Читать книгу The Confessions Collection - Rosie Dixon, Timothy Lea - Страница 18

Those two little episodes were about the nastiest things that happened to me – mainly, of course, because I didn’t get my end away – but they were what you might call hazards of the profession. The kinkiest lady I ever met was something I got into all by myself – if you know what I mean.

I first saw her when I was in Dad’s boozer. I had to show Elizabeth to Mum and Dad sometime and a quick pint at the local seemed the most painless way to do it. We could get away sharpish without too much trouble and meeting in a pub robbed the occasion of it’s more sinister overtones – potential bride meets future in-laws, all that kind of thing. I knew what was in Elizabeth’s mind and I didn’t want to build up her hopes too much.

The night I choose, Sid and Rosie have found a baby sitter and are there as well, and of course, Sid can’t resist showing us what a wag he is.

“Elizabeth. Pleased to meet you. We’ve heard so much about you. Now we’d like to hear your side of it.”

Elizabeth blushes and turns to me. “What have you been saying about me, Timmy?”

“Nothing. He’s just trying to be funny that’s all.”

“Just a little joke, Liz. I don’t expect you’re very used to them with young Timmy here.”

“Timmy can be very funny,” she says loyally.

“He is funny, I agree with you,” says Sid, “some might say peculiar but I think funny covers it.”

“Now that’s enough Sid,” chips in Mum, “You stop your teasing. He’s a terrible tease is our Sid.”

Elizabeth tries to smile agreeably.

“That’s a nice dress you’re wearing. We saw one just like that at Marks, didn’t we dear?”

“Eh?” Dad is too busy worrying about how he is going to avoid buying a round to think of anything else.

“Did you make it from one of those patterns in Woman’s Own?” says Rosie.

“What are you all drinking?” I can see the only hope is to get pissed and at least while I’m at the bar I don’t have to listen to their balls-aching conversation.

It’s very crowded that night and while I’m waiting to be served, I’m pushed up against the patterned glass partition which divides the public and saloon bars. I take a peep round it and I’m face to face with a handsome blonde (dyed) bird of around forty who looks at me as if I’m something she’s found on the bottom of her shoe after a walk through the farmyard. There is something so ‘piss off’ in her glance that all my sexual aggression is immediately aroused. I want to see her down at my knees begging for cock, while I tell her contemptuously that she’ll have to wait her turn like the rest of them.

She whips her eyes away as if they might catch something by resting on me and addresses someone I can’t see.

“This glass is filthy, George,” she snaps.

“But—”

“No buts! Look at it. There’s lipstick all round the edge. Get me a new one please.”

“Oh, really Alice. I think it’s just the colour of the glass.”

“Colour! That’s a lipstick mark I tell you. What’s the matter, are you frightened to open your mouth? Hey, barman!”

Her screech would make the Queen Elizabeth heave to.

“Yes, Mrs. Evans?”

“You’ve given me a dirty glass.”

“Oh, sorry about that.”

The barman doesn’t even look at it but twirls a new glass in the light and transfers her drink to it.

“I’m not drinking it after it’s been in that glass.”

The barman controls himself and pours her another whisky without a word. Even then the bitch glares at the glass as if she suspects there’s poison in it, and can’t bring herself to say thank you.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” says George.

“If I am it’s no thanks to you.” she snarls, and our eyes lock again for a second. “I can’t rely on you to stand up for yourself, let alone anyone else.”

I get my order in and I don’t think about Mrs. Alice Evans for the next hour or two. By that time everyone is well pissed and telling anyone they can force into a corner, exactly what they think about immigration, feeding tropical fish, Charlie Cooke or you name it. Dad is rabbiting on to Elizabeth about how young people today have it dead cushy, and good luck to them, but when he was a boy etc., etc. Mum is getting sentimental as she always does on a few stouts and telling Rosie, who’s heard it a hundred times, what a wonderful person Aunty Glad was. “Why they took her away I’ll never know,” she says, looking towards the ceiling so you’ll get the message that it’s not the rozzers she’s talking about, “she never had a bad word for anybody.”

In fact Aunty Glad was a foul mouthed old slag whose breath smelt and whose husband has taken on a new lease of life since she snuffed it, but that’s another story. Sid is talking to one of his mates and making eyes at Gloria, the barmaid, over his shoulder. I reckon he’s been there, otherwise he wouldn’t be so secretive about it.

With all this gaiety and excitement going on I’m beginning to feel a bit frisky myself, and looking round to see that Elizabeth is still well occupied, I cast about for a bit of mischief. It’s a good feeling, with a few beers under your belt: relaxed, smooth tongued, the cares of the world a million miles away. Unfortunately, there is nobody nearby to benefit from my good nature, but then I remember the Mary Whitehouse of the saloon bar, next door. I slide out without being noticed and am relieved to find that Mrs. Evans, as I now recall her, is perched elegantly on a bar stool without any sign of George in attendance.

I sway towards her hoping that my stagger will be interpreted as a rolling gait, but from the look of those about me I think it is unlikely.

“Forgive me for coming up and talking to you like this,” I say, “but I wanted to tell you how grateful I was that you took issue about those dirty glasses. It’s something I can’t abide myself.”

Her widening eyes betray initial distrust not to mention alarm, but when I have finished speaking, her face softens into the expression adapted by royalty when receiving bouquets from small children.

“You’ve no idea what a relief it is to find someone who feels as I do,” she says, “you’d be amazed how many people think I’m some kind of eccentric. Even my own husband,” she adds as the unfortunate bastard joins us. “George! You haven’t finished dressing yourself.”

There’s a piece of shirt sticking out of his fly, which has me guessing for a moment.

“Sorry, my dear.”

George fiddles with himself and gives me a searching look that suggests he can see through me like the front door of Woolworths.

“George, this young man was telling me that he approves of my action in sending back that dirty glass.”

“Really, my dear. Very praiseworthy. Tell me Mr.—”

“Lea, Timothy Lea.”

“—Tell me, Mr. Lea, what do you do for a living?”

“I clean windows.”

“That must obviously account for your keen interest in matters hygienic.”

“I don’t know about that. It may have something to do with it.”

Why doesn’t the stupid old git bugger off. Mrs. Evan’s face has now shed a lot of its sterness and she is gazing at me like I’m some kind of long lost son. She also has very nice tits and I want to tell her about them.

“You must get an unenviable opportunity to see how appallingly lax some peoples standards are,” she says.

“Oh, very much so. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I see.”

Mrs. Evans shakes her head. “Awful, don’t you think so George?”

“I was just thinking it might be a good opportunity to see whether this place’s standards have been maintained in the last few minutes. Same again, my dear? And what about you Mr. Lea?”

So I have a scotch, and the pub is beginning to swim in front of my eyes as I try and keep up with Mrs. Evans searching questions. I’m prepared to say anything as long as I can form the words, and when Mr. Evans disappears again I go blundering while I’ve still got the chance.

“Why don’t I come and clean your windows?” I say as if I’ve just thought of it. “I could give them a Dettol rinse. It’s a speciality of mine, though you’d be amazed how few people ask for it.”

“I wouldn’t. Not at all. Yes, why don’t you, 42 Malplaquet Drive.”

I know it, it’s all walnut trees and concrete paths.

“What day would suit you?”

“Let me see. I play bridge on Wednesdays. Thursday? No, Friday? Yes, Friday. I’ll be there in the afternoon. Come round about half past two. Is that alright?”

“That’s fine.” I say. I know I should leave it there but I’m drunk and I’m a fool. “You have beautiful breasts,” I say.

George is coming over to us so she can’t say anything, but she blushes scarlet and digs her finger nails into the back of my hand so deep that I have blood blisters in the morning.

They start shouting last orders then, so I excuse myself and go back to the Public Bar. As is always the case on such occasions no one has missed me and they are still gabbling away to each other like it’s a public speaking contest. Only Elizabeth notices me and she has Sid looming over her so she’s probably looking around hopefully for anyone.

“Don’t forget,” Sid is saying when I come up to them, “I’m going to be angry if you do.” I half wonder what they’ve been on about but I don’t really give it much thought – not then anyway.

“What do you think of him?” I say to her on the way home.

“Think of who?”

“Sid of course.”

“Oh, he’s alright. Quite nice really. He’s a bit crude but he makes you laugh.”

“What were you talking about?”

“Oh, nothing special. You, quite a bit.” She laughs, “Not that you aren’t special of course.”

There’s a very handy doorway just there and I push her into it and have my hands up her skirt faster than the verger trying to replace a fallen bell clapper, but they’re not there for long.

“Not here!” she says, pushing me away from her, “You’ll have to wait till the weekend.”

But I don’t have to wait till the weekend. I look at the blisters on the back of my hand and I grit my teeth and wait for Friday afternoon. If it wasn’t for the scratch marks I’d have a nasty feeling that I’d dreamed it all, and as if it’s a bit difficult to revive my Saturday night certainty that something was on. I keep thinking that she was probably pissed too, and quite likely to run a mile, or call the police, if I show up at the house. More chance of the former, because a lot of birds talk themselves into all kinds of situations when they’re stoned and get the screaming abdabs the next morning when they realise what they might have let themselves in for.

Anyway, I’m an optimist and I’ve got nothing to lose, so on Friday I put on a clean pair of Jungle Briefs, douse Percy with after shave lotion and I’m off to find my fortune.

Number 42 is very like number 40 and not entirely dissimilar to number 38.

There’s a lot of white paint about, venetian blinds, a boat trailer and highly polished carriage lamps. The whole place looks like they’re expecting a visit from Ideal Home not the window cleaner.

I press the front door bell and listen to the chimes echo through the house. Eventually there’s the sound of someone coming and I see a ripple of movement through the frosted glass. A pause by the door, which is presumably so I can be examined through the spy hole, and then it opens.

“Oh,” says Mrs. Evans, and the surprise seems genuine. “Yes?”

“Window Cleaner. You asked me to call.”

“Oh, yes. Did I? Well, if I did, I did.”

“You asked me in the pub, last Saturday.’

“I’m not disputing it,” her voice is sharp, “I just didn’t recognise your face, that’s all.”

Her tone implies that all window cleaners look the same, like coons or chinks.

“You’d better get on with it. There’s a tap round the back of the house by the kitchen door. Careful with the flower beds, they’re full of bulbs that haven’t come up yet and mind the climbing roses. Don’t lean your ladder against them.”

Big deal. I don’t know why I bothered. Mrs. E. is obviously intent on cutting me right down to size, if she remembers me at all.

It’s a pity, because she’s wearing dark glasses and smelling like a pouf’s birthday party, and her tits are practically sitting up and begging.

Something about the old twin set and pearls always gets me going. I feel as if I’m part of England’s heritage: “Remember, Ambrose, the Duke must never know, but since his accident I have realised that he cannot give me the heir the line so desperately needs. So I have decided that, for the sake of the de Pommefrites, I must take you, who exemplify all that is finest in the English male, to my bed. Come, put on this blindfold and take my hand—”

I can just see it, can’t you? No? Oh well then. Neither can Mrs. E. so I wouldn’t worry about it too much.

I flug round the back of the house and start bashing the windows as if I intended to set a new world record. They’re all cleaner than a mermaid’s tit anyway, so I’m wasting my time in all directions. However, I can’t very well burst into tears and buzz off. I’m effectively hoisted with my own pederast as Sid would say.

In this situation I become careless, and from there it is a short step to becoming injured. I lean too far, the ladder slips and my hand goes clean through the bathroom window. It’s not a deep cut but there’s a lot of blood and it obviously needs binding up. There’s nothing for it but to report to Mrs. Evans. I shin down and rap on the back door which is opened almost before my hand has touched it. Mrs. E. is standing there with her purse in her hand and an expression not unlike that worn by the Duchess of Bloodshot when the first charabanc of the season arrives.

“How much—” she is starting to say when she notices my hand. “Don’t drip all over the mat,” she squeaks, “hold it over the flowerbed. Oh, dear, you haven’t been leaving a trail of blood round the side of the house, have you?”

“I didn’t bother to look,” I say. “If you can give me a rag I’ll go and wipe it up.”

“I’m sorry. But you know how I like to have everything just right.” So she does remember. “Blood is so terribly messy, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is, and I’m afraid there may be a bit more upstairs. I put my hand through the bathroom window.”

You can see that the news really distresses her and she can hardly wait to wrap a bandage round my wrist, before scooting off to see what the damage is. When she returns it is with one of the bathroom curtains over her arm.

“I’ll put this into soak,” she says, “It should be alright. Oh, dear,” she is looking down at my feet, “you should have taken your shoes off. You’ve left mud everywhere.”

There is a bit of exaggeration but on her highly bulled surfaces a gnat’s heavy breathing would show up. The whole place looks like a new set of doll’s house furniture. It’s so clean it’s unreal. When I think of Mrs. Chorlwood and her cats, my mind boggles.

“How is that bandage holding up, it’s not going to start leaking again is it?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She’s only worried about the floor, of course. “You’d better have a cup of tea, and then I can think about finding someone to mend that window. My husband is hopeless at that kind of thing.”

I tell her not to worry because I will do it and we have a cup of coffee because that is what she really wants and she is obviously a lady who is used to getting what she really wants.

I then take my shoes off and put on a pair of George’s slippers and go upstairs to measure the window. I’m not allowed to clean anything up because Mrs. E. knows I wouldn’t do it properly. The rest of the house is just like the kitchen. Everything spotlessly clean and nothing left lying about to break up the straight lines and smooth surfaces. In the bathroom even the shower hose is neatly coiled and there are no bars of soap or toothbrushes beside the wash basin. You feel it would upset everything if you had a piss.

Mrs. E. is down on her hands and knees winkling out bits of glass and just for a second our eyes brush against each other. Her breasts swell forward and I can feel Percy making an ugly rush in the same direction. Luckily I can control myself and scribble down the window dimensions on a sheet of newspaper before scooting off to get another piece of glass and some putty.

It is raining when I come back and I take great care to leave my shoes at the back door before padding upstairs. A few minutes with Mrs. Evans and you’ve got the message. There is no sign of her so I chip out the splinters of glass from the window frame and set to laying a bed of putty. I am so engrossed that the sound of water pouring into the bath sparks me off like an alarm clock ringing. I turn round and find Mrs. Evans standing there wearing a wide-sleeved, silk dressing gown and a pair of slippers. For a moment I think she’s going to hop into the bath but before I can get my pulse back to normal she’s dropped the blood stained curtain into soak and gone out. What a funny woman! She must be highly strung, or bonkers or something. Why the hell has she taken her clothes off?

I replace the window pane and go downstairs. Mrs. E. is finishing the washing up and I notice she even empties the sugar bowl back into the tin marked – wait for it – sugar, and then washes the bowl. How finniky can you get? I should think that if she ever has it away with her old man she must make him wear a surgical mask and put his cock in with a pair of forceps. I can see that she will be able to supply her own rubber gloves.

“Well, that’s that,” I say, “Sorry to cause you so much trouble, but it’s alright now. I don’t think I left any blood anywhere.” She ignores that and pulls her gloves off so that they make a loud smacking noise. Her index fingers flex like long, thin insects.

“Before you go, there is something I would like you to do for me. Can you fix light bulbs?”

“I can screw them into sockets.”

“Good. There’s one gone in the coal cellar and I can’t replace it. If you can put a new one in I’ll hold the torch.”

“O.K.”

So we trip down some stairs beside the kitchen door and Mrs. E. bustles along in front of me her dressing gown brushing against the bannister. She’s got a good body on her, I have to admit that. Too much sand in the bottom half of the hour glass but you can’t be too choosey, except now perhaps, when it’s not on anyway.

She opens a door at the end of the passage and I can see coal glinting in the darkness.

“Dirty.” she says, but it seems to me that there’s more relish in her voice than distaste. Must be my imagination. She switches on the torch and I can see the light socket hanging down like a piece of black fur. The ceiling is low and its no problem reaching it but some joker has left the remains of the last bulb in the socket so I’m struggling again. Suddenly the torch starts to waver and I hear the rustle of clothing. I turn round to see what the trouble is and – there is Mrs. E. silhouetted in the doorway, stark bollock naked. It’s no accident either, because she advances towards me and I can see areas of soft flesh picked out in the back glow of the torch.

Funnily enough, my first reaction is one of fear because I’ve never felt the same about cellars since I saw ‘Pyscho’. My state of mind is not improved by Mrs. E. dropping to her knees and gripping one of my thighs with something like the intensity she showed when scratching me in the boozer. Maybe she’s got a carving knife concealed behind her back. Just to be on the safe side I sink down beside her and run my hands lightly over her body but all I come up with is a light bulb.

“Put it in,” she moans. This request opens so many possibilities that I’m at a bit of a loss as to what to do. Surely she doesn’t want to have it away here? Not the very clean Mrs. E. But maybe that’s it. Maybe, hygienically sealed away from the world, a very dirty lady has been trying to get out.

Her breath smells of toothpaste and there’s no better indication of a woman’s plans for you. I take the heavy fruit of her breasts in my hands and even in the darkness I can see she looks as if she’s been lying in black sand. Her nipples come up like champagne corks and she sinks back into the coal dust and starts unpopping my jeans.

I’m about to chuck the bulb away but she makes it clear she wants some light on the subject and when I’ve fixed things I find that red must be her favourite colour. The bulb gives off a soft pink glow so the cellar looks more like Father Christmas’s grotto than the remains of last years’ coal supply.

By now I reckon I must be dreaming the whole thing, and when she starts writhing in the coal dust I know I am.

“Come down here, come down here,” she begs. Some might refuse but Percy has become a bit of a handful and I know that in this mood it is pointless to try to control him. So, off with my jeans and down I go, and – oh! what fun takes place. Mrs. E. is a very selfish lover but you don’t mind when she is obviously enjoying herself so much. I mean, for a man, the pleasure has got to be in making someone else happy, hasn’t it? Otherwise we’d all get the problem off our tiny minds immediately and have a nice kip.

By the time we’re finished, we’re blacker than a bus conductor’s finger nails. If Al Jolson saw us he’d be on to his lawyers within seconds.

“Now what?” I say and it’s a fair question. Unless she’s got a shower in the coal cellar her lovely clean house is going to look like her old man is a chimney sweep who brings his work home with him.

“Over there,” she snaps, and it’s obvious she’s reverting to type faster than most. “In the corner you’ll find some plastic clothes bags. Put one on and hop up to the bathroom.”

So help me, she says it just like that. As if she’s telling you where to empty the waste bin. I think she’s joking but when I get over there it’s just as she says. A pile of bags with a sash round them saying ‘One dozen suit or costume containers. Keep away from children’ etc., etc. Feeling like a right Charlie I put one on and start shuffling upstairs. Something inside me makes me almost wish George would come in as I’m hopping past the front door. I think maybe it’s that there are only four bags left in the pile and I’m wondering who the other four blokes were.