Search For the Woman

By George Eliot

SEARCH FOR THE WOMAN is the first of a quartet following the life and adventures of David through the astonishing social and political changes, in Britain and the wider world, from the end of the Second World War to the end of the first decade of the twenty-first century.

This book tells the story of an international romance through the social history of the Seventies, a time with particular resonance to the first decade of the twenty-first century. It is also a powerful polemic, told with humour and realism as the world approaches the year 2012.

In particular, David tries to make sense of the great changes in the relationship between the sexes during that time. Although written in fictionalized form, every word is true.

This is ‘A Kind of Loving’ for two decades later. A working-class boy makes good against the rapidly-changing and declining society that tries to hold back merit.

SEARCH FOR THE WOMAN puts the flesh of practical experience on the academic bones of Robin Baker’s brilliant ‘Sperm Wars’ and brings to life Andrew Marr’s ‘A History of Modern Britain’ showing how it really felt to live through those times.

The reader is uniquely drawn in with a style reminiscent of Hemingway. The witty, dry observations and insightful perspectives succinctly sum up the theme and bring it all to life. The poignancy where it appears adds to the roundness of the narrative. Readers who are old enough will be greatly impressed as it brings back many memories. Those too young to have lived through those times receive an informative experience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: George Eliot
• Release date: Mar 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458124043

George Eliot

George Eliot was the pseudonym for Mary Anne Evans, one of the leading writers of the Victorian era, who published seven major novels and several translations during her career. She started her career as a sub-editor for the left-wing journal The Westminster Review, contributing politically charged essays and reviews before turning her attention to novels. Among Eliot’s best-known works are Adam Bede, The Mill on the Floss, Silas Marner, Middlemarch and Daniel Deronda, in which she explores aspects of human psychology, focusing on the rural outsider and the politics of small-town life. Eliot died in 1880.

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SEARCH FOR THE WOMAN

SEX AND SATISFACTION

A NOVEL

ELIOT GEORGE

Published by Eliot George at Smashwords

First Published in Great Britain 2010

Copyright 2008 by Eliot George

~~~

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The moral right of the author has been asserted

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Public figures are described under their real names whether or not David meets them. Private people remain so. All the non-public characters in the book are fictional and any similarity to persons living or dead is coincidental. The genuine views, attitudes and opinions expressed are those of people in the real world. They are not the platitudes of brainwashed robots from the planet Naivo in the Orwellian nightmare of surveillance, hysteria and single-ideology conformity that is engulfing us.

~~~

For Billy Mac

William McDonald 1941-2002

The best mate I ever had,

A diamond geezer

Chapter 1 - INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS

No padlocks, bolts or bars can secure a maiden so well as her own reserve.

Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616) Spanish poet and novelist

~~~

Jamie leaned back expansively in his chair, a cigar in one hand and a gin and tonic in the other. Even at the age of twenty-eight, he was urbane and middle-aged in many ways, although he would be young in his humour all his life. He took a slow and deliberate look around the huge dining room of the Mar y Sol Hotel in Majorca and mused aloud to his companion David.

"It’s funny how the dago waiters try so hard and sometimes succeed in getting off with the foreign birds, while we never seem to have a go at the señoritas, highly desirable though many of them are. Don’t you agree, dear boy?"

The two lads were the oldest of friends, having met on their first day at Primary School, aged only four. ‘Dear boy’ was Jamie's favourite mock-pompous mode of address to David and often delivered as a stuttering impression (‘b-b-b-boy’) of Malcolm Muggeridge, Saint Mug himself.

It’s obvious why, Jamie. The Spanish blokes are getting nothing from their chaperoned Catholic women and they speak some English, so they try it on with all the European talent letting its hair down on holiday.

It was a wind-up but David had taken the bait, so he continued.

On the other hand, we don’t speak the lingo here and it would be a waste of our time. Anyway, we haven’t done too badly recently on the pull with our own women, have we?

This was a Spain in which General Franco, ‘El Caudillo’ [The Leader], was still alive, a Spain that was rapidly expanding its tourism but which still had pairs of Guardia Civil police patrolling the beach at night to prevent the licentious foreigners’ hanky-panky; they pulled the plugs of jukeboxes in outside bars at midnight. It was all very safe and disciplined.

Jamie continued calmly, not deflected from his purpose.

Yes, I know, all very true.

He cast another languid gaze around the dining room and at all the waitresses, who were getting along so happily with the largely middle-aged tourist couples, and said,

I bet you couldn’t pull one of those.

David realized that Jamie meant a señorita not a tourist, and he reacted immediately.

Right, you’re on.

This was the second evening of the first holiday that David had ever been on as a single man. Long years of study, engagement while at university, and immediate marriage at twenty-one followed by seven years as husband, father of two sons and rising academic had created Mr. Married Man, now suddenly free and unexpectedly available, as they say in show business.

Both Jamie and David had separated from their wives just a few months before. Jamie was working his way up in a travel agency, from office boy at sixteen to manager currently and director in the future. He looked like a cross between Rod Stewart and a young Peter Sellers, dark-haired and with a permanent suntan from all the ‘educationals’, as travel agents liked to call their junkets and ‘jollies’ abroad.

David had been the blond, blue-eyed boy and star pupil at their Primary School and had won a scholarship to the highly selective Endowed Grammar School. He had continued to excel at this old-fashioned ‘Tom Brown’s Schooldays’ establishment, with its dress and architecture from Hogwarts. It was tough intellectually and physically, and all-boys, so he had rarely as a teenager had any chance to test his prowess with the female of the species

During one period, at fifteen, he had become involved with the local fourteen-year-old temptress who was the most well developed girl on the council estate. David could not take her out for the simple reason that he had no clothes other than his school uniform; hardly cool attire for the cinema. On his London University Mathematics degree there had been only three women, none of them attractive, in a year of forty students.

Life was opening up sexually. A dare was an appealing proposition, especially as he had already spotted one waitress in particular, who was so vivacious that she stood out from the rest. She was an astonishingly exotic creature, all of four feet nine inches short [144.78 cms], small yet perfectly formed, a pocket Venus with shining black hair falling below her waist, hair so black that it shone blue and eyes that might have inspired the song ‘Los Ojos de la Española’ [The Spanish Girl's eyes].

In addition, this vision of loveliness seemed to be doted on by the tourists at her tables. David’s attitude was that if a man was going to get a knock-back, it might as well be from the best thing available, if indeed she was remotely interested. He was not a percentages player, only making a play if he was really interested himself and his hopes were bolstered by the manner in which they had circled one another warily a couple of times already in the dining room. Mutual curiosity was sparked by appearances that could scarcely be more oppositely attracting.

~~~

The immediate problem, though, was the small matter of no common language in which to conduct the chat-up. It was time to draw on his GCE French vocabulary, his GCE Latin grammar (studied for Cambridge University entrance) and the good offices of Beth, rep extraordinaria for Thomson Holidays.

Beth was about thirty and by no means glamorous but seemed already to be a good sort, with a Spanish boyfriend and the desire to escape the usual working boredom and the dreadful weather in England by repping in the sun. After explaining the situation to Beth (omitting to mention the dare part of it) David obtained, and memorized, a couple of sentences to make the attempt. Beth added an encouraging,

Good luck.

Playing everything as coolly as possible, David joined Jamie for the next mealtime. Their table companions were two very North Country types, a married couple of about their age, who both looked like models and spoke very ‘ecky thoomp’. The drinks waiter wore a cheeky grin while taking their order. As David sat down, the waiter was replying to male model.

"I yam ver’ sorree señor, we do not ‘ave zee Seven Oop, we ‘ave zee Seven Up, but we do not ‘ave zee Seven Oop."

Jamie was going slightly purple with suppressed laughter, like the Roman soldier forced to keep a straight face while listening to ‘Welease Woderwick’ in ‘The Life of Brian’. After another grumble, male model turned angrily to his wife, female model.

If I thought that booger were takin’ t’piss, I’d thoomp ’is bloody ’ead in.

With a superhuman effort, Jamie somehow kept the lid on his mirth. David only did so by thinking of the challenge in front of him. Jamie changed to that subject with an Inspector Clouseau impersonation.

"So, monsieur, ’ow is zee shall-onje?"

Female model, too, was interested in the romantic possibilities for David, having been let in on the situation by Jamie over the meal.

Good look, David chook.

Thanks very much, I’ll do my best.

On his way out, David timed it so that the object of desire was in his path. He stopped, and so did she.

– Me llamo David. ¿Cómo te llamas tú? –

[My name is David. What is your name?]

She did not seem too taken aback by his approach, and answered.

– Yo me llamo Monica –

[My name is Monica.]

– ¿Te gustaría salir conmigo esta noche? –

[Would you like to go out with me tonight?]

-- Sí, vale. ¿A qué hora nos encontramos? --

[Yes, okay. What time shall we meet?]

This scintillating exchange had done the trick but it exhausted David's newfound linguistic skills. He realized that she was asking him what time although he could not yet, of course, tell the time in Spanish.

Monica laughed in the wonderful, natural way that a girl does when she is confident in herself and her femininity. As he hesitated, she produced a ballpoint so that he could draw 8.30 on the palm of her hand. Cooperation is a marvellous thing. With a nod or three and more smiles, plus the suggestion by name of the delightful open-air restaurant on the corner of the beach road, the date was set and David joined Jamie in the hotel foyer.

This was all turning out quite brilliantly. David thought back to how he had barely made it on time to catch the coach for the airport, because of the aggravation from Hazel, the girlfriend who had been the 'other woman' in the separation. She had not wanted him to go on the holiday, clearly having more serious hopes for the relationship. Hazel was very adventurous in bed but represented no more than a symptom in the break-up of his marriage.

The flight had even been David's first. Unlike Jamie, who jetted off regularly yet clung to his seat in fear, he had thrilled to the exhilarating acceleration of take-off. On landing at Palma airport at midnight, courtesy of Freddie Laker, the door opened to a glorious wall of heat that hit him and then engulfed him. ‘I could really get used to this,’ he had thought. Jamie needed a week to unwind; for David the whole holiday mood had already relaxed him completely. The prospect of more excitement lay right ahead, literally round the corner.

~~~

David had been told during his time at RMA (the Royal Military Academy) Sandhurst that a good officer is always ten minutes early, so at 8.20 p.m. he was seated waiting at the romantically lit outside corner table, enveloped by the enchanting atmosphere of evening warmth in a foreign land. Monica turned up on time, hora inglesa [English time] rather than the lateness of hora española, which was a good start.

She looked quite ineffably cute and very effably sexy, like an exaggeratedly endowed little doll. Her clothes were simple yet classy, a top and miniskirt well coordinated, with high-heeled sandals that brought her up to an eye-poppingly proportioned five feet one and a half inches. ‘She could look good in a beanbag,’ David mused. He had never liked fancy clothes on women, believing that the body inside did not need camouflaging if it was attractive. Posh frocks and acres of silk and tulle were used to disguise unattractive bodies.

He was delighted to see her for reasons far beyond lust, however, and was not put out in the slightest by the fact that she had a companion, her waitress friend Corazon, who fulfilled the obligatory complementary role in two-girl partnerships, being plain, overweight and dowdy. She was not present so much as a chaperone or even as a free- loader but in the hope, expressed shyly, that Jamie would be present too.

-- ¿No está tu amigo? --

[Your friend is not here?]

Two words that David did understand were no and amigo.

Not an unreasonable idea, David thought, after standing up to welcome the two españolas and excusing his absent friend. How nice it was to be able to behave as a gentleman towards two young ladies who might be from poor families but who had been brought up with old-fashioned manners. While Jamie was off seeking more conventional prey, David was happy to be on his own with two nice Spanish girls, of real class.

So it was that an event that could have resulted in two or three excruciatingly awkward and boring hours became an evening that changed David's life. At the time it was enough to bask in the glow of curious glances from new acquaintances at the Mar y Sol who strolled past, did a double take and waved a cheery greeting. The two married models were among them, and female model looked particularly pleased.

Assisted by an English-Spanish dictionary that he had purchased hastily that afternoon, the apparent gain in information to David from the halting yet completely unembarrassed conversation was that Monica was seventeen years old and from Cordoba, on the mainland of Spain; she was a college student working as a waitress to earn money while on vacation and intended to go on to study medicine. Corazon was older at twenty-two and came from a more rural town in the mountains of Andalusia; at home she had a mini, the car rather than the skirt.

Sadly for lovers of truth, none of this was true, except perhaps Corazon's age and the identities of their hometowns. It was the female equivalent of the stories spun by the Spanish waiters trying to create a big impression on the wide-eyed foreign girls, who took it all in as part of soaking up their holiday romances. In them it was likely to evoke the response,

Oh Manuel, will you really come to Scunthorpe to see me when you qualify as a doctor?

David was more serious and realistic than that about the whole event, yet more relaxed about what he was being told. Looks and personality were what impressed him, not occupation or background. It all seemed perfectly plausible and Monica certainly looked seventeen. Many young women in England had a car and students worked in the summer vacations, as he had himself aged eighteen at Butlins Holiday Camp (or Stalag Luft Butlitz as the staff referred to it) in Bognor Regis. David shared the view of King George the Fifth.

Bugger Bognor!

The largest of the Butlin’s camps, it had 6,000 happy campers and 2,000 staff. Most of the staff were students, earning a princely half-a-crown a day [twelve and a half new pence] all-found. The majority of them were suffering from food poisoning.

Why should he care about details? However, Monica was not even her real name, which was in fact Maria Luisa. She told him subsequently that her nickname was Monica at the hotel because she looked like a popular television actress of that name on Televisión Española. Maria Luisa was also not seventeen, although David did not find that out for a long time. She was actually twenty-three, had finished her formal education a long time before and was a virgin. Corazon was not older and did not have a mini, the car or the skirt.

None of this would have bothered David at the time even if he had known the truth. He assumed that Maria Luisa was a virgin, being Spanish and seventeen years old. His Spanish was obviously not good enough to detect her educational level, something that, given his own working class background, his meritocratic education and his professional experiences so far, he could judge in a native English speaker within thirty seconds. Was it Oscar Wilde who said that when two Englishmen meet they take only one sentence each to despise one another?

It was true that Maria Luisa had come out to work the summer season in Majorca two years before with her older sister Angela, who was now twenty-six. Angela had met and married a local Majorcan man, Juan, and they had a one-year-old baby girl. Maria Luisa lived with them during the summer in the nearby town of Alcudia.

Juan was very much El Señor Casado [Mr. Married Man] and one of his several jobs [multiempleo] was as a part-time receptionist in the hotel, so David had already met him. Juan's full-time job was as a clerk in the local ayuntamiento [town hall]. He also played guitar in a band some evenings around the tourist hotels! He was such a nice bloke that he did everything that he was told.

It was not exactly unknown for young Englishmen on holiday to shoot a line either, and the number of fellers on holiday in Spain at any given moment who played in the West Ham United reserve or youth squads must have greatly exceeded the number known to Bobby Moore. The numbers of alleged SAS soldiers abroad (or in pubs in England) confiding this secret knowledge to strangers must also have been greater than the total the Regiment had actually contained since its foundation during the Second World War.

By contrast, and very amusingly, everything that David had told the girls was true but their body language clearly, though politely, indicated that he was, shall we say, exaggerating. You are twenty-eight? Oh, but you only look twenty-four, they said. (It was true, he did.) You are a university lecturer with two degrees who was a Captain at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst and you were elected a City Councillor at twenty-three? Of course you were.

They probably felt that if a person is going to exaggerate, he or she might as well follow Doctor Goebbels' theory of the Big Lie. So you have five cars, one of them a Lotus Elan sports car like the one that Diana Rigg had in 'The Avengers'? Why should we not believe this twenty-four- year-old inglés? He looks guapo [nice] with his pelo rubio [blond hair] and ojos azules [blue eyes] and he acts as a caballero [gentleman], so we can indulge him; after all we are exaggerating too?

-- ¿No es verdad? –

[Isn’t that so?]

They did, however, consider that last one about the cars to be really a bit too far over the top.

In fact, David was using his half of the house sale money (his soon-to-be ex-wife was a super person, disappointed by the split but very fair) to run a constant turnover of around five recent second-hand cars as a sideline, to satisfy his interest in cars and start to build up his capital again so that he could buy another property.

He got the cars from an older friend named Robbie who owned a garage and dealership. Most were less than a year old, ex managers' Fords that were well maintained. He turned them over quickly for a relatively small profit, by recommendations. This also provided a good standing joke, because David's main girlfriend back home was Robbie's niece Nicola. David deliberately always picked her up in a different car, leading to shock and outrage for her nosey neighbours and much twitching of lace curtains as twenty different boyfriends seemed to be taking her out every month.

None of the false stuff bothered David. So far in his life he had only had limited experience, essentially the same one hundreds of times with regard to sex and he had only known six women in total, in the biblical sense. Much worse in the way of bad treatment, and especially lies, would come his way in the years to come.

In the film 'The Last Boy Scout' Bruce Willis (who, like Elizabeth Taylor, was once accused of acting) was asked a question that had an obvious answer. David's best friend Charlie, a docker and true Eastender, would have given the reply,

Is the Pope a Catholic?

Bruce replied,

Water is wet, the sky is blue, and women lie.

It was only important for David at present that he had won his dare and was enjoying an exciting, if somewhat disturbing, experience. Previously his foreign travel had been limited to a holiday tour of Belgium, Germany, Switzerland and France on a whirlwind honeymoon. A hot Mediterranean country such as Spain had seemed risky for a fair-skinned Englishman. Now, he was falling rapidly in love with the country, its climate and the language of el castellano [Castilian], as well as (most disturbing thing of all) with one of the inhabitants.

This was the kind of girl one did not meet every day in Basildon, the spiritual home of Essex Girl, the Sharons and Traceys of legend and all-too-painful reality, the source of many jokes nationally. Why should he not widen his horizons and feel excitement?

For Maria Luisa, too, this was no idle liaison. Without being consciously aware of it, she had been waiting for something, like the couple in 'West Side Story'. Her type happened to be a tall, blond blue-eyed man and she had waited for him to arrive. She called him her vikingo [Viking], very appropriate given his family name of Wicking, and his fashionably (for that era) long hair.

~~~

Jamie was suitably impressed by the conquest, although having known David for twenty-four years (without remotely understanding him) he was not surprised. They were, however, on holiday together, so he encouraged David to get into the full swing of the other possibilities on offer in 'The Tourist Experience', as they say in the former colonies.

There are other young ladies around, dear boy.

I know, Jamie. Don't worry. I'm still available for foursomes.

Despite that, the next day David got down to some serious study of Spanish, the world language that, like English, had been 'a dialect with an army'. It struck him as being much closer to Latin than French or Italian. It was beautiful and non-degenerate, rather like . . . Maria Luisa.

French he had always disliked, for its nasal whine and pretentiousness, not to mention its speakers, containing world-class loser megalomaniacs like Napoleon (probably second only to Hitler as the all-time failure). Italian was histrionic and comic opera, impossible to speak without waving one's arms about. Its speakers never seemed to have won much either, except, of course, when they 'won' by buying referees. As Brian Clough