Eskimos & Burlesque Girls!

Funny sort of night last night; gets pretty spooky out here, all moon, stars and weird howling. Our closest neighbour’s a mile away; strange how quiet it can be when you live away from town. Often stand outside in the moonlight – imitate owl calls and frighten the kids. Hikers used to come past our house pretty frequently, but not so much anymore – word’s out there’s a crazy guy living down here – people say he wanders around with an axe and a chain saw, wears short pants and a far off look in his eyes. My wife reckons they’re talking about me but don’t believe her. Quite keen on trying my hand at writing horror stories; must delve deeper into the genre. Anyway, what the hell is wrong with short pants and a chain saw?

Got to find somewhere up in the mountains; maybe take up work as resident, winter caretaker to an old snowed-in hotel where I can finish my novel – our youngest can take his pedal-car...

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A right royal pair...

Wednesday night; bioscope night (movies), the main event of the week, an excuse for men to stand in the bar and get wasted whilst wife and kids were watching, ‘Loony Tunes’ and ‘Tarzan Swims across the Desert.’ The intermission or, interval as the locals called it was give or take a half hour long. Mothers drifted as matriarchal groups to the cocktail bar, a sort of safe haven; no kids allowed. A place of three fags and three drinks before the lights dimmed to call them back inside for the main flick.

Interval was the cut off point for us under-sixteens; volunteer Mine Club Gestapo patrolled the aisles and threw out any underage kids the mothers had missed.

Mother waved her fag at me; magic wand-like hoping I’d disappear.

‘You can’t watch, Jeffrey, the film is rated at four-to-sixteen; you’re too young.’ 

So off I sulked with the other four or so underage expellees. I remember the movie; Savage Innocence – Anthony Quinn, polar bears and Eskimo women with large breasts. Unbeknown to the club gatekeepers, we had a plan. Come hell or high water we were gonna watch the horny bits. Problem was, there was only one ladder; one ladder between five pubescent hillbilly boys. Then we discovered that the ladder came in three separate pieces; so up the pieces went and by standing on the second from top rungs and clinging on like geckos with our fingertips, we were able to see through the side windows. Three on the ladders and two unfortunates forced to straddle the gaps.

Worked really well up to the bit where the Eskimo lady took off her top for hot-lips Quinn. There, for five trembling lads; for five desperate seconds – stretched across the screen were the biggest Eskimo nipples this side of the Arctic Circle. We had seen what most other twelve year olds wouldn’t dare open their eyes to. All five of us swore an oath; that in ten years time, en masse we would catch a plane for Anchorage...

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Sons of Africa; an extract:

... ‘You’re gawping, lad – close your mouth before someone takes you for a herring.’

Mathew sucked in his jaw. ‘They’re almost naked.’ At that very moment Mathew knew that in his entire life he had never seen anything so beautiful.

‘Well, not quite,’ said Burnham, ‘but by the end of the night by God, I’ll wager a pound to a shilling they will not be far from it.’ He pointed out one of the burlesque girls. ‘The redhead, what do you say to that one?’

Mathew didn’t hear him. His life had filled with rouged cheeks and flouncing ostrich feathers, long silken legs that went on forever,  lips so deliciously coloured and shaped that to him, were rare, enticing blooms of subtle pinks and violent fiery reds. The crowd parted and in the eyes of drunken men these girls were gilded angels, heaven-sent for rumbustious Kimberley diggers. Cued by the piano they lined up; long legs and pink boas. A man at the back of the room could have heard the drop of a single pin.

‘Let’s have some order, then,’ shouted Michael ‘Taffy’ Thomas, a burly Welsh coal miner, now the owner of claim no. 408 near to the pit’s centre. His shirt was opened to the waist where a stomach half the size of a digger’s tent sagged to a leather belt. Every man at the Digger’s Rest was waiting, eyes popped like those of lovesick cows for a clear view of these six visions of perfect loveliness.

‘The ladies are hereby kind request of the management.’ His eyes were closed, imparting an atmosphere of mystery and amazement. ‘These wondrous creatures have travelled from the high class theatres of Port Natal for the cultural enlightenment of us Kimberley gents.’ He glared down upon the multitude. ‘So watch your manners. Any rough behaviour and whoever’s responsible will answer to yours truly – Michael Thomas.’

‘Get on with it, Taffy!’ Men hungry for even the slightest whiff of a woman’s scent were shuffling forwards.

‘Get a bloody move on, Thomas! You’re not the friggin’ vicar.’

The Welshman stood his ground.

‘Last but by no means least, gentlemen, don’t be shy with your money – the young ladies will be most appreciative of your donations.’

‘I bet they will, Thomas. Now get off the friggin’ stage before we damn-well shoot you.’

Cued by one of the girls, the piano player launched into a rackety rendition of Offenbach’s, ‘The Infernal Gallop’.

Burnham lit a cigar. The ladies from Natal went swiftly into their repertoire – they knew from a hundred similar experiences exactly what the diggers wanted and were holding nothing back.

‘Sweet mother of Mary. Would you get a load of that, sonny-my-boy.’

Mathew could not speak. His mouth was drier than the scattering of sawdust at his feet and he was loath to blink for fear of missing any of the lewd contortions being performed in front of him. He was lost between a world of fantasy and the Digger’s Rest, not even the miners’ ribald howls could turn his interest from these exquisite creatures.

Money flowed – bids were hurled, promises made and the ladies obliged – for the queen’s gold coin, men were taken far beyond their wildest dreams.

An auburn beauty with breasts the size of Tsamma melons fixed her eyes on the boy at the bar and crossed to where he was standing. Every eye in the room followed the sensuous sway of her hips, the languid slant of her eyes and the way her hair threw glints of copper and gold when she passed within range of guttering lamplight. The crowd parted to let her through then closed again behind her like some ancient biblical sea. She stopped within a foot of Mathew; a golden leopardess – a perfumed bird of paradise.

‘Come with me,’ she whispered, her voice mellifluous, that soft hypnotic lilt of a wild Karoo wind.

 To Mathew no other creature could have been made more beautiful. His legs were stiff, immobile things; rooted to the floor. He stared at her with wide eyes and his young heart raced and reared like wild water through the deep canyons of the Dragon Mountains.

‘I am your princess,’ she told him, her lips to his cheek, her voice little more than a husky whisper. ‘What do I call you?’

‘Mathew,’ he managed, but with a high unnatural pitch to his voice. ‘Mathew Goddard, Ma’am.’

Every man in the room craned his neck for a better view.

‘Everyone calls me Molly, Molly McGuire.’

Now the air was stale with smoke and sweat, Taffy Thomas, self appointed Master of Ceremonies bellowed encouragement.

‘And now for what we have all been waiting for!  I give you the queen of burlesque. The darling of the diggings. The most beautiful woman for a thousand miles either side of the Kimberley diamond fields!’ With outstretched arms and the rough, unkempt panache of an overweight ringmaster he delivered his gift to the crowd: ‘Gentlemen! A big hand and an open purse for the girl of your dreams – the most desirable woman between here and Pilgrims Rest!’ and with a final, brusque roll of imaginary drums: ‘The mistress of temptation – the one and only Molly McGuire!’

She winked an eye at Mathew, leaned forward and brushed his cheek with her lips.

 ‘Come see me when you’re eighteen and I will show you something really special.’ She turned for the stage and with that same licentious sway of her hips, floated away from the bar on a diaphanous cloud of pink and lilac feathers...

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