Low life
Something in the air
Jeffrey Bernard
The other day I spent the afternoon in dalhance with a woman who actuallY smelled of mothballs. I have to admit atth° at they keep me going but is the preservt of a twin-set worth that smell? I felt as though I was with something that was being kept under wraps by the Imperial War Museum. And, talking of war, I took an ex-wife and my daughter to Newbury races last Saturday. I tried to win some money for them but had an acute attack of seconditis. That made a different smell. Not mothballs, but fear and nerves and the smell that conjures up what always reminds me of embrocation from bygone days in boxing gymnasiums. Of course, boxing Isn't frightening but by God it doesn't half keep you on your toes and tense you up. Another nasty smell that springs to mind is that of the headmaster's study. I can remember going in to be caned and the gong of pipe tobacco and leather made me almost sweat. That really was fear. And what odd things one got caned for. The mad headmaster at my prep school with the suitably mad name of the Reverend Walpole E. Sealy, once gave me six of the worst for taking too much marmalade at breakfast. As he delivered his thrashing he explained to me that merchant seamen had risked their lives in the Atlantic bringing us marmalade from America. Although I was nearly blinded by tears as the cane bit into mY arse it did occur to me that it was u. nlikely that any torpedoed seaman grop- ing for a lifeboat would actually be think- ing, `All this just to bring Jeffrey Bernard some marmalade.' I also once got caned by Beverley Cross, now married to Maggie Smith, for reading a novel during prep. It will cost him a drink if I ever see him again. But a woman who can go into combat smelling of mothballs must be very sure of herself. Most of the women I know try to smell either of Paris or spring. But I did °nee have an affair with a barmaid and she somewhat disconcertingly smelled of pub food. You know, sausages and mash and chutney. There's something quite reassur- ing about mothballs. You feel safe if you don't happen to be a moth. Magistrates' courts smell very nasty and musty and ships' engine rooms smell marvellous, as did steam railway locomotives in the days When I collected engine numbers and not telephone numbers. Lunatic asylums don't smell very nice. I can still smell the odour of cabbage and secondhand clothes from my days of being banged up in St Bernard's in Hanwell. I quite like the smell of swimming-pools although water frightens r_me more than soda water. It is extremely °°nog being frightened of water and not being able to swim. On a hot day the Caribbean and Mediterranean look so in- viting and I have to sit on the edge of them feeling like a sweaty twit. What happened was that when I was at Pangbourne they threw attempts to into the river three times in mpts to teach me how to swim. Not in fact it's a miracle that I'm not frightened to have a bath in the morning. _ There was an extraordinary girl I met in Brighton who smelled of the sea. Admit- tedly she worked in Wheeler's but I only ever met her on the racecourse and in that big white-fronted hotel where we spent a disastrous weekend. I'd left my Barclay- card in London and we spent the entire weekend sulking in this hotel room sus- tained merely by a chicken sandwich and a couple of pots of tea. You're dead without a plastic card. Come to think of it you can be nearly dead with one. The other day I went into a branch of Victoria Wine and bought 200 cigarettes and a bottle of vodka with my piece of plastic. To my horror the man behind the jump pressed some but- tons on what must have been some sort of computer and it immediately told him that I was overdrawn. There was a queue of people behind me and the man held up the card and snipped it in half with a pair of scissors. That made the smell of embarrass- ment. It's like sweat.
And just what is the sweet smell of success? I don't know. Having mislaid my reading glasses yesterday I held up a cheque very close to my face and sniffed it. It didn't smell any nicer than a warrant. They're made out by the same sort of people. Secretaries. And they smell of paper-clips and rubber bands. But the Daily Mirror once had a secretary who smelled of cereal. Vera was her name and I used to think I was on a grain ship. That was all right but we surely must draw the line at mothballs.
Previous page
