Low life
Sweet sixteen
Jeffrey Bernard.
All week my thoughts have continually All
to the business of Mr Ike Ward. Doubtless you'll remember he was the man born a slave and who has just died aged 119. Well, it's not so much the longevity that astounds me, more the fact that he was married 16 times. Was he, I wonder, trying to tell us something? What was tremendously bucking was to read that he'd outlived all 16 of them too. To defuse and render harmless 16 wives is no mean feat; there may be hope for men yet. Assuming he got married for the first time when he was 19 — as I did — then this gives him a batting average, so to speak, of just over 6 years, which isn't bad compared to my pathetic 4. Of course, in the unlikely event of a woodcutter with one acre of land being able to afford an attorney, he could conceivably have been married 16 times in as many years. This means he could have been pining or laughing for the past 84 years depending on his attitude towards women. I should have thought it a fairly slaphappy one myself. But why do the deed so many times? It was reported that he never wore glasses so it's possible that he never saw them coming. Perhaps he regard- ed them as mere chattels, 16 consecutive housemaids in fact, and I believe a team of journalists from the Guardian are flying out to Florida to investigate such a possi- bility.
The other thing is why did they marry him? (I know why they married me and that was because they thought I was someone who never actually existed.) Now you wouldn't, under normal circumstances, be exactly enraptured or captivated if, on looking up from your embroidery or latest Cartland novel, you saw that you were be- ing approached by a 19- or 90-year-old, black, non-spectacle-wearing woodcutter bearing a diamond engagement ring in the calloused palm of an extended hand. No. You'd probably say to yourself, 'Who dis crazy man?' before throwing the remains of your water melon at him.
The fact remains that 16 succumbed to a line of chat that has sadly gone unrecorded for posterity and me this evening. D'you think that, in the afternoon of his life, he ever reflected on them? Mustn't he have got confused, especially if he was having affairs on the side? I'm exactly 70 years younger than him and already I've forgotten whether it was Jacki or Jill who caused the scar on my left knee cap. But that's beside the point and an aside from a mere meddler in a marriage. Incidentally, Mr Ward was always in perfect health and he died just one day after he entered a nursing home for the first time in his life. It doesn't say a lot for the American medical profession, does it?
Yes, what could that line of chat of his have been? Could it have been a simple 'Hallo, honey chile', accompanied by a smile so sweet and sincere that they swoon- ed at his sawdust-covered boots, or did he simply soft-talk them into it with the latest news such as the result of the Jack Johnson/Tommy Burns fight or the gun- fight at the OK Corral? I've a hunch that he was one of those boring men who make a pass at every single female they meet. Or perhaps he had odd talents like being able to do card tricks, make a good mint julep, balance six wine glasses on his head or hop a hundred yards on one leg in 30 seconds. (I myself, at the age of 14, quite hypnotised our charwoman with my ability to roll cigarettes at great speed.)
But they say it's pure chemistry, don't they? He may have exuded a strange body odour such as musk, orange blossom, or Southern Comfort. Perhaps when you held his hand, looked deep into his eyes and listened to him humming 'Old Man River' you just knew he was Mister Ike Right. Anyway, a little late in the day I know, I shall drink to his health. Sixteen times.
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