In 1975 Patricia Highsmith, creator of The Talented Mr Ripley and Strangers on a Train, published a book of short stories called Little Tales of Misogyny. The following story is an homage to the spirit of that excellent collection. Ideally, it should be read whilst drinking a cup of hot, sweet tea and eating a chocolate Hobnob.
Your right to swing your arm ends where the other person's nose begins.
The Fran Lebowitz Reader.
10.53 A.M. IT WAS a clear, bright morning in late autumn, and Pam was making her way along the canal, a few minutes’ walk from home. Wrapped up against a chill wind, she was enjoying some fresh air before the next shower of rain. She hated the cold, and at this time of year she liked to make the most of the sun when it appeared.
For the last twenty-four years, Pam had lived alone in a terraced house in the village of Belhampton, and most days, weather permitting, she went for a constitutional. She’d been in her thirties when she moved there after her mother died, and she was proud of her cosy little nest. At last she’d got it just as she wanted it.
About a year ago she had quit her job as a dental receptionist. Why not? She didn’t think people should have to work until they dropped. She’d always been sensible with money, saving whatever she could, and she wanted to devote more time to her interests. All being well, she would just about have enough to see her through until her pension kicked in.
Apart from a hint of arthritis in her fingers and some stiffness in her hip, Pam felt fit. Though she was happy enough in her own company, friends in the village made her feel part of the community. She was a cheerful soul, and you would probably never have noticed, not unless you were paying close attention, but mentally Pam was not so well.
At the age of three, Pam had been attacked by the family dog. It was a spaniel, and it had always seemed so placid and loving that her parents had left her alone with it. When they heard screams coming from the living room, they rushed in to find Pam lying on the floor, the dog still attached to her right thigh. The little leg was so badly mauled that Pam had to endure painful skin grafts and months of convalescence. Some of the muscle damage was permanent, and despite physiotherapy, she walked with a limp. The shock of the attack had left her with no memory of it; no idea why the animal had lashed out. A sudden, misinterpreted movement, maybe? Whatever the reason, the repercussions had been severe and long-lasting. Pam had developed an obsessive compulsive disorder; a malfunctioning of her brain's disgust reflex. Despite a course of therapy, it appeared to be incurable, and unsurprisingly, it went hand-in-hand with an aversion to dogs.
As a tot Pam had loved dogs, and living alone, she might have enjoyed having one as a companion, but it was impossible. Pam could not have a dog in the house. She couldn’t even stroke a dog without immediately having to wash her hands. When outdoors she was always hyper-alert, scared that an unleashed dog might jump up at her. Some owners let their dogs run free along the canal towpaths, frightening the wildlife. A few years ago, while she was running in the park, a Staffordshire Bull Terrier had hurled itself against her while its owner looked away. The animal’s body felt as dense as a cannon ball, and Pam was petrified. She never went running again.
Pam’s gaze rarely left the ground when she was out and about. Despite the "No Dog Fouling" signs scattered through the village, piles of abandoned faeces sullied the pavements, and the dread of accidentally stepping in it and trailing it into the house was too great. The extra mess in the quieter lanes finally drove her away. She had loved blackberrying there in late summer, but it was just too stressful, not knowing who or what might be around the corner.
Despite these difficulties, or perhaps because of them, Pam had not yet given up her walks along the towpath towards the aqueduct. It was a spectacular construction, some eighty feet high, and it carried the canal over the valley. Its footpath was no more than three feet wide, and two people could just about pass each other without touching. A five-foot railing served as a safety guard, and the views from it were breath-taking. Far below on one side was a field full of Jersey cows; on the other pottered a flock of black-faced sheep.
It was glorious to stand at the half-way mark and take it all in, but it was always too busy, and despite the dangerous drop, dog-walkers flocked there, some letting their animals roam loose when it was at its most crowded. There could have been an accident, but this didn't seem to occur to anyone but Pam.
11.07 a.m. Pam arrived at the aqueduct. She had already dodged a couple of loose dogs along the canal path, but she thought she’d see how things looked on the bridge before turning for home. The sky was cloudless and blue, and the stiff breeze made her nose tingle. She was glad of her woolly hat, and the navy puffer coat that covered her from throat to mid-calf. It was a bit long really - Pam was only five foot two - but it was lovely and warm, and it made her feel safer when braving the outside world.
Unusually there wasn’t a soul around. It looked as if this might be a rare chance to enjoy the view, so she continued onwards. In a couple of minutes she had reached the middle. Suddenly, a figure in a red and white striped beanie and a waterproof jacket appeared at the other side. He had a dog; a boisterous spaniel that scuttled about, sniffing enthusiastically. Startled, Pam looked behind her. Another male dog walker had appeared at the other end. She was trapped, and there was no option but to keep going.
As the man in the red and white hat drew nearer, Pam saw that he was a burly, red-faced, middle-aged bloke about six feet tall. His dog was not on a lead, and Pam’s heart pounded as she focused on the two figures, steeling herself to get past them as quickly as possible.
The man in the hat did not break his stride. As he approached, the spaniel dashed over to Pam and did a little jump. Pam wobbled and nearly pitched over into the canal. Luckily the dog was busy picking up a scent, and to her profound relief it skirted around her and dashed on its way.
The owner drew level with Pam. Despite her nauseating fear, Pam knew that it was her illness that was making her feel this way, and she intended, as always, to pass by without comment. She lowered her head.
"You nearly fell in then!" said the man, chirpily. Pam looked up at him. He was smirking. He thought it was funny. Pam's terror, it seemed, had brightened his day.
"Well you might want to put your dog on a lead on here," Pam started to say quietly, but before she could even finish the sentence, the man started braying in a bizarre, sing-song voice: "BO-RING KARE-EN! BO-RING KAR-EN!"
He had now passed behind her. Shocked, she turned to face him. He was fifty if he was a day, and his puerile outburst had taken her by surprise. Was he out of his mind?
Pam was no stranger to male aggression - casual chauvinism and harassment had been the stuff of her youth. Her dad, who had died when she was twenty, considered housework to be "women's work". “What use will you ever be to a man?" he had once sneered, just because she was starting to reject his rules; his belief that women existed mainly to keep husbands happy. When she mentioned feminism, he shouted: "Don't talk that rubbish here!" Pam’s dad shouted a lot.
The outside world was no easier to navigate. Once, in her mid-twenties, Pam was out for a drink with friends. At the crowded bar she suddenly felt a pair of hands on her backside. Humiliated, she turned around and shouted in the face of the perpetrator, one of a group of drunken yobs, who clearly hadn’t expected retaliation. He looked startled, and stared glassily ahead. It was scant compensation for the sexual assault, and just one of the horrible, degrading experiences that were part and parcel of the sexism that was so pervasive in those days.
That wasn’t the worst of it. In one twelve-month period during the nineties, Pam had been flashed at on three separate occasions by different men. Friends had laughed when she told them about it, and she was stung by their insensitivity: these experiences had been extremely upsetting, and she still wondered whether any of those perverts had ever gone on to commit worse crimes, all because she hadn't been able to face going to the police. Now, dignity was Pam’s most precious possession, and though she detested confrontation she was liable, if pushed hard, to push back.
She sized up the oaf. She knew the term “Karen” of course. It was a pejorative used by the kind of men who thought that women past child-bearing age were nothing; men who thought that women should be quiet. Pam reckoned she was quiet enough, always trying to mask the symptoms of her illness so as not to upset anyone else; always being ignored while others did as they pleased.
"Selfish!" she said indignantly, meeting his arrogant stare with a frown. Looking over the oaf’s shoulder she noticed that the other walker had vanished. The sound of the oaf’s raised voice must have carried on the breeze, and the other man had smelt trouble and skedaddled. Not tempted to help her then. Another fine specimen.
"BO-RING KARE-EN! BO-RING KAR-EN!" shouted the bully again, before babbling further childish insults, peppered with a few obscenities. He was enjoying himself.
Pam was so furious that she felt light-headed. She took a breath - a deep, deep breath. She stood up straight, shoulders back, head up.
"FUCK!...YOOOOOOOOOOOOU!" she roared, the "you" stretching on and on, the anger of six decades blasting out of her like an express train thundering out of a tunnel. She felt dizzy, the sound of her rage ringing in her ears. It was so out of character that it took her by surprise; a kind of out-of-body experience.
For a moment, the man looked shocked. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Pam didn’t look the type to answer back. Even so, it didn’t take him long to recover - she was smaller than him after all, and he wasn’t going to let some gobby cow tell him what to do.
"BO-RING KARE-EN! BO-RING KAR-EN!" taunted the oaf in the red and white hat, grinning like a big, stupid, Cheshire cat.
12.04 p.m. Settled in her comfy old armchair, listening to the soothing sound of a log hissing on the fire, Pam sipped on a cup of hot, sweet tea and munched on a chocolate Hobnob. She reflected on the incident at the aqueduct that morning, and the witty replies she might have given her abuser if only she were better at thinking on her feet. She was annoyed that she’d lost her cool, and what would Mum have thought of that language?
“Oh well,” she sighed, replacing the lid on the biscuit tin. “Maybe next time. There's bound to be one.”
12.06 p.m. A lone walker at the centre of the aqueduct paused to light a cigarette. The canal was calm and still, and as he turned to take in the view, his attention was caught by the unmistakable sight of a figure sprawled face down in the field, far below. Its twisted posture told him that whoever it was, they would not be getting up again.
A black-faced sheep broke away from the flock, tottered meekly over to the body and sniffed at the red and white beanie hat lying by its side.
Photo extracts from The Cleveland Museum of Art on Unsplash.
Speaking of which, I was obsessed with Agatha Christie books when I was a teenager. There was a second hand bookshop I'd go to that had loads of her books. However, I tried to read one recently and I just couldn't. I couldn't bear the style. Literature has changed so much, and some of the earlier popular books were written in the omniscient voice and I rarely read books like that anymore, so it was a real challenge.
This is great stuff Jules.