Читать книгу The Confessions Collection - Rosie Dixon, Timothy Lea - Страница 64

The next morning I wake up with a mouth like the inside of a yak’s carpet slippers and it occurs to me before the first ray of sunshine has penetrated my peepers that I have been well and truly nobbled. Mabel not only spiked Mountjoy’s drink but mine as well. The evil baggage only sent me over to the jukebox so she could do the dirty on me while my back was turned. The distress this realisation causes me is only matched by my awareness of the full implications. Mabel presumably fancied the stupid old publishing git to yours truly. What a carve up! She must be round the twist. I have heard of women preferring an older man, but this is ridiculous. Even ‘Homage to Brylcreem’ would have been better than that.

I feel double-choked when I stagger down to breakfast and find R.T. tucking into a couple of kippers and a large pile of buttered toast.

‘Morning, old chap,’ he sings out, ‘feeling better?’

‘First rate,’ I lie. ‘How about you?’

‘Couldn’t be better. Slept like a log,’ he winks at me and I could punch his teeth down his throat. What makes it worse it that he does not mean to take the piss. He is trying to be kind and I cannot stand that.

The next two weeks drag by like a life tour in the French Foreign Legion and I am at the end of my tether when exam time comes. Yes, we have exams. Lots of practical stuff with Belfry and his mates hamming it up as bolshy dealers and exasperated customers, and about five written papers with questions like, ‘A customer complains that the socket on her OK4U2P is constantly being blocked by foreign bodies. What would you do?’ A few funny answers do occur to one, I can tell you.

I reckon I have done pretty well and I am slightly peeved that it has not been necessary to strike terror into anyone’s heart by mentioning the deadly SM 42.

We get our results the day after the exams and I discover that I have passed out ninth out of forty-two candidates, five of whom have been failed. Despite my lack of enthusiasm, I cannot help feeling a pang of pride as I line up to receive a certificate from Tredegar Smith, the dynamic managing director of HomeClean. He is an amazing man because although he only looks forty-seven he is in fact thirty-one and has apparently clawed his way to the top via the hand holds he has hacked in other people’s backs with a small knife he keeps especially for the purpose.

The only thing that blunts my satisfaction as his cold, damp hand clamps over mine and his gimlet eyes probe over my left shoulder for sight of the clock on the wall, is that I can see Mum and Dad in the audience. I certainly have not informed them of the ceremony and I can only imagine that HomeClean have performed the service on my behalf. Dad is asleep with his head lolling back nearly on the laps of the row behind, and Mum is nudging him and snuffling into a large handkerchief. It all seems pretty typical, especially when Dad wakes up with a start and almost kicks the bloke in front out of his seat.

‘Oh Timmy,’ says Mum afterwards, ‘I’m proud of you. I always knew you had it in you.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ snorts Dad. ‘He always had it in, whenever he had the opportunity, now that I’ll grant you.’

Mum tugs at his sleeve. ‘Don’t be coarse, father,’ she says primly. ‘Not here.’ She looks around like she is inside St. Paul’s Cathedral.

‘It’s nothing to get excited about, ma,’ I tell her, feeling embarrassed. ‘I’m only going to become a bleeding rep., I mean assistant sales manager. And then I’m on probation.’

‘Not again!’ says Mum. ‘What have you done? You never told us!’

‘Relax, relax! mother.’ She is a stupid old boot, isn’t she? ‘Not that kind of probation. I have to go out with one of the HomeClean Area Managers and practice all the stuff I’ve learnt here. If I can do that alright then I’ll become a fully fledged A.S.M.’

‘You haven’t got mixed up in any trouble?’

‘No mother. It’s impossible in this organisation.’ But I am not quite right there.

I am supposed to be going out into the field with a bloke called Jack Kenton but on the eve of my departure Brian Belfry calls me into his office.

‘Slight change of plan, Lea,’ he says. ‘Kenton has had a heart attack. Most unfortunate but these things happen. Especially in a dynamic organisation. You can’t stand still, Lea. You’ve got to move, and you’ve got to move fast. And to move fast takes effort. And effort causes strain. And if you can’t stand strain you don’t belong here in the first place. Do you understand me, Lea?’ He unscrews a small, brown bottle and gulps down a couple of pills. ‘Indigestion,’ he explains. I nod understandingly. ‘So you’ll be going out with someone else,’ he continues. ‘Arthur Seaton. Arthur is—well—’ he pauses for a moment and looks at the ceiling, ‘– you’ll see for yourself. He’s been with the Company a long time.’ I nod more understanding in Belfry’s direction.

‘I’m sorry about Mr. Kenton.’

Belfry tucks his biro in the breast pocket of his suit and stands up.

‘Yes, well – like I said – these things happen.’

After all the bullshit that has been whizzing round my ears at Knuttley Hall I am decidedly wary prior to my encounter with Arthur Seaton and get to our meeting place fifteen minutes before the agreed time of eight thirty a.m. ‘One of the old school,’ Belfry has said, and I have a picture of a retired Indian cavalry officer bashing me over the bonce with an upright cleaner.

I have been told to wait outside a department store in North West London but by eight forty-five I am wondering if I am in the right place. Punctuality is one of the things HomeClean prides itself on and all the instructors at Knuttley Hall had their watches set ten minutes early.

At about five past nine it occurs to me that there may be more than one entrance to the store so I walk round the corner to find myself across the street from a small cafe. A slightly balding middle aged man, wearing a grey raincoat, is sitting in the window getting outside a cup of tea and a doughnut. He sees me glancing around, taps on the window and beckons me towards him.

‘Timothy Leak?’ he says when I go inside.

‘Lea,’ I correct him.

‘Oh. They must have got it wrong at head office. They get everything wrong there – stupid buggers. What happened to you? You’re a bit late, aren’t you?’

‘They told me to wait outside the store,’ I say, feeling aggrieved.

‘Yes, I know, but it’s bloody parky out there. I expect you to use a bit of common, lad. Never hang about in the open if you can help it. It gets into your bones. Now, do you fancy a cup of tea?’

‘Have we got time?’

‘All the time in the world, lad. There’s no point in getting started ’til about ten. We’ll get a cup of tea then, if we’re lucky.’

This is something less than the ruthless dynamism I had been expecting and I feel obliged to comment on it.

‘Why do we meet at eight-thirty if we don’t start doing anything ’til ten?’

‘Gives us time to plan our calls, that kind of thing. I wouldn’t mind another cup of cha if you’re getting them in.’ He holds out his cup and I pad off to the counter.

In fact it is ten thirty before we leave the ‘Black Cat Cafe’ and as far as I can remember we have not discussed any calls. The conversation has mainly centred around what bloody fools they are at head office and how much Arthur dislikes his company car, the company’s advertising, his wife, children and next door neighbours. There is nothing bitter about Arthur’s dislikes. It is more a statement of depressed resignation. I think of Belfry and the rest of them bouncing up and down at Knuttley Hall and find it difficult to believe that Arthur Seaton belongs to the same company.

‘What about the SM 42?’ I say eventually, waiting for Arthur to explode.

‘Typical,’ he says. ‘They never learn. You’d have thought that after the RG 238 they’d have checked this one out properly.’

‘Problems?’ I say.

‘“Problems”!? I heard from a bloke in the factory that they calculated the door-closing pressure without taking into account the weight of the stabilising mechanism.’

‘“Stabilising mechanism”?’

‘That’s the piece of concrete they put in the bottom of the machine to stop it jumping out of the window when the drum starts rotating. With that and the clothes inside it the door won’t open. Blooming marvellous, isn’t it? Every time I go into a dealer they throw one at me. We’ve had to fetch three thousand out of people’s homes.’

‘I know. My Mum had one.’

‘She has my sympathy. I’d never buy one. The best product they made was the old TX 22. The hand wringer. Marvellous machine. Never went wrong; that was the trouble with it. They’re still about today. People won’t part with them. I don’t blame them. Right, here we are.’ He pulls up the hand brake and starts to open the door.

‘Aren’t you going to take your briefing folder?’ I say, surprised. This is a hardcover folder containing acetate sleeves chock-full of the latest information on new products and promotional campaigns, all lovingly prepared by head office and supposed to be used as a bible by all HomeClean salesmen.

‘No!’ says Arthur contemptuously. ‘What do I want that for?’

‘I thought you were supposed to sell from it.’

‘Bloody dealers would think I was some kind of narner if I had to read everything out of a bloody book, wouldn’t they? I’m a salesman, lad.’ Arthur flicks the dandruff off his collar disdainfully and continues getting out of the car.

The dealer we have stopped outside is called T.M.I. Electrics and has a sign in the window saying ‘Certified HomeClean Dealer’. Arthur follows my eyes.

‘Some of them should be certified and all,’ he says. ‘Come on, lad, it’s not much but it keeps the wife in custard powder and knickers.’ He pushes open the door and for a moment I think we have arrived after a snatch of burglars have turned the place over. Appliances are piled higgledy-piggledy on top of each other and every available surface is inches deep in leaflets and invoices. It is only when I notice the layers of dust and the tabby cat asleep inside the open porthole of an automatic washing machine that I realise it is probably like this all the time.

The bloke emerging from the back of the shop makes Arthur look like Douglas Fairbanks Junior. He is wearing a khaki cardigan, plaid shirt, baggy trousers tied at the waist with a tie, carpet slippers and mittens. His face is a disturbing grey colour broken by a multitude of small red veins converging on his nose.

Despite the surroundings I feel a small current of excitement rippling through my body. After nearly four weeks of intensive training by some of the finest salesmen in the business, this is it.

‘Hello Alf,’ says Arthur. ‘Bloody parky, isn’t it?’

‘Real brass monkey weather. You fancy a cup of tea, Arthur?’

‘That’s very nice of you, Alf. Oh, Alf, this is Mr. Leak. He’s just joined the company and he’s spending a bit of time with me.’

Alf looks me up and down disinterestedly. ‘Management Trainee, is he?’

‘No, no, nothing like that. I wouldn’t bring any of them round, Alf.’ Arthur sounds as if he is talking about smallpox germs. ‘How’s it going, then?’

Alf’s expression grows even sadder.

‘Very slow. Sold a cylinder the other week. When is that Wonderwasher coming back?’ Alf’s voice takes on a note of genuine anxiety.

‘I wish I knew, Alf. It’s not good, is it? I don’t know what they’re doing down there, really I don’t. They’ve had the strike of course, and the power go-slow. Then one of the component suppliers closed down. But there’s no excuses really, I know there isn’t. I feel very bad about it.’ Arthur looks at me and I nod vigorously.

‘You’ve got a funny lot there and no mistake.’ Alf pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his cardigan and gazes out of the window. Arthur nods and we preserve a respectful silence.

‘It was the same with the RG 238’s.’

Arthur is swift to agree. ‘Just what I was saying to young Mr. Leak here. I was saying that, wasn’t I? After the RG 238 we all said, “it can’t happen again”. And what’s happened? It’s happened again. It’s not good, is it? Oh, no. It really isn’t good at all.’ We all nod vigorously this time and gaze out of the window as if having our photograph taken from the street.

Eventually the silence is broken by Arthur.

‘Do you—er, need anything?’ he asks, rather in the manner of a barber pushing forward a carton of french letters. Alf scratches his nose thoughtfully.

‘I suppose I’d better have another cylinder. What is it? 478321G isn’t it?’ Arthur shakes his head.

‘I’m not certain. Bloody stupid, these numbers. You can never remember them, can you? Is one going to be enough?’

‘Should be. The last one was here for six months. The cat had kittens in the carton.’

‘Nice pussy,’ I say, deciding it is time I made some kind of contribution, and waggle my finger at the sleeping moggy. Alf turns to me and looks at the calendar with the nude bint on it. He nods slowly.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘And the rest of her isn’t bad either.’

In the end we have a cup of luke-warm tea out of a chipped mug, leave a pile of leaflets for products Alf does not stock and sell one cylinder cleaner. By the time we have finished it is getting on for twelve o’clock.

‘Not much point in making another call before dinner,’ says Arthur. ‘What do you fancy eating?’

‘I’m easy. I wouldn’t mind a pint and a wad.’ Arthur shakes his head.’

‘I daren’t risk that. It makes me too sleepy.’ I feel like saying that few people would probably be able to tell the difference between Arthur awake and unconscious but I restrain myself. On the basis of this morning’s exercise I cannot see how HomeClean can afford to support a sales force. A whole morning to sell one lousy cylinder cleaner? The mind boggles.

Arthur, though, seems to be in quite good spirits.

‘I built that one up all by myself,’ he says. ‘He never used to take any of our stuff. Now, I get an order every time I go in there.’

‘You didn’t push him very hard,’ I say, remembering everything they taught us at Knuttley Hall. Arthur shakes his head.

‘Doesn’t do any good with these fellows. You can’t push them. They reckon they know what’s best for them and you’ve just got to play along. Besides, when half the products you sell them are duff or out of stock, it becomes a bit difficult to lean on them. Now, how do you fancy a nice salad?’

‘A salad?’ I say unenthusiastically. ‘Well, if you say so.’

‘It’s free,’ he says, ‘and served without dressing.’ He giggles and I wonder what he is on about. I am even more perplexed when we stop outside a semi-detached house and Arthur turns off the engine.

‘Is this where you live?’ I ask him, imagining a cosy dinner with Mrs. Seaton.

‘Blimey no,’ says Arthur. ‘This is what you might call a cold canvas. I have a servicing agreement with the lady who lives here.’

I look up a bit sharp at that but Arthur is quick to soothe my suspicious mind. ‘Don’t start jumping to any conclusions,’ he says, ‘I refer to the maintenance of her HomeClean products. Drop by about now and you can be certain of a spot of lunch.’

‘How do you know you’re going to get a salad?’ I ask.

‘Well, you see,’ says Arthur pressing the front door bell, ‘she’s a vegetarian and a naturist. You don’t have anything against nudity do you?’

Before I can answer the door opens and there is a pleasant faced woman of about fifty beaming out at us. She is wearing a pair of spectacles. My description ends there because that is all she is wearing.

‘Good morning, Mrs. Bennett,’ sings out Arthur. ‘Keeping well? I’ve brought Mr. Leak with me. He’s learning the ropes.’

‘I hope he knows his onions,’ Mrs. Bennett shakes with laughter at her little joke. And I mean shake. Her breasts would have difficulty fitting into a couple of pudding basins and when they start moving it is like the beginning of an avalanche. If she turned round quickly she could have your head off. I try not to look at them as Arthur pushes me through the door but they are one of the largest things in the house.

‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ says Arthur. ‘I say that every time I come.’

‘I try and keep it looking presentable,’ says Mrs. B. ‘Come on through. I want you to have a look at my toaster.’

We follow her down the corridor and I am not surprised to find that she has cane bottom chairs in the kitchen. From behind her big end looks like a relief map of North Wales.

‘Would Mr. Leak care for some salad,’ she asks.

‘Lea,’ I say.

‘Oh, alright,’ she says, ‘you can call me Mary. You’ve got an unusual name haven’t you? Lee Leak.’

I decide not to pursue the matter and say that I would very much like some salad. Whilst we are becoming better acquainted Arthur gets the back off the toaster.

‘Ah hah!’ he says, emptying out about half a pound of charcoal. ‘We’ve been a naughty Mrs. Bennett, haven’t we? We haven’t cleaned out our toaster, have we?’

Mrs. B. protests that nobody ever told her she had to clean the thing and they both waggle their fingers at each other. I don’t know what it is but really I have no desire at all to taste Mrs. Bennett’s salad. I suppose it must have something to do with the nudity bit. Eating when you’re starkers seems disgusting somehow. A cup of coffee before and a fag afterwards, now that is alright, but Mrs. B. leaning forward and getting salad dressing all over her titties, that is enough to put you off a bit of the other for life. Especially when there are little bits of diced carrot mixed with it as well. By the time we have had our herb tea and I have rejected a natural yoghourt I am well pleased to be in the street again.

‘How many more like that have you got?’ I ask.

‘She’s the only naturist. Pity her daughter wasn’t there. She’s a lovely girl.’

‘Takes after mum does she?’

‘Oh yes. Both of them prance about starkers all the time. It gets so you hardly notice them after a while.’ Arthur rubs his hands together evilly and sucks air through his teeth.

‘I can imagine,’ I say.

The afternoon follows the pattern of the morning – if you can consider it to have been sufficiently embroidered to make a pattern. We have a long cup of tea with a back street dealer who shows us his holiday snaps and eventually hands back a vacuum cleaner because the plastic casing is cracked. I don’t blame him for that but the skinflint does not buy anything to justify the forty-five minutes we spend with him. I am narked about that but Arthur is nothing if not philosophical.

‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey,’ he says. ‘Treat ’em right and they’ll buy in the end. I’ve got to repair that bloke’s confidence. Do that and we’ll get a big order out of him. I’m sure of it.’

Our next call is in fact the biggest order of the day: two twin tubs and two vacuum cleaners. Arthur is delighted but it still does not seem a lot to me.

‘When I was at Knuttley Hall I had the impression you turned over hundreds of machines a day,’ I tell him. ‘You aren’t doing a fraction of that.’

‘It’s a bit quiet at the moment,’ says Arthur reflectively. ‘The weather’s against it, isn’t it?’

‘But I thought washing machine sales went up in the winter?’

‘Not when it’s cold. You don’t want to go out and buy one when it’s cold.’

‘Come on, Arthur! We might as well have stayed in bed for all the good we’ve done today.’

‘I probably would have done if I hadn’t been lumbered with you. No offence, mind.’

‘None taken, Arthur. But tell me, how do head office get the idea it’s all go, go, go out here?’

‘Well, one does have to protect oneself a bit, obviously. I am inclined to put in a few orders for products I know are not available. By the time they do come on the market again the order has to be reconfirmed and no one is surprised when the dealer has bought something else.’

‘But doesn’t anyone ever come out here?’

‘Oh yes. But then I take them round to my mates. They listen starry-eyed while I go through my chat, bung in a few fantastic orders and then I tear them all up when the brass goes back to head office. Works like a dream. Of course I’m telling you all this in confidence. Don’t let me find out that you’re a head office nark or I’ll swing for you.’ Arthur is showing the first trace of dynamism I have noticed all day.

‘And that works, does it?’

‘Well, it has so far. Of course, you can never be certain. Sometimes they have a big change of policy and sack everybody. Then, a few months later, they get a new bloke in and he takes everyone on again. It’s blooming stupid, really it is. You have to have a sense of humour to be able to stick it.’

‘Still there are a few fringe benefits, aren’t there?’ I smirk.

‘What do you—oh, you mean the likes of Mrs. Bennett. That appealed to you, did it?’

‘That kind of thing,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Mrs. Bennett is a bit on the mature side for me.’

‘You’d have fancied her daughter more, like I said.’

‘Very probably.’

‘Of course,’ says Arthur thoughtfully, ‘you do meet one or two funny people.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I used to be a window cleaner.’

‘Oh, well. You’d know all about it then.’ I nod. ‘Like Mrs. Vickers and her daughter,’ he continues as if thinking out loud. ‘I often wonder about them.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Yes.’ Arthur looks me up and down like a boxing trainer weighing up a new prospect. ‘You know how a woman fusses about you sometimes and you can see that she’s taken a bit of care with herself – a bit more than usual. She’s all of a dither and talking just for the sake of it, when she’s really got something else on her mind?’

‘I know the signs well,’ I say trying to inject a slightly world-weary tone into my voice. ‘She fancies you.’

‘Well, I must say, I have thought that. I’ve been with the company twenty-two years and in that time I’ve seen a bit of life if you know what I mean.’ I get my nod working again. ‘A man’s only human, isn’t he? That’s what nature made us for.’

‘What’s the daughter like?’ I say.

‘Jealous,’ says Arthur. ‘When I get round there she won’t leave her mother alone. Always making remarks and that kind of thing. I think she resents her mother having any kind of life of her own.’

‘Can’t you get round there when the daughter is away?’

‘I’ve tried that but I haven’t been lucky yet. I don’t know what the girl does but she always seems to be there. She’s a good looking girl too. They both are.’ Arthur looks at me as if he is waiting for me to say something.

‘Maybe I could chat the daughter up while you—er, talked to the mum?’

‘It’s an idea, isn’t it?’ Arthur brightens immediately. ‘We couldn’t come to any harm, could we?’

‘What’s her husband do?’ I ask nervously.

‘Oh, there isn’t one. She’s a widow. Couldn’t be better in that respect.’

‘Right, what are we waiting for?’

Not bad is it? Four o’clock on my first day and I am lined up for a bit of nooky already. Regular readers will not be surprised to learn that after my disturbing experience, or rather lack of it, with Mabel, I am not exactly disturbed by the prospect of getting within nibbling distance of a real live bird.

We hop into Arthur’s motor and I am hugging myself with excitement by the time he gives a smart rat, tat, tat, on the knocker of a neat little semi in Pinner. Arthur has spent five minutes in the public lav. licking himself into shape and is huffing on his cupped hands to see if his breath pongs when the door opens.

The bird standing beside it is about eighteen and wearing a floppy halter neck sweater so it is difficult to see what her top half really looks like. If it matches the bottom half nobody is going to ask for their money back. She has bedroom eyes which are large enough to take a couple of four posters and her mouth is warm and sensuous. She smiles when she sees us and shouts over her shoulder.

‘Mum! It’s your boyfriend.’

‘You’re a cheeky young lady, aren’t you?’ says Arthur blushing. ‘This is Mr. Leak.’

‘Lea,’ I say.

‘Lea, who has been coming round with me lately.’

‘Why? Have you both been unconscious?’

‘What? Oh! I see what you mean. Very good.’ He looks at me to support his chuckle but I do not oblige. Better to play hard to get with this self-possessed little piece, I think to myself. Nevertheless, I suppose I have to do what I can to help Arthur.

‘We’re calling to see if any of your HomeClean products have one of the lucky numbers that would entitle you to a free holiday in Majorca,’ I say pleasantly. This is a standard HomeClean wheeze for getting into people’s homes and casing their electric appliances. While you are checking the numbers on the products you are quick to point out that they are all on their last legs, but, being the kind of sweet generous guy you are, you are prepared to give their owners a very advantageous trade-in price should they buy the latest HomeClean model. You are certain that they will agree, etc., etc. This can be quite an effective way of boosting your sales figures if you have made all your dealer calls and the pubs have not opened.

If Miss Vickers is excited she hides the fact well. ‘They’ve come to look at the vacuum cleaner again,’ she says dismissively. I notice that a funny look comes into her eyes when she gazes upon Arthur and I find it difficult to guess what is going through her mind.

‘Ask the gentlemen in, Cheryl!’ The voice bustling down the hall towards us belongs to a larger version of Miss Vickers but one that is none the less appealing, especially to a man who has not tasted human flesh for over three weeks. She is untying an apron and smoothing her skirt as she comes and I can see what Arthur was getting at. There is a very pronounced smell of perfume in the air and Cheryl sniffs disdainfully and obviously.

‘Oh, mother,’ she says wearily and turns away shaking her head. Mrs. Vickers’ blush matches Arthur’s.

‘Young people,’ she says. ‘They’re a problem these days, aren’t they? Never seem to know what they want. When Cheryl was at school she was full of ideas about what she was going to do. Art school, hairdressing, things like that. Now she just moons about here all day getting under my feet. It’s worse than having a man around the place. Not that that’s something I’ve had to put up with a lot lately.’ She looks hungrily from Arthur to me and back again.

‘It must be very trying sometimes,’ says Arthur as Cheryl disappears upstairs, her back end ticking away like the mechanism on an expensive Swiss watch. Mrs. V. sighs after her and turns back to us.

‘I’m glad to see you today,’ she says. ‘Of course, I’m glad to see you on any day, Mr. Seaton,’ she squeezes his arm, ‘but just at the moment everything seems to be going wrong.

It’s difficult when you’re just two women in the house. Cheryl is just as helpless as I am with fuses and things.’ I nod understandingly.

‘Anything we can do to help?’

‘Well, there is one thing. Cheryl’s hair dryer seems to be acting up. I’d be very grateful if you could look at it.’

Arthur shoots me a ‘you heard what the lady said, now beat it’ look, and I am quick to express my enthusiasm for the task.

‘It’s in her bedroom. Top of the stairs, turn right.’

The polished rail runs smoothly under my fingers as I glide up the staircase and I push open the door that is ajar before me.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

Cheryl Vickers has taken her jumper off and is standing in front of the mirror revealing that she must have burnt her bra weeks before. I notice that her breasts are all-over suntanned. Maybe she pops over to Mrs. Bennett’s to sunbathe. There is no hint of embarrassment in her voice as she calmly continues to brush her hair. It is a pursuit that makes her breasts stand out very nicely indeed.

‘If you were sorry,’ she says, ‘you wouldn’t be standing there gawping at me.’

‘I’m not gawping,’ I say. ‘I’m just a connoisseur of beautiful things.’ Pretty smooth, eh? I got that out of an old Rossano Brazzi movie. Maybe I should have left it there.

‘Yuk!’ says Cheryl. ‘Have you ever thought about compering “Come Dancing”?’

‘Your mum said you had a hair dryer that needed mending?’ I say hurriedly, deciding that the lark-tongued side of my personality is wasted on this chick. My first impulse was clearly the right one.

‘It’s not one of yours,’ she says with obvious satisfaction. ‘I’m going to take my jeans off now. Promise you won’t make some stomach-turning reference to the colour of my panties?’

‘I’m surprised to hear you wear any,’ I say. ‘Now, give me the dryer before I bash you over the nut with it.’

‘There’s no need to be bloody rude,’ she says, shoving the dryer into my hand.

‘Look who’s talking. You’ve hardly said a civil word since I came through the door.’

Her pants are a deep purple colour with a kind of crochet pattern running through them. I remember seeing them on the expensive counter at Marks and Sparks. They are special favourites of mine.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m a bit on edge at the moment.’

‘What’s the trouble?’

‘Oh, lots of things. I’m fed up with hanging about here and yet I don’t seem to be able to pull myself together and do something about it; and I’m fed up with mum pussyfooting around with the likes of your friend Mr. Seaton.’

‘She’s a very attractive woman, your mother. You can’t blame her –’

‘I don’t blame her. I wish she would do something about it. She’s so, so genteel. I suppose that’s the right word.’

‘But Seaton gives me the message that you’re always getting in the way.’ Cheryl blushes.

‘Well, to tell you the truth, I fancy him myself.’

‘You what!’ So that is what that funny look in the hall meant – Blimey, I seem to be losing out to the Sanatogen brigade all over town.

‘Oh, yes. I think he’s terribly sexy. That wispy, greying hair and those incredible bags under his eyes. I love men whose faces look as if they’ve been lived in.’ I can understand that, but Seaton’s face looks as if it has been lived in by a colony of woodworm.

‘He’s old enough to be your father,’ I blurt out and then a thought occurs to me. Ja, Herr Doctor, it eez all ver zimple. Ze child haz lozt her fader, nein? Zo she identifies mit ze Zeaton who becomes ze fader figure unt de lover. Eez, zimple, nein?

‘I don’t care what he is,’ she says. ‘I think he’s smashing. All the fellows I meet of my own age are only interested in getting these off.’ She points to her knickers. ‘Now your friend. He’s so gentle. When I see him fussing over mum and her just sitting there simpering, it makes me want to hug him. I wish he had come up here to mend the dryer.’

‘Yes’ I say thoughtfully. ‘Put your dressing gown on, I’ve got an idea.’ I hate to leave such a delectable flesh banquet but it is obvious that owing to the strange workings of the female mind, there is one better equipped to take advantage of it than I.

‘What do you mean?’ she says as I get up. ‘What about the dryer?’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ I say, heading for the door. ‘Everything is going to be alright.’

Just as I had expected, Mrs. V. and Arthur are sat down at opposite sides of the kitchen table having a cup of tea. The atmosphere is about as laden with suppressed sexuality as an old age pensioner’s drag contest. It occurs to me that Arthur Seaton’s trousers probably only come down just before he climbs into bed with Mrs. Seaton, and then when she is facing the wall. Maybe Cheryl will be able to do something about that.

‘I’m sorry, Arthur,’ I say, ‘but I can’t make head or tail of it. I think you’d better have a look.’

‘What is it, then?’ he says, sounding a bit narky at being disturbed.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘That’s the trouble. It needs a real pro.’ I smile at Mrs. V. and she smiles back. Arthur finishes his tea and stands up.

‘I’ll be right back,’ he says. Personally, I have my doubts, but I don’t say anything.

He goes out and Mrs. V. nods towards the tea pot.

‘Do you fancy a cup?’

‘Lovely, ta.’ I sit down and immediately gaze moodily into Mrs. V.’s eyes. I keep this up while she prattles on asking me how long I have worked with Arthur and all that kind of thing. I can see that she is aware of my attentive eyes but it takes her a few minutes to get around to commenting on them.

‘What’s the matter?’ she says eventually.

‘I was just thinking,’ I murmur.

‘Thinking what?’

‘That you are more beautiful than Cheryl. She’s lovely of course. But she hasn’t quite got your refinement of feature.’ That’s a smashing phrase, isn’t it? I got it out of a racehorse’s obituary. Mrs. V. obviously fancies it because she blushes.

‘She has her father’s colouring,’ she says. I nod understandingly.

‘I hope you don’t mind me saying that,’ I continue, ‘but you did ask me.’

‘Oh, no. I’m very flattered. People are always telling me how pretty Cheryl is.’

‘Never you?’ I give her my brooding look and her eyes falter.

‘Well, there are—I have been—’

I stand up and walk round the table.

‘I think you’re beautiful,’ I say, ‘very, very beautiful.’

‘Mr. Leak!’ Her voice combines surprise, pleasure and a hint of wariness.

‘Look at me,’ I order her. A good tip, this. If you are looking each other straight in the eyes it raises everything to a more superior plain. Also the bird cannot see what your hands are doing. Mrs. V. looks up at me nervously and I smile down at her. A smile laden with warmth, good fellowship and sheer naked lust. ‘I want to make love to you.’

‘But –’

‘No buts. From the first moment I clapped hands on you, I mean, eyes on you, I felt I was in the grip of some superior destiny. I was being told what to do by something bigger than I was.’ Certainly, something down the front of my trousers is a lot bigger than it was. ‘Don’t you feel it?’ I say passionately. I snatch up one of Mrs. V.’s hands and draw her to her feet. She offers no resistance and I put my arms round her.

‘But I hardly know you,’ she breathes.

‘This was the way nature intended us to become acquainted,’ I pant. ‘It has to be, can’t you feel it?’ She should be able to, standing where she is.

‘But we can’t, not here, can we?’ she asks. ‘What about Cheryl?’

‘Cheryl’s gone out,’ I lie, ‘and Arthur will take hours to fix that drier. It’s a big job and he’s very conscientious.’ I slide my hand gently up the front of her skirt and she starts shivering.

‘I don’t know what’s come over me,’ she says. ‘I haven’t felt like this for years.’

‘You must have,’ I murmur. ‘It’s just that you never let yourself go.’

‘Come in the sitting room,’ she says, ‘it’s too crowded in here.’

She leads me out into the hall and listens for a moment at the bottom of the stairs. I hold my breath but luckily no sound can be heard. God knows what they are doing up there.

‘I expect he’s hard at it,’ I say, not meaning to be funny. She nods and opens the door into the sitting room. Two armchairs, sofa, telly, gas fire with artificial log effect, horse brasses, flying ducks and a hairy white rug. It is the last feature that catches my eye.

‘I’m afraid it’s in an awful –’ she begins, but she never finishes. My mouth dives onto hers and as I push the door shut with my foot I steer her backwards towards the rug. She is wearing a long dress that buttons up from top to bottom and I have all the buttons undone in the space of one extended kiss. Not the only thing that is being extended either. The front of my trousers should be reinforced with high breaking-strain nylon thread to withstand the bashing it is getting. Some subtle process must have transferred this thought to Mrs. V.’s mind because her friendly fingers work speedily to release the pressure on my flies.

‘Oh,’ she gasps, ‘it’s been so long, so long.’ I know just how she feels and I too lose no time in freeing her shapely nether regions for a spot of in-and-out. Soon her fingers are entwined in the man-made fibres of the rug and she is uttering man-made squeaks of ecstasy as my eager body becomes the bow that plays love’s old sweet melody across her curvaceous hips. In fact, if she had a theme song, it would be ‘Cello, Dolly’. (Think about it, unless it proves too painful.)

‘Oh!’ she yelps. ‘I’m comings Oh! Oh!! Oh!!!’ I am very glad she says that because my own restraint is evaporating so fast that I don’t reckon on taking a taxi down to the Y.M.C.A. to boast about it. Gratefully, I let my evil impulses have their way, and Mrs. V and I shudder into squeaking ecstasy like a couple of over-inflated balloons escaping from restraining fingers.

Of course, it is only my first day, but I think I am going to enjoy being a salesman for HomeClean Products.