Too Womaned Latimer: A Moral tale

 I like to think of myself as a man of the world.  I have seen many things as I served across the Queen-Empress’ Empire and good lord if one was easily upset by the hedonism one sees on The Mumbles, with their heathen gods and hot Welsh cakes one would be not fit for service.  Whatever two or three people get up to in the privacy of their own country estate is not my business but on reflection, if the could raise the number to four they could start a polo side.

It was that in mind that I was pottering home through Maida Vale in the grey dawn following a rather good dinner given by the ‘Antediluvian Edifices Society’ when I saw young Derrick Latimer furtively letting himself out of one of those discreet little flats known in those parts.  I was about to adopt the air of unseeing ignorance one adopts when the Vicar’s ‘Specialist Lithographs’ arrive in the post by mistake when I noticed something something a little odd in his gait.  He was not setting forth with the uplift of the adulterer one notes in popular fiction.  He was not downcast and shuffling forward burden down by the weight of his errors as seen in those Victorian Moralist art works.  No, it was if a man was worn out by a struggle so intense that no fellow with even an ounce of decency could have turned away.  ‘Latimer’ I called out.  He turned, a hunted man. ‘Stop fooling about and come with me we need to talk.’  I lead him to one of those early morning places which serve fried bread whose depth may be measured in inches and collops of bacon whose smell suggested to the senses that fat based sensual diversions were to be had and to hell with waistlines.  It was there the truth gushed out.

Now, I should tell you a thing or two about Latimer before we go on.  Latimer liked women.  No, not in the way that cove Casanova did and to be honest as he wrote his own account of his doings I really feel some exaggeration was at play there.  It is like allowing a fellow to keep his own golf card   Sometime the temptation is too much.    No, Latimer actually liked women, he went into a sort of soft focus whenever one of them came into a room.  It did not help matters that he had those matinee idol looks that leave men wondering what all the fuss is about and make shop girls get flustered and need to rearrange the shelves whenever he spoke to them.

Speaking to women is now, I believe, recognised as Modern Foreign Language and your local institute of Further Education can probably put you in touch with an evening class in it – beginners, intermediate or advanced.  I’ve never got to grips with it and find very soon after mastering ‘No, your fundament does not look big in that’ my mind wanders to sunnier pastures and I am brought back to reality with that metaphorical bucket of cold water that is ‘...and my sister will be staying for all of July.’   Latimer actually listened.  He could make acceptable comments which would praise the choice of garment but tentatively wonder if a deeper shade of peacock would be more flattering and was, in fact the same blue as the blue in the jacket, so would actually go with it.  He could discuss the hang of a dress and bemoan how some people would buy togs designed for quiet a different body shape.  Good God he could even remember birthdays!

It was not all one way traffic.  Latimer had an appreciative eye and found beauty where ever his gaze fell.  He could compliment a winsome smile or the handsomeness of a nose without being thumped for his temerity as you or I would experience and countered with the suggestion we were up to something and no we couldn’t take August off to tour the lesser known bowling greens of Herefordshire.

Well it wasn’t too long till young Harriet Brinsop made up her mind that being Mrs Latimer would be a suitable way to spend her time and in quick order they were married.  For several years all went well but Mrs Latimer, like so many wives before, began to find that Derrick was sometimes getting under her feet a little too often and so arranged a mistress for him.  After careful consideration a decent young thing called Katherine was appointed, a flat in Maida Vale secured and all proceeded as before.

This demi-paradise endured for several years.  Harriet had time to herself to further her control over all charitable enterprises in her native parish.  Not so much as a Cottage Hospital White Elephant Stall could be set up in her bailiwick without her expressed permission.  Katherine, a keen water colourist, could plan the times when she could complete neat little studies of Little Venice and the Bakerloo Line Ventilation Tower.  Both ladies enjoyed each others company and would often dine out together.  That they shared a certain similarity of shape and visage enabled meant, when Harriet was  too busy, Katherine could pretend to be her at some of the less important and more obscure evening business social functions Latimer was required to attend.

Like all Edens it had to come to an end and the Fall was terrible.  Latimer was generally quiet useful to both ladies as things still needed fetching from high shelves and the recalcitrant lids of jars had to be opened.  Then they decided that, all things considered, they wished to go on one those improving cruises around the Aegean and, what with one thing and another young Derrick would only get in the way and was not required to go.  Surely, I suggested, prospect of a summer free from freezing looks when you broke wind and the chance to eat meals free of all colour save beige was to be embraced.

It was at that moment Latimer broke down.  ‘They are interviewing for the post of second mistress’ he wept.  ‘What with one thing and another my income will only stretch to a maisonette in Hendon.  Think of the communing, think of having to remember three different favourite perfumes, think of all those extra parcels that will be need to be carried round Dickens and Jones.’ 

I sent for more tea but in the end I think some things are beyond even my powers to solve.  Poor chap, I saw him heading off to the Tube with a world of worries on his back.  I really think the padre could use him as a moral tale for young men.  Stick to Rugby, the risks of bodily injury are as nothing to the snares a life spent with women has to offer.