That’s Maureen Johnson from 1946 to 1982. When I first heard Father’s bawdy formula
I was simply amused by it and never expected it to apply to me… until that sour
day that Brian let me know that his younger concubine had displaced me. Then I found
that Father’s joking description was the simple truth. So I became an available
’emergency squaw’. I worked hard at being agreeable and smelling good. And I didn’t
insist on Adonis, just a friendly fair exchange with a gentleman. (Never an oaf,
never a wimp!)
I always left time for a second one, if he wanted it. He wants it, if you have done
the job on him you should do. The reason American men are such lousy lovers is that
American women are such lousy lovers. And vice versa, and around and around.
`Garbage in, garbage out.’ You get what you pay for.
That twenty minutes to an hour between goes is the best time in the world for
intimate talk.
‘Want first crack at the bathroom?’ I asked.
‘No hurry,’ George answered, his voice rumbling in his chest (I had my right ear
against it). ‘How about you?’
‘No rush. George, that was a goody. And just what I needed. Thank you, sir.’
‘Maureen, you’re the one Shakespeare had in mind – “where other women satiate, she
most makes hungry”:
`Go along with you, sir.’
‘I mean it.’
‘Tell me enough times and I’ll believe it. George, when you do get up, would you
please get those envelopes? Wait a moment. Do you have time today for a second one?’
`I have time. That is what time is for.’
`All right. I did not want to waste time in bed talking business if you were in a
hurry. Because I do know ways to get you up again quickly if you are in a hurry.’
‘You do indeed! But I got a day’s work done before ten in order to devote the rest
of the day to Maureen.’ He got up, got the two envelopes, came back, offered them to
me.
I said, `No, I don’t want to touch them. George, please examine them. Is there any
way I could have tampered with them?’
‘I don’t see how you could have. They have been in my possession continuously since
4 July 1947.’ He smiled at me, and I smiled back – that was the date of the second
time we had been in bed together. ‘Your birthday, girl, and you gave me a present.’
`No, we exchanged presents, to our mutual profit. Examine the envelopes, George –
have they been tampered with? No, don’t come closer. I might bewitch them.’
He looked them over. ‘The flap seal has both our signatures written across it, on
each envelope. I know my signature and I saw you sign under mine. I do not see how
even Houdini could have opened them.’
‘Please open number one, George, and read it aloud… and keep it. Put it back into
your zipper pocket.’
`Whatever you say, dear girl.’ He opened it and read, ` “4 July 1947. In the spring
of 1951 a man calling himself ‘Dr Pinero’ will infuriate both scientists and
insurance men by claiming to be able to predict the date of any person’s death. He
will set up in business in this sort of fortune-telling. For several months he will
enjoy great business success. Then he will be killed or die in an accident and his
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apparatus will be destroyed. Maureen Johnson.” ‘
(As George read aloud, I thought back to that Saturday night, 29 June 1918. Brian
slept part of the time; Theodore and I not at all. Every now and then I ducked into
the bath, recorded in crisp Pitman everything Theodore told me – many details that
he had not given to judge Sperling and Justin and Mr Chapman.)
George said, ‘Interesting. I never did believe that this Doctor Pinero could do what
he claimed to do. It must have been some complex hoax.’
‘That’s not the point, George.’ (I did not speak sharply.)
‘Eh?’
‘It does not matter now whether he was a charlatan or not; the man is dead, his