Reluctant Virgins and Other Bon Mots
Roger J. Derham
ROGER J. DERHAM was born in Dublin in 1956 but considers himself a Corkman. Married with three children, all now at university, he has lived in Galway, Ireland since 1991. He had his first work of historical fiction, The Simurgh and the Nightingale, published by Collins Press in 2001. Graduating from the National University of Ireland, at University College Cork in 1981, in Medicine, and specializing in Obstetrics and Gynaecology, he has trained and worked in Tanzania, England, Australia and Ireland before taking a sabbatical in 2001 to write full time and help establish the publishing house, Wynkin deWorde. In addition to his first work of historical fiction he has also published a work of fiction for children, The Colour of Rain, under the nom de plume, Alex Skalding. He plays summer golf and winter squash; badly, and is an active (sic!) referee in the Irish Rugby Football Union. Interested in design, cartography, the development of writing and the history of print, he collects antique maps, concentrating on the North African coastline.
[copyright 2005, Roger J. Derham]
Many years ago now, after the publication of my first novel, I sent the next manuscript of my literary efforts to the same publisher with an absolute expectation – engendered not by the clause built into my contract which determined that they had first option on the next work but more from the effects of the hallucinogenic, euphoric, sideway-bookstore-glancing haze of smugness that envelops the senses and sense of first time authors – of acceptance. Why not? I was on a roll. I was in Jack Nicholson mode: 'a legend in the business and his own mind.'
This delusional state of wellbeing was to evaporate with a bang! My publisher, not previously renowned for his commercial love of historical fiction as a source of income, reverted rapidly to type and declined the manuscript, offering instead a commission for me to write a humorous book dealing with the working life of a gynaecologist, along the lines of a recent successful book – and spin-off television series – dealing with the 'deadly humour' of undertakers.
I declined, for no other reason than to my mind – at the time – gynaecological humour was incredibly suspect; a circumspection brought about by the extremely formal nature of our professional education, and my mother kicking my ankles as a young fellow to get me to stand up when ever a woman entered the room. Historical fiction with its necessary research and enquiry suited that scientific-based and bruising education: observation from a safe distance, avoidance of intimacy, sweeping swathes of background description detached from individual characterisation. Indeed in meeting new people, being introduced as a gynaecologist is generally an immediate conversation stopper. For most men a male gynaecologist is someone dealing in the black arts: there is something about you that they cannot quite relate to. To your face they give a slight smirk, watch for your reaction, then hold that thought until there is a chance to crack a relevant and suddenly remembered joke with another male friend out of earshot. For the women, they hold their thoughts to themselves, and depending on the personal interactions and experiences they have had with members of my profession, will perhaps try and find out from other friends 'what is he like really?' I tend to move the 'pregnant pause' in the conversation right away from medicine, and gynaecology in particular, and therefore the opportunity to collect some really good jokes.
Sometimes you learn most about the 'offence of reluctance' from those you are most reluctant to offend. Recently, at the end of a long day in my clinic, the last patient came quietly, and somewhat demurely, into my office. I had already begun to make assumptions about how I was going to conduct the interview and examination when on taking the seat opposite me she said, with a twinkle in her eye, “I am here to make your day.”
“In what way,” I asked, alert.
“I am a reluctant 62 year-old virgin!”
I burst out laughing. It transpired that she had been a nun, working in Africa, but had left the order about ten years previously to look after aging parents. In her words her life had meandered along pleasantly enough but because of shyness and lack of opportunity she had never developed any serious relationships. This had recently all changed at the art classes she attended – the modern dens of iniquity – where she had met a 60 year-old widower, a retired electrician from Dublin, who called her “his mot”, a Dublin slang term for girlfriend.
“So what is the problem?” I asked.
“He wants to make love, and I desperately want to . . . but . . .”
“But what?”
“I'm too old, too narrow, too dry . . . too afraid.”
“Will you try something for me?” I asked.
“Anything,” she said, laughing.
My examination and explanation – I'll spare the details –over the next half hour, was spent in a clinical but incredibly comical denial of her age, narrowness, dryness etc. At the end of the session she was giggling like a schoolgirl, the years of “reluctance” evaporating by the second.
“And to think of all the big black fellas, I could have had,” she said from behind the curtain while dressing.
“Devouring!” I muttered.
“I heard that,” she said. “I suppose your man will have to do.”
“Should I warn him,” I asked as she parted the curtain and stepped back into the interview area of the room. I hardly recognised her.
“Jesus forgive me, no. But keep an eye on the death notices, just in case.”
“The Japanese call orgasm the 'little death',” I said.
“There is going to be nothing little about mine, Doctor. Thanks.”
I walked her to the door and outside sitting on a reception chair was the widower. He looked up, touching concern for her etched on his face. I smiled a look of reassurance, thinking “You lucky sod.” The reluctant 62 year-old virgin gave my arm a squeeze and took his. That particular working day was a great day.
To his eternal credit, Con Collins, my original publisher was probably trying to do me a favour only I was either too thick or too delusional to realise it. He liked my writing but had perhaps seen the value for my development as a writer in discarding history and by getting 'down and dirty' in the present. Humour, be it black, crude, infantile or witty is the only way of truly characterising the human condition. All great novels are humorous, and all great writing a parody of self and others. Spend time with reluctant-virgins.