When are you coming home, Oscar?

Oscar Wilde died, disgraced and in exile, on 30th November 1900, famously saying 'Either this wallpaper goes, or I do' ... but what of his neglected wife Constance, who had predeceased him by two and a half years? How much did she actually know about her husband's sexual preferences? Rohase Piercy depicts Constance's state of mind in her novel, The Coward Does It With A Kiss. This is how she imagines the famous encounter between husband and wife at the Albemarle Hotel, where Oscar was staying with his lover Bosie, might have gone.

25th of April 1893

I have just returned from delivering O.'s letters – quite a few of them by now.  I went to the Albemarle, only to be told that he “and Lord Alfred Douglas” had left yesterday, apparently after some disagreement with the hotel manager.  I imagine that the disagreement was of a financial nature, for when the said gentleman eventually deigned to come and speak to me, he could hardly bring himself to tell me where they had gone.  At last he said, “They mentioned that they were going back to the Savoy, Madam,” oozing disapproval from every syllable, though whether of them or of the Savoy I am not certain.  By the time I arrived there, I was close to tears and the whole thing went very badly.

They were staying in one of the best suites of course, and I was shown into the sitting room; but they were still in the bedroom, and the door was open.  There was another gentleman present, and they were arguing, in French, about something to do with Salome.  When the boy announced me they all turned towards the door, very embarrassed, and O. apologised to the others in a low voice and came out to me in his dressing-gown.  He was very abrupt with me at first, but seeing that I was upset, and no doubt wishing to avoid a scene, he became kinder.

“My letters!  But how delightful to receive so many, and by special delivery!  Tite Street?  Is that really my address?  Do you know, it is so long since I have been to Tite Street that I'd quite forgotten I have a house there!  Thank you, my dear,” (kissing me on the cheek) “for reminding me that I have an address, even as lesser mortals.  Remember, O Poet, thou too art human!”

The others emerged somewhat shamefacedly from the bedroom, and Bosie greeted me in a quiet, sulky manner and then introduced me to the French gentleman, since O. was too absorbed in reading his correspondence to do so.  Monsieur Pierre Louys - I had never heard of him before.  He seemed quite at a loss, which made me suspect that the ignorance was mutual.  Bosie asked after the children, and I'm afraid I replied quite coldly, as I am now far from happy about his effect upon them.  Evidently he was supposed to be studying during his stay at Babbacombe, and had even brought a tutor with him; but if Cyril is to be believed, he avoided his lessons at every opportunity, and encouraged my boys to do the same.  Poor Miss Squine confirmed that she had a very difficult time with them while I was away.  Of course, I have not been able to speak to O. about it.

After a while O. interrupted the conversation, waving an invitation card under Bosie's nose.

“Did you know about this, dear boy?”

Bosie took and read it, with some surprise.  “Certainly not.  I have not been invited myself!  How very remiss of Mama.  I shall telegraph her about it today, and ask what she means by it!”

“Probably she does not know where you are.  There, Constance, it is not only I who deserve reproach; Lady Queensberry would no doubt sympathise with you.  You have an errant husband, she an errant son.”

“You're invited too, by the way, Constance,” said Bosie carelessly, handing the card to me – and I intercepted a look of annoyance from O. as I took it.  Sure enough, it was addressed to Mr and Mrs Oscar Wilde, and requested the pleasure of our company at Lady Queensberry's May Ball, to be held at Bracknell on the 19th.  I am utterly convinced that O. would have gone without me, and never said a word about it.

“It is very kind of your mother, and I shall write and thank her,” I said after an awkward silence.  Bosie gave an enigmatic smile.

“But will you come, Constance?”  His use of my Christian name, which I once thought so charming, was now beginning to grate on me.

I looked from him to my husband.  O. looked uncomfortable and disapproving, Bosie sly and vicious.  It dawned upon me that they had been having an argument, and that Bosie was endorsing his mother's invitation to me purely to cause chagrin.  How dared either of them think to use me as a pawn in their sordid little game!

My first instinct was to refuse; but I have said that I will accept the invitation, and have undertaken to write to Lady Q today on behalf of both O. and myself to that effect.  Why, I wonder?  I can hardly imagine that I will enjoy myself.  Did I do it purely out of spite?  Or am I just curious to meet Bosie's mother?  I should like to meet her, if only to find out what she thinks of O. and of his friendship with her son.  How much does she know, I wonder?

Yes, I admit it, I'm curious, and I am also spiteful.  O. had no right to humiliate me this morning in front of his friends.  I suppose he would say it was my fault, for turning up unannounced.

He bade me farewell in a very jovial manner.

“When are you coming home, Oscar?” I asked plainly.

“Home?  Ah yes, to Tite Street!  How I should love to visit Tite Street!  They tell me I have a charming house there.  Don't worry my dear, you shall certainly be seeing me at Tite Street sooner than you think.  The rates these hotels charge nowadays are quite shocking, and I hear that quite a number of perfectly respectable people are being forced to live at their own houses simply because they cannot afford to live anywhere else!”

I bade them all farewell, I hope reproachfully.  M. Louys looked amazed, and quite upset.  Yes, I think he was completely ignorant of my existence.

I could see the bedroom very clearly, by the way. There was but one bed.  I can hardly believe that O. and Bosie have been sleeping quite openly together in the same bed.  How could he do anything so blatant?  Is he completely mad?  Is he completely past caring what people will think of him?  Is he past caring what people will think of me?

I think I have found my one

This week we're delighted to host two short extracts by Betty Valentine. Betty is a writer and also the '15 minute poet' (check out her Wordpress site!) living in the Channel Islands. She's just completed her third novel which will be published by Green Cat Books next year.

Overture and Beginners is a romance between two sixty-somethings: famous little actor Jimmy and in-the-closet Pete, whom he employs to paint his windows.

Lots of people commented that I was looking well. The only one who twigged that there might be a new man in my life was my agent, Esther Bloom. At least she was the only one who came out and said anything to my face. Esther has never been one to hold back; it’s what makes her so very good at her job.

We have been friends for more years than either of us care to remember. We met when we were just starting out. Like all young actors just out of drama school, I was doing the rounds and looking for representation. I found Esther, who had recently finished a business and marketing degree. She had a few clients and was looking for more, so we agreed reasonable terms.

Esther is universally known throughout the business as ‘Brutus’. The origins of this nickname are lost in the mists of time. I have heard it said that it is in tribute to one of the large and menacing crocodiles in Peter Pan!

She certainly snaps at the best roles for her clients. Legend has it that people have lost fingers to Brutus. Kinder folk say she eats a couple of raw bollocks for breakfast every morning just to keep in trim; the smaller ones she wears as earrings!

She has been a bloody good friend to me over the years. I have returned the favour as we have both climbed to the top of the tall, greasy pole that is show business.

We have fallen out plenty of times and our spats are legendary. One of us, usually me, will back down and we will make it up. We share a special bond that can never be broken. She knows all my secrets and I know most of hers.

I went to see her at her office, as I had some contracts to sign and we had things to discuss.

“Jimmy, darling,” she said, giving me a long appraising look. She is as bad as me for smoking and we were both sporting an e-cigarette.

“You look amazing! Well it’s either Botox or a new man.” Her dark eyes narrow, “Oh not Botox then, do tell.”

I said, “It’s nothing,” but Brutus is not an easy one to fool.

She gave me another look and she said, “I do hope you haven’t been dipping into the sweetie jar again, Jimmy, remember all the trouble we had with Todd?”

“How could I forget!”

Brutus always called my younger boyfriends ‘The Sweeties’, because according to her they were pretty to look at and lovely to pig out on for a while, but they ended up being expensive and incredibly bad for you in the end. Most of them were not worth the calories, in her assessment.

I knew I was fighting a losing battle, so I gave in and confessed.

“OK, yes there is someone,” I said. I told her, “I think I have found my one, Bru.”

She looked over her Larsen glasses and snorted, “Heard it all before, dear, but I will be there with the hankies when he leaves you for some twink in the chorus.”

“When will you ever learn, Jimmy. Who is it this time? No don’t tell me, thirty-five, drop dead gorgeous, moving in next week because you can’t bear to be without him? That’s the usual recipe for one of your disastrous flings.”

I shook my head. “Not this time,” I told her. “He’s different. He’s older than both of us and he’s not in showbusiness.”

She smiled. Her teeth are small and sharp like a little rodent. She laughed and said, “My God, Jimmy P, how loved up are you? Do I hear wedding bells, dear? A celebrity hitch is always good for business.”

I told her it was far too early to be thinking along those lines and we got down to work on the contracts I had come to sign. I consider myself to have got away lightly and extremely lucky that she hadn’t wormed a name out of me. She was a master at that, the devious cow.

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We were happy, really happy. I lost weight because Pete cooks healthy food. Our first little bump in the road appeared in the shape of my youngest nephew, George.

George managed to get himself suspended from his boarding school. He had a furious bust up with his father, my brother Doug, who is just as stubborn as he is.

He walked out and ended up on my doorstep. Good old Uncle Jimmy took him in. I didn’t want him running off where we couldn’t find him and at least I knew he was safe.

George liked staying with me, so he stayed…and he stayed. The problems with this were many fold. I had to take him with me everywhere I went because I couldn’t leave him home alone. Wendy, bless her, minded him when I was working, but I had to take him to the theatre one night because she was busy. He really enjoyed himself and everyone backstage made a huge fuss of him. 

The second problem was even worse. Pete wouldn’t come near the place while George was in residence. You know how it is at the start of a relationship, those first wonderful weeks when you just can’t get enough of each other mentally or physically. That even happened for two mature gentlemen like us. We needed to be with each other, it was a hunger that wasn’t being satisfied and I was as cranky as hell.

Finally, after ten days of babysitting, no Pete, and no sex, I had had quite enough.

I got George a coffee and myself a scotch then I sat him down and laid it on the line.

“Look George,” I said, “I think it’s time you went home.”

He shook his head and said, "No way, you have a very cool life for an old bloke, Uncle Jim.”

I was fifty-eight, but obviously to George I seemed ancient.

Time to bring up the big guns.

“Did it ever occur to you, George, that I might have another life besides being on the telly and being your long-suffering uncle?” I asked.

“Not really,” he said. It was plain that this had never occurred to him.

“Well I do, and frankly, kid, you are seriously cramping my style.”

He gave me a look and said, in all innocence, “I’m not sure what you mean, Uncle Jim.”

George is a smart cookie. He knew exactly what I was talking about and I knew it too.

“Don’t play games, Georgie,” I said, giving him a raised eyebrow and a stern look.

“Dad told Mum you were off men after Todd. Just the odd casual pick-up,” he said.

“Did he?” I said icily, “Well he was wrong. As it happens, I do have a new boyfriend, but he’s a bit shy and he won’t come near this place while you are here.”

George enjoyed every moment of watching me squirm. Finally, he said, “You mean you aren’t getting any!”

I sighed, “Much as I think discussing my love life with a fifteen-year-old is a seriously bad idea, you have hit the nail squarely on the head. Now do your old uncle a favour and bog off home like a good boy.”

George winked and said, “Yeah OK, I get the message. You go to it, Unc, whatever you can manage to get up to, at your age!”

“Thank you,” I said, “I’ll try to survive it somehow.” Cheeky little beggar!

“Is he nice?” George asked. “I don’t want you getting all depressed again like you did with Todd.”

He was eleven when I kicked Todd out and I know it worried him.

“He’s not like Todd,” I said, “He’s a lovely man and he makes me very happy. I hope you can meet him some day, but not just now.”

“Good,” he told me, “Todd was a dick. You deserve better, Jimmy.” I was touched. We are a close family and underneath all the teenage bullshit there is a really nice kid.

“Remember, George,” I said, “Mouth shut, OK? And I will return the favour some time. I don’t want the entire Porter clan asking questions.”

He nodded and went to phone his Mum for a lift.

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P.S. If you fancy a bit more Betty, have a look at A Twist of Starlight.

He hated war, did my Dad

It's Remembrance Sunday here in the UK. Maggie Redding has shared this poem for the occasion.

War

The stories that my father told about the war

to end all wars, were tales of mud and wet and cold,

of fags, of bully beef, the roar of guns and bursting shells.

He spoke of gas, of mates, some killed or wounded

maimed.  Places listed, Arras, Ypres and Vimy Ridge.

There was a soldier boy, a German prisoner.

He fetched water for the British men in Flanders.

My father noticed that he had a limp. He moved

as though in pain.  ‘What’s up, then, mate?’

a homely phrase, so ordinary.  No hostile words,

no hate, no dread, only concern, humanity.

The fear that froze the prisoner’s face betrayed

the stories he’d been fed, that Brits they were a cruel,

 wicked race, they’d kill sick prisoners, they’d said.

The leg was wounded, bad and black. ‘Gangrene,’ Dad told us.

He had taken the lad for care.  Dad didn’t know if he went back

to Germany and lived on there.

He hated war, did my Dad.  Twenty years after that

He heard declared a new World War.

‘It makes you wonder,’ he would say.

‘Was it worth it?  What’s it for?’

Maggie Redding