Low life
Oh, Madeleine!
Jeffrey Bernard
anything plus listening to Norman's mum telling you how her grandfather opened the first umbrella shop in Gower Street in 1867 and on top of that backing horses like Framlington Court which came in 19th, then you are the only woman in the world not in touch with reality.
There comes a time, Madeleine, when on the occasions that people smile at you, you realise that it isn't because they are glad to see you, it is because they are thinking, 'There but for the grace of God go I.' One is a constant source of consola- tion to others. And another thing. You ask me the daftest question I have ever been asked. `What about the Guardian — why don't you write for them?' Oh Madeleine, Madeleine. You don't know what you ask but my colleagues in Fleet Street will appreciate that one. You might as well ask a fishwife why she isn't singing Aida or Norma. Or ask a gelding why he hasn't been entered for the Derby.
Madeleine, you slay me and this calls for a drink. That's better. Oh dear, you must be a strange woman to write, 'Try to keep fit and out of hospital where you seem impelled to throw, or rather hurl, butter about. Was it Lurpak?' What on earth has the make of the butter got to do with it? As a matter of fact it was Anchor which is much harder and therefore more damag- ing. Appropriate too since I compared the target nurse to being like the Santissima Trinidad.
You also ask if I am still writing for the Spectator. I'm not sure, my dear. Some would say that I merely relieve myself into my typewriter once a week. And what you say about reading my book is odd too. 'By the end of the book I felt I'd enjoyed every minute with you — especially the frequent Smirnoffs.' How could you? The vodka has to be frequent when you are like a steeple- jack with vertigo. You can't actually like the stuff. It doesn't taste of anything. But to cap it all you say, 'I'm really very envious and begin to feel I've wasted my time up to now.' I find that very moving and touching and quite mad. You mustn't envy, Madeleine, and you haven't wasted your time.
What do you say I come up to Grassing- ton and we give it a whirl? I see myself running to you across the moors, leaping over gambolling lambs and then sweeping you into my arms. I thought I was Heath- cliff when I was 12 but later realised what a twit he was. Come to think about it I'm not even sure about the actual running bit or sweeping you up, depending on your weight. But we could go to York races, get drunk in Malton with the jockeys and show our magnificent profiles to the wind that sweeps across those moors. Have you got any money and is there a decent pub in Grassington?
Would you allow me to smoke in bed? Can we have Yorkshire pudding and gravy as a separate course to begin with? Say yes. I like my eggs boiled for three minutes and please don't let your whippets sleep on the bed. Our bed. Just think of it. And Madeleine is such a lovely name. I can hear myself whisper in the dark, shout it ex- ultantly in fields of sun-drenched poppies. This calls for another drink. There. I spoke your name aloud and it was like a caress only comparable to 'They're off. .flow could you think I have had a wonderful life before I received your letter?
Which reminds me, please could you send me a photograph of yourself with an s.a.e. and the fare to Grassington. Bear up my love, it won't be long. To have disco- vered you, the purpose of my being, calls for another drink. That's better. P.S. Please put on a heavy Yorkshire accent if you haven't got one. It turns me on.
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