A lover called Goliath

Sexual content

5. Dee

How often does the phone ring at six in the morning on a Thursday? It was Dee.

‘Sorry to wake you, but I have a plane to catch and your message sounded important.’

She then called me a faithless fig for dropping out of her life. We chatted, I explained the circumstances, she was unimpressed, the minutes were ticking and then she came to the point. Phew!

‘So, let me get this straight. A bloke takes advantage of you in a train, you enjoyed it, and you want to see him again.’

‘That’s about right.’

‘Sounds like a typical male-thought-cliché to me. Walk up to him on the platform tonight and tell him you want a date. He won’t be surprised.’

‘Can’t.’

‘Why not.’

‘I always had my back to him.’

‘You mean you wouldn’t recognise him? That was a real fernfick. You’ll have to walk up and down the platform and see if anyone smiles.’

‘No good.’

‘Why not?’

‘As I said, I always had my back to him. He only saw the top of my head.’

‘Oh dear. Let me think. I know. Wear the same suit, same hairdo, stand in the same place in exactly the same attitude – and hope. When he approaches you, turn round and make sure he is worth the effort.’

‘Last bit isn’t so good.’

‘Why not?’

‘I like the anonymous aspect.’

‘You hussy. I understand, though. Then do as I said, but take a notepad and thick marker pen with you.’

‘Okay – but why?’

‘Should he recognise you from the top of your head, you need to be able to move things along. Write progress messages. Hold them up so he can see.’

‘Messages – like what?’

‘I don’t know. Whatever you want him to do. He’s rubbing away; what would you have him do?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Leave it with me. I’ll think of something and be in touch. You have to find him first, but if you go hunting, and do find him, have something ready to tell him. Tell him to put his arms round your waist and be a bit bold.’

‘Put his arms around me?’

‘Good start, but a bit tame. Have a follow-up line ready. Tell him to put his arms round you, and choose something to play with. Oh! And give him a name.’

‘Like ... Big Boy?’

‘If you must, but if he isn’t naturally big, he may think he’s going to fall at the first hurdle. Don’t put him off.’

‘Rubber,’ I suggested.

‘Not bad, but has other connotations. Friction Man, or Potholer. I’m getting into this now. Bottom Boy, Chimney Sweep, Cracker. Be classical. Zeus, or biblical ... Onan. No, he may not get that one. Ask him what he would like to be called and think of a name for yourself.  Go for Mary Magdalene or Venus. Choose a woman known for her promiscuity.’

‘Fanny Hill?’

‘Excellent. Just Fanny will do. It says it all. Kitty is another one.’

‘Kitty?’

‘Well, I thought Pussy a bit blunt. Must go. I’ll be in touch asap.’

‘By the way, I thought I saw Greg on the train, here in London. Is that possible?’

There was a silence. For the first time in our friendship, I had the feeling I had floored Dee with a question.

‘No idea!’

The phone went dead.

I kicked my tablet into action to find out what G****e knows about Onan.

It seems Onan was a bit of a wide boy and got into heaps of trouble with God, because he withdrew, and spilled his seed, instead of leaving it in and putting his widowed sister-in-law up the duff, as God had instructed. It was a bit sneaky really, because if his sister-in-law had given birth to a boy, he would have inherited, instead of Onan. It gets worse. Onan is used as proof by theologians that masturbation is a sin, whereas, in fact, it was coitus interruptus Onan practised and even then, God was only cross over the obedience thing. Onan could do what he liked with his dick. Typical Christians – make a mountain out of a molehill. And Christians invented fake news.

How does Dee know stuff like this?

I’ll call him Goliath. I’ve just read that the Goliath tarantula stridulates. That’s good.

Okay, I admit it. I then had to look up ‘stridulate’. Making a noise by rubbing body parts together. He’ll never get it, but he’ll like Goliath and it will show Dee I know obscure stuff, too.

To be honest, I was disappointed in Dee. She didn’t seem to have much original to add to my undertaking, but I took on board her ideas, brushed off the same suit, found a pad and marker pen (it was narrow tip, but unless he is myopic, it’ll do) and set off for work in high apprehension. Things became worse through the day and by close of play, I considered doing some unnecessary overtime, just to get out of dealing with Goliath.

I chickened out at five past six and told Dianne, my PA, I’d be staying on to finish some work.

‘You can’t!’

I was thunderstruck. Had Dee phoned her and warned her I may go wobbly? Dee could manage that.

‘Why can’t I?’ I asked in a weak voice, believing my interlude with Goliath was already office gossip.

‘You should have got an email this morning. Fire alarms have to be upgraded. Electric may go on and off. All equipment to be disconnected. Everyone out by six. We are already late.’

She grabbed my bag and put it in my hand, then grabbed hers. Had we left at that moment, I would have been too early for Goliath. I would have had to wait on the Angel platform, southbound, until six-thirty. I know I wouldn’t have done that. All bets off. I would have regretted my cowardice all evening, but there. I am sexually repressed. I need to learn to live with that fact.

PA headed for the door, stopped, threw a glance into my office and gasped.

‘Connie! You must down all equipment and pull the plugs! Did you read the email? No, you didn’t. Why do I bother? Come on,’ she ordered.

We spent the next ten minutes saving files and turning things off. The technicians were waiting in PA’s office, going from one foot to another. Why they decided my office, and no other, was the starting point for the alarm upgrade I shall never know. Going through my mind was the fact that I would reach the Angel southbound platform spot on six-thirty. I could dawdle. No, I couldn’t! PA uses the Angel platform northbound and will walk with me to the station. She insisted that there was no time to do a make-up check or have a hair-adjustment moment and accompanied me to the platform. At last we parted company and I could begin the task of studying the males around me to see if any were Goliath candidates. Suddenly PA was next to me.

‘Nothing northbound for twenty minutes,’ she announced, jerking a thumb at the southbound indicator board, which told me only that my train was imminent. ‘Thought we could finish our chat,’ she explained. ‘We never get any time to bond at work. The other day I met an old flame from my hometown on the tube. What are the chances of that happening in an eight million city?’

‘It does happen. I think I saw a Canadian guy I did business with in Baltimore, on the Northern Line. He disappeared in the rabble and I couldn’t check him out.’

‘Did you want to check him out?’ She gave a cheeky woman-to-woman wink.

‘Oh yes!’

‘What was his name? Let me guess. Canadian. The only famous Canadian I can think of immediately is Greg Rusedski – tennis a few years ago. Quite a hunk.’

‘Very good! Mine was a Greg too! Chance or what? My oh my.’

I think my grin was huge, which showed I had dealt with the rejection bit. Before I could be seduced to reveal details, a southbound grumbled out the tunnel. I jumped on. We waved – well, she waved and I tried to. The carriage was full. I had to fight my way to the glass screen, where I took up position, facing backwards and waited. I looked round as far as I could without turning my body. PA was on the platform, still waving. How sweet of her. She must have witnessed my rugby charge to get to the glass screen. She will spend the rest of the evening wondering why I did that. Tomorrow, she will ask anyone prepared to listen, ‘Why would Connie do that?’

An office is an office is an office. Everyone will want to listen. I am undone!

Dee phoned.

‘Well?’

‘Nothing.’

‘The whole way?’

She was squeaking in disbelief. I started reeling off all the stations between Angel and South Wimbledon and after each one affirmed, ‘Nothing!’

Dee interrupted me at Elephant and Castle.

‘I’ll call back later. I need a creative reflection moment. I don’t get this. My plans don’t go wrong.’

Ten minutes later the phone rang. It was Dee.

‘What were you doing immediately prior to boarding the train?’

‘Listening to the mindless drivel of my new PA. Can’t you get a transfer?’

She didn’t understand and paused to think. Then the penny dropped.

‘Leave Middlesbrough for London!’ she shrieked, much louder than her squeak. ‘Are you out of your mind?’

‘Just a thought.’

‘Stop thinking, Connie. I’ll do that.’

She hung up.

It took forever for the phone to ring again. When it did, Dee was wetting herself.

‘I’ve got it. You were distracted by PA drivel and got into the wrong coach! Try again tomorrow.’

The phone went dead.

She was right, of course, but how could she have worked out that series of consequences? How could I have forgotten to get in the same coach as last time? How can she be so certain of her predicted outcomes that she doesn’t bother to discuss it with me? What a woman!

I took a notepad and pen to bed with me and made a list of ‘to do’ items.

1. Get PA out my hair by 5.30. Jam a printer at 5.00 and send her to fix it.
2. Get out by 6.00, arrange hair and get to platform for 6.20.

The pencil dropped from my hand. Trains are every two minutes at that time of the evening. A matter of seconds can mean getting on the wrong train. I fished the pencil from my bedclothes.

3. Wait at correct platform location. Observe if someone doesn’t get in the train. Look for a loiterer.

Not easy with that number of people moving on to and from trains every few minutes.

4. Get on train at 6.40, unless (3) yields a result. If (3) looks promising, get slowly on to next train and delay doors shutting.

What had I forgotten?

I’d like to say I fell into a deep and untroubled sleep. Nonsense!

My mind ran through all the likely consequences should we share the same carriage tomorrow, and then through all the scenarios my subconscious wished for when he got behind me. After wrestling with hormones for half an hour, I reached into my bedside-table drawer, found my best friend, and then spent an eternity looking for the spare battery box, without success.

5. Unpack the rest of the removal boxes and locate batteries. Buy new batteries.

6. Personal Assistance

It was Friday. Five o’clock arrived. I sneaked round the office, putting bits of crumpled paper in the two printers and plugging in the never-used fax machine. At six, I sent a print job through and listened to the printer jam. PA looked up in horror, and then the second printer ground to a halt. Poor love.

‘Never mind,’ I cheerfully assured her, ‘I’ll fax it across.’

PA jumped up to tackle the fax machine. Her first task was to get the dust of years from it.

‘No hurry, I’ll be back at 6.30. I’ll send it then.’

No pressure then!

‘Oh!’ she wailed. ‘I have a new babysitter starting. We were going out tonight for the first time in ages.’

PA, being a dreadful swot – a bit like me ten years ago; that’s what girls’ high school does for you – would hang around until nine, expecting my return, destroying her domestic arrangements, I only needed her off my back until 6.30 so my plan was a tight trick on a Friday afternoon.

I relented, but achieved the same result.

‘Go now! Don’t mess up your evening for a daft print job that can wait until Monday.’

‘Are you sure?’ She was close to begging.

‘Just go. That’s an instruction from your boss.’

She grabbed her bag and coat, kissed me on the cheek and gushed, ‘Thank you so much, Connie. You are the best boss ever.’

What brought that on? I’m deliberately creating trouble for her so that I can deal with Goliath without involving the office.

Six-twenty, and I had taken up my post on the Angel platform, southbound. There was a jungle of commuters jostling and trying not to be pushed on to the tracks, and impossible to guess if one of them was Goliath. Hanging around brought nothing, so I boarded a train at six-thirty, fought my way to the glass screen, stood ready, like a warrior awaiting the infidel charge ... and ... nothing. I was jostled , but no stridulating, with or without noise. The train began to empty around Clapham Common and yet my heart told me it wasn’t too late, although my head had long accepted I was on a fools errand.

South Wimbledon arrived, and with it the realisation that no one had ever found a lost cat in London, never mind a stray date, without a name or face. I distracted myself by spending an hour doing some essential grocery shopping, and then with no other prevarication left, I felt the painful tread of my shag-me-shoes lead me up the front path.

Deflated doesn’t begin to cover it, and there was Landlord scurrying toward me, just like Tuesday evening. Why can’t I become his female version: a miserable thirty-something, getting solace from ruining the boys’ soccer? Give it time.

‘Can’t stop, Connie. It’s tennis this evening. Lord knows how many balls are in the back garden. They shan’t get them back!’

He let the door slam in my face.

I said nothing, but fished in my bag for my keys. He stopped and called over his shoulder.

‘No post today, but there is something hand-delivered. Tall feller gave it to my wife. He didn’t know your name, but described a woman who uses the Northern Line.’

He waited for elucidation. I wasn’t being cagey. I had no idea who would leave a message or package.

He waited. I fished deeper for my keys. So, did he, but he wanted information.

‘Perhaps you have lost something? Wallet, purse.’

‘But then he would know my name.’

‘Keys then?’

‘How would he know where to bring them?’

Blank look. Keys found, I let myself in, ignored the stairs up to my flat, but went instead through to the back of the house and into the garden. I gathered nine tennis balls and lobbed them back over the wall. Each one was greeted by, ‘Aw, thanks, miss.’

I felt good. I had thwarted misery man. I felt so good, I had forgotten the mystery missive. There it was, jammed under the door of my flat and crumpled beyond recognition. The apartment doors have no letterbox. Any normal person would have left it in the rack down by the front door. Misery man was snooping. He never climbed three flights to deliver an electricity bill. I felt the package. It had to be more than a letter. The envelope was bulged.

I hit the light switch. Nothing. The ancient fridge had popped the fuse switch again while I was out. Warm day. Who knows how much of the fridge contents have survived?

I opened the envelope and ironed the notepaper with the flat of my hand. Something fluttered to the ground, but I couldn’t see what it was, and I was more interested in the written word. Under the window was enough light to illuminate a rather spidery hand.

Hi Bluestockings

I’ve been waiting for you. Are you avoiding me? I think not. It must be fate dividing us. The station was shut tonight, for safety reasons. You were nearly the last person to go down. They slammed the gate in my face. Platform too full, they said.

Right, if chance cannot be relied upon, we will have to be organised. On Monday, get on the first train after six-thirty. Use the third carriage from the front, front door. I want you up against the glass, facing the back of the train. Wear the scarf. I can’t afford to rub the wrong bottom!

Love

Cheeky Boy

1. Get rid of the blue tights. I want blue stockings. How you hold them up – or not – is for you to decide.

I have no idea how many times I read those lines. The questions came pouring in.

1. How does he know my address?
2. Does he know me? Is he from work?
3. Am I safe?
4. Should I obey his orders?
5. What can he do on a tube train that won’t get us arrested?

I reset the fuse, waited for the ancient tube to finish popping, and there on the floor beneath the window, was an expensive, finely woven, ethnic-patterned cotton scarf. What is wrong with silk, I wondered. It turned out he had thought this through.

I texted Dee.

Development! Call asap.

Love, C

Would the phone never ring? I didn’t know Dee had flown to California, and received my text in the middle of her working day. She called at two in the morning. I was awake, not having retired until one-thirty, and then I had struggled to relax.

‘Did you find him?’

‘Not really. He wasn’t on the train, but left me a message at home.’

There was a gasp from Dee.

‘Are you okay with him knowing where you live?’

I summarised his note.

‘He wants me to be precise about the carriage and time, so that he can be sure of meeting up. And he wants me to ditch the blue tights in favour of blue stockings, so he is considering ease of access. Apparently, our random approach has resulted in near misses.’

‘An organised man is always good, but be careful. He is a stranger still.’

‘Every assignation with a stranger has its dangers. That is part of the excitement, isn’t it? But he seems to be making a date with me, not stalking.’

‘Good. What will you do?’

‘I’ve got two days to find some blue stockings.’

Dee laughed and then asked, ‘You know who the Blue Stocking Society were?’

‘No idea. I thought it was a dismissive term for an older intellectual woman. I wasn’t flattered.’

‘Close. They were a literary group of women who tried to advance feminism and women’s interests in the 1750s. I wonder why he chose that name for you.’

‘Because my tights are blue, to match the suit?’

‘I hope so; otherwise it means he knows you.’

‘He must know me. Otherwise how would he know my address?’

‘That’s easy. He didn’t leave the train at Borough last Tuesday. He changed carriages, in case you were going to accuse him of sexual assault, but didn’t want to lose contact, because it seemed you were up for some hanky-panky. He followed you when you got off. The train is fairly empty by Wimbledon, so it wasn’t difficult.’

‘I see.’

I didn’t see anything. I needed to give Dee the floor. She was quick to give her analysis.

‘This is so interesting. I think you are in an Inanna phase of your life. That’s a good move after Lilith. You must progress this at all costs. You will, won’t you?’

‘Wasn’t Inanna a sacred prostitute?’

‘Bad description, Connie. No money or goods changed hands, so she wasn’t a whore. She is now viewed as a goddess of love, but more importantly, promiscuous love.’

‘Can there be such a thing? And what does that have to do with Cheeky Boy, who seems a typically randy male of the species to me?’

‘If sex takes place as part of a religious ritual, then one can talk of promiscuous love. I imagine Cheeky Boy is worshipping at the altar of your bottom. What you are indulging in is almost a religious act. Hiding sex away in a monogamous bedroom is a recent development in our society and only became necessary when people began to own things and had wealth to inherit.’

‘Good Lord.’

‘Wrong deity, darling. Look Inanna up. I’ll call tomorrow.’

I know Dee is given to going off on one, and she was reading more into this situation than I believed credible, but I felt excited by the development she described. Sleep was a long time coming that morning. I gave up on it as the sun rose and then remembered I had forgotten to mention the scarf.

I put Inanna in the search engine and came across an ancient Sumerian poem, from around 4000 BC. It was ascribed to her. She used it to call her lover.

My vulva, the horn,

The Boat of Heaven,

Is full of eagerness like the young moon.

My untilled land lies fallow.

As for me, Inanna,

Who will plow my vulva?

Who will plow my high field?

Who will plow my wet ground?

As for me, the young woman,

Who will plow my vulva?

Who will station the ox there?

Who will plow my vulva?

‘Bloody hell! Wow! If plow means plough,’ was all I could say. I was disconcerted by the spelling, thought I had misunderstood her meaning, but realised ‘plow’ is common in the US. I was safe. No disappointments.

I sent Dee an email with the poem and my thoughts.

This is a bit different, Dee. Are you replacing vulva with my derrière? Is Cheeky Boy the lad I’m beseeching to worship at it? But isn’t that what fashion is about? Don’t all women want a man to worship at them, the way they dress, provocatively, thrusting their bits into every man’s face, so to say? Fashion hardly promotes an emancipated standpoint.

And Sumer was a matriarchal society. It included Assyria and Babylon. Babylon ended its days in tears. I’m beginning to not like the parable you are setting up for me.

Babylon is viewed in the New Testament as the symbol of Antichrist. When should I get worried? Luther was particularly scathing.

Love C

Dee wasn’t sleeping either. I received a mail back, with some corrective therapy.

Connie, you are such a berk!

Only Christian theologians have a problem with Babylon. Forget Luther. He was on a mission to discredit the pope. Some things don’t change.

Fashion is only to titillate and has nothing to do with worship. Let Cheeky Boy worship. Promise me you will! This is so exciting. We can test Inanna. I want to know what happens! The scarf thing is most thrilling.

X X

D

I replied.

Okay, Dee. I’ll see this through, but Cheeky Boy is Goliath from now on. I’ll find a way to tell him!

The scarf is just for identity, isn’t it? Or am I missing something?

Love

C

From Dee came back,

Goliath!!!!!?????

I ignored it, just as she had ignored my scarf enquiry. I had other worries. I knew where I could find blue stockings. They were next to the rack where I bought my blue tights. I would need a suspender belt too. No! I still had the one from a year ago, that Dee purchased in the hotel. But my blue suit skirt is tight. How does he think he’s going to get inside it while on an underground train? Let that be his problem.

It will become my problem if he has to fight too hard.

One last thing was worrying me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. My mum always said, ‘Don’t do anything you can’t come home and tell me about.’ I was breaking that rule! But my unease was something other than a moral dilemma. Women in their late thirties can’t afford moral dilemmas. So, what was irritating me?

I bought the tights first thing Saturday morning and spent the rest of the weekend swotting up on Inanna. I was surprised Dee didn’t call again. Maybe she has a life, too!