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Gill Smith

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Morrissey observes in Autobiography:

Gill Smith warns me that she is a REAL Smith, in a spill of East End idiomatic warnings and spiritual sensations. Gill is full of loud tension; Hermione Baddeley in Brighton Rock, forewarning ‘right’s right and wrong’s wrong’ – expensive heels and swirling 1950s smock-coats. Gill never ceases with hysterical ‘and then she said this, and then I said that’ accounts, without a single gesture lost. Two years my senior, she has all the Chinese wisdom of the ages, yet she cannot tell left from right. ‘But since you write with your right hand can’t you just think in terms of writing each time you need to turn right, and ...’ suddenly I’m beginning to sound disedged. Gill has a full and open heart, and a turn of phrase so quick-witted that it almost hurts to listen. A master of the Tarot and extrasensory slapdash perception, Gill arrives at Hornton Court and freezes on the threshold. A mute minute passes as she wanders down the hallway only to stop outside the bathroom. ‘Morrissey,’ she begins, in a voice softer than usual (which, for Gill, is still very loud), ‘there’s something in here.’ Stalking her prey, her heels dig in ... ‘and ... it’s here.’ She stands squarely on the spot where whateveritwas has stopped me in my tracks every single day, a look of mariner’s discovery on her face. I say nothing to my mother and sister as they settle down for a night in the guest bedroom – both watching a small light travel through the center of the room. I am relieved, at last, to not be quite so alone, as the walls hum unpleasantly.

He also alludes to her brief interest in him:

The subject of sex remained theoretical, and no one expressed any interest in me, which I didn’t mind as long as I could create. Gill Smith suddenly wound her way in as a hottie of blouse-ripping biological urge, but I take too long as I measure chemistry against meaning and she moves on like a hot-blooded goat in search of a rutting ram.

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