TRIMMING THE MINGE

While finishing "Fire Down Below, "Brother Robert went over to London to film interiors. He met a young lady who most certainly would rank high in the stories pertaining to "most unforgettable characters." Mavis Purvis was bom within the clear sounds of the Bow Bells, and was as Cockney as an English lassie could be. Mavis deserves a chapter by herself, but I shall condense her story-which is like attempting to stuff a rhino calf into a kangaroo pouch.

Bob related the whole story to me: "I was driven to the studio in a furious downpour of rain when I saw this pathetic little wren of a girl standing by the front gate, water streaming down her face, and hunched against the rain like a bird on a telephone wire. I rolled down the window, inquiring what in God's name was she doing outside in that terrible rain.

"Oh, Mister!' she cried out. 'I've never seen the inside of a studio. Could you 'elp me to see the inside of the studio?'

"I opened the car door. 'Get in.' When she was settled and the car moved inside the studio, I asked her name.

"'Mavis Purvis.' she rang out. 'From London.'"

The English crews are not noted for their manners; the gentlemen on "Fire Down Below" were no different. They would pass by Robert, asking him bluntly why he'd picked up such a pathetic creature. "Why a bird like this?" asked one. Another chimed in, "You can get any bird in England. Why do you bring in a sad little sparrow like this 'un?"

Bob threw up his hands in despair. How could he relate to them the innumerable times in his life that he had been on the outside of the candy store looking in? How could he explain the many untold incidents in his life that had left scars on his inner being?

Mavis needed desperately to be recognized as a person and Robert instinctively knew it. He even went so far as to get her ajob in the wardrobe department. .

"I was in my dressing room with Brian Owen Smith, my personal wardrobeman on the show," Bob continued. "Brian was a gay but double tough. Mavis' timid knock came on the door so I bade her to come in. She paused like a frightened deer as she looked at Brian. 'Go ahead, Mavis, say what you want to say.'"

Bob realized that she wanted to confide in him.

Brian heaved a resigned sigh. "I'm a bloody fag," he snorted. "Couldn't care less about your personal life!"

Mavis explained to Bob that she was now 19 and had never been laid.

"Oh, they muck me about. But they never go the 'ole route."

'Well," Bob pondered, "would you let us see it?"

"See my minge?" Mavis was appalled.

"How can I make a judgment if I've never seen it?" Bob and Brian nodded in agreement. Demurely, Mavis lifted her skirt and pulled down her panties.

She waited for their judgment.

"Dear Mavis!" Bob cried out. "How can you expect a young swain to wade through that jungle down there? It's like being on safari. You've got to mow that thatch before any sane man will look at you twice."

"Trim my minge! You wants me to trim my minge?"

"It's not what I want. It's what you want."

Mavis was two hours late the next moming. When she came demurely to Bob's dressing room, he reminded her of that fact.

"It's all because of Mum and my minge," she explained. "I was in the bath when Mum sang out, 'Mavis, what on earth are you doin' in the bath? You'll be late for the studio.' 'Trimmin' my minge,' I yelled through the door. 'Oh,' she said perplexed. 'Trimmin' your minge? May I see?'"

According to Bob, Mavis' mum was so delighted by the neat appearance of Mavis' minge that she wanted her to trim hers. "That's what made me late for the studio," she told him. "Hair everywhere! It was a complete turmoil. But when I finished, Mum held up a mirror to see the results. I couldn't help but think of you, Robert, at her reaction. Mum gave a deep sigh and breathed, 'Dad'll like that.'"

***

In 1974 I took Nancy and Cindy to Europe. We stayed in Marbella, Spain on the Mediterranean Sea and after a visit to Cadiz, Frontera de la Jera (where they produce a lovely sherry wine), Seville and Cordoba, we wound up in London. Dutifully, I called Mavis. "Oh, John," she bubbled. "My husband, Lex, is playing tonight at the Prince of Wales Club in Tottingham Hale." She proceeded to tell me the way to the club.

In our party of American tourists was Martha Adams, a young lady who had been Bob's consort at the Player's Guild in Long Beach, and who was now Mrs. Martha Fisher of Sacramento. Although divorced, and again on her own, she was still wonderfully naive.

When our party arrived at "Tottin'am 'ale," we were whisked to the club where Lex's band was playing. The headliner that evening was a female impersonator. Martha, who was from Long Island and had a distinctive New York nasal accent, looked at the long-armed, almost truck-driver-like entertainer for some time. "Mavis, is that really a man?" She had to speak loudly to be heard.

Mavis looked at her incredulously. 'Yuz never sees a female impersonatin' a female, duz ya?"

The band was roaring mightily so it seemed that any conversation would be confidential. "But Mavis," Martha droned, "the gown is so tight!"

The band stopped abruptly.

'Where does he put it?" Martha shouted at the top of her voice.

Mavis was not deterred by the silence. "Tucks it up 'er ass, dearie." Martha gulped down her martini, nearly choking on the olive.

While I was still in London, Mavis told me that the place she wanted to see in America, more than any other, was the Grand Canyon in Arizona. "I suppose you'll laugh at that," she told me earnestly. "I've seen it in the flicks and in the rotogravure. Scientists say that it's one of the world's most remarkable sites for viewing the eons of the time that're etched on its walls. Civilizations risin', civilizations fallin', and all the while the mighty Colorado River's cuttin' its way to the sea."

She became pensive for a moment. "I can imagine that standin' on the edge of that great chasm could make you feel kinda small. Just think of it. Flyin' 9,000 miles- just to be made to feel fuckin' small!"

***

When she and her husband, Lex, finally flew to America, I took them on an extensive tour of mountain and desert country. Ben Nevers is the highest peak in Scotland: at a little over 4,000 feet it would be only a foothill in California.

I drove them to Big Bear Mountain which hovers some 5,000 feet higher than Nevers. We drove down the mountain on the Mojave Desert side.

The day was glorious; you could see forever across the desert.

Lex was aghast at the awesome distances. "How far be that peak?" he asked, his Scottish burr very pronounced.

"About 200 miles away," I answered.

"Half the length of England!"

It was about 9 p.m. when we arrived back in the San Fernando Valley. I was driving up Coldwater Canyon when Lex asked if we could stop to look down at the Valley floor. We all stood silently on a ledge while Lex drank in the sights of the sixteen-mile long valley.

"There must be a million people down there. Trucks, fire engines, cars. All the while up here ye hear nae sound but the soughin' o' the wind and a few crickets."

Just them Mavis rent the air with an uncontrolled spate of flatulence.

"Well, I've done my bit!"

"And killed six crickets along the way, n' doubt!" Lex roared.