ground of Princess Diana and the other Sloane Rangers. It was a short taxi ride from Harrods or, if Mother was interested in some hip slumming, the King’s Road. Glitter rock was all over the radio, and Monty Python had just started playing on the BBC.
Once ensconced, Mother immersed herself in the glam life. In the same way she had reinvented herself in New York as a trophy wife and divorcée, in London she stepped into the role of the madcap American with two ex-husbands. She was thirty-three, looked twenty-five, and had a small fortune to spend—compensation, of course, for her suffering.
We’d see Mother fleetingly at breakfast and then again when she’d blow a kiss good-bye to us over our supper plates on her way out the door. Out front, a big black cab or a hired Bentley, depending on her destination, waited to take her to another marvelous party.
While she was gone, we were left with Serena, a smoky Irish stunner Mother had found at an agency. She was gorgeous, with long black hair, Barbra Streisand fingernails, and green eyes. As soon as Mother would leave, Serena would ring her boyfriend, and he would come ’round with the fancy Rolls-Royce that he drove for a living. His name was Fergus. He would sit on the sofa in his black uniform with his cap perched on his knee and drink whiskey from a flask and smoke. Serena would sit on his lap filing her claws, and he’d tell us funny stories about something called the Irish Republican Army. Fergus told us it was an independence movement that was fighting to free the Irish from British rule. He had quite a few friends and family members in the IRA and explained to us what they did to the people who betrayed them. From Fergus we learned how to recognize people who’d been kneecapped (they limped), what happened to men on a hunger strike in prison (they had tubesshoved down their throats), and, by the way, did we know how horses were gelded?
Over breakfast one morning, Mother discovered all the interesting facts we were learning from Fergus while in the company of Serena, and she was, of course, let go. It wasn’t the breaking of knees or the gruesome prison force-feeding stories that concerned her, it was all the talk of Ireland. Mother blamed the whole country of Ireland for her two marriages to men of Irish descent not having worked out. “Never marry an Irishman” and “Never marry an actor” were oft-repeated bits of advice, punctuated for emphasis by a jab of the tortoiseshell-and-gold cigarette holder she’d taken to using.
Our days of babysitters finally came to a halt when we told Mother that Serena’s replacement, Alice—we called her Ashtray Alice—liked to put on fashion shows with us.
“How nice,” said Mother, envisioning the good clean fun we were having with Alice, who was an elderly lady with white hair and glasses on a chain around her neck.
Then we told her that during the fashion show Alice took off her top and paraded up and down the room in her bra on an imaginary runway, describing her outfit while using a heavy glass ashtray as her microphone. She always held the ashtray right up to her lips, which made her voice sound all breathy. Then Robbie and I would do the same—walk up and down the runway with our tops off as Alice continued the fashion commentary with her ashtray.
“How disgusting,” said Mother. Instead of hiring agranny to watch us, Mother had engaged a kinky lesbian. No more babysitters after that; we were to be latchkey kids. Mother reasoned that London was a much safer city than New York anyway and that we were old enough to take care of ourselves.
Being the seasoned city kids we were, Robbie and I came up with our own safety techniques. When we were out and about, saying “Wooden button” was code for when someone potentially creepy or perverted was following us. That was the signal to change trains, cross the street, or go in the opposite direction. “Hippie hair spray” meant we smelled a person wearing
Once ensconced, Mother immersed herself in the glam life. In the same way she had reinvented herself in New York as a trophy wife and divorcée, in London she stepped into the role of the madcap American with two ex-husbands. She was thirty-three, looked twenty-five, and had a small fortune to spend—compensation, of course, for her suffering.
We’d see Mother fleetingly at breakfast and then again when she’d blow a kiss good-bye to us over our supper plates on her way out the door. Out front, a big black cab or a hired Bentley, depending on her destination, waited to take her to another marvelous party.
While she was gone, we were left with Serena, a smoky Irish stunner Mother had found at an agency. She was gorgeous, with long black hair, Barbra Streisand fingernails, and green eyes. As soon as Mother would leave, Serena would ring her boyfriend, and he would come ’round with the fancy Rolls-Royce that he drove for a living. His name was Fergus. He would sit on the sofa in his black uniform with his cap perched on his knee and drink whiskey from a flask and smoke. Serena would sit on his lap filing her claws, and he’d tell us funny stories about something called the Irish Republican Army. Fergus told us it was an independence movement that was fighting to free the Irish from British rule. He had quite a few friends and family members in the IRA and explained to us what they did to the people who betrayed them. From Fergus we learned how to recognize people who’d been kneecapped (they limped), what happened to men on a hunger strike in prison (they had tubesshoved down their throats), and, by the way, did we know how horses were gelded?
Over breakfast one morning, Mother discovered all the interesting facts we were learning from Fergus while in the company of Serena, and she was, of course, let go. It wasn’t the breaking of knees or the gruesome prison force-feeding stories that concerned her, it was all the talk of Ireland. Mother blamed the whole country of Ireland for her two marriages to men of Irish descent not having worked out. “Never marry an Irishman” and “Never marry an actor” were oft-repeated bits of advice, punctuated for emphasis by a jab of the tortoiseshell-and-gold cigarette holder she’d taken to using.
Our days of babysitters finally came to a halt when we told Mother that Serena’s replacement, Alice—we called her Ashtray Alice—liked to put on fashion shows with us.
“How nice,” said Mother, envisioning the good clean fun we were having with Alice, who was an elderly lady with white hair and glasses on a chain around her neck.
Then we told her that during the fashion show Alice took off her top and paraded up and down the room in her bra on an imaginary runway, describing her outfit while using a heavy glass ashtray as her microphone. She always held the ashtray right up to her lips, which made her voice sound all breathy. Then Robbie and I would do the same—walk up and down the runway with our tops off as Alice continued the fashion commentary with her ashtray.
“How disgusting,” said Mother. Instead of hiring agranny to watch us, Mother had engaged a kinky lesbian. No more babysitters after that; we were to be latchkey kids. Mother reasoned that London was a much safer city than New York anyway and that we were old enough to take care of ourselves.
Being the seasoned city kids we were, Robbie and I came up with our own safety techniques. When we were out and about, saying “Wooden button” was code for when someone potentially creepy or perverted was following us. That was the signal to change trains, cross the street, or go in the opposite direction. “Hippie hair spray” meant we smelled a person wearing
Similar Books
