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  They always had guards assigned to them, as they were such a curiosity, both with the troops and the Africans. In Tobruk, their protection was provided by German prisoners. In one village, Billie ventured out alone and was surrounded by children pushing and prodding her, trying to pull out bits of her hair. She was rescued by a man in a grass skirt and painted mask, who turned out to be the Oxford-educated local witch doctor. He told her, in perfect English, that it was best to stay in the army camp, to which he escorted her back.

  Billie has an ancient leather writing case on which she wrote the names of all the places she visited. There can be few people that have travelled so extensively in Africa, especially in those days before proper roads and towns. It was a remarkable achievement for a girl of sixteen. She makes it all sound a great lark, even the fact that, after one horrendous journey, when for once she was billeted in a comfortable hotel in Nairobi, she couldn't stop shaking and crying for two full days. 'What a bloody waste,' was her only comment.

  By the same token, she is vague about the sex-starved men who must have become enamoured of her. One clue came, when in the writing case I found a signed card saying, 'I thank God that he left the door of heaven open long enough to let an angel out.'

  'Who was Paul?' I asked.

  A quick glance at the card, a shrug, 'Gawd knows.'

  Once a very handsome ex-serviceman came to our house to pick her up on a motorbike. Billie, in a tight skirt and pert little hat, was appalled, and palmed him off with me, then a twelve-year-old girl. I was thrilled to ride pillion down to Hastings but I doubt if he was as happy. Although he did return to take me to several speedway races. I have loved the smell of diesel oil ever since.

  After the war, my sister played the music halls with various sister acts. Then, when playing in the chorus of the Folies-Bergère at the Prince of Wales Theatre in London, she fell in love with one of the three Barbour brothers, who performed an act on stilts. She and her husband Roy then formed their own act, dancing on stilts and big wooden boots, and manipulating puppets, which my brilliant sister made, as well as juggling and – as if that wasn't enough – occasionally a dog and a chimp joined the act. They toured in a beautiful old caravan. Eventually television killed variety theatre in England and they moved to Paris, where they lived for twenty-odd years.

  She was of an age during the war when many of her friends, people she worked with and those she entertained in ENSA, were killed, but none of this has blighted her life. In Paris their flat became a meeting place for performers of all nationalities. It was tiny, but Billie managed to rustle up splendid meals for all and sundry. They travelled throughout Europe. I loved visiting them when they were in theatres like the Lido. The productions were spectacular and the nudes ravishingly beautiful. The same girls that sat in the flat, stuffing themselves with food, or that would be backstage, leaning stark naked against a wall, chatting casually to my brother-in-law, transformed into goddesses on stage. One Casino de Paris show was one of the most ravishing pieces of theatre that I have ever seen. It starred Zizi Jeanmaire, and was designed by Erté with costumes by Yves St Laurent. The music was written by Serge Gainsbourg, Michel Colombier and Michel Legrand. Breathtaking.

  Some of the places Billie performed were surprising. I visited her when she and Roy were playing a club in Marseilles. I had gone to tell her I was expecting my first baby. All the lovely artistes were thrilled for me, and one exceptionally pretty sweetie insisted on taking me to buy a baby outfit. It was years later that Billie happened to mention that she was a transsexual, as were the entire cast. Some had had the operation, some not, but all were exquisite.

  My sister is without any racial or sexual prejudice. It just doesn't occur to her. She has worked and lived with so many different races and creeds, and does not regard anywhere as her home. She has mostly lived in France, but her French is still far from perfect, although she has smatterings of many languages, usually with reference to digs and tempos. She was in many countries at crucial times of their history – South Africa in 1953, Israel in 1961, Yugoslavia in 1963, Thailand in 1966, Iraq in 1978 – yet when I question her about the political situation in the countries she visited she is indifferent. She was in Vietnam in 1967 when the use of Agent Orange was at its peak. US troops and Vietnamese civilians were dying in their thousands, but her main objection was that the audiences were stoned out of their minds. She couldn't allow herself to contemplate why that might be.

  In 1964, three years after the Wall went up, she and Roy played the Friedrichstadtpalast in East Berlin next door to Brecht's Berliner Ensemble theatre. Brecht was dead by then, but she regularly met 'his nice wife', when they ate together in a canteen. Helene Weigel must surely have adored Billie's blithe spirit. When the Swedish pop band were sacked on the first night, she thought it was a shame because they were rather good and didn't think that they were 'a bad influence'. When she saw the police searching the dustbins of her flat, she took it all in her stride, and still left her radio out for the concierge to listen to forbidden programmes. She had smuggled it through the Wall, although some magazines had been confiscated. Checkpoint Charlie, that monstrous imposition on people's liberties, was a 'bloody nuisance' to Billie because of the queues, though she was pleased that a poster of their act was stuck on the infamous Wall. She thought it rotten that the principal dancer in the company couldn't perform in West Berlin. Not because of the fundamental injustice but because she'd miss out on the better money in the West. I dare say the dancer made the best of a bad job, too. There is a marvellous acceptance of the status quo amongst variety artists because of the peripatetic nature of their job.

  My sister and brother-in-law entertained in Saddam Hussein's Habbaniya Tourist Village in 1981. It was later an army camp, and is now a refugee centre, but then it was an exclusive retreat frequented by Hussein's élite, including his infamous half-brother, the intelligence chief Barzan, his much-respected uncle, various relatives and, on occasion, his vile sons – 'But they weren't vile then, they were young and very polite.' She is not sure if she met Hussein himself as there were so many doubles. Billie had no idea of what they were up to. They treated her with great courtesy, which was all she cared about. She did a daily kids' entertainment and on one occasion told a noisy pushy child to shut up and sit down. The next day a man in a jeep, carrying a gun, drew up beside her, demanding an explanation of the incident.

  Billie gave him a mouthful: 'He's spoiling it for all the others. You need to teach him some manners.'

  'Oh really?' The onlookers held their breath.

  'Yes, I've told him he can't come to the show again if he doesn't behave.'

  The man spluttered a bit, but when it looked as though Billie was about to have another go he said quickly, 'Thank you – you did the right thing.' And drove off.

  The child turned out to be a close relative of Hussein. Presumably his minion was more frightened of Billie than he was of the boss.

  One farcical event happened when my sister arranged a Christmas party for the children, for which she made a red costume and a white cotton-wool beard for some poor Arab to play Santa Claus. It was such a success that she was made to repeat it on New Year's Day despite her protests that it was not done. She seems to have thoroughly enjoyed herself at this place, christened Paradise Prison by the staff, despite making sure she talked critically only in the open air, in case her bungalow was bugged. Even this didn't unduly worry her. 'That's the way they are.'

  My sister has pranced gaily through a remarkable life, quite unaware of her uniqueness. She drives me mad, as sisters do, but I am inordinately proud of her. Her attitude is so different from mine; she makes me feel very boring as I angst my way through life, while she just accepts everything at face value. Folk can be black, white, purple, gay, transvestite, transsexual, whatever they like as long as they are nice and a good audience. If the lighting is good and the sound system works on the makeshift stage, a group of filthy mud huts in a clearing is 'lovely'. Her life has been
, and is now, fun, despite considerable hardship.

  After probing her memories, we went for a walk along the front in Antibes. I noticed a young woman, spread-eagled on a lilo, floating in the sun. I remembered the bliss of doing that when your body was beautiful and you didn't care about the two old biddies staring at you.

  'I wouldn't do that now. Would you, Bill?'

  'Why on earth not? I come swimming here all the time.'

  Bold, brave, regardless Billie.

  When I first came to East Anglia in 1964, I was twenty-

  five years old. I did not notice the huge skies. I had no

  time to stand and stare . . . I could not give in to

  wonder because there in my mind's eye was I. Like all

  young people I was preoccupied with inventing

  myself . . . I walk the same paths now that I walked

  twenty-five years ago, but now I am not aware of the

  figure I am cutting. I neither expect nor hope to be

  noticed. I am hoping only to take in what is happening

  around me . . . I want to be open to everything, to be

  agog, spellbound.

  From The Change by Germaine Greer

  7

  Thailand

  INSPIRED BY MY SISTER'S insouciance I resolved to make a positive effort to, as she, my mother and Monty Python would say, 'look on the bright side'. My glass in future would be half full rather than half empty. It is patently a happier way to live life, so it is absurd not to make an effort to do it. But I needed to work at it as if I were playing a part. It seemed sensible to start the exercise with a complete change of scene, where old bad habits could be more easily broken.

  After my not altogether successful attempts to be part of a group holiday, I decided to go it alone; put myself to the test of going a long way, to a different culture, and be open to the lovely things it had to offer. To give in to wonder and not to allow thoughts of self, or darkness, to get in the way. Just to take in what is happening around me, without suspicion. Tomorrow fresh woods and pastures new with no mucky mud.

  Someone suggested that I go camping – get back to nature. I had only ever camped once, if you discount revue with Kenneth Williams. I was in the Brownies. Again, the group thing didn't work for me. I seemed the only one of a dozen over-excited nine-year-olds that found the whole thing appalling. Eating a burnt sausage, with the scorched fingers that had held it on a stick in the bonfire, dancing round a papier-mâché toadstool, chanting twit twoo. Sitting cross-legged in wet grass, round a damply smouldering bonfire, singing:

  Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree

  Merry merry king of the bush is he,

  Laugh kookaburra, laugh kookaburra

  Gay your life must be.

  Whatever this kookaburra thing was on, it was having a damn sight better time than me. The jolly ditty was sung as a round, and I always got lost, ending up mouthing silently like John Redwood, lest Brown Owl strip me of my singing badge.

  An article in a travel magazine proposed a much better idea. A luxury spa in Thailand; massage, reflexology, saunas and fabulous food. With my penchant for spas, what could be more ideal? Even the suggestion that it was 'best for couples in search of peace and seclusion' didn't deter me. I visualised brushing up my meditation techniques in this Buddhist country and you don't need a partner for that. With the help of a few nice pills and ciggies I had spent a lot of the sixties in a trance, but despite the counsel of the Maharishi I have never quite got the hang of meditation. I always end up with my brain in a frantic whirl rather than in a state of bliss, but it is never too late to learn and I could do with some of the old peace and love now.

  The plane trip was a dream. Beautiful Thai maidens in iridescent silk gowns, catering to my needs. It was worth every penny of the extra fortune to go business class. The only snag was I had a terrible hacking cough, not helped by the plane air-conditioning, but soothed by the fragrant tisanes created somehow in mid-air by the diminutive ministering angels.

  There was a small wait in Bangkok when some passengers left and others boarded. I had foolishly broken my rule of hand luggage only, so, after landing in Chiang Mai, I followed the crowd to baggage reclaim. I waited to spot my bag on the carousel. Cases came and went, heaved off and away by happy travellers. They dwindled to nothing and still I waited, panicking now. Perhaps it had been mistakenly taken off at Bangkok when a lot of people disembarked? Eventually it was just me, with a thumping heart, standing by an empty luggage belt. My bag was missing. And by then there was not a soul around to ask for help. I searched for anyone in authority, but the place was deserted. Eventually a tiny bow-legged chap scuttled through. I forcibly stopped him and mimed bags being lost. It scared him to death. When I showed him my ticket, he pointed into the distance and scampered away, darting terrified looks over his shoulder. I followed the direction of his finger, out of a door, down a long deserted corridor, and eventually into another room, where, miraculously, my bag was sitting all on its own, on another belt. There was still no one around, so I picked it up and struggled out of the airport.

  Outside, I could barely breathe. Chiang Mai reminded me of London before the clean air legislation. The whole place was enshrouded in a filthy fog. In the taxi to the hotel I was like Mimi dying of consumption in La Bohème. Seeing the hordes of battered old cars belching exhaust fumes, I could understand the reason for the air pollution. The streets were crowded with ramshackle houses and what looked like shops piled high with junk. This dilapidation continued until we came to an ornate entrance. Then we entered another world. My hotel.

  A very rich man has bought fifty-two acres of derelict paddy fields and woodland and commissioned a young architect to recreate a village based on the old Lanna designs of north Thailand. He used local craftsmen, and gathered up antiques, and even whole houses, and reconstructed the ancient way of life, with the considerable bonus of also incorporating every modern convenience and luxury. My wooden villa on stilts had an indoor and outdoor Jacuzzi, my own private steam room, a huge plasma TV screen, surround-sound music, and a balcony and terrace overlooking a rice field. From my garden I could walk on illuminated wooden boards, through the growing rice, passing the odd water buffalo, to have a cocktail in the bar. Luscious flowers and jungle trees abounded. At night the Thai frogs made even more racket than the French ones. They were enormous, probably very well fed with titbits from the choice of French, Thai and American restaurants that the hotel provided – oh, and a few hops away in the private shopping area, they could have Chinese or Indian. As I lay supping a glass of chilled white wine in one of my jacuzzis, which changed colour as I soaked in the fragrant water, I muttered John's mantra, 'Oh yes, this is the life, I tell you.' It may be a bit Disney, but it was the most beautiful and luxurious hotel I have ever visited. No, I wouldn't allow myself to worry about the living conditions beyond the gates. I was here to shamelessly indulge myself. Starting with a massage.

  Since John's death there is an aching void in my life of physical contact. I long for caresses. At my age, I'm not likely to get them. Being pampered in a luxury spa is a very acceptable second best. Reflexology, shiatsu, hot-stone massage, fragrant oils, a feast of sensuality. Following Germaine's advice I was certainly 'agog' at the beauty of the Thai people. The girls are tiny and full of grace. They could not be more different than the Hungarians. What a varied species we are. Most of the staff had not yet mastered perfect English, despite having lessons in the hotel. Listening to them talking together is like a hearing a group of Marilyn Monroes, sexily breathy, with lots of soft aahing, up and down the scales. No wonder Western men adore them. They seem to genuinely want to make you happy. They glow with goodwill. It's not just routine 'have a nice day' stuff. They were worried about my cough, and brought potions to my villa in their free time. After I had been there for several days, gardeners I had never met would point at their throats and signal sympathy for me. One day all the staff were dressed up in national costume to proces
s for a wedding, and as they passed me, they all did the hands-together prayer-and-bow gesture, which brought tears to my eyes. I learnt to return the compliment. It didn't feel silly, just a lovely expression of respect.

  The Thais have a tradition of trying to inject fun into everything, including work. It even has a name – sanuk – which could explain their childlike spirits. They are never snappy or rude. I wondered if it was their training that made them so constantly sweet-natured. Or fear of losing a good job. Nope, I was not going to dwell on what they went home to each night when they left this rich woman's paradise.

  I was made to wonder at their sunniness when I visited the pool. It was not a pretty sight. The pool itself was, of course, ravishing, but sprawled around it were depressed middle-aged men with shorts tucked below their pot bellies, chattering on mobiles or reading papers, whilst their honed and over-smoothed wives, wearing elaborate jewellery with their bathing costumes, stared into space beside them. They clicked their fingers at, and were graciously served by, exquisite Thai girls and boys whose smiles never faded.

  I was delighted to discover I had progressed since Puglia. No cowering in my kaftan; like Germaine, I now 'neither expect nor hope to be noticed', which is either a huge self-confident step forward, or a surrender to the inevitable. Either way, I had a nice time sunning myself by the pool, thankful that I wasn't one of those bored wives ordering yet another gin. Better to be on my own than that.

  However, after a few days I did crave some company. I decided to expand my culinary repertoire, and take another cookery course. As in Puglia, I was the only one. The tutor took me to the huge market in town to purchase our ingredients. I sympathised with the hapless woman in the reality-television show, forced to swap Weston-super-Mare for Thailand. The huge fried frogs, and piles of pigs' heads were hard to take, as were the birds in cages you could pay to release – a particularly nasty form of begging for a Buddhist country, which cost me a fortune. But the vegetables, fruit, and herbs were pleasing to work with, and, with the teacher's help, I conjured up a passable Thai curry and salad, as well as a dubious-looking banana-and-coconut pudding. They looked very pretty, when garnished with flowers, but it all tasted a bit like Jo Malone soap.