by Timothy Lea
CHAPTER TEN
‘So you’re not going back to defend your title?’ says Sid.
‘Definitely not,’ I say. ‘It’s not my cup of tea. If I hadn’t seen your mate going off in the ambulance I would have thought I’d dreamed the whole thing.’
‘He’s going to love you when he comes out,’ says Sid.
‘He thinks it’s an accident,’ I say. ‘Somebody said they trod on the tongs.’
‘Very handy,’ says Sid. ‘That cost you a bit, didn’t it?’
‘A bit of the other,’ I say. “It’s amazing how you can keep it up once you get into your stride.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ says Sid condescendingly. ‘I’m concentrating on selling. With me the customer comes first.’
‘They usually do with me,’ I say. ‘I mean, it leaves a better impression, doesn’t it? Once I’ve made them happy I—’
‘Must you go on?’ says Sid witheringly. ‘I’m talking about flogging milk. I’ve introduced some dynamic new selling ploys.’
‘I heard about that, Sid,’ I say ‘Frankly, I thought it was a bit daft. Who wants to find a plastic whistle at the bottom of their milk?’
‘It wasn’t in all the bottles,’ says Sid. ‘Just a selected few. A special mystery prize for lucky Meadowfresh customers.’
‘Not much of a mystery when there’s a bloody great hole in the foil,’ I say.
‘It could have been tits,’ says Sid.
‘Not unless they were scuba diving in the milk,’ I say. ‘Anyway, it can’t be very hygienic.’
‘You’re just like bleeding Claygate,’ moans Sid. ‘You’d stifle all initiative, wouldn’t you? You’re a microcosm of the national malaise.’
‘Watch your language,’ I say. ‘There are ladies present.’
‘Not many around here,’ says Sid. ‘The class of bird you get in here is strictly on the make.’
We have forsaken the Highwayman and are in the public bar of the Bricklayer’s Arms. There are a few middle-aged birds dotted about but they look pretty harmless to me. I make this observation to Sid who shakes his head full of the wisdom of many summers and a correspondence course in book-keeping – he thought it was book making. ‘They’re lonely,’ he says. ‘They come here for companionship. All that “hello, George. Hello, Gladys. Has Anthea been in today?” That’s them shrieking out for sexual fulfilment.’
‘They’re very discreet about it,’ I say.
‘It’s in their nature,’ says Sid. ‘If it wasn’t they’d be down the bingo like everyone else. Still, from what I hear your average old age pensioner is a lousy poke so it may be more than middle class genitality.’
‘Or even gentility,’ I observe.
‘Or even that,’ says Sid. ‘Places like this can be a rich source of customers. These kind of birds are two stagers. They don’t come right out and ask you home for a cup of Ovaltine. They say they’ve decided to change their milkman because the last one was so unreliable – that means he wouldn’t come across with a bit of the other – and invite you to call on them professionally. Then they invite you in for a cup of Ovaltine.’
‘This has happened to you has it Sid?’
‘Scores of times. That’s why my round covers such a large area.’
‘And why you frequently have to push your float back to the Depot with a flat battery.’
‘Exactly. Honestly, that geezer Claygate doesn’t know what I go through for his blooming dairy. And when I say go through—’
I tune out Sid’s voice because I have just copped a gander of a bird that has come into the snug – you can just see it round the corner of the partition that separates the haves from the have nots. She is very handsome and at first I think she has slipped in for a packet of fags. Then I see the gin and tonic – ice and lemon, of course – sliding across, and her neat little cakehole descending to the rim of the glass.
‘How’s that bird of yours?’ says Sid. ‘Getting it regular, are you?’
‘I haven’t seen her for a while,’ I say, still watching the bird in the snug. I know that if I stare at her long enough she will feel the vibrations and have to look. I read it in an advertisement somewhere.
‘Not surprising,’ says Sid. ‘If she fancied the opera, you clearly weren’t her type. What was it like?’
‘Oh, like you see on the telly sometimes,’ I say. ‘Everybody bursting out of their costumes and singing like they were calling for help.’
‘I don’t mean the bloody opera!’ says Sid. ‘I mean the bird. Was she good with it?’
‘Oh, Sue,’ I say. ‘Yeh – well – you – know—’
‘You mean, you never had her,’ says Sid. ‘I can tell by the way you keep swallowing your spit. Why don’t you admit it?’
‘Because you never give me the chance to say anything, that’s bleeding why!’ I tell him. ‘There’s more to a relationship than just banging your willy up her snatch, you know. When I really fancy a bird I’m more interested in finding out if we’re mentally attuned.’
‘What a load of cobblers,’ says Sid. ‘You couldn’t mentally attune a transistor radio. You’re interested in the same thing as I am: velvet fundament squeezing the natural juices out of your hampton.’
Sid can be very coarse sometimes but that is not the only reason I keep my eyes peeled in the direction of the snug. The bird must look my way soon. She can’t keep staring into her gin like she is looking for the Loch Ness monster. Maybe she saw Jaws and is not taking any chances. Ah! At last. She glances round the rest of the pub and I flask my pearlies at her. Wow! That was a definite smile or my name isn’t Septimus Offbrake. ‘Ah hem, Sid,’ I say. ‘I’m just going to have a Jimmy Riddle.’ I pause. ‘And yes, I would like another pint. Thank you.’
‘I don’t think you should have another one,’ says Sid. ‘It’s going straight through you. You just had a piss.’
I don’t hang about to answer but scarper out of the bar and down the corridor. Pausing only to run a comb through my barnet and make sure that I don’t have any pieces of crisp round my cakehole I prepare to bolt into the snug. Sid did me a favour by mentioning Sue. She has not exactly been arduous in her pursuit of me since the evening at the opera and I keep wondering if she is getting all the satisfaction she needs with Ellen Grant and her naughty ways. It does not do a lot for your self esteem when the bird you fancy reckons another bloke, but when she reckons another bird – well, you might as well jack it in and rearrange your stamp collection. What I need is a meaningful relationship with a bird who fancies me rigid – or in any other condition – to wash the memory of Sue away and prove that I am still capable of pulling a bird who is not a member of the Balham Self Service Society.
I take a deep breath and walk into the snug. The bird is sitting on a stool against the bar and her skirt rides up attractively around her thigh. She smoothes it down gracefully with long, elegant fingers and smiles a welcome.
‘The answer to my unspoken prayer,’ she husks. ‘Do you by any chance have a light?’ Her voice is soft and posh and she raises a snout to her glistening lips and widens her mince pies hopefully.
I don’t have a light because I reckon anyone that smokes must be round the twist but it is not a point of view that I judge it politic to air at this moment in time. The lady is old enough to know what she is doing and I might as well play along with this small vice in the hope that she has bigger and better ones.
‘One moment,’ I say with professional cool and reach round the partition to where the book match dispenser is resting on the counter of the saloon bar.
‘Here! What do you think you’re doing?’ says the landlord who has a face like a bull terrier disappointed in love.
‘Just setting this lady alight – I mean, getting this lady a light,’ I correct myself.
‘You weren’t trying to sneak off with the collecting box by any chance? The Doctor Barnardo’s went last week.’
‘How dare you!’ I mean, what a blooming marvellous way to start
a romance. Accused of nicking a pile of lousy book matches. Is it something about my face? The Archbishop of Canterbury never seems to have this trouble.
‘I asked the gentleman for a light, George,’ says the bird severely. ‘He had no intention of taking your silly matches.’
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘You want to be more careful before you start making accusations.’
The bird smiles at me sympathetically and the landlord goes away mumbling and shaking his head. ‘There was no excuse for him to speak to you like that,’ she says, lowering her voice. ‘I think he’s been having a few problems with his wife and that’s made him very disgruntled.’ She pushes her lips forward and I set fire to her cigarette. Our eyes meet and I hold her glance while I coolly shake the match dead and nonchalantly toss it into her drink.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Oh dear – er, yes.’ I remove the match and watch the little black bits sink to the bottom of the glass. Fortunately they are hidden by the slice of lemon.
‘Thank you,’ says the bird. ‘You’re not a habitué, are you?’
Frankly, I am not used to birds enquiring after my religious views within seconds of us meeting so the question rather throws me. ‘Er – no,’ I say. ‘Just straightforward C of E.’
She looks puzzled for a moment and then gives a little laugh. ‘Oh yes, delightful.’
‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘Mind you, I don’t go very often.’
‘Quite.’ She raises her glass to her lips and puts it down again. ‘Tell me, what do you do?’
‘I’m a milkman,’ I say.
It is amazing but her eyes definitely light up. Sid must be right. ‘A milkman,’ she repeats like I have said I am Henry Kissinger. ‘How fortuitous. Do you deliver on Sundays?’
‘Definitely,’ I say. ‘It’s a bit later because I have a lie in but you’ll find I’m there.’ I let my eyes trait down her body when I say that so she can get an idea what I am on about. It is all highly polished stuff.
‘My current milkman is rather unreliable,’ says the bird. ‘I never know when he’s going to come.’ She half opens her mouth and makes a small huffing noise. Percy trembles on the brink of a new love affair. ‘Perhaps you could service my needs?’
‘I could try,’ I say. ‘When would you like me to start?’
‘As soon as possible,’ breathes the bird. ‘Would tomorrow be too early? My name’s Jenkins. Jennifer Jenkins. Forty-seven Hillview Crescent.’
The address goes into my brain like it has been stamped there with a branding iron. The bird has long silky hair that curls inwards and she smells nice. Her figure is slim but capable of supporting two pleasant swellings that decorate the front of her sweater. She smiles again and slides off her stool.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then. Don’t be surprised if I don’t answer the bell immediately. I’ll probably be in bed.’
She makes another pouting motion with her lips and goes out.
Phew. If that wasn’t an invitation then I don’t know what is. I reach out and finish her drink. I don’t fancy gin much but it seems a shame to waste it. I expect she was a bit over-powered by the brute of my presence. One is inclined to forget that women can become just as flustered as oneself in the presence of a love object.
The next morning I put on a clean pair of Y-fronts and pour a generous sprinkling of Mum’s lily of the valley over the vital parts. Let nobody say that Timothy Lea is not a stickler for the refinements. You could eat your dinner off my dick provided you had a blunt knife and fork. I have not slept well and the memory of Jennifer Jenkins has been much with me. It all seems too easy somehow. I know I am irresistible, but dollies don’t usually lay it on the line with such an endearing economy of dicky birds.
I whip round my patch with the nervous sweat building up underneath my armpits – normally I am as dry as a teetotallers’ banquet – and arrive at forty-seven Hillview Crescent smack on the dot of half-past eleven. My action man kit is possessed of a nervous tingle and I hope that it is not going to play up – or down as is more often the case at moments of nervous tension. I ring the doorbell and listen to the sound of the chimes dying away in the distance. It is as quiet as a demonstration by the Noise Abatement Society. Typical, the bird was probably having me on. I knew it was too good to be true. Suddenly, a figure swims into sight through the coloured glass. The door opens with a crack as if it has been freshly painted and I am face to face with Jennifer. She is wearing a black negligee with a matching robe and her breasts glow with a translucent bloom like freshly-boiled dumplings.
‘Ah,’ she says, ‘you’ve come. I was on the point of giving you up. Where’s the milk?’
‘Oh yes,’ I feel myself blushing. ‘It’s on the float. What would you like?’ What a stupid berk I am. I have completely forgotten about the milk.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says. ‘We’ll sort that out later. Come in.’
‘Oh – er. Yes.’ I go through the door like I am in a dream and she closes it behind me.
‘I didn’t think you were going to come,’ she says, all eager like.
‘I didn’t think you were going to be here,’ I say. We smile at each other and suddenly it is Love Story all over again – I never knew why they got that Ryan O’Neill bloke in the first place. She moves towards me and I hold her in my arms like she has just scored England’s winning goal in the next World Cup.
‘Come upstairs,’ she says. ‘I want to show you the bedroom.’
‘Great,’ I say. I mean, words fail you at moments like that, don’t they? I suppose it was inevitable that there had to be a bird somewhere who was absolutely bonkers about me. It’s probably the same with everyone. How lucky that I should meet this one before my eightieth birthday. I would hate us to have had to get our kicks from making the wheels on our bathchairs rub together.
Jennifer takes my hand and I try not to run up the stairs two at a time. What a slinky body she has. Slim shoulders, narrow waist, tulip bum, long legs. The last time I saw a bird like that I was dreaming.
‘Here we are.’ She gives me an encouraging smile – it isn’t necessary and throws open a door. The bed is the first thing I see and the first thing I am looking for. It has been slept in and a copy of the Sunday Times Business News is opened on the crumpled sheets ‘Sunday mornings are heaven with the newspapers, aren’t they?’ she says following my glance. ‘Still I don’t expect you get the chance to read in bed, poor sweet.’
She puts her hands on my shoulders and I pull her to me and match my mouth to the anticipatory tilt of her head. She tastes of toothpaste and Nescafe. I kiss her gratefully and drink in the scent of her perfume. She smells of class. The room is as light and airy as my heart and I slide my hands inside her robe and settle them on the tight water melon mounds of her back bumpers. The important thing is not to rush, though it is going to be difficult to make percy understand that. He is already clambering up the front of my Y-fronts like a fast-growing vine. Jennifer lowers her arms behind her and the robe slides off and crackles down on to the paper. I bring my hand to the front of my trousers and slip it under my apron. She stops me as I begin to pull down my zip.
‘Not yet. I want you to kiss me all over.’
She sinks back on to the bed and reaches behind her to throw the paper on the floor. Her legs are hanging over the edge and the hem of her night gown rests across her white thighs just below where her fuzz begins. I sit down beside her and run my hand up the inside of one of her legs from the ankle. I do it slowly, extending my fingers when I get to the soft flesh of her thighs. She shivers and puts her hand over mine. I hold it and pull up her nightdress so that the silky mound is exposed. She pauses and then sits up and pulls the nightdress over her head. Her breasts dangle temptingly and I lean forward and take one in my mouth. My fingers go between her legs but she pulls my hand away.
‘One at a time,’ she says. ‘I like to concentrate on each sensation.’ I trace a pattern round the growing nipple and then nuzzle into the cleavage between the two brea
sts. Jennifer presses her breasts against my cheeks and then revolves them as if she is rolling pastry. Percy is beginning to go spare and again I feel for the release mechanism on the front of my trousers. It is bad to keep a growing hampton cooped up during the mating season.
‘Not yet,’ she breathes. ‘Go down on me – please!’
The way she says it you would have to have a heart of stone not to comply and if I have a fault it has ever been over generosity in the grumble mumble department. I know there are some blokes who don’t fancy a mouthful of furburger but I am definitely not one of them – I mean, the birds enjoy it so much, don’t they? The dividend in human pleasure bestowed is well worth the crick in the neck and fag of picking the pubic hairs out of your teds.
Jennifer sinks back against the bed and her soft grey eyes look up at me pleadingly. Her long hair frames her face and her half-open mouth glistens temptingly. Reaching behind me I swiftly whip off one of my shoes and a sock and lie her longways so that her feet are pointing down the bed. I scramble on to the bed and raise one of her legs so that I lick the sole of her foot and insert my tongue into the gaps between her toes. She begins to respond and I bring my big toe into play against the entrance to her snatch. It is getting more slippery with every second and I slide my foot up and down the whole of the liquid length and press hard forcing back the lips and stubbing my big toe forward. It is an effective manoeuvre because of the difference in our heights.
‘Go on!’ I think I know what she is on about. Nothing is going to satisfy her until she feels the sharp, rasping end of my tongue darting against her clit.
I get off the bed and kneel beside it swinging Jennifer’s legs round until my head is between them. Pulling her towards me I engage the inside of her thighs with my mouth and sweep my tongue up and down in a zigzag motion until my lips are brushing against the furry thicket. I take a few soft hairs in my mouth and pull gently. Jennifer purrs and then arches her back spontaneously as I run my tongue lightly along the thin pink line. I slide one arm round her thigh and open the willing flesh at the top of her dilly with two fingers spread wide. The skin is shell smooth and I dab at it with a butterfly touch of my tongue before probing for the clitoral cranny with a firm persistent pressure. Once I have established contact and can feel Jennifer beginning to churn, I move my fingers and with both hands begin to glide up the side aisles that surround the tunnel of love. Jennifer entwines her fingers in my hair and begins to buff my ears with her thighs.