by Timothy Lea
Mountjoy obviously fancies his chances in the booze stakes and decides that it is time to put the pressure on.
‘I think these gentlemen could do with a nightcap,’ he says, winking at Mabel. ‘Give them a double of whatever they’re drinking.’
He must have a few bob because we are all on spirits. R.T.’s glass flashes out ahead of the field and I think what a lucky old sod he is to cash in on our private rivalry. I have no intention of buying another round but Gregson has reinforcements standing by before I have finished my first double and I can see that he and Mountjoy are clearly gunning for each other. Maybe there is a chance for me here.
‘I can see you lads haven’t had a drink for a week,’ says Mabel.
‘That’s not all we haven’t had,’ leers Mountjoy. He tries to put his hand on top of hers but she avoids it and calls him a ‘cheeky monkey’. Nevertheless, the way she rolls her eyes towards the ceiling and gives a little tit-bouncing shudder, convinces me that I am on to a winner, or will be when these poor mugs have finished drinking themselves to death. One thing I have never cracked on about is my ability to hold my ale, but it is considered pretty highly in Clapham circles I can tell you.
I finish my first double and note with satisfaction that Mountjoy and Gregson are well through their second. Ragged Tash has finished both his and is ordering another round. Honestly, I don’t know where he puts it. He has not left the bar the whole evening. Probably scared of falling over if he stands up.
To my disgust Gregson leans across the bar and starts whispering something to Mabel. I crane forward and, in my eagerness, knock over a soda syphon. I snatch at it and succeed in directing a healthy squirt onto Gregson’s lap. Mabel laughs and Gregson squares up to me.
‘You did that on purpose!’ he snarls.
My reply has to be handled very carefully because although I do not want agro with Gregson, I would prefer Mabel to think that my little slip was a cunning ploy to seize her undivided attention, rather than the action of a clumsy, half-pissed berk.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I say. ‘My hand must have slipped.’ I give Mabel a knowing grin and she adds to Gregson’s discomfiture by giggling and throwing him a dishcloth.
‘Must have thought you needed a fire extinguisher,’ she chortles. ‘Here, cop hold of this, you’d better rub it yourself. We don’t want any talk.’ She rolls her eyes again and I darn near dive over the counter. What a little darling!
Gregson limps off to change his trousers and that leaves smoothie-chops Mountjoy and me – well, there is poor old R.T. but he doesn’t count. He sits there politely and listens to Mountjoy rabbiting on about the extras on his Ford Capri and how he won’t want to swap it for a company car. Smug little bleeder!
It is past eleven now and the few people sitting at tables around the bar are beginning to drift off to bed. As anticipated, the room has cleared considerably since ‘Match of the Day’ started. A few blokes drift in for a nightcap but then it is just beautiful, ravishing, adorable, exciting, captivating Mabel and the three of us. Gregson does not reappear. I imagine he must have passed out on the bed once his trousers hit ankle level.
I am not feeling so great myself but I reckon I can see off Mountjoy. He has been swilling the stuff down and I can spot the signs of galloping intoxication. His eyes are glassy and he is waving his arms about and dropping ash everywhere. Mabel is trying to appear interested in his boring drivel but I can see that it is an effort. Why don’t they both piss off and leave her to collect first prize?
‘What do you drive?’ Mountjoy is talking to me.
‘I don’t have a car. I find it easier to take taxis in London.’ I give Mabel a nonchalant smile and she trys to stifle a yawn.
‘What about you?’
‘Who, me?’ R.T. seems to be thinking about something else. ‘A car? I’ve got a clapped out old Bentley, actually. Rather fond of them, you know.’
‘Oh.’ Mountjoy is obviously disappointed.
‘Ooh,’ says Mabel, perking up for the first time in ten minutes. ‘They’re lovely, aren’t they? Ever so comfortable. Have you got it here?’
R.T. nods absent-mindedly.
‘Yes. It’s in the garage.’
‘I must go and have a look at it. I love old cars.’
Poor old grandpa. What an opportunity, eh? Now if it had been me I would have been round there showing her the back seat before you could say ‘Epsom salts’. But the stupid old sod just helps himself to Gregson’s last double and knocks it back in one swig. An X-ray of his liver would have to be preserved in alcohol.
‘Well, better be turning in, I suppose,’ he says. ‘Got a hard day tomorrow. Just time for one for the road. Same again for everybody, Mabel.’ I start to put my hand over my glass, but take it away hurriedly when I see Mountjoy’s contemptuous grin. Stupid prick! After the amount he has put away he would not be able to make a dent in a custard pudding. What is he trying to prove? And, most important: how the hell am I going to get rid of him? He looks as if he is going to stay at the bar till he drops.
And then, magically, Mabel decides to take a hand – it is not what I would have offered her but I am not complaining. As she fills Mountjoy’s glass I distinctly see her add a dash of something from another bottle. She notices me watching and gives me a big wink. ‘Time for bye byes,’ she whispers, nodding towards Smart Alec. I wink back because it is obvious that she has decided to remove the one obstacle to the fruition of our mutual desires. Now a night of wild, passionate lovemaking beckons with open arms – not so much beckons as shouts ‘Come and get it!’
I watch with interest as Mountjoy takes a swig at his drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand – he is so uncouth is Mountjoy. Sure enough he immediately shakes his head and nearly swallows his Adam’s apple.
‘Pheew!!’ he gasps. ‘What did you put in that?’
‘It’s what you’ve been drinking all evening, dear,’ says Mabel innocently.
‘Maybe you need a cup of coffee,’ I say provocatively. The reaction to that remark is exactly the one I had hoped for.
‘I could drink you under the table,’ sneers Mountjoy, and he seizes his glass and Bogarts it down the back of his throat. Mabel nods appreciatively and turns to me holding out a 5p piece.
‘I could do with some music, dear,’ she says. ‘Go and put on something soft and smoochie.’ She certainly spells it out, doesn’t she? I nip over to the jukebox and when I get back Mountjoy is sprawled across the bar with his head on his hands, snoring loudly.
‘No stamina,’ says R.T., looking down at him as if he is a panting retriever. ‘Ah, well. Cheerio!’ He raises his glass and I am forced to take another swig at my brandy and ginger. Christ! But that drink never seems to disappear. It is amazing how they don’t when you have had enough, isn’t it?
Mabel is clearing up behind the bar and it is clearly only a matter of time before R.T. pushes off and leaves the field to me. I watch Mabel bend over to tuck away some empties and practically cream my jeans. The line of her panties shows through her skirt and I can see the shadow of her black bra through her white nylon blouse. It is wicked! Wicked!!
I take another hefty swig to steady my nerves and suddenly feel a strange deadening sensation spreading through my limbs. Not the dreaded brewer’s droop! Not now! After all I have been through, all the ackers I have laid out!
Mabel reaches up to start pulling down the shutters and I rise to my feet to help her and get a better view of her Bristols. At least I try to rise to my feet For some strange reason I only succeed in sliding off my stool and sitting on the floor. This is ridiculous! I claw at the edge of the bar and my legs buckle again.
‘Come on, old chap, give me your arm. That’s right. There we are!’ R.T. is pulling me to my feet and before me I can see the last shutter coming down.
‘I don’t know what –’ I begin, but R.T. is swift to soothe.
‘Had a drop too much I expect, old boy. It happens to all of us. Give me a hand, will y
ou Mabel?’
For a moment my spirits rise as every boy’s do-it-yourself action woman kit snuggles under my arm pit, but in my heart of hearts I know I am doomed. I must be pissed out of my mind. The tragedy of it! The complete and utter waste! Leaving Mountjoy still snoring on the bar, R.T. and Mabel guide my faltering footsteps down the corridor that leads to my room. With every step, I pray that I will begin to wake up, but I only get sleepier. By the time they steer me through the door I am practically out on my feet. I collapse on the bed and my eyelids slam shut like the cover of a night deposit box. The silence that follows unnerves me so I open them again. Standing in the doorway are Ragged Tash and Mabel. They are embracing. Not so much embracing as darn near eating each other.
‘Come on,’ I hear Mabel panting, ‘I can’t wait much longer.’ She dives onto his mouth again.
‘Alright, old girl,’ says R.T., giving one of her breasts a tweak, ‘anything you say.’
The door closes on my sobs.
CHAPTER THREE
The next morning I wake up with a mouth like the inside of a yak’s carpet slippers and it occurs to me before the first ray of sunshine has penetrated my peepers that I have been well and truly nobbled. Mabel not only spiked Mountjoy’s drink but mine as well. The evil baggage only sent me over to the jukebox so she could do the dirty on me while my back was turned. The distress this realisation causes me is only matched by my awareness of the full implications. Mabel presumably fancied the stupid old publishing git to yours truly. What a carve up! She must be round the twist. I have heard of women preferring an older man, but this is ridiculous. Even ‘Homage to Brylcreem’ would have been better than that.
I feel double-choked when I stagger down to breakfast and find R.T. tucking into a couple of kippers and a large pile of buttered toast.
‘Morning, old chap,’ he sings out, ‘feeling better?’
‘First rate,’ I lie. ‘How about you?’
‘Couldn’t be better. Slept like a log,’ he winks at me and I could punch his teeth down his throat. What makes it worse it that he does not mean to take the piss. He is trying to be kind and I cannot stand that.
The next two weeks drag by like a life tour in the French Foreign Legion and I am at the end of my tether when exam time comes. Yes, we have exams. Lots of practical stuff with Belfry and his mates hamming it up as bolshy dealers and exasperated customers, and about five written papers with questions like, ‘A customer complains that the socket on her OK4U2P is constantly being blocked by foreign bodies. What would you do?’ A few funny answers do occur to one, I can tell you.
I reckon I have done pretty well and I am slightly peeved that it has not been necessary to strike terror into anyone’s heart by mentioning the deadly SM 42.
We get our results the day after the exams and I discover that I have passed out ninth out of forty-two candidates, five of whom have been failed. Despite my lack of enthusiasm, I cannot help feeling a pang of pride as I line up to receive a certificate from Tredegar Smith, the dynamic managing director of HomeClean. He is an amazing man because although he only looks forty-seven he is in fact thirty-one and has apparently clawed his way to the top via the hand holds he has hacked in other people’s backs with a small knife he keeps especially for the purpose.
The only thing that blunts my satisfaction as his cold, damp hand clamps over mine and his gimlet eyes probe over my left shoulder for sight of the clock on the wall, is that I can see Mum and Dad in the audience. I certainly have not informed them of the ceremony and I can only imagine that HomeClean have performed the service on my behalf. Dad is asleep with his head lolling back nearly on the laps of the row behind, and Mum is nudging him and snuffling into a large handkerchief. It all seems pretty typical, especially when Dad wakes up with a start and almost kicks the bloke in front out of his seat.
‘Oh Timmy,’ says Mum afterwards, ‘I’m proud of you. I always knew you had it in you.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ snorts Dad. ‘He always had it in, whenever he had the opportunity, now that I’ll grant you.’
Mum tugs at his sleeve. ‘Don’t be coarse, father,’ she says primly. ‘Not here.’ She looks around like she is inside St. Paul’s Cathedral.
‘It’s nothing to get excited about, ma,’ I tell her, feeling embarrassed. ‘I’m only going to become a bleeding rep., I mean assistant sales manager. And then I’m on probation.’
‘Not again!’ says Mum. ‘What have you done? You never told us!’
‘Relax, relax! mother.’ She is a stupid old boot, isn’t she? ‘Not that kind of probation. I have to go out with one of the HomeClean Area Managers and practice all the stuff I’ve learnt here. If I can do that alright then I’ll become a fully fledged A.S.M.’
‘You haven’t got mixed up in any trouble?’
‘No mother. It’s impossible in this organisation.’ But I am not quite right there.
I am supposed to be going out into the field with a bloke called Jack Kenton but on the eve of my departure Brian Belfry calls me into his office.
‘Slight change of plan, Lea,’ he says. ‘Kenton has had a heart attack. Most unfortunate but these things happen. Especially in a dynamic organisation. You can’t stand still, Lea. You’ve got to move, and you’ve got to move fast. And to move fast takes effort. And effort causes strain. And if you can’t stand strain you don’t belong here in the first place. Do you understand me, Lea?’ He unscrews a small, brown bottle and gulps down a couple of pills. ‘Indigestion,’ he explains. I nod understandingly. ‘So you’ll be going out with someone else,’ he continues. ‘Arthur Seaton. Arthur is—well—’ he pauses for a moment and looks at the ceiling, ‘– you’ll see for yourself. He’s been with the Company a long time.’ I nod more understanding in Belfry’s direction.
‘I’m sorry about Mr. Kenton.’
Belfry tucks his biro in the breast pocket of his suit and stands up.
‘Yes, well – like I said – these things happen.’
After all the bullshit that has been whizzing round my ears at Knuttley Hall I am decidedly wary prior to my encounter with Arthur Seaton and get to our meeting place fifteen minutes before the agreed time of eight thirty a.m. ‘One of the old school,’ Belfry has said, and I have a picture of a retired Indian cavalry officer bashing me over the bonce with an upright cleaner.
I have been told to wait outside a department store in North West London but by eight forty-five I am wondering if I am in the right place. Punctuality is one of the things HomeClean prides itself on and all the instructors at Knuttley Hall had their watches set ten minutes early.
At about five past nine it occurs to me that there may be more than one entrance to the store so I walk round the corner to find myself across the street from a small cafe. A slightly balding middle aged man, wearing a grey raincoat, is sitting in the window getting outside a cup of tea and a doughnut. He sees me glancing around, taps on the window and beckons me towards him.
‘Timothy Leak?’ he says when I go inside.
‘Lea,’ I correct him.
‘Oh. They must have got it wrong at head office. They get everything wrong there – stupid buggers. What happened to you? You’re a bit late, aren’t you?’
‘They told me to wait outside the store,’ I say, feeling aggrieved.
‘Yes, I know, but it’s bloody parky out there. I expect you to use a bit of common, lad. Never hang about in the open if you can help it. It gets into your bones. Now, do you fancy a cup of tea?’
‘Have we got time?’
‘All the time in the world, lad. There’s no point in getting started ’til about ten. We’ll get a cup of tea then, if we’re lucky.’
This is something less than the ruthless dynamism I had been expecting and I feel obliged to comment on it.
‘Why do we meet at eight-thirty if we don’t start doing anything ’til ten?’
‘Gives us time to plan our calls, that kind of thing. I wouldn’t mind another cup of cha if you’re getting
them in.’ He holds out his cup and I pad off to the counter.
In fact it is ten thirty before we leave the ‘Black Cat Cafe’ and as far as I can remember we have not discussed any calls. The conversation has mainly centred around what bloody fools they are at head office and how much Arthur dislikes his company car, the company’s advertising, his wife, children and next door neighbours. There is nothing bitter about Arthur’s dislikes. It is more a statement of depressed resignation. I think of Belfry and the rest of them bouncing up and down at Knuttley Hall and find it difficult to believe that Arthur Seaton belongs to the same company.
‘What about the SM 42?’ I say eventually, waiting for Arthur to explode.
‘Typical,’ he says. ‘They never learn. You’d have thought that after the RG 238 they’d have checked this one out properly.’
‘Problems?’ I say.
‘“Problems”!? I heard from a bloke in the factory that they calculated the door-closing pressure without taking into account the weight of the stabilising mechanism.’
‘“Stabilising mechanism”?’
‘That’s the piece of concrete they put in the bottom of the machine to stop it jumping out of the window when the drum starts rotating. With that and the clothes inside it the door won’t open. Blooming marvellous, isn’t it? Every time I go into a dealer they throw one at me. We’ve had to fetch three thousand out of people’s homes.’
‘I know. My Mum had one.’
‘She has my sympathy. I’d never buy one. The best product they made was the old TX 22. The hand wringer. Marvellous machine. Never went wrong; that was the trouble with it. They’re still about today. People won’t part with them. I don’t blame them. Right, here we are.’ He pulls up the hand brake and starts to open the door.
‘Aren’t you going to take your briefing folder?’ I say, surprised. This is a hardcover folder containing acetate sleeves chock-full of the latest information on new products and promotional campaigns, all lovingly prepared by head office and supposed to be used as a bible by all HomeClean salesmen.