Arvon Pedante

Arvon Pedante: The Seductive Skirt
by
Kim West

Mildred Bhagatte fussed and tutted as she struggled to reconcile the
early morning vision of herself in her bathroom mirror.
"Surely," she thought
"I can look better than this and I can feel better if I look
better."

So she unleashed her wiry hair, snipped away a few of the crazier
strands of her recalcitrant fringe, stripped her make up down and tried
again and again.

Now let me assure you that Mildred does not exist. She never did and
never will; at least as far as I know. She's the potential of my
current mood. (probably my nemesis.) Let's conjure her some more:

Mildred is a woman (as they say) of a certain age, filled with a
certain measure of hopelessness, bugged by a certain degree of
despair.

That surname. How did she acquire it? Well she married an Asian doctor
who retired, transformed his love of sitar to the theorbo (an
extraordinary long- necked bass lute) and left her.

I know what you're saying: Why?

"Well," I can hear him say "who on God's earth could live with
her?"

I suspect he was very vain and probably hugely critical. Yes, I think
he had a hand in his demise. Now he seeks glamour in the early music
circuit.

Glamour?

Early music?

But anyway, his story is not this story. (How typical of him to intrude
and upstage Mildred.)
So that's a little about how she got her surname. Now then, who called
her "Mildred"? Not her mother, for sure. It was her father's decision,
but look don't let's go into that now.

Back to Mildred, who was getting more and more het-up. She chucked her
makeup bag across the room with a "Humph!". Twenty lipsticks clattered
and fell open, smearing the wall like a miniature Pollock art piece.
Three shades of lavender eye shadow spilled onto the carpet and a pot
of powder sent up a smoke signal.

"Oh blast! Now I'll have to clean that up."

But she didn't. She didn't that day or the next. She had plenty of
reserves in her compulsive purchase hideaways, so eventually locating a
tangerine lippy at the back of a long forgotten junk drawer and
retrieving a grey eye shadow from her handbag, she made a passable
image of herself, dressed and left her flat.
And now, of course, she'll have to have an adventure.

Mildred Bhagatte arrived in du Maurier country. She had bundled a large
chaotic suitcase into the Daimler and driven one evening to Cornwall,
where she now sat in the early hours of the morning drinking tea, the
hotel room windows wide open, waves crashing on the rocks below. She
breathed deeply.

"Thank God!" she murmured on an exhalation.

"Thank bloody God! Let the cleansing commence."

Mildred heaved her bed up close to the window, jumped in and that night
slept a deep rich sleep, more settled than she had been for months. The
bracing air and endless pursuit of the sea had calmed her. She dreamt
vividly of childhood places, but most memorably of the neighbour's
farmhouse where she had spent her summer holidays.

In her dream she found the old farmhouse had been shut up for years and
she was now given the duty of sorting through its furniture. The whole
place was full of dusty and rusting treasures. In her dream she even
had access to the attic and found it to be not the fearful place she
had always imagined. Under a huge dustsheet she discovered a Colonial
style cane settee that felt welcoming. A set of unusual black dining
chairs embossed with silver art nouveau plaques on their backs, lurked
under further dust- sheets.

Although she owned none of this, she knew that she was in some way its
custodian and therefore took some pleasure in allowing herself to
respectfully search even through drawers and cupboards. Mrs. Lime, the
kindly neighbour whose property this had all been, seemed to live on
forever. Mildred and a handful of neighbourhood children could call at
her door and there would be buns and milk and a warm welcome by the
stove. She was everyone's substitute proper mum, whilst actual mums on
the estate pursued their frenetic careers with the assurance that Mrs.
Lime would, like some unpaid youth worker, keep an eye out for their
children. Not that she simply accepted the role.

"Your mummy should be at home with you Mildred. It's not right," she
often maintained.

Once, Mildred had told her mummy this and there had been a falling out.
An atmosphere of
"How dare she?" and
"Who does she think she is? She's so old fashioned and set in her ways"
ensued.

Mildred was told to steer clear, but she didn't. There was a collusion
of silence in future over the matter. In any case, Mildred loved to
knock on that carved oak front door and gain admittance to the dark old
house. She loved to warm her toes and to tease Mr. Lime, who was always
doing jobs in the garden.

These surfacing memories in Mildred's dream that night were pleasant
and reassuring. She woke refreshed. Memories of the stiflingly enforced
politeness of hotel breakfast encounters led Mildred to seek her own
breakfast treat at the local up-market craft centre. Here a young man
with iridescent eyes winked at her as he smilingly served her coffee,
banana smoothie and a cheese scone. Blushing, she retreated to a corner
made private by greenery and a wrought iron room divider and through
this she could peek at her waiter, who would occasionally throw
lingering glances her way.

He thought she was someone famous, but couldn't remember who. Stunned
by his attentions, Mildred thought he was far too beautiful to actually
be attracted to a woman of a certain weight. Especially as that woman
was suffering all those manifestations of being (shall we say) at a
certain time of life as well as age. Blushing, of course, came
easily.

For the next three days she found herself addicted to this early
morning flattery and lingered in the seaside town, browsing shops and
patrolling the coastline with her cliff top meanderings and compulsive
beach combing reckies. Shells now clattered with loose change and the
tangerine lippy in her straw bag. Sand now bedded down in her shoes.
Our Mildred was loosening. Each day she blushed with delight as the
winking waiter welcomed her.

"Are you alright?" he would purr.

"Yeees" her whispered response

"The usual?"

"Yeeees"

"I'll bring it over to your table"

"Yeeeeees"

On the fourth day, as she made her way through the kitchen furnishings,
candle shop, herb gallery, woodturning display and muffin bar, she
found herself seriously considering the purchase of an Arvon Pedante
feathery crinkled skirt from the exclusive collection of very expensive
designer goods displayed with someone's relish and great drama, in the
corner of the craft centre's boutique.

She contemplated wafting into the caf? in her Arvon Pedante and
inviting that saucy waiter to nestle in next to her for a coffee and
all sorts of under the table naughtiness, masked by the fantastic
skirt.

That morning she had spent two hours preparing to look casual. Every
crevice had been swept clean and every surface waxed and polished. She
gleamed and shimmered. She felt a powerful transformation from her
former London-based dumpy middle-aged self and let her blushes feel
good as she turned into the caf?. However, he was not there.

A plain girl was hosting the counter and Mildred's waiter was not to be
seen. In a panic, Mildred swung round and swiftly returned to the Arvon
Pedante collection, from where she was able to monitor the caf?
counter. Now she really blushed. It must be the waiter's day off.

"Clang!" went her aspirations.

"Thud!" went her transformation.

"Shit!" she thought.

She forfeited breakfast altogether and sped back to her hotel room to
re-group.

The hotel room infuriated her. It was drab and uninspiring. From her
window the grey horizon was punctuated by pinhead yacht silhouettes.
The laughter and toddler wailing of the streets precluded any
tranquillity. The eternal backdrop of the surging sea crazed her.

Why wasn't he there?

It was just not fair.

What if she'd spent that ?230 on an Arvon Pedante skirt?

Where was he?

Mildred considered going to bed for the day just to dispose of the
hours between that morning and the next. She began to hate that waiter
for teasing her. Yes he probably worked hard and needed his day off.
But she needed her daily flirt. It heightened her and helped transcend
her gloom. Most of all it gave her the imaginative possibility of
shagging a beautiful young man, albeit with a certainty that this would
be far from his intention. In the back of her mind Mildred felt that
should the opportunity (shall we say) "arise", she would be able to
"persuade" him.

She ordered coffee and croissant in her room and sulkily partook of
these beside her open window.

A very large cargo boat full of china clay was being guided out to sea
by a minute tug. The cartoon size passenger ferry was beavering to and
fro the headland. Tears rolled freely down her cheeks, adding a certain
salty piquancy to the soggy croissants.

"I'm not famous," she muttered

"I'm just an anonymous old bat, who makes a dreadful fool of
herself."

Just then there was a knock at the door and a maid walked briskly in to
perform the morning routines. Mildred grabbed her bag, brushing tears
aside and left without a word. A trail of croissant flakes marked her
pathway out of the room.

"Bitch" cussed the maid to herself, staring at the crumbs and vowing to
bloody poke around in that cow's drawers and find some trophy to
compensate for the rudeness.

In the street Mildred gained a little equipoise. Invisibility does that
for you, doesn't it? She dissolved her sallow jaded feelings into the
melee of seaside humanity and performed therapy upon herself with a
shopping spree.

Lunch at the craft centre confirmed that indeed it was her beau's day
off, as she over heard two staff talking about him.

"Sure Michael'll be back tomorrow and we'll ask him then."

"Yeah Michael knows it all."

"Sure."

Now Mildred radiated hope. He hadn't gone on holiday. Arvon Pedante
would inveigle his way into her shopping bag. Breakfast tomorrow would
change Mildred's life. It took her a while to realise that a wispy
haired woman was now seated beside her. This lady of more than a
certain age was soon joined by two sisters of the same era and
wispiness.

"I hope that you don't mind" one asserted with a dear little
smile.

"No, not at all."

"Thank you so much."

And so Mildred was engulfed, feeling drastically aged and unflattered
by their attentions. What if he should walk in now? The three witches
were extremely friendly and assuming a mutuality of interests, began to
include Mildred in their debate over what would thrive on a south
facing wall in Pimlico: A vine? A fig tree? Peaches? Or just a mass of
cascading fuchsia? Mildred really didn't want to get involved. She
noticed that one of the witches sported a startlingly huge replica
scimitar brooch that fastened a tartan scarf around her wizened
torso.

To add to her discomfort, she now noticed that a very young child was
staring knowingly at her from the next table. Just staring and staring.
Its parents were gobbling their food and chattering away, but the child
in its high chair was fixated on only her. Not the wispy witches that
hemmed her in, just Mildred. To alleviate discomfort, Mildred winked.
The child smiled and nodded his head like a little old man.

The witches were now talking passionflowers and hanging baskets. The
child pointed his finger at Mildred. She let her tongue flit out and in
quickly like a lizard. The child chuckled. The parents stopped gobbling
and frowned at Mildred with a:
"Don't stare at the lady Desmond, it's rude," before resuming their
gobbling.

Mildred winked at the child again. The child smiled a Buddha smile.
Mildred excused herself from the coven and made her way to the counter.
The scimitar brooch glinted.

"I need to contact Michael. I'm his aunt. Could you give me his
address?" she managed in a casual throw away style. The plain girl
responded.

"Sure, he lives above the bakery." The bakery was but a few yards away.
Now she had something to do. The plain girl could surely blow her gaff
if she didn't follow this through.

But Mildred's one of those types who lurches into things with little
forethought. You would worry for her if it wasn't for the knowledge
that she's predominantly fictitious. So we'll allow her the ability to
constantly kick herself back into shape, despite her despair.

She dashed back to her hotel room, showered and donned the Arvon
Pedante skirt with a Wonder Woman flourish. She felt invincible, but
irritatingly, could not for the life of her locate her expensive
tangerine lippy. She settled for scarlet instead. She felt utterly
sexy. Totally attractive. Immeasurably irresistible. Quite
superlative.

Elizabeth Arden cologne.
A ruffle of her unruly fringe preceded a sweep into the hotel lobby
like the famous chic starlet she always knew she should have
been.

"I am famous" Mildred exuded.

"Christ" exclaimed the maid, viewing her rear as it glided towards the
revolving doors.

If we were to be kind to Mildred we would wish her well, ensure that
despite some tricky moments she meets that winking waiter and some kind
of empathic liaison takes place between them. This would probably not
need to be overtly sexual, but more likely a feely touchy moment that
enabled Mildred to move on in her Daimler to a happier future.
However, for my taste that's somewhat insipid and it's just not going
to pan out like a Mills and Boon. I'm sorry if you think I'm cruel, but
let Mildred dangle a little more. Let there be a precarious quality
that builds our anxiety for her. Let's suffer with her.

Little Mildred pivoted on tippy toes for her appreciative family. The
new peachy coloured muslin party dress was a shortened replica of her
mummy's new Spanish style evening gown. To this had been added a
gleaming white lace edged collar. Mummy's dress had a plunge neckline
not suitable for a child. A lovely fluffy petticoat flounced out the
skirt and Mildred twirled and twirled. Mummy clapped her hands in glee.
She had sewn her fingers to the bone to prepare for Mildred's birthday
party.

"Ah Cherie"
Her father smiled, but now Mildred could sense his reserve.

"What is it Daddy?"

"Well dear."

"Yes?"

"Well."

"Yes?"

"Well aren't you a little old for this?"

The joy screeched to a halt. Her mother gasped. Mildred swallowed and
stared hard at him, lips firmly shut. This was a moment that remained
etched upon her psyche. It hung ominously there to remind her of how
pure, innocent pleasure could be sliced by her father's emotional
ignorance.

So that is what Mildred remembered as she swung into the revolving door
on her way to ravish the winking waiter. It was like a pie in the face.
The perpetual motion churned her forward and then round and round and
back inside and round again. (No! the Arvon Pedante skirt didn't get
trapped in the doors to become hideously mangled, leaving her in her
knickers just as the young man emerges from a shop across the road.
Come on that's slap-stickingly cruel.)

Ruffled and flustered, Mildred stepped free and out onto the busy
pavement taking great care that Arvon was not left behind. But now she
felt sick. Memories of father's shattering critiques had the power to
dissemble. Initially, life with "Dr. Theorbo" (as Mildred now referred
to her estranged husband) had been a blissful dissolution of the
strength of these memories but the decline of their relationship and
his own increasingly critical stance had rekindled the old
insecurities. Now she had Dr. Theorbo's personal remarks to spice her
father's thoughtlessness. No wonder she felt sick.

Dr. Theorbo would remark that he needed to get away from her "BULK". He
told her she was "UNFOCUSSED", "BORING", an "OVERGROWN CHILD". She
responded with a blanket of quietness and retreat. For several years
she hid from him, allowing him to dominate their London flat and taking
only the smallest room for herself. Her work as a college lecturer
allowed her to be herself and maybe she was somewhat chaotic and
unfocussed, but she got by and didn't have to resort to fags or drink.
Whereas, Dr. bloody Theorbo got more and more indulgent. Loud dinner
parties, to which she was not invited, ravaged the flat. She was almost
like Mr. Rochester's first wife. Isolated. A thing of shame. At least
he didn't go so far as to employ a severe housekeeper to dominate her
and protect him from her needs. Once he had retired, the whole thing
became impossible. His theorbo became his life.

All of his friends were early music buffs and each evening there would
be rehearsals for an itinerary of obscure concerts. Men and women who
looked as if they had stepped out of aged tapestries, would appear with
their long white beards, smocks and woven autumnal shawls. There was a
plethora of socks and sandals.

Now Mildred wasn't slim or exotic, but she wasn't a relic. She was
quite well read and she did have a working knowledge of contemporary
style from her students. Whether the good Doctor ever achieved
gratification of his desires with any of the whimsical medieval ghosts
that formed part of his entourage, Mildred could not testify. But she
could testify that his pursuit of glamour in that field was surely
unfulfilled.

In her own way Mildred was a pragmatist. She also sought a sense of the
glamour in her life. When the Doctor left her, she claimed the London
flat for her own. This much was agreed. He also left her the Daimler
and settled a nice lump sum for her to invest. The actions of a guilty
man, undoubtedly. She felt no remorse at his departure, just a relief
to be left a huge blank canvas to paint herself a future upon.

Now you might think things would go well. For you or I the combination
of a "nice lump sum" and a "blank canvas" would be an opportunity to
carefully select elements of a tasteful future. We would re-decorate
and obliterate that dull past. But actually, Mildred just sprawled. She
yawned and sprawled. She was so relieved to be alone, at last free from
the shackles of her loveless marriage that she let herself recuperate.
She took life at its steadiest pace.

So now you ask
"What's she doing in du Maurier country?"

Well, she's just following her fancy. It sounded good in a magazine
article:
"Visit the charming port of Fowey, home of Daphne du Maurier.
Overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, this deep-channelled estuary is a
peaceful, unspoilt haven for boating enthusiasts and walkers."

Mildred had never read any du Maurier, but vowed to do so in this
idyllic setting. However, her adventures with the winking waiter had
usurped her good intentions and here she stood, a picture of wonder in
that stunning Arvon Pedante skirt and her loose silk blouse. The skirt
whispered around her freshly waxed legs mellifluously. Despite this
though she felt like a silly showing off child. And that, of course, is
when she saw him. Her winking waiter was crossing the road sporting a
beaming smile. He was heading straight for her.

In a great wave of panic she dived into what she had thought was a
street caf? and found herself in a grimy bar with plastic table covers
flapping in the breeze of a clattering ceiling fan that threatened at
any moment to loose itself and instigate a terrible carnage. She
winced, feeling like Audrey Hepburn in the wrong movie, "Breakfast at
Tracey's" rather than "Tiffany's". She sat down at a table well away
from the window and quickly ordered a coffee. Michael, the winking
waiter breezed past the caf? . She let her head rest into her
hands.

What were her intentions?

What on earth was she playing at?

To these and other self flagellations she could only answer that she
didn't bloody know. At least she could be truthful. She just didn't
know. She had allowed herself to surf off on an idea. Now reality
crunched in. The coffee when it arrived, was appalling. The cup had a
minute handle and so she had to hold it in both hands and nearly burn
herself in the process. The designer skirt cringed under the filthy
table. A shaven headed thug with huge bushy eyebrows came to clear the
unspeakable remains of someone's fried breakfast. Mildred simply could
not merge and so she paid quickly and left.

Relieved to be back in the fresh air with Arvon Pedante floating around
her, Mildred was startled to find that Michael the winking waiter was
but a few yards away, chatting vigorously to another lad. He waved at
her . She gave a nervous involuntary flap of the hand and scuttled off
at some speed, Arvon billowing like a beautiful sail. Oh how she wished
for invisibility.

Michael ran to catch her up, calling
"I say, excuse me."

Panting to catch his breath he touched her arm.

"Please stop for a minute."

Crimson with a shame/despair/delight/terror cocktail, she managed to
halt.

"Just for a minute, I'm in a hurry," she managed.

And that's where we should leave them to it. Let's be discreet for
once. Suffice it to say that they developed a good friendship and over
time the young man finished university and got a job in London at the
Victoria and Albert Museum. Michael lodged with Mildred and they lived
happily ever after. Mildred was run over by a bus soon after her
sixtieth birthday and Michael inherited her flat and possessions, after
a brief but bloody tussle with Dr.Theorbo, who thought that they were
rightly his.

"Gulp!" I hear you interject "I'd never have guessed that."

Well of course it didn't work out that way. I suppose you want to hear
all the details of how it really did work out, don't you? You don't
want to leave it there any more than I do. We're both too nosy.

Here we go then:

Some time after this accidental meeting and after a series of
intentional ones, Mildred and Michael became firm friends. Not lovers.
No, they were friends. Michael never made a move and Mildred found
herself relieved about that. She couldn't help imagining herself
inadequate in that department. Not to say that they didn't hold hands
merrily keeping company along the cliff tops and beaches as they talked
and talked about life and the sea and the boats and the people they
knew. Arvon Pedante was aghast at being presented to the world daily.
He became a little grubby and jaded, but billowed all the same. He
couldn't help it, it was his nature.

The summer ended and Arvon Pedante had been dry cleaned six times
already. He was pleased to nestle into Mildred's suitcase along with
her other new summer purchases.

Mildred had abandoned her old wardrobe altogether, binning most of it
unceremoniously. The mendacious maid had relieved her of many a
frivolous item of jewellery and make up. Mildred did not care. She felt
lighter for it.

Now came the time to return to London. Mildred sat on the edge of her
bed, suitcases packed, jazz on the radio. She knew she would nurse an
ache for his company. The jazz wasn't helping. It was connecting to her
fear of impending displacement. It excluded her in its chumminess and
she failed to reach out to it. Music's like that isn't it? If it's not
your thing you can't do it. Mildred liked music from the shows:
Oklahoma, Carousel, The King and I.

She said her cheerios to her friend in the pub and was setting off to
drive back through the night in order to avoid the traffic. They would
talk the next evening on the phone. He would finish his job the West
Country and make his way to London to visit her on his way to Edinburgh
and university life. She would see him in two weeks.

Leaving several unwanted items of clothes and some old lipsticks and
nail varnish on the bed with a note saying,
"You might as well have these too," she quit Fowey.

Back home Arvon Pedante got placed out of sight in the depth of a dark
closet. Mildred returned to college a month later. Predictably the
young man neither called nor visited. Mildred did not know where he was
or what he was doing.

"Am I a ghost?" she would ask herself.

"Did I dream that met him?" she would muse.
As she grabbed her workaday clothes from her closet in the typical
morning haste; having usually slept through the alarm, Arvon Pedante
would rustle a little. She would smile.
"It won't be long," she would reassure him.
But it was long. It was a full term at college before Arvon saw the
light of day again. Mildred found him lying on the floor of closet one
morning. It was like he had thrown himself there. Maybe it had been an
attempt at suicide. Crease-proofed as he was, Mildred took him in her
arms, immediately beaming into the beautiful summer days of fun. A
burst of happiness came upon her.

"Oh bugger that boy. It's time to get laid," she screeched to
no-one.

She entered the college foyer as though it were that grand hotel in
Fowey and swirled down the corridor to the staff room. She swept in and
straight into the arms of Donald Dolense, the Maths lecturer.

"You'll do" thought Arvon Pedante and positively enveloped him as
Mildred tripped and fell.

"Mildred," gasped Donald Dolense. "You stunning creature, let me assist
you and your wonderful skirt." He gathered her from the floor, skirt
and all and propped her up against the pigeonholes. Mildred's hair was
truly wild. In her haste she had forgotten to brush it. Donald's eye's
popped out of their sockets as he oggled her unbuttoned blouse. In the
heat of the moment the blouse had conspired with Arvon Pedante to
unleash a tantalising hint of her nice pink wholesome breasts.

"Your blouse"

" Oh God. Forgive me."

" On the contrary Mildred, it's been a great pleasure." Suddenly
overwhelmed, he kissed her desperately and sploshingly hard. Mildred
squealed as she was pressed against, on the one hand, the wire mesh of
the pigeon holes and, on the other, this actually rather handsome
middle aged mans' alert body.

"Ooooh" she sighed as other staff, horrified yet amused, struggled by
to reach their mail.
Arvon Pedante was already planning his next conquest.

Well there you have it: A surprisingly happy outcome. Who knows, the
crucial ingredient for success against the odds may be an extravagant
item of clothing that helps you supersede your former self. Certainly a
visit to the seaside can always stir romance, and most definitely money
helps.

Go on, what have you got to lose?