12. A Third Kiss

A Chapter by Peter Rogerson

THE POETESS, Part 12

It was Mildred who suggested that the four of us go somewhere together for a drink before we went home. I was a bit hesitant because Mr Babbage was a serious man and he was also the mayor of the town, which I hadn’t expected. After a moment’s debate between him and his son, who seemed less than enthusiastic, they decided to take us to the Sans Chappelle. The pub where Roy’s girlfriend said the teacher she had gone with had set about seducing her. But there was nothing I could do. Mildred was all for it and even Mr Babbage’s son Leslie nodded his head in what I took as approval.

So the four of us walked the short distance to what back then probably the most salubrious public house in Brumpton. It was quiet in there, probably because it was still quite early, and possibly the most luxurious place I had ever been in. Even the thick carpet was obviously almost new, and the glass and glittery things on the bar dazzled my eyes and suggested a kind of opulence I wasn’t used to.

“I like it in here,” said Mildred, “don’t you, Rosie?”

Rosie nodded as she looked round. At least, she told herself, there wouldn’t be any riff-raff in here. Or students. The bar prices would see to that!

“Your poem was lovely,” Leslie said to Rosie, “because all of us one day get to know all about losing that kind of love.”

“You’ve got an old head on young shoulders,” almost boomed Mr Babbage, “and that’s a pretty skirt you’re wearing. I wish young ladies had worn things like that when I was your age!”

Rosie was lost for words. It was only a mini-kilt, and she’d seen young women in shorter skirts out on the town on weekend evenings. After all, it was summer time and young people don’t want to suffocate in too many yards of material.

“It’s years old,” was all she said, truthfully.

The conversation, thankfully as far as Rosie was concerned, veered away from fashion and she ended sitting in a group of four feeling out of her depth. Aunt Mildred wasn’t much better off as father and son discussed matters that were well outside her experience as well. Mr Babbage was a local politician and Rosie got the idea that he was doing his best to groom Leslie to follow in his footsteps.

“I think I should be making my way back home,” said Mildred when she’d had enough, “all this serious talk is bad for my bosom!”

Those were her very words, and her use of the word bosom took a few moments to sink in, and then I was in a strange world of being appalled whilst at the same time wanting to laugh out loud! I kept my face straight somehow, and Mildred, whose face usually displayed a great deal of jollity, also managed to remain uncharacteristically serious.

The two men glanced at each other, and Mr Babbage winked at his son.

“Would it help if we went somewhere quiet so that I could pay serious attention to your problem?” he asked, “and Leslie could discuss the finer arts of iambic pentameter with our prize poet over coffee.”

“Poetess,” said Rosie.

“Pardon?” asked Mr Babbage.

“Poetess. Men are poets. It’s a masculine term and I want to make it quite clear that I’m not a man when I write my poems. I’m a woman, and proud of it and want the whole wide world to know.”

It was then that Rosie started to suspect there might be unspoken plans being put into motion. It seemed that Leslie had a bedsit not so far from Mr Babbage’s home, and wouldn’t it be more comfortable if they went off together? Young poets, and all that, mooted Mr Babbage, and leave the real talk or whatever he had on his mind to adults.

“You could show Rosie your etchings while I soothe Mildred’s troubled, er, you know.” the older Babbage said to his son.

And she was out of control if she wasn’t going to seem rude. She didn’t know Leslie Babbage, he seemed a decent enough young man, true, but if she was going to find herself in close contact with somebody’s etchings she wanted to be the one to choose the etcher.

But Aunt Mildred seemed all for it. She swallowed the remains of her drink in record time and stood up.

“I’m ready, then,” she said, “come on, before the kettle goes off the boil!”

“Tally ho!” laughed Mr Babbage senior, “come on you youngsters! The night is still young.

It was all one big hustle, and Rosie didn’t like it, but she went along with the other three.

When they arrived at Leslie’s bed-sit, a small affair with a bed, an easy chair, one small table and not much else in it she discovered he had no etchings to show her. Not a single one.

“What sort of girl do you think I am?” she flared up when she saw that a trap had been carefully laid, minus etchings.

“One thing shines out from you and that is you’re decent,” he said, and he sat on the edge of his bed. “Look, us being here like is dad’s idea. He wants to get me off his hands because he sees me as a potential embarrassment. And you look to be the sort of woman he’d like to see me being with: pretty, there’s no doubt about that, and with an interesting dress sense, and a brain he respects. But I’m not my dad, honest I’m not.”

“Then why?” she asked.

“If he thinks you’re interested in me he might get off my case,” sighed Leslie, “look, can I tell you something private? If your don’t tell another soul, living or dead?”

“I’d be hard pushed to tell a dead one,” she said.

“Promise,” he said.

“Of course,” replied Rosie, intrigued.

“I live in this bedsit rather than at home because, well, I share it with a friend dad wouldn’t approve of if he knew.”

“That’s all right. Lots of people share bedsits,” she said, wondering where the other bed might be if there were two of them. Then it struck her. Maybe the person he was sharing with was a lass, and he didn’t want the Mayor to know who she was. Maybe she wasn’t the sort of girl he’d approve of. She frowned. Parents and their children can be the most complicated things, she thought.

“I hope you understand the need for secrecy,” murmured Leslie, “you see, I share with Denis Simpson and we’re in love. Yes, you got it right, I’m in love with a man and if my father finds out there’s no saying what he might do!”

I was naive back then. These days everyone seems to know everything there is to know about different kinds of relationship, but back then, and it was only fifty years ago, men with the appetites that Leslie said he had found themselves having to keep their own secrets or be open to all manner of ridicule. Leslie was gay, and sitting next to him on the edge of his bed I suddenly found myself feeling a surge of warmth and almost understanding flooding through me.