Читать книгу The Confessions Collection - Rosie Dixon, Timothy Lea - Страница 76

‘This is a nice one of Timmy,’ says Mum. “You can’t see a lot of his face though.’

‘You can’t have everything,’ says Dad, all sarcastic like.

They are studying the daily newspapers and I have made the front page of every one of them except The Times and the Guardian. I know that because Mum has rushed out to buy everything except the Jewish Chronicle and Chicks Own. She is dead narky about my non-appearance in the quality press because she had to go up to Clapham South tube station before she found a copy.

Her reaction to my little spot of bother is interesting. Distress, accompanied by pride in the number of column inches I have achieved – I hasten to add that I am referring to space in the newspapers. Already she has the scissors out and I can see that I am taking over from Jason as the family star. Unfortunately my career now seems likely to be considerably shorter than that of the squint-eyed little monster glaring at me over his bowl of Tasty Frosties.

‘You see where tangling with that harpy got you,’ sniffs Rosie, who does not hate me quite so much now that she knows I am not destined for the Uncle Timmy spot.

‘It was strictly a no-tangle action, I’m afraid, Rosie. You don’t want to believe everything you read in the papers…’

‘Oh yeah. Sounds very likely, doesn’t it?’ says Dad. ‘Stark bollock naked and her with her dress half torn off. Nothing remarkable about that, is there? Oh dear me no.’

‘She led me on, Dad. I’ve never had to resort to force yet. It’s not my nature.’

‘She was a hussy, that one,’ says Rosie helpfully. ‘There was always a lot of talk about her.’

‘I think she left those pills there on purpose,’ I say, seeing a chance to patch things up with Rosie. ‘She never liked little Jason, did she?’

‘She never liked anyone except herself.’

‘It says here she’s considering a number of film roles,’ says Mum, who is still studying the papers. ‘She wants to be an all-round entertainer. There’s talk of her going to Hollywood.’

‘More like Neasden Rep,’ snorts Rosie. ‘She can’t do anything.’

‘Don’t look at me, Dad,’ I say. ‘I never found out.’

Most of the papers treat the affair as a put-up job and the police reaction has been less enthusiastic than that of firemen being called out to a false alarm at a waterworks. When I have read the dailies it occurs to me that I am being a bit premature in writing myself off for a job with Dominic Ralph. The worst headline is ‘Was it Rape or a Lovers’ Tiff?’ Most of the others look on the funny side in a way that makes me wish I could have shared their merriment at the time. All in all it occurs to me that I might give Dominic a ring and see where I stand.

In fact I do not stand, I grovel. And even that does not do any good. I ring Dominic at the studio where no one can find him, and at his flat where the phone is answered in an accent that makes Kenneth Williams sound like Richard Roundtree.

‘Who is that?’ minces the voice. ‘I’ll just see if he’s still in.’ Pause. ‘No, I’m most terribly sorry but he’s just popped out. Can I take a message?’

‘Yes,’ I snarl. ‘Tell him to turn off his bleeding electric razor. I can hardly hear what you’re saying!’ I jam down the receiver and compose myself to plan my next move.

I am not getting anywhere particularly fast when I light upon the card that the hated Miss Mealie gave me. This is probably another load of rubbish but anything is worth pursuing in my present situation. The first number on the card rings without reply, but the second is answered instantly.

‘Dukley, Barchester and Rideabout,’ says a very toffee-nosed voice, ‘gee-ood morning.’

‘I’m sorry, I’ve got the wrong number,’ I say, ‘I was after Trion Productions.’

‘Justin Tymely?’

‘That’s right.’

‘He’s on the floor at the moment, shooting.’ Blimey! I think, she’s very cool about it. I wonder why I cannot hear any shots.

‘I’ll ring the police,’ I say. The receiver is half an inch from the rest when I hear squawking coming from it.

‘What are you talking about?’ says the upper-crust voice tightly. ‘He’s shooting a film at the Sheppertree Studios!’

‘Oh, silly me,’ I say. ‘I thought – oh well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll see him there. If you have any contact with him, tell him a window cleaner rang.’

‘Don’t go down to the studio,’ says the bird exasperatedly, ‘we need you here. The windows are filthy.’

‘I’m not a real window cleaner,’ I say. ‘Well, I am, but not at the moment. I’m an actor window cleaner, Timothy Lea.’

‘I’ll tell him you’re coming if he rings in, Mr Lea,’ says the voice icily and the line goes dead.

I am looking forward to visiting a real live film studio but by the time I get to what seems like the other end of the Home Counties, my enthusiasm is waning a bit. The buildings that greet my eye look like derelict hangars and I have not seen anything less impressive since I worked at Melody Bay Holiday Camp.

‘Mr Tymely,’ I say to the peak-capped geezer on the gate. ‘Mr Justin Tymely. He’s a film director.’

‘What’s he doing?’

‘I don’t know. Something with a window cleaner in it.’

The gatekeeper shakes his head and consults a list pinned beside his hatch. ‘Up the Ladder, Jack,’ he says finally. ‘Does that ring a bell?’

‘Probably what I want. Where do I find him?’

‘Straight down as far as you can go, then turn right, second left.’

Fifteen minutes later I find myself outside a metal sliding door with ‘Stage 5’ painted on it. There is also a red light and a sign which says ‘Do not enter when light is flashing’. The light is flashing so I wait obediently. Five minutes pass and it has just started to rain when two youngish men come round the corner. They are dressed in painters’ overalls and for a moment I make the stupid mistake of thinking that they are painters. Their conversation soon disabuses me.

‘So I said to him, I says, “If Crispin is going to have one then I’m going to have one”. Well, I mean, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it?’

‘And what did he say?’

‘Stupid old faggot didn’t know what I was talking about. Can you imagine? Ooh, I could have sunk my nails into him. Sink! Sink! Sink! I know you say I over-react to things –’

‘I never said that! That I did never say. I said you were sensitive.’

‘Well then!’

My contact with the conversation vanishes as the newcomers ignore the red light and disappear into the hangar. There is obviously no point in waiting about outside so I depress the lever and go in after them.

‘Oiy! Can’t you read?’

I am being addressed by a large red-faced man wearing a dirty plaid shirt and paint-spattered trousers.

‘I’m sorry. I was following those two.’

‘Sssh!’ hiss the two gay blades who are now scowling at me as if I have started cracking walnuts under my arm during a palace reception.

‘You use your eyes!’ says the big man.

I nod vigorously and upon enquiring after Mr Tymley’s whereabouts, am directed round the back of what looks like a hastily erected pre-fabricated shed. This must be the set, I think to myself and peer through one of the windows with interest. A pretty, long-haired blonde girl wearing a mini skirt is being embraced by yet another man dressed in painter’s overalls. As my pulse quickens he slides his hand inside the girl’s blouse and begins massaging one of her breasts as if he is trying to smooth it into her chest. Saucy! I think to myself. Obviously Mr Tymely makes a pretty explicit movie even by modern standards. The girl opens her eyes, sees me and gives a little yelp.

‘Ooh, Ron!’ she says.

Ron turns on me angrily. ‘Bugger off!’ he says. ‘Go on, hop it before I give you a thick lip! Bleeding peeping toms!’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say urgently. ‘I thought –’ But there does not seem a lot of mileage in telling Ron what I thought, so I leave him and his lady friend to get better acquainted and push on to an intersection between piles of props ranging from choir stalls to bar fittings. This, at last, must be where the action is, because I can actually see a camera. Standing beside it is a greasy-haired individual with cheeks and chest like a retired pouter pigeon that has gone to bird seed. He is shaking his head at a tall, slim young man who has a mane of hair flowing from halfway down the back of his head, the upper part of that article being bald as an egg. The tall geezer is wearing faded denim from head to toe and has an expensive-looking silk scarf bulging from his neck.

‘All right, all right,’ shouts Lofty, ‘Sellotape her nipples! Jesus Christ, isn’t there a woman in the whole of London who can erect her nipples? When the hell are we going to get something in the can?’

‘Jim,’ says Greasebonce, ‘do her nipples, will you?’ Jim is playing cards with half a dozen painters and stagehands and seems irritated at being disturbed.

‘Oh, bleeding heck,’ he says, throwing down his cards. ‘That’s extra, you know, Sellotaping nipples. Extra.’ He drags himself to his feet and advances onto the set.

‘Bloody unions,’ snarls Greasebonce under his breath in a gruff Scottish accent. ‘Most of these bastards want danger money before they’ll pull the bog chain.’

The set is obviously intended to represent the inside of a bedroom and the lady now complaining about Jim’s cold hands is wearing a black lace negligee and one of the biggest sets of knockers I have ever seen. Cleaning his nails on the other side of the rumpled bed is a queer looking cove in the inevitable painters’ overalls. He managed to make them look like the latest male fashion dreamed up by one of those kinky French designers.

‘Right. Thank you, Jim,’ says Lofty. ‘Now, Mac, if you’ve got some film in the camera, let’s do it again. And for God’s sake, Crispin, put a bit of life into it! Try and imagine Sandra is a man or something.’

‘Charming!’ says Sandra.

‘You’re supposed to be a lusty housepainter about to enjoy the sexual experience of a lifetime,’ continues Lofty. ‘At the moment it sounds as if you’ve popped in to ask for a glass of water because you’ve come over a little queer.’

‘He should be so lucky,’ mutters Mac.

‘If you don’t like my reading, Justin, I don’t know why you don’t get someone else,’ flounces Crispin. ‘Victor Mature, for instance.’

‘He wanted luncheon vouchers,’ says my prospective employer acidly. ‘Now, concentrate on the performance you’re being paid to give.’

‘I don’t know how you expect anyone to say these lines,’ moans Crispin. ‘ “Man, but it’s a really switched-on pad you’ve here, honey.” Good grief, if my old Rada teacher could see me now –’

‘Yes, I know, Crispin,’ says Justin. ‘But the money’s good, isn’t it? It’s better than reading children’s stories on the telly. Now, for God’s sake, let’s have some action!’

‘Bunchleys munchy butter-beans just melt in your mouth,’ says Crispin for no apparent reason.

‘My nipples are going numb,’ says Sandra from the bed. ‘Jim put that sellotape on too tight.’

‘You’ll just have to grin and bear it, dear,’ says Justin as a groan goes up from the camera crew. ‘OK. Let’s get this bleeding scene in the can.’

‘Quiet, please!’

‘Scene one hundred and forty two – Take three.’

‘Mind Sandra when you use that clapper board.’

‘Shut up!’

‘See nipples and die.’

‘Shut up!’

Sandra stands by the bed and Crispin adjusts his hairpiece and squares his shoulders – well, oblongs them really. They are not wide enough to square.

‘Man, but it’s a really switched-on pad you’ve got here, honey.’

‘You like it, do you?’

‘Like it. I love it.’

‘That chest for instance.’ Mac’s camera is honing in on Sandra’s boobs. – ‘You like my chest?’

‘I love your chest. There’s one thing, though.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I think it needs a coat of paint.’

‘You want to paint my chest?’

‘Yes. I’ll go and get my brush.’

‘All right, I’ll get it ready for you.’ As Crispin turns his back Sandra shrugs off her negligee and Mac’s camera lens nearly caps the tips of her titties. Sandra lies down on the bed and Crispin comes into camera holding a brush and a can of paint.

‘OK, Crispin,’ coaches Justin. ‘Register surprise. Good. Now Sandra, take his paintbrush. Bite it. Good. That’s lovely. Beautiful. Hold it there for a couple of secs. Lovely. Now down. Super. Crispin, get on top of her. Not too fast! Don’t leave Mac behind. Right, now reach for the paintbrush, Crispin. Both your hands on it. On the paintbrush, Crispin! Lovely. That’s beautiful. Kiss. Down, down, down. And paintbrush into the tin. Lovely! Right, cut. That was beautiful. We’ll do one more to be on the safe side but we’ll certainly print that one. What do you want?’ Justin has suddenly become aware that I am standing by his side.

‘Miss Mealie sent me. She said you needed a window cleaner. I spoke to your office this morning.’

‘Your what?’ says Mac

‘Shut up,’ says Justin and turns back to me. ‘How is the winsome slut? Still fucking everything that moves?’

‘Nearly everything,’ I say resentfully.

‘You’re the fellow who was in the paper today, aren’t you?’ says Mac who has been peering at me closely. ‘Did you see it, Justin?’

‘I only read the Financial Times,’ says Justin coolly. ‘What were you doing in the papers?’

‘Miss Mealie cooked up some publicity gimmick which had me prancing about in the altogether.’

‘You’ve got the right pedigree for this caper, then. Have you got a card?’

I dive into my breast pocket and retrieve the card Miss Mealie has given me.

‘No, no, dear boy. That’s my card, isn’t it? I mean a union card?’

‘No.’

‘My God. Did you hear that, Mac? You’re not allowed to buy a copy of the ABC Film Review without a union card.’ He looks round the set. ‘If these people knew you weren’t a card holder, they’d be out of that door like lemmings.’

‘I’m sorry. Where do I get one?’

‘You can’t get one unless you’re an actor.’

‘But I can’t be an actor unless I’ve got one.’

‘Exactly. Clever, isn’t it? Don’t worry. We’ll get you one.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Nothing at the moment. I want to use you for some scene-setting stuff, probably tomorrow. You know, shinning up ladders. Standing on window ledges. That kind of thing. All exterior shots.’

‘Don’t I have to say anything?’

‘No, but don’t worry. It’s degrading to have to speak on this kind of film, isn’t it, Crispin?’

Crispin shudders and continues to pat his hair.

‘Completely unnecessary, too. We like to keep the actor’s lips moving to give the impression that they’re alive but apart from that it’s busts, bottoms and bums all the way. Sandra’s mammaries are the language our audience understands.’

‘Couple of flashes from Sandra and the centre of Singapore is ablaze with burning taxis,’ agrees Mac.

‘A lot of your stuff goes abroad, does it?’ I ask.

‘We wouldn’t be in business without our export market. That’s another reason why we play down the dialogue. If you’re trying to flog a movie everywhere from Bangkok to Budleigh Salterton, you’ve got to keep it simple. You noticed the international flavour we injected into the piece you saw?’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘very sophisticated.’

‘Don’t knock it. That’s what the audience wants. They don’t listen to the words.’

‘Did you say we were going to do another take of this scene?’ says Crispin petulantly. ‘I’m not wed to my craft, you know.’

‘Crispin is what they call an old pro,’ explains Justin. ‘He came to us from Children’s Hour via the West London Magistrates Court.’

I watch them do the scene again and it occurs to me how blasé everyone is. There is lovely Sandra revealing her all and most of the blokes on the set are playing cards or kipping. Even Sandra herself calmly chucks aside her copy of The Lady before getting on with it. I suppose the glamour must wear off after a while. Luckily the blood is still running dangerously hot through my veins and when Justin announces that shooting is over for the day I am swift to offer Big S. her robe.

‘Ta, love,’ she says. ‘Did you say you were a window cleaner?’

‘I used to be.’

‘That’s a pity. I hoped I could press you into service. I can’t get anyone to come near me.’

‘You amaze me,’ I husk. ‘Tell you what: I’m not doing very much at the moment. Why don’t I give your windows a quick once over?’

All the time I am talking to her I cannot take my eyes off her knockers and she pulls her robe across her chest protectively.

‘You’re sure it’s no trouble?’

‘None at all.’

‘All right. I won’t be long.’

When Sandra comes out of the dressing room she leads the way to the car park and steers me towards a bubble car, the shape of which is a perfect match for her own best feature.

‘It’s very economical for hopping about in,’ she says. ‘As long as you don’t mind a bit of a crush.’ She reaches across to shut the door and for a second I feel as if I’m bringing in the melon harvest. ‘Snug, isn’t it?’

‘Very. Tell me, how many films have you made?’ I say, demonstrating that gift for conversation that has made me the darling of my Mum’s Tupperware parties.

‘I’ve no idea. About twenty, I think.’

‘I don’t even know your full name.’

‘At the moment it’s Sandra Virgin. I’ve had about six. Paula Rental, Dreft Sunsilk –’

‘Dreft Sunsilk?’

‘Yes. My manager had the idea of getting manufacturers to sponsor me. It never caught on though. It’s a cute name, don’t you think?’

‘Very. Why do they keep changing them?’

‘They change them every time they re-launch me. I think they’ve stopped now. I hope so. I get fed up with it. They’ve even done a feature on the number of times I’ve been launched.’

‘What’s your favourite name?’

‘Sandra Finch. That’s my real name.’

‘Finch! It’s not really big enough, is it?’

‘That’s what they kept saying. They’d have liked to have called me Sandra Jumbotits, or something.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘I have an agent and Justin has taken a big interest in my career.’

‘He seems to know what he’s doing.’

‘Oh, he’s brilliant. Very clever. He went to Oxford, you know. The University.’

‘I have heard of it.’

‘Yes. Since he set up Trion we haven’t looked back. He’s marvellous at finding out what people want and giving it to them.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of his films.’

‘Well, you wouldn’t. Most of them go abroad. They do show in the West End though. Underwater Sex was on at the Burlington for months.’ Now she mentions it, I do remember a poster saying: ‘Their love was so hot even the Adriatic could not put it out.’

‘You filmed that on location, did you?’

‘On location! You must be joking. We shot it all in a tank in five days. I got a terrible cold. It was awful having to hold your breath down there. And all those octopuses! It was disgusting the things they got up to. Squirting muck everywhere.’

‘So you do everything in a studio?’

‘In a room if possible. Justin is the king of the low budget production. He makes Andy Warhol seem like Cecil B. de Mille.’

‘They’re all sex pictures?’

‘Not completely. I mean, there are sex pictures and sex pictures. Justin was the first producer to hit on the idea of the instructional sex film that demonstrates how to do it. It’s wonderful, because you don’t need any dialogue and, if it’s instructional it can’t be dirty. Professor Blumsticker reads his casebook and we do a fade from his surgery to the bedroom, with his voice over.’

‘His voice over what?’

‘Over the action on the screen. My, my, you don’t know much about it, do you? Quite the little greenhorn.’

Not so much of the ‘little’ or the ‘green’, I think to myself but I don’t say anything. It is not in my nature to give offence to the owner of such a magnificent pair of knockers.

When we get to Sandra’s house I see that it is one of those old Victorian jobs which has more windows than a fish has scales. Sandra reads my expression.

‘I’m afraid you’ve got your work cut out,’ she says. “You’d better tell me what you’d like and I’ll see if I can accommodate you.’ She raises an eyebrow and winks at me. ‘In the way of equipment, of course. I’m sorry, but when you’ve been in as many of Justin’s films as I have everything sounds like a double-entendre.’ She takes a deep breath and half the oxygen in the car disappears. I’m not kidding, this lady’s breathing equipment is really constructed on the grand scale.

‘I take it you’re married?’ I say as we crunch across the gravel.

‘Married and separated.’

‘Oh dear. You live here all by yourself, do you?’ It is difficult to keep a note of satisfaction out of my evil little voice.

‘Yes, except for Fido.’ We are approaching the front door as she speaks and I can see the outline of something pressing against the frosted glass. ‘Poor dear. I have to leave him at home and he misses me dreadfully.’ I smile sympathetically and think what a lot of noise little Fido can make. Little Fido! By the cringe, but I was never so mistaken about the size of anything since I caught a glimpse of Tiny Trotter’s chopper when we changed in the same cubicle at Tooting Bec Baths. Fido makes the Hound of the Baskervilles seem like Sooty’s kid sister. He comes through the door like an express train and has to stoop to rest his front paws on Sandra’s shoulders.

‘There, there boysie,’ she says. ‘Did naughty Mumsie leave her favourite doggy alone all day? Wicked Mumsie!’ The brute licks her face in a way that suggests a great future stripping paintwork and then looks at me and yawns. At least, I hope it yawns. Whatever it does I see enough big yellow teeth to kit out a couple of sharks.

‘I think he’s hungry,’ says Sandra.

‘You leave him plenty of food, I suppose?’ I croak as Fido starts sniffing one of my legs. ‘I wouldn’t like him to think I was some kind of cocktail snack.’

‘Heel, Fido!’ says Sandra firmly. ‘Don’t do that to Mr Lea, it’s not nice. Mumsie will give you your din-dins right away.’

I follow Sandra through to the kitchen and watch fascinated as Fido folds his chops around what looks like half a sheep. He adjusts his molars and engages full crunch in a way that convinces me he could bite a hole in the side of a battleship.

‘He’s lovely, isn’t he?’ says Sandra, like she was peering into a cot full of first-born.

‘Yeah. Quite a character,’ I say. ‘Now, have you got a bucket and some old rags? It’ll be very handy, this. Good practice for the shooting tomorrow.’

Sandra kits me out and I leave her preparing a fry-up. ‘Got to feed the inner woman,’ she observes. I am not surprised to learn that there is more than one in there.

I get a ladder from the garage and notice a very elegant old banger standing on blocks.

‘That’s Henry’s,’ says Sandra when I ask her about it later. ‘He used to spend hours tinkering with it. I made some for you. Is that all right?’ She is referring to a plateful of sausages, kidneys and bacon and that is definitely all right. ‘I always get ravenous when I’m on the set,’ she continues. ‘It’s funny really because I don’t use up a lot of energy.’

‘Don’t you have to watch your figure?’ I ask.

‘I’ve got enough people doing that for me,’ says witty Sandra. ‘That’s one of the reasons my old man pushed off. That and the fact that I was making twice as much money as he was. I should have told him I suppose.’

‘You mean he didn’t know the kind of films you were acting in?’

‘Not really, no. Well, he knew the kind of films, but he didn’t know the parts I was playing. You see, I started off as an extra and then I got noticed.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ I say, watching her bristols bobbing up and down behind the tea pot. ‘You aren’t a serious threat to Twiggy, are you?’

‘Justin noticed my potential and gave me a small part in Sex in the Suburbs.’

‘A small big part,’ I say. ‘I’m afraid I missed that one.’

‘Henry caught up with me in Titty, Titty, Gang Bang. I don’t know why he kicked up so much fuss because he sneaked off to see it without me knowing. He didn’t realise I was in it, you see. Thought he was going to get a crafty thrill on the side. Fido! Stop doing that! He’s taken a fancy to you, hasn’t he?’ Fido is also trying to get a crafty thrill on the side. ‘I tried to tell him that he was being ridiculous but it didn’t do any good. He said he could never feel the same about me again. I said what’s the difference between watching sexy films and appearing in them? But he could never see that. Then one of his friends saw me and that was it. He couldn’t bear the thought of all his mates “lapping me up”, as he put it.’

I nod in agreement but secretly I have more than a little sympathy for Henry. I mean, I would not care for the thought of my old lady frisking about in the altogether while a cinema full of dirty old geezers fidgeted easily with the fronts of their plastic macs.

‘It must have been a bit difficult with you bringing in more money than him. I can sympathise there,’ I say, trying not to be too much of a fink to my principles.

‘I don’t see the difference it makes. Ooh, Fido! You are a naughty boy, aren’t you? Leave Mr Lea alone. He wants affection, you see.’

‘He’s quite good at dishing it out too, isn’t he?’ I say, trying to close my legs and push Fido’s calf head away. Fido flashes his teeth at me again and I do not think he is practising a friendly grin.

‘You’re a marvellous cook,’ I say. ‘This is great.’

‘Go on with you. That’s just a fry-up. Anybody could do that.’

‘My Mum couldn’t,’ I say with feeling. ‘She fries bread without using a pan. She thinks Cordon Bleu is a French swear word.’

‘Not taken the plunge then?’ says Sandra. ‘Still living at home?’

‘Yes, and I’m not married. And most of the work I’ve been doing lately has taken me round the country so it hasn’t been worth looking for a flat.’

‘I need a lodger in this place, really,’ says Sandra, avoiding my eye. ‘It’s ridiculous, Fido and me sharing all this.’

‘Yes. A feller would be handy sometimes, too, wouldn’t he? I mean –’ I say hurriedly, ‘– in case you had burglars or wanted a fuse mended.’

‘That as well,’ smiles Sandra readjusting the tea cosy over the pot in a way that for some reason I find dead sexy. ‘Have you finished?’

‘Yes. You should be able to see what’s happening outside now.’ It’s not exactly vintage Noel Coward is it? If only there was some subtle way of suggesting that a spot of the other would be much appreciated, apart from shoving my hand up her knicks. Fido would probably have it off faster than you can say plastic surgery – have my arm off, I mean.

Sandra is showing no signs of eagerness to conduct me to the door and is in the process of refilling our cups.

‘Didn’t take you long, did it?’

‘It’s a knack,’ I say modestly. ‘What did your old man do?’

‘He’s a butcher. It came in very handy for feeding Fido.’ I look across to where the dirty great brute is crunching up bones, and nod slowly. I hope Sandra’s better half is not the resentful type. ‘He wanted to take Fido with him but I put my foot down. It suddenly came to me that I preferred the dog to him. You know what I mean?’

‘I think so,’ I say, wondering what Clement Freud would make of it all. I never reckon dogs much myself so it is difficult for me to be enthusiastic. Give me a budgerigar every time. You don’t have to take them for walks and they are much easier to clean up after.

‘Are you serious about taking in lodgers?’ I say, deciding that the time has come to try and bring a little flow and movement into our relationship. ‘You have got a lot of bedrooms haven’t you? I noticed them while I was doing the windows.’

‘Six,’ says Sandra proudly. ‘The house used to belong to Henry’s father. He was quite a prosperous man in his way. There’s one end of the house completely empty at the moment. I’m very glad to have Fido here to look after me sometimes.’

‘Yes. It must get a bit spooky, I suppose.’

‘Would you be interested in having a look round? I wasn’t quite certain whether you were looking for something?’

‘I haven’t quite made up my mind yet,’ I drag my eyes off her caged boobs and try and calm myself with a sip of tea. It is strange but when they are locked up I find them much more compelling than when they had the freedom of the film set. Like Christmas presents. The moment you start getting the wrapping paper off, the excitement begins to disappear.

‘Are you ready then?’

I gulp down the rest of my tea and scramble to my feet.

‘You stay there, Fido. We don’t need you.’ Sandra points a stern finger at her pooch and the brute slouches over to a basket that looks more like one of those things ancient Britons used to go fishing in. She is dead right. We do not want Fido padding round after us.

‘You could have your own key, of course,’ says Sandra helpfully. ‘Come and go as you please.’

‘Sounds very nice,’ I say, running my fingers lightly over the large wooden ball at the bottom of the bannisters.

‘Have to mind that when you slide down,’ says Sandra. I favour her with a light laugh and we ascend to the first floor.

‘There’s a room at the end of the corridor which might suit you.’

Before we get to it I pause outside a half open door and take a gander at what surely must be the nuptial couch.

‘Big bed,’ I say, trying not to load the words with too much significance.

‘I like a bit of room. Don’t want to keep bumping into people, do you? I’m a restless sleeper.’

I can imagine. Her and those enormous knockers thrashing from side to side all night. You would need extra large sheets.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I say innocently, giving her the opportunity to say that she bets I do, which she does not take.

‘You’d have your own bathroom,’ she says, throwing open a door. ‘How does that grab you?’

‘Marvellous. Dad never got around to applying for the grant.’

‘You mean, you don’t have a bath at home?’

‘Don’t worry about it. I know how they work. That thing sticking out of the wall is a foot bath, isn’t it?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Very. I got my foot stuck round the bend once. Most uncomfortable, it was.’

‘You’re having me on,’ Sandra gives me a big nudge in the ribs which I do not take exception to. Once birds start prodding and touching you then a spot of oggins is seldom as far away as the final payment on your colour telly. ‘I like a man with a sense of humour. Henry was very morose. That’s the nice thing about the film business. We have a lot of laughs. Most of us have been together for quite some time now and there’s a very happy atmosphere on the set.’

‘I must have hit you on a bad day.’

‘Yes. It was a bit quiet this afternoon. It’s Crispin, you see. That’s not really his line. Well, you can tell, can’t you? Our regular man is down with a cold.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Glint Thrust. Ah, here we are.’ Sandra opens a door and I find myself looking into a small room wearing very bright flower-patterned wallpaper.

‘Boy! It’s instant sunshine, isn’t it?’

‘It does cheer it up, doesn’t it? The room is a tiny bit dark, you see. I thought it needed a splash of colour.’

‘Yeah. It got it, didn’t it?. All over the ceiling too.’

‘I’m glad you like it.’ Sandra is jumping the gun because I do not like it one little bit, but I am too good-mannered to say so.

‘What’s the bed like?’

Sandra extends a ‘be my guest’ hand and I prod the bed gingerly. ‘Get on it if you like. Have a bounce. It won’t collapse.’

‘How do you know?’

Sandra shudders. ‘Never you mind that.’

‘Who’s this bloke. Glint Lust?’

‘Glint Thrust. Why did you suddenly mention him?’

‘It struck me as being a funny name.’

‘Not as funny as Trevor Hepplethwaite. That was his real name.’

‘Did he come here?’ I say, noticing that Sandra has registered considerable signs of discomfiture since I mentioned his name.

‘You ask too many questions.’ She turns and goes out of the room. Oh dear, this is not going at all well. How am I going to achieve the breakthrough that will lock lovely Sandra and myself in sexual congress? I clamber onto the bed and contemplate an attack of cramp but this seems a trifle laboured.

‘Well?’ Sandra is standing in the doorway.

‘Very nice. I like a hard mattress.’

‘Hard mattress? You must be joking. It’s like puff pastry, this one.’ She sits down on the edge of the bed and my pulse quickens.

‘You’re better equipped to find things soft,’ I say. ‘I don’t carry your protection.’

‘Go on with you. There’s nothing wrong with that mattress. Now, are you going to get up?’

This is what I believe they call a moot point and at the present rate of progress the answer is probably ‘no’.

‘It’s very comfortable here,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t complaining about the mattress.’ Sandra attempts to rise but I hold her hand. ‘Don’t go,’ I say.

‘Why not?’ I was afraid she might say that and I have very few convincing arguments to restrain her.

‘Because I like looking at you.’

‘You can look at me standing up. Come on.’

‘Come to bed with me, Sandra.’ I don’t usually like coming right out with it but in my present situation I cannot think of anything else to do. Once we are outside the room I will never have such a good chance again. Also, I feel at an advantage lying down. It is like when you are in hospital. All the people standing round the bed look so uncomfortable.

‘You’ve got a cheek. I hardly know you.’

This is not a totally unexpected response and I move to counter it. ‘It’s the same for me. I hardly know you either, but I am prepared to give you a chance. I trust the feeling that drew me to you. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve known a person, it matters whether you feel anything.’

‘But supposing I don’t feel anything?’

‘I feel enough for both of us.’

“You’re mad. I didn’t know you existed until half past five this afternoon and now you’re talking about sleeping with me.’

‘I never mentioned sleep. Sandra, listen. It makes such good sense. You say you don’t know me. What better way to get acquainted? Get all the sexual tension out of the air. If I move in here, imagine what it could be like if I kept bumping into you coming out of the bathroom? You’d start fretting about it. Wonder if I was doing it on purpose. Now if we go to bed with each other straight away we’ll get rid of all the sexual tension that could haunt our relationship. There won’t be anything to get worked up about.’

‘But I like sexual tension.’

‘Not all the sexual tension,’ I say hurriedly, ‘just the damaging bit. I want to earth the fuse, not stop paying the electricity bill. I must be honest with you, Sandra. You’re so beautiful that I don’t think I could stay near you if I thought I was never going to make love to you.’ I can see that this goes down better than a buttered marshmallow and I squeeze Sandra’s hand passionately and pull her towards me.

‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ she says.

‘Oh, Sandra.’

‘Load of stuff and nonsense.’

‘Sandra!’ My cry is like that of a small wild animal in pain.

‘Just this once then,’ Sandra pushes the door shut behind her and stands up. ‘But don’t think you’re fooling me. I’m probably being very stupid.’

I defeat an impulse to leap off the bed and start tearing my clothes off and lean back with my hands behind my head while I let my eyes roam up and down her rollercoaster body.

‘Fantastic,’ I breathe.

‘I’m human, you see,’ says Sandra almost bitterly as she fiddles behind her back for the hook on her bra. ‘I have a libido too.’

I imagine she is talking about the thing in the bathroom but who wants to wash their feet at a moment like this?

‘Allow me,’ I say. ‘I’d hate you to strain yourself.’ I get off the bed and unclip her bra. By the cringe, but that thing is under some tension. When I release the catch I am darn nearly jerked over her shoulder by the weight of her bristols. She wriggles round and I find that by craning my neck I can get close enough to kiss her. She is very good at this and when her tongue goes into action I know how a foxglove must feel when it is being given the once over by a pollen-crazy bee. My hands have just gone to launch on a haunch when my concentration is shattered by the sound of a heavy body battering against the bedroom door. Being less than a complete stranger to this kind of situation, my first reaction is one of blind, stumbling panic. Sandra’s husband, his striped apron flecked with blood, is at this moment pulling his straw hat over his eyes and swinging back his cleaver for its first appointment with my nut.

‘You’d better let him in,’ says Sandra, disentangling herself from my mouth. ‘He’ll scratch the door down if you don’t.’

My mind clears and I realise she is talking about the nauseous Fido.

‘Do I have to?’ I whine.

‘He has been alone all day, poor pet, and he hates being left out of anything,’ says Sandra breezily. ‘Let him in. We won’t get any peace if you don’t.’

She may have a point there. The noise of scratching from outside the door suggests that Fido is holding an electric fan against it.

I turn the handle and my wrist is darn near broken as our four-legged friend bounds into the room. What with Sandra’s knockers, the technicolour wallpaper and Fido, there is precious little space left for me. Nevertheless, I intend to make the most of it.

‘Down, boy!’ Sandra is talking to Fido and the brute retires to a corner and starts whacking the wall with its tail. ‘Now, where were we? U-u-u-u-m …’ She leans across her enormous bristols and settles greedily onto my mouth. She is wearing a long cotton skirt fastened loosely at the waist, as I find out when I send my fingers into action. I never stood a chance of getting one of those scout badges for tying knots – but untying them! Her own pinkies are not qualifying for unemployment benefit and she quickly gets to work on the buttons that litter the front of my Fort Laramie Frontier Cords. These open up for pleasure and necessity by means of a trapdoor of material covering the area of my crutch and it does not take Sandra long to get to the hang of how this works.

‘Nice trousers,’ she says as we separate for a spot of breathing. She is not the only one to be attracted by them. As they sink gracefully to take up their natural position on the floor, Fido bounds forward and playfully rips them from my person like they are an unwanted piece of sticking plaster.

‘Fido! Bad boy! Mumsie is going to be angry with you!’ Dadsie is already very angry and I am thinking what a nice warm rug the perishing pooch would make if one had an elephant gun handy. Artists like myself are easily put off their stroke by such interruptions. Not so Sandra. Her stroke is faultless and speedily brings me back to an awareness of the job in hand. Her skirt is soon at floor level and her cotton-picking fingers have reduced me to the state in which Dad first expressed concern about my resemblance to the coalman, e.g. one of becoming nudity.

For late-comers, the score is, Timmy: naked; Sandra: panties and tights with off the shoulder blouse nearly off the shoulder. I am about to equal things up when Sandra suddenly grips me rather tighter than has been her wont.

‘Did you hear something?’ she hisses.

‘Only Fido chewing up one of my shoes.’

‘No, something downstairs.’

‘Your husband?!’ Those unpleasant stabbing pains have started again.

‘I don’t know. You’d better go and look.’

‘Me! Why me? Why not send Fido?’

‘Fido’s a terrible coward. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, really. You’re not afraid, are you?’

‘No. But –’

‘Go on. I’m scared. There have been a lot of burglaries around here lately.’

‘I’m not worried about burglars. Supposing it’s your husband?’

‘It can’t be. I’ve just remembered. He’s in Frankfurt at the moment, at a convention. Go on. Hurry up. Then you can come back to me.’ She gives a delicious little wriggle that makes it difficult for me to consider refusing her anything. ‘Go on.’ She puckers her lips and runs her fingers lightly along my Action Man kit.

‘All right,’ I say. ‘But I’m not going to be long.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. You’re not doing badly.’ I ignore that and scamper out into the corridor. The clocks have gone back and it is distinctly dark outside. Dark and foggy. I can see the glow of a street lamp and the outline of trees but precious little else. I would like to turn a few lights on but in my present state of undress it does not seem like a very good idea. I stand still for a couple of minutes but can hear nothing. Good. Sandra was obviously mistaken. I am on the point of returning to the bedroom when there is a sound from downstairs. At least I think it is downstairs. It may have come from outside in the street. Knickers! I suppose I had better go and have a look. If only I wasn’t so brave and noble. I get to the top of the stairs and listen again. Nothing. There is a light switch by my hand and, since I am hidden from outside view, I flick it on, hoping that any intruders will take the hint and make a run for it. Not a sausage. My reservoir of courage has practically dried up, but Iislink downstairs keeping closer to the wall than the wallpaper. The hall is bathed in light and seems empty. Of course it seems empty! But any berk who has ever seen an Alfred Hitchcock movie knows that the mad butcher of Boreham Wood is waiting behind the hallstand with his chopper in his hands. This is virtually all I have to defend myself with and the thought encourages me to indulge in another long spell of listening. All seems well, but, wait! Looking towards the frosted glass front door I think I catch a glimpse of something moving outside. What can it be? A prowler? A peeping Tom? My imagination? The outline of my body will be seen through the glass if I walk to the door so I decide to approach it on all fours and peer through the letter-box which is situated a little above ground level. In that manner I can check that everything is alright and then return to lovely, curvy Sandra. What a little pleasure factory she promises to be. I am practically hugging myself at the thought of it as I sink to ground level and start crawling across the hall carpet. I don’t know if you have ever tried crawling with, your hampton at the stand-by, but it is not an experience I would recommend. It is draughty too. All in all I am glad when I have covered the fifteen feet that separates me from the letter-box. Pausing to listen once more, I pull back the flap and peer outside. Two milk bottles, some leaves, a garden – O-O-O-O-O-W!!

When Sandra eventually comes down it is to find me with my head and shoulders stuck through the frosted glass panel of the front door just above the letter-box.

‘I’ve rung for the police,’ she squeals. ‘Are you alright?’ Whatever happened?’

My voice has a certain world-weary quality as I withdraw my body and start to shake pieces of broken glass out of my hair.

‘Bleeding Fido came up behind me and started licking my balls,’ I tell her.