Читать книгу The Confessions Collection - Rosie Dixon, Timothy Lea - Страница 65

‘You wouldn’t believe the half of it,’ says Arthur.

‘Try me,’ I say.

We are sitting in the Delilah Coffee Bar, the next morning, discussing the previous afternoon – or rather, Arthur is describing and I am listening.

‘I couldn’t tell you some of the things that girl did,’ says Arthur with prudish satisfaction.

‘What sort of things?’ I ask eagerly.

‘I’d be too embarrassed to tell you,’ he says after considering a moment.

‘But you let her do them?’

Arthur pauses. ‘I still don’t feel right about it.’

‘What did she do, for God’s sake?’

Arthur looks me in the eye and then looks away again.

‘Things that animals do to each other.’

‘Sounds great,’ I say. Arthur shakes his head.

‘It’s terrible really. I feel ashamed of myself.’

‘But she fancied you. She told me so herself.’

‘I should never have taken advantage of her.’

‘But she wanted you to.’

‘She needs psychological help, that girl.’

‘Arthur, please! I reckon anybody who fancies you needs psychological help! Don’t get your knickers in a twist about it.’ Arthur draws himself up to his full five foot eight and a half inches.

‘What do you mean?’ he says. ‘This kind of thing is happening to me all the time. It’s just that usually I say “no”. I don’t have any shortage of opportunities, believe me. Incidentally, where were you?’

‘Did you look in the garden?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s where we were. She’s got some very nice begonias, you know.’

‘That’s funny. I thought she only had a window box.’

‘You must be mixing her up with one of your other lady friends.’ My remark is intended to divert the sensitive Seaton from discovering the extent of my activities with his erstwhile love and it does not fail.

‘You mind what you’re saying,’ he snaps. ‘I’m not one of your hanky panky merchants.’

‘Your secret is safe with me,’ I assure him. ‘Now, where are we going to start today?’

The rest of the week is downright disappointing by Monday’s standards and it is not until the following Tuesday that I bump into someone capable of making my pulse quicken. Strangely enough it is not a customer but a competitive lady, a demonstrator, who works for HomeClean’s deadly rivals, U.H.A., Universal Home Appliances. I bump into her in an Electricity Board showroom where she is discussing the price of butter with the resident HomeClean demonstrator and a bird from another firm. It is easy to tell the demonstrators when you go into a store because, unlike the salespeople who merely look disinterested, they give the impression of being capable of killing you if you interrupt their conversation. Also, despite the fact that they work for rival firms they are all terribly matey with each other. The last fact has to do with their belief that they were born to do better things than discuss washing machines with peasants and that if there was any justice in the world they would all be Paul Getty’s widows.

I do not know this when I first see Rose Dunchurch – she sounds like a village in the west country, doesn’t she? – and therefore my natural Lea high spirits get me off on the wrong foot.

Seeing me gazing at the U.H.A. Washwhiz while I try to work out in what way, if any, it differs from the HomeClean WonderWasher, she misinterprets my interest and glides towards me like a crocodile approaching breakfast.

‘Thinking about a washing machine, sah?’ she says, all posh-like.

‘I seldom think about anything else,’ I say as her eyebrows go up. ‘Tell me, they all look the same to me. What’s so remarkable about this one?’

‘In a word, sah,’ she says, ‘“Tickle tension”.’

‘“Tickle tension”,’ I gulp. ‘What on earth is that?’

‘That is the unique U.H.A. wash action that extends the fabric being washed and gently tickles the dirt from it. Strong but gentle. There’s no tangling, no clumsy propellers to damage your clothes. Independent tests have proved –’

‘Yes, yes,’ I say, because I have heard all that before, ‘but is this washing action strong enough to get the dirt out of really dirty garments? I mean, my flatmate does a lot of moto-cross. I reckon it’s going to take more than tickling to get the mud out of that lot.’

In fact the Washwhiz is a first rate product and I am only repeating the line we have been told to spin the trade. Sales Education have decided that ‘Tickle tension’ sounds a bit feeble and are casually dropping it about that the machine would not pull a boyscout off his sister.

‘Oh, no, sah,’ she says, shaking her head in amazement that such old wives tales should still persist. ‘There is no diminution in washing efficacy.’ She uses words like that because she is pretty certain I am not going to understand them. This is another pretty standard selling ploy and usually revolves around product description: ‘You see, madam, the centrifugal drag factor is starboggled by countersunk flange gussets to maintain the perfect balance between fabric safety and drying efficiency’. This, at a pinch, could be used to explain why your machine spin dries worse than anything else on the market. Few customers wish to reveal themselves as the kind of idiot who does not understand about countersunk flange gussets and most of them are impressed by any word they have never heard before. Rose Dunchurch continues, the U.H.A. badge on her generous knockers trembling with selling zeal.

‘Don’t be misled into thinking that because the keynote of the Tickle tension washing action is gentleness you are losing out on cleaning power. I know there are other machines on the market that give the impression of a lot going on when you look through the port-hole, but in fact, some of the more powerful actions are too powerful. They are actually driving the dirt deeper into the clothes!’

‘No!’ I gasp.

‘Yes!’ Miss Dunchurch begins to close in for the kill. ‘Now, with Tickle tension, the whole surface of the article to be washed is opened out,’ she gently opens a folded tea-cloth, ‘not screwed into a ball as happens with some washing machines.’ Her face contorts with disgust and she viciously mangles the tea towel. By the cringe, but she is a strong girl. ‘Now,’ her voice softens again, ‘with the Washwhiz we open up the fabric rather like a flower responding to sunshine,’ I suppress a wince. What diabolical adman could have thought of that one! ‘Gentle jets of water play on the fabric as it circulates, easing out the dirt.’ She agitates the cloth between her fingers and I watch her breasts quivering. I like it when she does that.

‘Sounds very good,’ I say earnestly, ‘but I was thinking about a Wonderwasher. They speak very highly of it in the advertisements.’

Miss Dunchurch looks round carefully to see if the HomeClean Demonstrator is within earshot. She is not.

‘Personally,’ says Miss D., ‘I have the highest respect for HomeClean. They make some wonderful products. Their electric pruners, for instance – absolutely first class. But –’ a teeny note of doubt creeps into her voice, ‘I have never been absolutely one hundred per cent confident about their washing machines. I suppose it all boils down to the question of personal experience, whether tangling is something you worry about, how handy you are with a sewing machine –’

‘Oh, there you are Timmy, sorry I’m late. Hello, Rose.’ Arthur has crept up behind me unnoticed. Miss Dunchurch’s face registers instant distaste.

‘Is he one of yours?’ she says to Arthur as if referring to a puppy that has just relieved itself against her ankle.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘you were doing such a good job I didn’t have the heart to stop you.’

‘There is a code,’ she says witheringly. ‘Even in this business one has ethics.’

‘I prefer Suffolk myself,’ I say, ‘not so flat.’

My little joke goes unnoticed as Miss D. continues her outburst of righteous indignation.

‘You don’t care do you,’ says Arthur later. ‘She’ll put in a complaint for certain. Head office are very sticky about things like that.’

He is right there. Big companies may hate each other’s guts in private but in public it is very much a case of ‘after you, Claud, no, after you, Cecil’.

‘You’d better try and make your peace with her,’ warns Arthur, ‘remember, you’re still on probation.’

This conversation is taking place in a corner of the showroom and, from where I stand, I can see Miss D.’s bristols still bristling. If you like the big blonde bomber type you would like Rose Dunchurch. She is generously endowed with curves and has legs that go straight up to her armpits. Now that she hates my guts I have decided that I am passionately in love with her body. This is often the way with me, being someone who likes a challenge. Stupid, as well. I therefore have to find a way of burying not only the hatchet but the chopper and in Miss D.’s present mood this is going to require all my reserves of animal magnetism and low cunning. Fortunately I am equal to the challenge.

After a brief planning discussion with Arthur we sidle up behind the display of U.H.A. products that Miss Dunchurch is guarding.

‘Nice looking machine that,’ I say in a loud stage whisper, intending for Miss D. to hear. ‘Reminds me of the R 49.’

‘Quiet, you fool!’ replies Arthur, over-playing his part as I knew he would, ‘that’s not off the secret list yet. Remember what they said at the pre-launch meeting.’

Behind us there is the sound of a pile of detergent packets tumbling to the ground as Miss D. struggles to get nearer to our conversation. One of the reasons why HomeClean encourages its salesmen to keep on good terms with the competition is so that they can elicit information about new products development, and I am gambling that what she has overheard will encourage Miss D. to soften her heart towards me.

Waiting until just before dinner time, I approach her with an expression of humble manliness etched across my features.

‘I came to apologise for what happened this morning,’ I say, ‘and I wondered if I could buy you a drink to make up for it?’

‘Well,’ she says primly, ‘it was very naughty of you. I’m certain that if I reported what happened, your sales manager would take a very dim view of it.’

‘I know, I know,’ I grovel. ‘It would probably cost me my job. I haven’t been with the company very long.’

‘Well, since you’ve had the grace to apologise, let’s say no more about it.’

‘Thank you very much,’ I bleat. ‘Now, how about that drink?’

‘I’ve got my sandwiches. I usually eat them in the rest room.’

‘What a good idea,’ I say. ‘Tell you what. I’ll pop out and buy something and perhaps I can join you? That is, if no one is going to mind?’

‘There’s usually no one there,’ she says. ‘We’ll probably have the place to ourselves.’

‘Oh,’ I say, trying to sound as if I am considering indenting for a chaperone. ‘That will be all right, will it?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she pats my wrist in a friendly fashion. ‘But if you are getting something to drink, don’t make it too alcoholic. It goes straight to my head. A glass of wine would be very nice.’

This is a bit of a blow because I have been considering investing in something calculated to rot the elastic in her knickers, but fortunately Dame Fortune is flashing her National Health dentures at me, as I find when I repair to the local off licence.

Bosnian Bull’s Blood is the name of the brew concerned and it is apparently made by our friends in Bulgaria. Very nice people, I am led to believe, with large, black moustaches; much given to dancing round camp fires in gipsy costume. Anyhow, this is not what is running through my torrid little mind as I examine what it says on the label. ‘A high potency, fortified wine made to a centuries old slavonic recipe.’ Sounds all right, doesn’t it? Let’s see what a few tumbler’s full of that does for our relationship, I think to myself. With a bit of luck we will soon both be feeling rosy all over.

I whip back to the rest room praying that I will have Miss D. to myself and sure enough, there she is unwrapping her cucumber sandwiches all on her tod. The room is not exactly calculated to bring tears of appreciation to John Betjamin’s eye but at least there is a kind of head-shrinker’s couch there, should we need something to fall back on.

‘Haven’t you got anything for yourself?’ she says.

‘I don’t eat much at dinner time,’ I say.

‘You can have some of these. I won’t eat them all,’ she says, indicating her daintily cut sandwiches. ‘I don’t fancy going out round here. The restaurants are absolutely filthy and you pay through the nose.’

I nod my head in agreement and think what a berk I was not to buy a corkscrew. Luckily I have my penknife which has one of those things for getting stones out of horses hooves. Bloody stupid, isn’t it? I mean, think of the times you come across a horse with a stone in its hoof, whilst you’re always stumbling around looking for a bleeding corkscrew, aren’t you? No wonder we are becoming a third-rate industrial power. I chip away at the cork and eventually succeed in shoving it inside the bottle, sending a shower of wine all over my suit. I say the second word that comes into my mind and push my little finger into the neck of the bottle so that I can keep the cork out of the way while I pour some wine up my sleeve. Of course, I do not intend to pour wine up my sleeve, it just happens that way. It is amazing, but Cary Grant never seems to have this trouble.

‘Oh dear,’ says Rose, ‘are you all right?’

‘Fine,’ I say, nonchalantly wringing out my sleeve. ‘We’ll have to have it out of cups. Is that alright?’

‘Oh, oh yes, I suppose so.’ Rose sounds as if she is used to silver goblets but is prepared to put a brave face on it. ‘What is it?’

‘Rather an interesting little wine from central Europe,’ I say. ‘Young, but totally without pretension.’ I can’t remember where I got that from but it does not half get them going down at the Balham Steakerama, I can tell you. I say it about everything that comes along and the birds reckon they are drinking champagne.

‘Red wine, how nice,’ says Rose, extending her cup. ‘Now, tell me, what have you been doing since you joined HomeClean?’ Here it comes, I think to myself, the old third degree wrapped in the velvet glove. I take a sip of Bosnia’s gift to the free world and—yeeeps! By the cringe! I don’t know what they have fortified it with but it tastes like iron filings.

‘Cheerio,’ says Rose, raising her cup and it occurs to me that I should have given her the one with the handle. I watch her expression with interest and, at a guess, her reaction to B.B.B. matches my own. Revulsion mixed with a feeling of amazement that anyone should have dared to put the stuff in a bottle.

‘It’s different, isn’t it?’ I say.

‘Very,’ gulps my fair companion. ‘Now, come on. Tell me about yourself.’

‘I was born at a very early age,’ I say wittily, ‘and spent my first few days in hospital because I wanted to be near my mother.’

Miss Dunchurch cranks her features into something resembling a smile and pushes me playfully on the shoulder.

‘No, you silly boy,’ she says. ‘I mean since you’ve joined HomeClean. I expect you’ve been round the factory?’

‘Oh yes. We did spend a day there. Very noisy it was. I found that everything looked the same after a while. I didn’t know whether they were making fridges or washing machines.’ I take another sip of plonk and am glad to see that Miss D. is keeping pace with me.

‘It’s a very complex business, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Especially when they are retooling for a new product.’ She leans forward eagerly and I nod my head and top up her cup before she can say no.

‘Very complex,’ I say, ‘but I don’t suppose I see as much of the factory as you do. As a demonstrator you must be dropping in all the time to keep abreast of new product developments.’

‘We don’t have a lot of innovations,’ she says. ‘Not like HomeClean. Your lot are always launching new products, aren’t they?’ I take another sip of the dreaded plonk and fan myself with my hand.

‘I must be careful,’ I say. ‘This is making me feel quite light-headed. I’m not used to drinking at dinner time.’

‘No,’ says Miss D., draining her cup impulsively, ‘neither am I. We were talking about new product development.’

I look up from refilling her cup. ‘Were we? What were you saying?’

‘You were saying that there is a lot happening at the factory and I said that HomeClean had a reputation for launching lots of new products. Washing machines, especially. This new one sounds very interesting.’ She gazes at me open-eyed and I shake my head as if trying to remember something.

‘You know, I’m certain I’ve seen you somewhere before,’ I say eventually. ‘I know this sounds like some kind of corny routine, but you’ve never been in films have you?’

Miss D. chortles modestly. ‘Who, me? Good heavens, no! I’m sometimes mistaken for Anita Ekberg but I don’t see it myself.’

‘Of course!’ I say, slapping my hand against my knee, ‘that’s who it is. I knew it was someone. You’ve got the same fantastic colouring and – forgive me mentioning it – figure.’

‘I’m a bit over-weight, I’m afraid. I shouldn’t be tucking into this.’ She holds up her cup and I am quick to refill it.

‘Nonsense. I think you’re marvellous the way you are. Really I do.’

Miss D. holds up a restraining hand which I think is intended to indicate that she does not want any more wine. Unfortunately – for her, it arrives too late.

‘I can see you’re a salesman,’ she says, giving me a playful nudge. ‘All that flattery must go over well with your lady customers.’

I flash on the famous hurt, misunderstood expression patented by generations of Leas.

‘I’m quite serious,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.’

‘I know, I know. I was only teasing.’ Miss D. pats me reassuringly. All this touching is good news because when a bird starts grabbing you it usually means that a spot of oggins is not too far away over the horizon.

‘Now tell me about this new washer.’ Miss D. tries to keep her voice relaxed and friendly but there is no mistaking the hard edge that creeps into it when she gets down to business.

‘New washer?’ I say, all innocently. ‘I didn’t think there was any secret about it. Everybody in the trade knows—hic! Oh, dear, you must excuse me.’ Miss D. presses her hand to her mouth in lady-like fashion but no sooner has she taken it away than another burb wells up from her tum. ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ she says. ‘I hope I’m not going to get an attack of hiccups. I can’t bear it.’

But that is just what poor Miss Dunchurch does get and a procession of tit-trembling croaks break from her pretty lips as if set by a timer.

Fortunately this unhappy state of affairs is one that I can turn to my advantage. I let her hiccup for a few moments and then put forward a suggestion.

‘My mum has an absolutely fool-proof method of curing hiccups,’ I say. ‘Trouble is that it may seem a bit rude.’

‘Anything, any—hic,’ gasps Miss D.

‘Well, first of all we need a key.’ Brilliant swine, aren’t I? Bold as brass I walk over to the door, turn the key in the lock so that Miss D. cannot see what I am doing, and return to my patient. ‘Now, you need to expose your back so I can rest the key on it.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Absolutely.’ I pretend not to watch as Miss D. undoes her mother of pearl buttons and slips off her blouse. She is wearing a half-cup bra which does little to conceal her best features and I am practically drooling into my mug of plonk. I notice that already the china seems to be irreparably stained.

‘Now, what?’

I wrench my eyes from Miss D.’s knockers and reject the first half dozen suggestions that spring to mind.

‘Lean forward,’ I say. ‘I have to rest the key on your back.’

Needless to say, I am making the treatment up as I go along and I am comforted to hear Miss D. give a little drunken giggle. Bosnia’s contribution to the undermining of Western civilisation is obviously beginning to perform its prime task.

Rose Dunchurch leans forward obediently and I place the key in the middle of her smooth white back. Immediately she hiccups violently and it falls onto the floor. This happens twice more and I tuck the key under her bra strap making suitably apologetic noises. Still the hiccuping continues.

‘Oh dear, I say. ‘I’ve never known it fail before. Maybe it’s because you back isn’t completely—er, bare. When my mum used to do it I had to strip to the waist.’

‘Surely my bra isn’t going to make any great difference?’

‘I don’t know. It might do.’

Miss D. reaches behind her back and being the gentleman I am I move swiftly to offer assistance. I release the catch and her bra joins her blouse over the back of a chair.

‘Well?’

‘Well what – oh, yes.’ I have been so engrossed in the sight of those lovely bristols hanging down like giant dew drops that I have forgotten about the key. I pop it on her back and immediately it zonks back onto the floor again.

‘Your old mother’s recipe doesn’t seem to be—hic, working,’ observes Miss D. a trifle testily.

‘I can’t understand it, I really can’t. Maybe –’ I let my voice die away.

‘Maybe what?’

‘Well there was something else my mother used to do, now I come to think of it, but, but –’

‘Oh for heavens—hic! What did your mother do?’

‘It’s rather rude, what with you being a girl.’

‘Just tell me what she did!’

‘Well,’ if Miss D. was not looking at the floor she would be able to see the awful struggle I am having to get the words out, me being the kind of shy, fumbling fellow that I am. ‘She used to rub my chest.’

‘What!’

‘Yes, I’m sorry. I should have thought of that at the beginning, shouldn’t I. Oh, dear, I am sorry. It’s all so embarrassing, isn’t it?’

‘Oh really. This is ridiculous. I must be mad.’ She gives another light-headed giggle and starts manipulating her shapely boobs. The key promptly falls off again.

‘You’d better let me do it.’ I put the key back and wrap my greedy mits round her bristols. ‘My hands aren’t too cold, are they?’ I ask thoughtfully.

‘No,’ she says. ‘Actually, I think it’s beginning to work.’

Could she be right? Am I on the threshold of giving my name to science? My pulse quickens as I consider the possibilities. Mum always said she wanted me to be a doctor. One day she may be able to pick up a medical dictionary and find my name, ‘Lea’s Method: infallible cure for hiccups discovered by Clapham’s number one breast-stroke specialist’.

My dream is shattered by a loud ‘hic’ from my patient.

‘Try drinking something,’ I say hurriedly. She draws herself up gratefully and I am swift to pour another cupfull of Bull’s Blood down her throat.

‘Oh,’ she says, ‘oh, my goodness. I feel quite woozey. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.’ No prizes for guessing which alternative I favour.

‘Get your head down,’ I say, ‘you’ll feel better.’ I return to my self-appointed task and it does not escape my notice that Miss D. is beginning to make contented noises and that her bell pushers are taking on the consistency of armour-piercing bullets.

‘I’m drunk—hic!’ she says happily, ‘utterly and completely drunk—hic!’

Well, I ask you, what kind of swine would take advantage of a girl in that situation? Right in one! It is twenty to two and there is little time left. Adjusting my forefinger under her chin I raise her head and gently brush the hair from her eyes. Her lids are down and I press my lips against them before moving on to her soft warm mouth. She lets herself be kissed without any great display of emotion and seizing one of my hands puts it back on her knockers.

‘Go on doing that,’ she says sleepily. ‘I like it.’ I never argue in a situation like that and continue the good work making sure that my probing finger covers the maximum area of flesh. Her eyes are tightly closed and she gives a little shiver of pleasure as I start to nibble the side of her neck.

‘What about that washing machine?’ she murmurs.

Game girl, isn’t she? I have forgotten all about industrial espionage.

‘It has a fantastic action,’ I breathe, running my hands over her thighs, ‘so powerful, but so gentle.’

‘Tell me more,’ she sighs, ‘it sounds wonderful.’

‘It is, it is.’ Like Britain’s gold reserves, we sink slowly towards the floor, and my hands gratefully latch on to the top of her tights.

‘Rotating action – first one way – then the other.’

‘I can’t wait.’ Still with her eyes closed Miss D. fumbles for the front of my trousers.

‘Unique deep thrust action –’ she breaks one of her nails on my zipper.

‘High spin speed, big capacity –’

‘Front loading?’

‘Y-e-e-e-s!’

‘O-o-o-o-h.’

Experienced readers will be aware that my brief acquaintanceship with Miss Rose Dunchurch has now blossomed into something beautiful, if, unfortunately a trifle short-lived. This saddens me as does the fact that her hiccups persist in punctuating our love-making. Even as I tuck my tie inside my jacket and let myself out of the inappropriately named rest room, I can hear them echoing behind me. Still, you can’t have everything, can you?

Life as a HomeClean salesman is quite a nice little doddle and towards the end of my probation period I am beginning to think that Sidney will have to come up with something pretty good to tempt me away from the dear old company. Unfortunately, fate, as it has a habit of doing with me, decides to intervene.

It happens one day when Arthur has pushed off early to dig his garden and I have decided to be keen and do a spot of cold-canvassing. I select a street full of detached houses with names like ‘Homelea’ and ‘Fairmeads’ and give a sharp rat-tat-tat on the first door knocker that attracts me. The door is opened by a bird who is ugly as sin and a darn sight less attractive. When she opens her mouth I realise that she is the au pair girl.

‘Pleeze,’ she says, ‘Mrs. Balfour eez not een.’ I reckon she must come from Spain to talk like that but it is not a subject I wish to discuss with her.

‘Will she be back soon?’ I ask.

‘I zinc zo.’

‘Good,’ I say, stepping over the threshold. ‘I may have some good news for her.’ I go into the spiel about lucky numbers which Spanish fly clearly does not understand and find my way to the kitchen so that I can check the electrical products. Once she sees me thus engaged Carmen begins to catch on and suddenly grabs hold of a toaster and a plug. Now it is my turn to work out what the hell she is talking about and after five minutes gesticulating, I get the message that she wants the toaster to, stand on a work surface with the flex going down to a socket at the base of the wall underneath. The Spanish bird must think that I am some kind of handy man and it occurs to me that it might not be a bad idea to do this little job so that the mistress of the house is appropriately grateful when she gets back. It should not be too difficult because there is a conveniently placed knot hole just next to where she wants the toaster and if I can tap this out it will be child’s play to feed through the flex and get everything fixed up. Move over, Barry Bucknall, your days are numbered!

I rummage around until I find some tools and start trying to tap out the knot. Unfortunately it is shaped like a bung and so I will have to approach it from underneath. I disappear beneath the work surface and am lying there with my feet sticking out into the open when I hear Carmen’s voice.

‘I go out now,’ she says. ‘Mrs. Balfour vil be back zoon.’

‘O.K. Thanks,’ I shout and set to work trying to bash out the accursed knot. It is more difficult than I had anticipated because there are a lot of awkwardly placed pipes down there and it is not easy to get an uninterrupted swing with the hammer.

I have been at it about five minutes when I hear the kitchen door opening. I imagine that it is the au pair returning and continue to grunt in the darkness. Then YEEOW! Something grabs hold of my balls and I jerk my head up so sharply that I crack it on one of the pipes and see enough stars to illuminate the Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square. A woman screams and I wriggle out to see a handsome bint with copper-coloured hair that looks as if it has just come back from the hairdressers. She is standing with her hand held to her mouth in horror and her expression does not improve when she sees my face.

‘Oh!’ she squeaks, ‘I thought you were my husband!’

I move my hand to my forehead and take it away sharply. By the cringe! The lump there could get me dates with unicorns.

‘Oh, your poor head. I am sorry. I’ve been on at my husband for weeks to fix up that toaster and I thought he’d got the message at last.’

I shake my head and scramble to my feet. There is no doubt that I am feeling decidedly shaky.

‘Let me bathe it with something.’ I slump into a chair while the bird bustles around filling a bowl with warm water and fetching some cotton wool.

‘There now, is that better?’ I respond to her dabs with groans and decide that the lady has a beautiful arse.

‘Do you usually do things like that to your husband?’ I ask.

‘No, no. It’s never occurred to me before. It was just a little joke. I don’t know what came over me.’

‘Good,’ I say. ‘I don’t think there are many blokes that could learn to love that being done to them.’

‘I’m just going to put the kettle on,’ she says. ‘Would you care for a cup?’

‘Ta, thanks very much.’ I look at her hair. ‘Are you going out this evening?’

‘No. I have my hair done every week. It’s habit really. My husband is away a lot of the time and it helps to pass the time. Tell me, what did you come here for?’

But I never get around to answering that question. Mrs. Shapely-Arse has just switched off the cooker and is returning to the table with the kettle when—oops! She trips over the tool box and directs the steaming column of liquid towards my lap. I leap out of the way and catch my head a terrible crack on the cupboard door she has opened to get the teapot out.

That does it! I am precious nearly out on my feet and reel back against the sink holding my head in my hands.

‘Oh dear. You poor thing. Come on, you’d better lie down. Oh dear, let me help you. I am so terribly sorry.’ She rambles on like this whilst helping me out into the hall and guiding my hand onto the banisters. ‘If you have a little lie down perhaps you’ll feel better. I’ll get you some aspirins in a moment.’

She leads me upstairs and into a largish double bedroom. I slump down on the bed and she goes to a cupboard and gets out a blanket which she lays on top of me.

‘You stay there for a little while. Don’t move until you feel quite better.’ I try and nod but the pain makes me wince and she squeezes my arm reassuringly. ‘Don’t try and say anything. I’ll be back in a minute.’

Maybe it is my double injury or more likely it is the fact that I had a few beers at dinner time, but whatever it is, the next thing I remember is opening my eyes to the sight of Mrs. Shapely-Arse stepping out of her dress and popping it on a hanger. She is wearing a coffee coloured slip and she looks very desirable. She dives her hands under her slip to pull up her tights and I groan. Not with pain but because I find the sight affecting. My ministering angel hears the noise and speeds to the bed-side.

‘How do you feel?’ she says, sounding really worried. There she is, with her bristols bulging temptingly above me and her soft brown eyes full of compassion and I think: What the hell, what have I got to lose?

Releasing a long, low groan suggestive of enormous suffering I close my eyes and stretch out my arms as if in a dream.

‘Oh my beautiful darling,’ I murmur. ‘At last you’ve come back to me.’ So saying I clamp my arms around her and pull her down onto my hungry lips. ‘Oh!’ is the best she can manage before my mouth shuts out all sound. She struggles for a moment and then goes limp. Perhaps this is what her mother told her to do: ‘Let him have his way dear, then roll out from under him when he falls asleep.’

‘Why did you leave me?’ I moan, ‘Why, why, why?’ I am careful never to give her a chance to answer and move my powerful fingers down to her delectable hind quarters with maximum speed. ‘It’s a dream,’ I murmur, ‘a wonderful, wonderful, dream.’

You do not have to read a lot of detective novels to see what I am getting at. If I can persuade the bird that I am in some kind of besotted trance, then she may well consider that a spot of nooky might be therapeutic – or, as we say in Clapham, favourite. I am also trying to suggest to her that in my trance-like state I have no knowledge of what I am doing. She may therefore use me shamelessly without any fear that I will remember what happened afterwards. I am thus trying to appeal to her on a number of levels, all of them horizontal.

‘Seven years,’ I groan, ‘seven years without a woman’s touch. Oh, Margaret! To have you in my arms again.’

Suddenly Mrs. Shapely-Arse is not in my arms again and for a moment I think I have blown it – if you will excuse the expression. Then, I hear the happy rustle of discarded clothing and something warm and soft presses against my body, something that is certainly not a polythene bag full of cooling tapioca.

‘You poor boy,’ murmurs a voice trembling with emotion, ‘you poor, poor, boy.’ Nimble fingers set to stripping my body of unwanted clothing and a light dust of kisses descends upon my exposed flesh. Romantic, isn’t it? Well, it’s more romantic than ‘With Rifle and Killing Jar through Southern Patagonia’.

At last I am naked and then, fortunate me, wearing my new friend. What Bliss! Lying on top of me Mrs. Shapely-Arse moves to and fro with practiced and enthusiastic ease and I decide it is probably safe to open my eyes. I don’t want the poor girl to think I am slipping into a semi-coma which might lead to a full stop. I turn my head to one side and open my eyes.

There, staring at me from the bedside table is a photograph of Brian Belfry. He is standing next to the lady who is lying on top of me so that they have obviously met before. What a coincidence. I thought the au pair girl pronounced Balfour in a funny way. Stupid slut! They should not let them into the country unless they can speak English properly. I turn my head away from Belfry’s ugly mug and—EEK! There it is on the other side of the bed. For real! In the flesh!! All the way from Knuttley Hall to find me on the job with his old lady!!!

‘Brian!’

‘You –! !’ It is obvious that Belfry is trying to say something but the expression on his face suggests that the words are too frightened to come out of his mouth.

‘Listen, Mr. Belfry,’ I squeal, ‘I can explain everything.’

The way his fists knot as he charges towards the bed suggests that he does not believe me.