NOT long after Salvador Dali created
the Mae West lips sofa in 1963, I experienced something of what it might feel like to be
lost in such decadent plushness. I was four and probably
knew as much about Dali as did the manufacturers of the Morris Minor that
offered up this early cultural experience. No doubt those car assembly workers
in Birmingham and Cowley, Oxfordshire, were better acquainted with Ms West than
I, though, I have to say, that Morris Minor could shake its perfectly formed booty
as well as any silver screen goddess.
Maybe it was a mark of good attachment,
or the opposite, but I was not remotely perturbed to be sent off to school for
the first time in the company of two women I had never met before and both of
whom, especially the younger, wore stern-looking spectacles. We pupils ran
through that school on a kind of slowed-down conveyer belt from infancy to
sixth, and the old school building eventually surrendered to the superior
charms of the low-slung 1960s model to where we all decamped within months of
my arrival. But these two teachers, who then constituted the entire staff,
remained constant for the duration of primary education.
They arrived to pick me up on a
September morning in that shiny black Morris Minor with its silver trim and
blood red interior upholstery. After some delay Miss Cox (aka Mrs Carre)
executed the necessary manoeuvre to cause the back of her front passenger seat
to collapse forward, making enough room for me to slip into the rear interior. In
an effort to avoid being swallowed up by the scarlet maw of the backseat, which
sloped away as a mouth towards a gullet, and to become familiar with my new
surroundings, I perched on the edge of that seat like some round-the-world yachtswoman
teetering on the edge of oblivion. Through the tunnel of space between the two
front seats and two wise, permed heads, I watched the crooked, bumpy road
unfurl beyond the windscreen as I journeyed into formal education.
That first day at school was
unremarkable aside from the little black metal hen who, when you pressed on her
back, laid a little wooden yellow egg, and the minor drama of getting a paper
clip stuck in the gap between my two front teeth. At the home bell, I duly
packed up my new copybook and pencil in my new school bag, collected my coat
from the lower rungs of the communal rail in the entrance hall and stood by the
car, which had spent the day parked on the roadside, outside the high school
wall.
Miss Cox, was first to come along. She
repeated the morning manoeuvres to readmit me to the cavern of the back seat,
before sitting into the car in front of me. We were all present and ready to go
except for the driver, Mrs McMahon. I don’t remember what, if anything Miss Cox
and I talked about but eventually it seemed to me that we should be on our way.
Miss
Cox turned from an examination of her nails to look at me through the driver
rear-view mirror, which she had already turned away from its correct position,
which probably didn’t matter too much in 1964 on a quiet country road in north
Leitrim at three o’clock in the afternoon. I had moved again to the perch
position, the better to see the arrival of Mrs McMahon, but could feel the
happy anticipation of getting home ebb away as the wait went on.
Without
a watch or much sense of time, all I could see was that all the other pupils
had long since disappeared on foot or bicycle. It felt strangely eerie to find
myself going nowhere in the back of the car with nothing to say to my company,
while my siblings bore down on dinnertime.
Miss
Cox again broke into my reverie telling me she didn’t understand what had
become of Mrs McMahon and that she thought we would have to leave without her.
She was still looking at me through the rear-view mirror and I’m not sure my
face registered the significant shock her announcement had caused me. I wanted
to say: “Are you crazy. We cannot leave without her” because it was a strict
rule that no matter how trying a sibling or cousin, it was not permitted to
return from an outing missing any member of the party.
I
could not imagine what my mother would say were she to see me disembark from Mrs
McMahon’s car with Miss Cox occupying the pivotal driver’s position. That
concern immediately gave way to the next one. Could Miss Cox even drive? I
didn’t think so and I certainly had not been delivered to the care of this
Morris Minor to be transported by someone whose essential credentials were far
from established. But I’d also learned even at that early stage that one must
sometimes surrender to the dubious management of adults.
But
more than anything I was horrified at the idea of being left behind, and to be
the one leaving another behind did nothing to comfort me. Horrified that Mrs
McMahon would be afraid, alone in the dark of the school. I did not want her to
be afraid and I did not want her to be hungry, as I already was, or cold. I
hated being cold.
Miss
Cox began moving as though to get into the driver’s seat bringing me heavily
back to the present. I could hardly forbid her from doing something I knew she
should not do, and doubted she was able to do. In another age, about two
decades away, the car would have been locked and the ignition key safely in the
missing Mrs McMahon’s handbag but on that day not only was the car open but the
key sat in the ignition all day.
In the absence of any reasonable
alternative, I felt the first inclination of the day to cry, but before the
chasm of disaster could open to devour me, the rusty school gate creaked into
life. Mrs McMahon was before us, handbag slung over her arm, coat buttoned to
the throat, a far away look on her face as though we were none of her concern.
While I half-hoped Miss Cox would tell her off for keeping us waiting and worrying
us, my sense of relief outweighed all else and I allowed myself to bask in the
comforting warmth of Mae West’s smile for the journey home to my mother.
The Mae West lips sofa. Image may be subject to copyright |
For my first teachers, who gave me a lifelong love
of reading and writing.
Barbara Clinton 2015 ©
Barbara Clinton 2015 ©