usually they didn’t. At least it stopped her being sexless. In a way she kind of liked it. It gave her status. And that night, the other men had accepted her then. She had been one of them when it came to the blow. There had been no division then. She had been one of them unquestioned by all. The unity, that was what it had meant to her most of all. A conspiracy of men against men. The smell of coffee greeted her nostrils. Suddenly she decided she needed the caffeine. The need gnawed at her insides crying out for satisfaction and she answered it. Pushing open the door of the coffee shop she stepped inside on her cowboy heels and took a seat at the counter. It felt more European to sit there, far more cosmopolitan, than sitting at one of the tables. Ignoring the fact that the woman called her “love”, she ordered a short black. Nothing parochial about her.

“There you are, young man,” the woman announced, placing the small glass before her. Prissie grew two inches on the stool. “Young man”, that was more like it. A man came and sat two seats away. He had moved from one of the small tables further back. She smiled at him. He looked confused. Her mistake. He ordered a capucino. Breakfast coffee, she thought contemptuously to herself. She took a swallow of her espresso and it nearly took her breath away. Tears burnt in her eyes as she tried not to gasp. Please God, don’t let anyone see.

“You feeling alright?” The man leant forward with concern.

“Just period pains,” Prissie gasped back, then went crimson at what she had said and choked some more. Messed things up again no doubt. He laughed.

“Have some mineral water,” he suggested. He ordered and ministered the elixir. Prissie thanked him, fighting both for breath and dignity. He seemed disposed to chat. He wasn’t really her type but Prissie felt obliged to be polite. It was pleasant but banal. Two strangers exchanging civilities, nothing more. She didn’t realise it was a pick-up until he prepared to leave.

“Perhaps I could see you again,” he suggested. He handed her a card. It said he was an insurance salesman. Prissie let him pay for the coffee and kept the card until he had left the shop. When she left, it remained behind on the counter. Not really her type. She continued down the street but her ego was rebuilding. She minced with confidence. No need to try out her seaman’s roll now. Her heels rapped out their precise, fast rhythm as she proceeded on her way. She wondered about the time. Just a little longer. Soon she could return to see what was left of Leigh, her silly, pretty boy. To kill the hours, she popped into a department store to price sequins for a repair job. Lattice patterns of beading over gin stains could work wonders. Clattering past people on the up escalator, she knew heads were turning but it no longer mattered. Her disguise was up, she was bored with it. Let heads turn in acknowledgement as she passed; hundreds of people would give anything for just that attention. At the top of the escalator she turned right, past the headless tailor’s dummies. They all stood in a row waiting to have their bust sizes adjusted by anyone willing to turn a little wheel. It all seemed rather brazen to Prissie. Haberdashery. This was officially a woman’s world, hallowed ground untrod by male feet. Prissie breezed through confidently. Knowing eyes marked her progress. She considered a browse through the dress patterns but decided it wasn’t worth the detour. Nothing ever corres-ponded to her size anyway. Instead she drifted through the fabric section touching here and there to assess quality. It was true, they really didn’t make fabrics like they used to. All these poor quality synthetics with print out of line with the weave of the fabric. If you cut along the printed lines you ended up anywhere, half on the cross with gathers just where you didn’t need them. You had to go pre-War for real quality. Linens and cottons were almost unobtainable now. It was like trying to buy sheets that weren’t polyester. No, quality had gone by the wayside. She pondered long and hard at the sequin counter, managing to slip a self-cover button set into the front of her shirt. The card sat close to her body and hardly showed at all. She purchased a metre and a half of black sequins and watched them being placed into a small white bag. Only yards from the counter she presented the receipt to one of the dummies, and slipped the button card in with the sequins. The bag was proof of purchase; loss of receipt was understandable. As she turned to descend the escalator a figure rushed up behind her and grabbed her shoulder. Prissie nearly jumped through the roof. All for a card of buttons — Christ, she’d give them back, anything, just let her go. Prissie had never been in trouble with the police before. She had no record. They would have to let her go; it was her first offence. Please be merciful.

“Just the person I wanted to see,” a voice said. “How long can you spare?” She stared startled at a face she barely recognised. “Pardon?” The face smiled encouragingly. She sort of remembered him; at least she hoped she did, if it meant she wasn’t going to be placed behind bars.

“Please — Prissie, isn’t it? Can you spare the time to give me a hand? I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Sure,” she replied uncertainly. That face, where was it from?

“I’ve got this pattern for a pullover and no one will help me buy the wool.” He looked pretty desperate.

“Please?” His look implored more than his words could.

“Come on,” she said, and grabbing him by the arm, she marched determinedly towards the wool section.

“Now, where’s your pattern?” she demanded. He unfolded a small booklet from his back pocket and smiled weakly.

“Which one?” she demanded. The book was ceremoniously opened to the middle page where a youth smiled back in stripes. Prissie took the pattern and scanned the instructions.

“This way.” She handed the book back and set off through the labyrinth of counters to the range of the correct yarns.

“What colours do you want?”

“I don’t know.” He hesitated. “Something different from those.” She ran her eyes expertly along the wall and pointed out which bundles to choose from.

“Is that all?” he asked. Together they eyed the photograph and then the wool before them.

“Looks like it”

“Isn’t it awful? No one will help you,” he started, but it was too late. Prissie had marched off again, this time to consult with the saleswoman. She came back and in-formed him, “That’s all they’ve got. Give me the pattern.” He stood looking uneasy. They were the only men in the entire department. He was becoming acutely embar-rassed. Prissie watched him slyly from the corner of her eye. She could dimly recollect where they had met before. How did he know she could knit? she wondered.

“I hate it here,” he confessed.

“Nonsense,” she snapped, “it’s going to be fun.” Then to be helpful she added, “You can use any eight-ply you know. It’s all the same.”

“Oh.” He looked sheepish. “I don’t know if it’s worth going through with it.”

“We are not leaving till we have what you want.” And it was on. Like the Red Queen she snatched up his hand and they were off again on their race against time. Together they charged through the department pulling out packets of wool here, odd balls there, checking for ply and colour and discarding them again in a topsy-turvy, multi-coloured trail. Women stopped amazed at this invasion of their domain but Prissie was relentless: the path she left, a faultline. Finally they found what she considered the best: pure wool and on special.