As Time Goes By Ch. 02

* * * * *

The Balustrade was small but it was clean and my room was comfortable. There was a narrow counter just inside the street entrance manned by a forty-something woman who seemed to be a cross between receptionist and concierge. After I had checked into my room and freshened up, I went to their dining room and had a decent enough meal and then I found their drinks lounge where I sat at the bar and had a couple of small Heinekens.

For the first three days I enjoyed myself just wandering around the different museums and art galleries I'd ear-marked. I found a couple of good bookshops and stocked up with several books I couldn't easily have found at home. I'd have my evening meal, a beer or two, read in the lounge or my room until I felt tired, then, as Samuel Pepys put it, '...and so to bed...' Joe was right—I really did need the break and I think it was doing me good, although Dot was never far from my mind. The third evening at the hotel, though, things turned a bit strange.

I'd finished my evening meal and as usual went into the bar for a drink. A number of men I hadn't seen before, half-dozen or so and mostly middle-aged, sat at a nearby table. They looked like business types, salesmen perhaps, and were pretty raucous. A pile of empty glasses and bottles on their table suggested that they had been at it for some time. After a while, one of them, an unhealthy-looking, red-faced fat fellow got up and approached me.

"Now then, what's a pretty girl like you doing all by yourself?" Whisky fumes wafted over me as he spoke. "Come and have a drink with us and have a good time."

"No thanks."

"Come on, love—you'll enjoy it."

"No thanks," I repeated.

He shrugged and returned to his friends who made mocking noises. Ten minutes later he tried again. "Come on, what are you drinking? My treat."

I glared at him. "What part of 'no thanks' don't you understand?"

He glared back. As he returned to his table and sat down, he said very loudly: "She must be a lesbian."

Now I'm not a man-hater, quite like most of them in fact, and usually I can ignore morons like him, but in my current situation I'd had enough. I drained my glass, walked over to the men and said to the fat one: "As it happens, I am a lesbian. But even if I was straight, you certainly wouldn't figure among my choices. So why don't you fuck off and leave me alone?"

"You can't talk to me like that," he blustered.

"I just did. Fuck off and take your pathetic tiny dick with you."

If at all possible, his face seemed to become even redder with anger and he started to struggle out of his chair. Then one of his companions said: "It sounds as if she's met you before, Arthur," and all except the fat man bellowed with laughter as I made my escape.

I asked the concierge to call me a taxi. "I'm sorry about that, Miss Roberts," she said, gesturing towards the bar, "They're regulars and bring a lot of money to this hotel. The owner would probably sack any staff who told them off." She considered for a moment. "Black cabs don't come round this area much in the evenings, but if you don't mind waiting here for a few minutes there's a private taxi company called Lasses Cabs nearby. It's run by women for women."

I thanked her. "That sounds good."

When the taxi turned up, the driver was a large, cheerful girl with ginger hair and a big goofy grin. "Hi, I'm Jackie. Where to?"

I grimaced and told her about the hotel bar. "Is there anywhere I can go without being pestered by bloody men?"

She nodded. "I know just the place. It's called Radclyffe's and it's not too far. There'll be a five pounds cover charge if that's okay but the drinks are a reasonable price. Oh, I'd better warn you—basically it's a lesbian club although quite a lot of straight women go there."

"Believe me, Jackie, that'll suit me just fine. Let's go."

Jackie was right, it wasn't too far. We entered an area of what looked like old warehouses and stopped opposite a small door with a discreet neon sign above and a queue of about half-a-dozen women outside. I paid Jackie's fare and she gave me a business card. "Won't be long before you're in," she said, "best to get here earlyish, it gets quite busy later on. Tell them Jackie brought you. Our number's on the card. Just call if you need us and we'll get to you as quickly as we can. Have fun." She gave a little salute as she drove off.

When I got to the door, a well-built black woman with the name-tag Myra took my fiver entrance money. "You're new here, honey," she said. I nodded and she added: "We've one cast-iron rule. You fancy some girl and she don't fancy you, then you leave her alone, okay?"

"Okay," I agreed, "But I'm not looking to hook up with anyone, I just don't want to be any place where there're men right now."

Myra let out a rich chortle. "Welcome to the club, honey."

She directed me to a door at the end of a narrow hallway and I found myself in a huge lounge-bar-cum-dance-hall. Jackie had told me that Radclyffe's got busy later on but it looked pretty full to me now. The music was country and western—Johnny Cash was Walking the Line at the time of my entrance—and the dance-floor was filled with women of all shapes and sizes doing their thing, whatever it was. Many were line-dancing, others doing what looked like square-dancing, even more just bouncing up-and-down or hopping around to the music. The dress code for some of them tied in with the music: jeans, checkered shirts, fancy belts, gingham dresses, some cowboy-style hats. I spotted an empty stool at the bar, went to it and caught the eye of one of several nice-looking barmaids.

Of course, a place like this didn't stock real ales so I ordered a Heineken. "I didn't realise this was a country and western club," I said when the girl brought my beer.

She smiled. "First time here? It's not—we play different kinds of music on alternating nights so there's something for everyone. It's disco tomorrow. They'll all turn up looking like John Travolta only prettier. Enjoy your drink."

Over the course of an hour or two, a number of women asked me to dance and I did so and found that I was quite enjoying myself. Old Joe had been right—I really needed a proper break. Several of my dance partners threw out heavy hints about taking it a bit further than dancing but I turned them down as nicely as I could. One, older than me, mid-forties I'd guess, studied my face for a moment and then took my left hand and looked at the matching eternity rings on my third finger. "You've lost her, haven't you?" Her voice, a soft Welsh lilt, was sympathetic.

Suddenly I felt my bottom lip trembling and I couldn't speak so I nodded.

"Recently?"

I nodded again.

"Me too." She held up her left hand to show me two slim wedding-rings. "Six years now and I still miss her. But it does get easier, my lovely. You just have to give it time." She leaned in and kissed my cheek and went back to her friends.

A few minutes later I felt better and sat sipping the last of my beer until I noticed what looked like a minor ruckus a little way inside the door. A tall girl, young-looking, seemed to be in some kind of argument with a woman who was holding her quite firmly by an arm. It seemed obvious to me that the tall girl was distressed and on impulse I wandered over to see if I could help her. Of course, if it was a domestic then I'd back off quietly and go back to my seat. But it didn't look like one.

And the woman holding her looked out of place here. Despite some of the country and western outfits, the majority of women I'd seen and spoken to here were feminine or borderline femmes. If there were any out-and-out butches, they were very discreet about it. This one was über-butch, though, looking like an extra in a biker film, about as wide as she was tall, with cropped spikey hair and full leather gear. As I drew near I heard her say: "What's your name, girly?"

"D-D-Dusty. But p-please, let me go... I don't want to go with you."

"Tough, kid. You're just my type and tonight's your lucky night." The girl looked scared stiff, trying to pull away and failing.

"Dusty, darling, there you are," I called out, "I didn't see you come in—I thought I'd missed you."

The pair turned, the girl hopeful, the woman glaring. "What'd you want?"

"I had a date to meet Dusty here tonight. Guess I didn't see her coming in."

"So tough shit. You ought to look after your girlfriends better. I saw her first and she's leaving with me." The biker leered. "Unless you'd like a threesome. You're quite tasty yourself." Even several feet away I could smell the booze on her and it seemed as if she might be a mean drunk.

It was beginning to look nasty, as if it might turn into a fight. I'd had the bit of boxing training with Dot but I'd never hit anything more aggressive than a punch-bag. And punch-bags don't hit back. I reckoned this woman could take anything I could throw at her and still lay me out with a flick of her finger. And while I was trying to work out my next move, the cavalry arrived in the form of Myra and another well-built woman.

Myra gripped the butch firmly by the arm, saying: "Come on now, Belle, let the young lady alone—you know the rule. Now apologise to the nice people."

Immediately the biker deflated, looked embarrassed and released Dusty.

"Yeah, okay Myra." She turned to us and mumbled: "Sorry."

"Good girl, Belle. Now let's find you a taxi and get you home." Docile now, Belle allowed Myra to lead her away.

The second woman turned to us. "Sorry, girls. Belle's okay most of the time, not as rough as she looks—she hasn't even got a bike. Likes to create an image is all. It's just that every few months she goes on a bender and does something stupid like this. She won't even remember anything tomorrow until she finds out we've barred her for a month. Then it'll be all remorse until the next time. Hey, Annie—" she called out to one of the barmaids, "—a drink on the house for these ladies."

I took the girl Dusty back to where I'd been sitting and settled her on a bar-stool where she asked for a small white wine. I'd already had my couple of beers so I just went for a mineral water. And then I relaxed and took a good look at my new companion. I guessed her to be about twenty-one, twenty-two, and she was very pretty with short, dark curly hair and a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. There was a slight scar above her left eyebrow but it was so faint that it didn't detract from her looks.

"Dusty... is that after Dusty Springfield?"

She shook her head. "Just a nickname."

I held out a hand. "Hi, Dusty, I'm Fran."

Dusty kept her eyes lowered, giving me the impression that she was extremely shy. She took my hand briefly, muttering: "Thanks for trying to rescue me. That woman was scary."

I agreed. "She was that. I could almost hear the ambulance coming to pick me up. Some knight in shining armour I'd have looked, wrapped up in bandages like an Egyptian mummy." I think I got a flicker of a smile at that but it was so fast I couldn't be sure.

Conversation with Dusty was difficult, her shyness inhibiting almost every gambit. When Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers started singing 'Islands in the Stream' I grabbed Dusty's hand. "C'mon, let's have a dance."

She hung back, head lowered which seemed to be the norm for her. "I don't know how."

"Well, I'm not exactly Ginger Rogers either. Look, we'll just get behind some of the line-dancers and do what they're doing. Relax, Dusty. If you came in here for fun, what better way than dancing badly?"

Still reluctant, Dusty allowed me to drag her onto the floor. Odd thing, once she let herself go a little she was a fair dancer, certainly better than me. But it didn't last too long. After a couple more numbers, the DJ announced that she was taking a short break and we returned to our stools at the bar.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" I said.

Dusty still kept her gaze lowered and whispered something. I had to strain a bit to catch it. "Will you come back to my hotel with me?"

"Are you sure about this, Dusty?"

"Please..."

"All right." I picked up my bag and held out a hand to the girl. She took it but kept her eyes to the ground, as if afraid that she might trip. By chance as we left Radclyffe's, a black cab was just dropping several women off so we grabbed it. I climbed into the back while Dusty leaned into the cab to tell the driver where to go. She joined me but despite my best efforts, said very little until we reached our destination.

* * * * *

I paid the cabbie while Dusty waited on the pavement. Her whole stance spoke of extreme nervousness as if she had suddenly realised that I might be a serial-killer disguised as a good Samaritan. I put an arm around her waist and gave a little squeeze. "Hey, I'm not that fearsome, am I?" Dusty gave me a weak little smile as we entered the hotel. As hotels went, I think this one should have gone. The reception area was grubby and off-putting with a stained and scarred desk and a greyish, threadbare carpet underfoot. An unsavoury-looking receptionist or proprietor, blubbery, stubble-cheeked with grimy, collarless shirt, barely glanced at us as we passed by.

Dusty's room was little better, making my room at The Balustrade look like a suite at The Ritz. I guessed that Dusty's budget must have been pretty tight to come to a dump like this.

Then Dusty shocked me. As I was closing the door, she grabbed me and pushed me hard against the wall, mashing her mouth against mine and jamming her tongue into my mouth. It was real Jekyll and Hyde behaviour. I was surprised at how strong she was but managed to push her away.

"Steady on, Dusty, what makes you think I like it rough?"

Her arms fell to her sides and suddenly the shy, anxious girl was back. "I'm sorry, I thought that's what you'd want." Abruptly, she sat on the edge of the single bed, a sad-looking piece of furniture with a worn candlewick bedspread, and buried her face in her hands.

She looked so alone and lost at that moment that my heart went out to the poor kid. And then I realised. "You've never done this before, have you? You're a virgin."

"No I'm not," Dusty muttered, voice defiant. She refused to meet my eyes. "I've done it dozens of times."

I replied as kindly as I could. "Well, in that case you've probably realised that most of us aren't keen on rough stuff." I didn't point out that if Dusty herself liked it rough, she could have gone with Belle.

"I'm sorry..."

"That's okay..." I looked around the sleazy little room. The place didn't run to a TV but there was a small radio on a chest-of-drawers. I turned it on and started to fiddle with the tuning button. I quickly found the station that I wanted.

"...Icy finger waves,

Ski trails on a mountain side..."

Ella Fitzgerald singing 'Moonlight in Vermont'. An easy-listening channel, almost non-stop gentle music playing into the early hours. The music switched to Peggy Lee and 'The Folk Who Live on the Hill". I held my hand out to Dusty.

"What?"

"Let's dance," I told her, "There's nobody else here to see us and it will help... help us to relax ..." I had almost said: "...help you to relax ..." but guessed that would have made Dusty feel worse. After a little coaxing, she stood and came into my arms. She was taller than me although not as tall as Dot had been, I'd say about five-nine. I pulled her in close and after a few seconds her arms crept around my neck although she remained slightly stiff. We swayed together, not moving much but just letting ourselves go with the rhythm. Carefully, so as not to alarm Dusty, I kissed her throat several times, just slight, glancing kisses, and I could feel the stiffness evaporating.

Peggy Lee segued into Nat King Cole followed by Dean Martin and I continued with light kisses. Sarah Vaughan sang 'Tenderly' and I turned Dusty's face towards me and kissed her on the mouth, lightly and with closed lips. 'Tenderly' was right. I think she began to respond...

And then the music changed again...

"...You must remember this,

A kiss is just a kiss,

A sigh is just a sigh..."

'As Time Goes By'. It was only a song but shock jolted through me. It was Dot's favourite song and the music really got to me—I couldn't go through with this. I abruptly dropped my arms and stepped back from Dusty who looked bewildered.

"What?"

I snatched up my jacket and bag, heading for the door. "I'm sorry, Dusty, I can't stay with you."

I could almost feel her hurt. "It's me, isn't it?" she said, "I'm awful, aren't I?"

"You're not awful, Dusty, you're lovely. It's nothing to do with you. It's me, something personal. I can't explain now." I opened the door and glanced back and Dusty's obvious pain wrenched my heart. She was sitting on the edge of the bed again, tears rolling down an anguished face. I virtually ran before I was tempted to return. Oh God, Dot, what have I done to that poor girl?

I kept running as I left the hotel and after a few streets I realised that I was lost. I hadn't heard Dusty instructing the cab driver and I'd foolishly taken no notice of the gungy hotel. I went to the nearest corner, noted the names of the intersecting streets and took out my phone to call Lasses Cabs.

* * * * *

I spent most of the next day not enjoying myself because of guilt over my treatment of Dusty. It was obvious that she had little or no confidence in herself and she was likely devastated at my hasty departure. It was obvious too that despite her protestations of great experience, Dusty was an innocent looking to lose her virginity. And I had run out on her. The least she deserved was an explanation and I went to Radclyffe's early in the evening in the hope that she'd be there. But she wasn't. Still, there was always the next night, so I'd try again.

I went into the club for the third night and after several hours, still no Dusty. Perhaps it would have been sensible to let go then but my guilty feelings only served to make me determined.

As well as feeling guilt over the way I had treated Dusty, I still yearned so much for my lost Dot and her love.

It was then for the first time—the only time, thankfully—I approached something like... desperation, I suppose. And that's when my stupid gene kicked in. I stared moodily at my barely-touched glass of Heineken and shoved it to one side. Hailing one of the waitresses, I said: "Will you bring me a very large vodka and a very small bottle of tonic, please." I gave her five ten-pound notes and added: "Keep bringing the vodkas up as long as that lasts. If you need more, just ask..."

* * * * *

"Does anybody know who she is?" Olivia, one of the club's owners, sounded exasperated. Radclyffe's was empty now except for the staff and the unconscious woman slumped across the table. Following a general denial she added: "Well, is this the first time she's been here?"

"No, she's been in a couple of times before," said Myra, "Jackie of Lasses brought her here the first time, two...three nights ago. I think she came in a Lasses cab each time."

The other doorkeeper, Ellie, added: "That's right. The first time she left with some girl. Tall pretty girl, rather slim—looked fairly young. You remember, Myra, the one that Biker Belle was trying to grab and we had to butt in. This one claimed she was the girl's date but I don't think she was—she was just trying to protect the girl."

"How about the girl? Do we know her?"

"No, she was only in the one time."

Katie came out from behind the bar, carrying a shoulder-bag which she passed to Lainy, Olivia's business partner. "It's hers," she said, indicating the recumbent figure, "I put it behind the bar for safe-keeping when she passed out."