Confessions of a Travelling Salesman

by Timothy Lea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘It’s different, isn’t it?’ I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Anything, any—hic,’ gasps Miss D.

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

  ‘Are you serious?’

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

  ‘Now, what?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘I don’t know. It might do.’

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

  ‘Well?’

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

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

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

  ‘Maybe what?’

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

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

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

  ‘Just tell me what she did!’

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

  ‘What!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘What about that washing machine?’ she murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘High spin speed, big capacity –’

  ‘Front loading?’

  ‘Y-e-e-e-s!’

  ‘O-o-o-o-h.’

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

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

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