by Timothy Lea
‘That’s true enough,’ I say. ‘Most of them seem to be in pieces.’
‘Don’t take the piss,’ says Sid. ‘That’s one of the failings of this country. Too many scoffers, not enough people prepared to have a go. Now, look at this: Jaws underpants. A dirty great set of teeth just where you wouldn’t like to find them in real life. Keep the kiddies amused for hours. And look at this: a walking stick that converts into a set of golf clubs or a complete home gardening kit. Dependent on which way you screw in the heads you get a hoe or a number eight iron.’
‘That’s staggering, Sid,’ I say. ‘But don’t you think it’s a little bit dodgy? Mr Claygate expects us to be selling milk and eggs and cream and all that stuff.’
‘He’s exploiting you,’ says Sid. ‘I’d do the same in his position. It’s dog eat dog in this life. If you don’t take, nobody is going to give.’
‘But he had such high hopes of you, Sid.’
‘I’m going to sell some milk as well!’ scolds Sid. ‘Blimey, get off my back, will you. I’m only extending the range – in fact I’ll probably sell more milk once people get interested. Look at this: a do-it-yourself venetian blind kit. Fits together in no time at all once you’ve untangled the string.’
‘I don’t like it, Sid,’ I say.
‘Well how about a polythene greenhouse? Fold up so that you can carry it in the pocket of your mackintosh. Ultra violet—’
‘I mean, I don’t like the whole idea,’ I say. ‘It looks to me like you’ve got lumbered with another load of rubbish.’
‘Rubbish?’ says Sid. ‘This lot, rubbish? I’ll show you. Just stick around and see what the public think.’
‘I don’t want to, Sid.’ I say. ‘I’ve finished my round. I want to get home.’
‘You stay here,’ says Sid. ‘You can’t make remarks like that and just walk off.’ He starts to hang necklaces round his neck and load his fingers with rings. ‘Sid!’ I say. ‘You look a right berk.’
‘Got to show them the merchandise,’ says Sid. ‘You haven’t seen this lot have you?’ He opens his shirt and reveals that he is wearing a black nylon peep-hole halter neck bra over his string vest. ‘Sexy, huh?’
‘Not on you!’ I say. ‘Sid, this is crazy.’
But he is already opening the front gate and walking up the garden path. It is all rather symbolic somehow – shambolic, too. In a fit of madness I follow him. ‘This is where the psychology comes in,’ burbles Sid. ‘Being a milkman means that you are accepted by the public. If I was a common hawker or circular it would be different. People might be a bit surprised. But the magic milk bottle makes all the difference.’ He presses the front door bell and gives me his ‘Clapham’s answer to Paul Newman’ smile. ‘That and the unquenchable magnetism.’
‘Just take the earrings off,’ I beg him.
The door opens and a tall, thin bloke wearing a skin-tight polo neck sweater looks Sid up and down appraisingly. ‘Yes, dear?’ he says.
‘Milko,’ says Sid. ‘I believe you have already been persuaded of the virtues of our staple product. May I suggest that I might be able to show you something else that could give equal pleasure and satisfaction?’
‘Sounds lovely,’ says the bloke. ‘Why don’t you step inside where we can be a bit more comfy – oh, and leave that milk outside. I can’t stand the stuff. I absolutely detest cows. Those big floppy udders covered in teats. They’re like washing up gloves, aren’t they?’
‘Absolutely,’ says Sid. ‘I’m very grateful I don’t have to see the stuff till it’s in a bottle.’ He winks at me complacently as he steps through the door. ‘OK smart arse. Now do you see how easy it is?’
When I get to the Depot the next morning, a worried Claygate calls me into his office. ‘This new man, Noggett,’ he says. ‘How well do you know him?’
‘Well,’ I say. ‘He is my brother-in-law. I find – what’s happened?’
‘He appears to be a tranvestite,’ says Claygate looking embarrassed. ‘You know what that is?’
‘Somebody who likes dressing up in bird’s clothes,’ I say. ‘Er – how did this fact come to light?’
‘The police were called to a disturbance in Baltimore Street,’ says Claygate. ‘Apparently he was dancing the hokey cokey on the kitchen table in a bra and pantie set. Some drinking had been going on.’
I shove my mind into overdrive. ‘I think you can put the whole incident down to over-enthusiasm,’ I say gravely. ‘Your clarion call to make a more dramatic use of our sex appeal has gone to his head and other parts. He was probably trying to appeal to everybody at the same time. I think he was very impressed by your ideas and wanted to do everything in his power to make them work.’
Claygate looks distressed. ‘So you think that I might have been the involuntary cause of this regrettable incident? Oh dear. I appreciate the man’s motives but, we can’t have our milkmen going about in women’s underclothing. Not all the customers would like it.’
‘I’ll talk to him,’ I say. ‘I’m certain it will go down better coming from me.’
‘Would you?’ says Claygate. ‘I don’t want to trample on the man’s initiative but—’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘Leave it to me.’
‘It’s funny,’ says Claygate. ‘He got a glowing report from Miss Tromper when he was on his course and she’s notoriously hard to satisfy. Still, I think I must pursue a policy of wait and see with Noggett. Exuberance must be tempered with common sense.’
‘Exactly my own feelings, Mr Claygate,’ I say, practically fluttering my eyelashes. ‘I’ll do everything in my power to get the point over.’
‘Good man, Lea.’ Claygate pats me on the shoulder. ‘I’m impressed by the way you’re shaping up. The girl from the Milk Marketing Board liked the way you handled yourself.’
‘Oh good, sir.’ That cheers me up a bit after the confirmation of Sid’s success with Betty Tromble. ‘Well, I’d better be getting along. Mustn’t keep the customers waiting.’
I go out under the appreciative glow of Claygate’s eyes and feel really chuffed. It makes a change to have someone who actually reckons that I am doing a good job. If I play my cards right I might even get some kind of promotion. And if I got promotion before Sid I would be able to tell him where to get off. That would be nice after all these years.
‘There you are. You’re a bloody good mate, aren’t you? Skiving off and leaving me with that raving poufta.’ It is the man himself. Unshaven and with eyes like half-sucked bulls-eyes.
‘I didn’t know you wanted me to stay, Sid. I thought I’d be cramping your style if I hung around.’
‘Oh dear.’ Sid leans against a float. ‘Don’t ever accept a creme de menthe frappé from a complete stranger – especially if it comes in a bone china teacup.’
‘Did you sell him anything, Sid?’
Sid snorts. ‘He was only interested in opera – you know, that Wagner one called “The Ring”. Gawd, the bloody liberties he tried to take. Fancy wanting to try on the bra and pantie set while I was still wearing it. Imagine what it would have done to the material. It could have been stretched out of all recognition.’
‘Sid,’ I say. ‘I don’t know quite how to put this, but Mr Claygate is a trifle worried about you. He seems to think that you have a tendency towards the gay.’
‘Well I try to put a bright face on things,’ says Sid. ‘The world can be a pretty grim place sometimes. If you have a smile and a jest for everyone you meet—’
‘The homosexual gay,’ I say patiently.
‘Homosexual?’ says Sid. ‘You mean, he thinks I’m a ginger? I’ll sue the bugger!’
‘You must see it from his point of view, Sid,’ I say. ‘It’s not every bloke who goes off to work wearing a peep-hole bra and half a dozen necklaces.’
‘You set him right, of course?’ says Sid. ‘I mean, it’s blooming ridiculous.’
‘I couldn’t,’ I say. ‘Not without blowing the cover on your little caper. I think the best thing is t
hat you show him in your own inimitable way. When you leave this place you must vindicate yourself.’
‘What, in front of everyone?’ says Sid. ‘Still, you may be right. The time is probably ripe for desperate measures. I will show Claygate beyond any shadow of a doubt that I am not a nancy.’
‘Excellent,’ I say. ‘Now, just take those earrings off and you’ll be half way there.’
‘Oh dear,’ says Sid. ‘I forgot about them. I thought Rosie gave me an old-fashioned look this morning.’
When I get home a familiar smell tells me that Mum has either been boiling Dad’s smalls or making a steak and kidney pudding – you never know till the top comes off the saucepan, and even then I have had my doubts after the second mouthful.
‘Hello, dear,’ she says. ‘Have a good day? I’m just going to put the kettle on. Do you fancy a cup of tea?’
‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ve just had one.’ This is not strictly true but Mum’s tea takes few prisoners.
‘There was a telephone message for you this morning. Nicely-spoken girl. Sue something or other. I tried to write it down but your father had taken the biro to mark the TV Times.’
‘What did she say?’ It must have been Sue Dangerfield. I don’t know any other Sues – I don’t know many birds really, not for long.
‘She left a number for you to ring after six o’clock. Nine three seven – no, three seven nine – no—’
‘Oh no, Mum!’ I bleat. ‘Don’t say you’ve forgotten it.’
‘Special, is she?’ says Mum. ‘Where did you meet her? What does her father do?’
‘I met her in a brothel,’ I say. ‘Her old man runs it.’
Mum’s eagerness to get delumbered of me is beginning to get up my bracket. There was a time when she reckoned Grace Kelly wasn’t good enough for me. Now, anyone will do.
‘There’s no need to be so touchy,’ she sniffs. ‘I only have your interests at heart – just as I have done since you were a little boy.’
‘If you care about my interests, remember that blooming number,’ I say.
‘I tried to write it down, but the pencil was broken,’ says Mum. ‘Still, you might be able to read the outline of the letters. I wrote it on the cover of a magazine.’
But when I get in the hall, Woman’s Own doesn’t have a cover. Half the magazine has gone.
‘Oh dear,’ says Mum. ‘Your father must have taken it to the karsi. What a shame. I hope he didn’t get as far as the knitting pattern.’
‘You ought to buy some blooming bog paper.’ I say. ‘There’s not a magazine in this place that doesn’t have some pages torn out of it. Even the library books cop it.’
‘You’ve got to make economies somewhere,’ says Mum. ‘Anyway, I don’t think your father would be able to adjust to toilet tissue after all these years. The texture, you know.’
‘Yes,’ I say, hurriedly.
‘Go and ask him. I think he’s still in there. I haven’t seen him since dinner.’
‘I didn’t even know he was home,’ I say.
‘He wasn’t feeling himself today,’ says Mum.
‘That comes as a surprise,’ I say. Dad is the local pocket billiards champion and often falls asleep in front of the telly in mid session.
I go out to the karsi and bang on the door. How unwholesome that the course of true love should have to be conducted in this fashion. ‘Hy Yuf,’ says a familiar voice.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Dad,’ I say. ‘I’m looking for the—’
The rusty cistern grinds into action and the bolt slides back as the toilet flushes. ‘—it doesn’t matter.’
‘It’s all yours,’ says Dad stuffing the flaps of his waist coat into the front of his trousers. ‘I’d leave it for a few minutes if I were you –’
‘Yes, Dad,’ I say hurriedly. ‘What’s that you’ve got in your hands?’
‘Oh that,’ says Dad. ‘I expect that’s—’
‘The other hand,’ I say. ‘That magazine cover.’
‘Nice looking woman, that,’ says Dad. ‘Reminds me of your Aunt Edna. I was going to show it to your mother. Of course this one’s got better teeth, but if you put your hand over her mouth – which I’ve often felt like doing incidentally—’
‘Can I borrow it a moment, Dad?’ I say. ‘Mum wrote a telephone number on it.’
‘That was on the back cover,’ says Dad. ‘I’ve used that.’
When I get back inside the house, the telephone rings.
‘Timothy?’ says a familiar upper class voice. ‘Thank goodness. I rang the Depot and they said your float was on charge. I tried the house but your mother seemed a little confused so I thought I’d better ring again.’
‘Oh, Sue. Smashing,’ I say. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I was wondering if you’d sponsor me for the Milkmaid of the Year competition at the Festival of Milk.’
‘The what?’ I say.
‘Haven’t you heard? Gosh, communications must be absolutely unbelievable. The publicity boys have dreamed it up in combination with the Smithfield Show. Surely you’ve seen some of the leaflets?’
‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘What do I have to do?’
‘Every entrant must be sponsored by a milkman. It’s supposed to be from her local area but we can get round that. It ties the whole thing in, you see. “From Udder to ’Uddersfield”, get it?’
‘Er – yes,’ I say. ‘Put me down, or whatever you have to do.’
‘You have to sign a piece of paper and say what first attracted me to you. Pretty soppy stuff really. I’m only going in because my boss thinks the department ought to be represented.’
‘I’m certain you’ve got a great chance,’ I say. ‘I was hoping we’d be able to get together again. What are you doing this evening?’
‘I’m tied up this evening,’ she says – she gives a little giggle when she says it. ‘How about tomorrow? I’ve got a couple of tickets for the open air opera. It’s tremendous fun. You take a hamper and let the music wash all over you while you sip champers.’
‘Well,’ I say. ‘I was tied up tomorrow—’
‘I can always get somebody else to come.’
‘But I think I can get out of it,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Yes, ta. That sounds great. Where shall we meet?’
I am a bit surprised to learn that you have to get a train to where they have the opera and that this leaves in the middle of the afternoon. I have to piss round my round and when I get to Victoria station I find that there are a lot of herberts standing around in dinner jackets. I think it must be a Royal Garden Party but when I see Sue she is looking pretty toffed up as well.
‘No DJ?’ she says.
For a moment I wonder what she is on about. The only DJs I know are of the Emperor Rosko and Tony Heartburn ilk. ‘Dinner Jacket,’ she explains. ‘Oh well, denim never goes out of fashion, I suppose.’
‘You mean, all these geezers are going to the opera?’ I say. ‘Blimey, I’d have worn a tie if I’d known.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says. ‘Music sounds the same even if you’re naked, doesn’t it?’ She looks at me in a way that makes me glad that the back of my Y-fronts is not made of an easily combustible material.
‘Very much so,’ I say. ‘Er – allow me to assist you with the hampster – I mean, hamper.’ It is stupid but in the presence of all the toffs I start behaving like a mini-herbert. All my natural juices turn into starch. ‘Have you got a ticket yet?’
‘It’s all included in the price of the seats,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry, my aunt is footing the bill.’ She smiles gaily and I follow the strands of semi-transparent chiffon towards the barrier. As far as I can make out the train is all first class and we settle into an empty compartment at the back and put the hamper on a rack.
‘This is the first time I’ve seen you since our last little outing,’ I say. ‘How did you get on with that woman? She seemed a bit kinky to me.’
Sue looks round and snuggles closer to me. ‘You’re not eas
ily shocked, are you?’
‘No,’ I say, feeling an interested tingle beginning to curve through my toes.
‘It was almost like being hypnotized. When she stared at me I was totally defenceless.’
‘Against what?’ I say. Another couple come down the corridor and I will them to go past.
‘She told me to take all my clothes off and lie on the bed. Then she got a mink glove and began to stroke me. I was frightened and embarrassed at first and then I began to like it.’
‘Blimey,’ I say. ‘Then what happened?’
‘She took her clothes off and made me do it to her. She said that if I didn’t do it properly she was going to spank me.’
‘And did you do it properly?’
‘Not to her satisfaction. She made me lie across the bed and then she got the silk cord that was holding up those awful curtains. Do you remember them?’
‘Yes, yes,’ I say.
‘Then she started to whip me with it. Across the bottom and along the back of my thighs.’
‘And you let her do it?’
‘Well—’ Sue hesitates. ‘It was funny but I found it rather exciting. The pain wasn’t too bad and I could feel myself getting wet – like when I was with you. When we were sucking each other.’ Another couple pause in the doorway as she says ‘sucking each other’ and then move on. I look after them and then back again as the woman turns and catches my eye. ‘Do you remember?’
‘Very well,’ I say.
‘I was in a sort of daze. I couldn’t believe it was happening to me. I thought I must be dreaming about someone else. She apologized for hitting me and begged for my forgiveness and then she started licking me – all over with the tip of her tongue.’
‘And you liked that?’ I say, knowing the answer to my question before I open my mouth.
‘I adored it. When she kissed me on the mouth and I felt her naked breasts against mine it seemed the most wonderful and natural thing in the world. Do you think I did wrong?’
‘Well,’ I say, feeling like I am addressing “Worried, Tooting” in the magazine Dad had in the karsi. ‘You weren’t, sort of, an active partner, were you?’
‘Oh yes, I was,’ says Sue, eagerly. ‘After a while I was very active. I learned some amazing things about myself. Take last night for instance.’