by Timothy Lea
I am quite excited when we get there, but it does not take long for this mood of unnatural optimism to pass. First of all there is the packaging. I start worrying about this when Mr. Ishowi picks up one of the cartons with a flourish and all the gubbins drops out of the end onto the floor. He picks up the largest bit and then discards it with a rueful smile.
‘Ah so. One in a million,’ he says, ‘cracked cylinder case.’
He sweeps the debris away with his foot and tries another one. This seems to be O.K. but it is obvious that Mr. Ishowi is not as familiar with the product as one would expect from someone who claims to have sold millions of them back in dear old Nippon.
‘Export model different,’ he says after five minutes of struggling to fit a long tube into the back of the cleaner.’
‘Try the other end,’ says Sid.
‘Ah so. Yes, very good. Power of observation excellent.’ The tube clicks into place and Sid avoids my eyes. ‘Now we vacuum carpet. And here we have our little friends dust, fluff and glit.’ Ishy’s English is almost perfect but he does slip occasionally. I watch with interest as he sprinkles all kinds of muck over a strip of matting he has brought especially for the purpose: sand, soot, cotton waste, gravel. I will be most impressed if the ‘Nugget’ can gobble that lot up.
Sidney steps forward to get a closer look and Ishy checks that the machine is plugged in properly.
‘Now,’ he says proudly, ‘watch!’ He presses a switch and the next moment Sid looks like a refugee from the Black and White Minstrel Show. He is covered from head to toe with all the muck that was on the mat.
‘Ah so, silly me,’ says Ishy, unruffled. “I have switched control to drain clearance. But you see clearly how effective powerful air jet can be for cleaning blocked up pipes?’
It is doubtful if Sidney can see anything very clearly and there is a small break in the proceedings while we clean some of the soot off his mush.
‘Now, having dealt with drain clearance, vacuum cleaning,’ says Ishy smoothly. I can see Sid’s teeth glistening, but maybe it is the grit. Ishy presses the switch again and immediately the strip of mat disappears into the mouth of the cleaner as if it has been gobbled up by a hungry shark.
‘A true demonstration of suction power,’ beams Ishy. ‘Of course, when carpet is nailed to the floor this does not happen. One small point of warning. It is advisable to keep household pets and crawling infants out of the room when cleaning is taking place.’
He switches off the machine and eventually succeeds in retrieving the strip of matting. During the operation the ‘Nugget’ makes a high-pitched whining noise as if angry at having to disgorge its prey.
‘Sid,’ I say. ‘Oh, Sid. How many did you say –’
‘Shut up!’ says Sid. I can see that his hands are clenched very tight.
‘Now, having unblocked drain and vacuumed carpet, we scrub rug,’ continues Ishy. ‘All ladies know it is very difficult to scrub rub, but Monsoonbreaker – I mean Nugget Noggett’ – he gives a little bow towards Sid who nods stiffly – ‘makes lighthouse work of it. Watch.’
Ishy bends down and ten minutes later he has managed to screw a circular brush into the base of the Nugget.
‘Need a little oil, maybe,’ he says with a smile that wins no response from anybody. ‘Now, like I say, watch closely. Brush action get deep down into root of fibres.’
Well, he is dead right there. Nobody can take that away from him. Carefully standing on either end of the strip of rug he dunks the brush head in a tin of gunge and positions it in the centre of the area to be cleaned. ‘Wheeeeh!’ The noise it makes when he presses the switch is like a circular saw and in no time at all the brush head has gone right through the rug and is attacking the floorboards. Ishy switches off the machine and turns his attention from the round hole to the tin of gunge.
‘Maybe solution too strong,’ he says.
Half an hour later I am sitting in Sid’s room at the Cromby as my tycoon brother-in-law helps himself to a couple of shaking fingers of scotch.
‘Well, it’s certainly a powerful product, isn’t it?’ he says desperately.
‘It’s a killer, Sidney. You’ll never get the Approvals Board to pass that as it stands.’
‘The what?’
‘Oh blimey, Sidney, I thought you’d covered everything.’
‘Don’t blind me with detail. What did you think of the colour scheme.’
‘Great if you like battleship grey.’
‘You didn’t think the rising sun motif might offend someone?’
‘Not as much as having a bleeding great hole in the middle of their sitting room carpet.’ Sidney buries his face in his hands.
‘Don’t!’ he croaks. ‘You realise I’ve sunk everything I’ve got into this deal.’
‘Including your share of the Super Cromby?’
‘That is everything I’ve got.’
‘Sidney, really!’
‘It seemed such a good idea, Timmo. I’m certain it still is a good idea, of course. But I do wish the demonstration had been a bit more encouraging.’
‘It did leave a little to be desired, didn’t it?’
‘Don’t be sarky, Timmo. I can tell, you know.’ Sid takes a long swig of scotch and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Ishowi thinks it was a dud batch, you know. He telegraphed Bushimingi immediately we got back.’
‘That’s the bloke responsible, is it?’
‘No. It’s the name of the corporation that makes them.’
‘I thought that was Cammy knickers?’
‘Klamikazi. No, that’s some kind of subsidiary. I don’t know, really I don’t. I suppose it will all come right in the end. I asked him to cable a few modifications as well.’
‘Very wise, Sid.’
‘It must be all right. I mean if you’d seen that film you would have been convinced as well. Fantastic!’
‘Yeah. It’s fantastic all right, Sid.’
‘Are you getting at me again, Timothy?’ Sid only calls me “Timothy” when he is really narked so I decide to cool it.
‘No, definitely not, Sidney. I know just how you must be feeling. When are we going to get the new stuff in?’
‘I don’t know. Won’t be tomorrow, will it? We’ll have to go out with the ones we’ve got.’
‘We can’t go through the trade with that lot, Sidney.’
‘I’ve thought about that, Timmo, and I reckon the thing to do is call on selected outlets and do most of our stuff door to door. Use the birds to chat up the dealers and we’ll chat up the housewives.’
‘You’re coming out, are you, Sid?’
‘Looks as if I’ll have to, to begin with. We’ll treat the first batch as a sort of test market operation. Iron out the wrinkles.’
‘It’ll be quite like old times, won’t it Sid? Us on the road together.’
‘Yeah, only this time you’ll be selling. Not taking your hampton for a walk.’ It is sad but instructive to see Sid in this unbending frame of mind. There is no doubt that scraping a few ackers together can put a strain on even the most outward-going soul.
‘Well, when the girls get here we’ll know the worst, won’t we?’ I say cheerfully. Sid does not answer but reaches for the scotch bottle.
At two thirty a mini-bus pulls up outside the Cromby and Miss Primstone, the ancient receptionist, steams into Sidney’s office.
‘They’re here,’ she says, making the words sound like a rebuke. ‘I never thought I’d live to see the day –’
‘I hope the same about you every night,’ says Sid sourly, ‘but you keep letting me down. Why don’t you try and do something positive about it?’ Luckily she does not understand him and Sid picks up a couple of pills and chases them down his throat with a glass of water. ‘I don’t fancy yours,’ he says as we go out of the door. But, for once, our worst fears are not realised. The minibus contains twelve little almond-eyed darlings, the like of which would be enough to gladden the front of any man’s trousers. They are
wearing a sort of air stewardess uniform which pleases me because I do not go a bundle on the blanket, and the piled up hair with a couple of knitting needles through it. Likewise the half pound of self-raising splashed across the mush. These birds look oriental but western with it, if you know what I mean. Exactly right for my suburban fantasies.
‘Charmed to greet you, ladies,’ says Sidney, stepping forward gracefully onto a small offering donated by one of the many dogs that does not read the signs liberally sprinkled along the promenade. He notices that he has put on a bit of unwanted weight, and, in an effort to feel behind him for the foot-scraper, manages to lose his balance and sit down in one of the tubs of flowers. I can see the Japanese bints looking at him and wondering if this is some peculiarly British form of greeting.
We get them into the tea lounge and are proffering a cup of tea and a dainty wad when it occurs to me that Mr. Ishowi should be around to greet his niece’s friends. Even the dreaded nieces themselves, maybe. I have a word with Sid and am despatched to alert our chunky friend. It is certainly noticeable that he likes the privacy of his room and only emerges for occasional meals and matters relating to the Nugget.
As I pad down the corridor I keep a wary eye open for the Nippon man-eaters but it is a noise that attracts my attention. Not one noise but a lot of them. And they sound as if they are coming from Ishowi’s room. Maybe our girls are having a spot of volley-ball practice. There have already been complaints about plaster being shaken from the ceilings, and one light flex has snapped. Deeming it unwise to risk capture by making my presence known, I drop on one knee and apply one of my mincepies to the keyhole. Quite what is going on it is not easy to see but I can observe enough to be pretty certain that Apple Blossom and Pearl Diver are not Ishowi’s nieces. Not unless they do things a lot differently in Japan. I can also form a pretty good impression of what poor Sidney had to go through the previous night. These Nips certainly take their pleasures seriously. I would not expect to do what they are doing if I was in training for the Royal Tournament, let alone indulging in a spot of pre-tea-time triolism. If it was me I would settle for a couple of better looking birds but, of course, I would not be requiring the muscle power that Ishowi seems to thrive on. His little fat body might be a piece of dough the way those tarts are bashing it about.
I retire wincing and suggest to Sidney that Mr. Ishowi be phoned in his room. When he turns up he has all his clothes on and I am glad to see the new batch of nippons showing a spot of oriental humility as they bow and scrape before him.
‘Teahouse not the same without you,’ says one of them eager to show off her English. ‘Business very blad.’ Ishowi darts a quick glance at me and barks, a few words of Japanese at the girl that makes her turn away as if slapped across the mush. I feel sorry for her, and give her my Mark I friendly smile. She makes sure that Ishowi is not watching and smiles back nervously. One thing I will say for Ishowi, he certainly knows how to keep a grip on his staff. Tell a skivvy at the Cromby to stop spitting on the spoons while she is polishing them and she would ask for her cards immediately.
After tea Ishowi addresses the girls privately and then takes them down to the warehouse for product familiarisation. I am impressed by this willingness to buckle down to the job in hand and Sid starts to rub his hands together again.
‘Fantastic, these Japs, aren’t they?’ he says. ‘Only been here five minutes and they’re hard at it already.’
‘Yeah, and while you mention it,’ I say, ‘I’d put some pit props under the ceiling of Ishowi’s room if I were you. He’s a bit of a sexual athlete on the noisy. And if Fly Diver and Ample Bottom are his nieces then I’m their Dutch uncle.’
Now, it is a funny thing with Sid, but he is very variable. His attitude to people can change quite remarkably. Because Ishy produced a few half-decent birds he is now Johnny Jap, first-class again.
‘No need to point the finger,’ he says stiffly. ‘We all have our little existentialists. What Mr. Ishowi does in the privacy of his own room is his affair. His ways are not my ways.’
‘I hope not, Sidney,’ I say. ‘I’ve had my differences with Rosie but she is my own flesh and blood and –’
‘You know what I mean,’ snarls Sidney. ‘M.Y.O.B.’
‘Myob? Who’s Myob?’
‘Mind your own business!’ hisses Sid.
‘But I’d like to know, Sid.’
‘Shut up!’
‘But, Sid –’
‘Shut up!! We’ve got more important things to worry about. There’s those Japanese instructions leaflets to be translated for a start.’
‘Well, don’t look at me. I can’t speak a word of Japanese.’
‘Exactly! If you spent a bit more time doing something useful like learning Japanese and a little less time criticising people we’d all be a lot better off.’
‘Oh – go and play volley-ball!’ I mean, there is no point in talking to him when he is in one of his moods, is there?
Three days later we are ready to go. Yes, three days. Amazing, isn’t it? It just shows what a mixture of British grit and Japanese grey matter can achieve. For some reason best known to himself, Sidney had decided that the North represents the right market for the Nugget. Mainly, I think, because he reckons it is dirtier up there; that the natives are friendly, e.g. gullible; and, because he knows nothing about it, it does not sound so unpleasant as all the places he does know something about.
He has selected somewhere in the Sheffield area as being a good starting point and the girls and ourselves are going up there after a small launching partly organised by Mr. Ishowi. He and, thank God, Apple Blossom and Pearl Diver are staying behind to handle distribution of the product.
‘Very nice of him to lay this on for us, isn’t it?’ says Sidney as we prepare to enter the Noggett Suite where the reception is being held – yes, I am afraid that happened in the days when Sidney had total control of the hotel. We settled for that after we heard him talking to his solicitor about changing the name of the hotel from The Cromby to The Ritz Noggett.
‘Who’s paying for it, then?’ I ask.
‘Typical of you to come up with that. It pains you to think well of anybody, doesn’t it? Is my robe looking alright?’
‘Your dressing gown, you mean. Yes, but you look a right berk with that flower stuck behind your lug-hole.’ Sid has decided that because it is a Japanese evening we have got to dress up in Nippon style. I have tried to talk him out of the idea but it is no good and I am stranded in Bermuda shorts and one of Rosie’s maternity smocks. I reckon Ena Sharples looks more Japanese than I do. Before Sidney and I can exchange any more words the door opens and there is Ishy in full Japanese kit. Head band, baggy trousers, billowing sleeves, knee length jacket, broad sash, sword. Sword!!? Good evening, everybody.
‘Come here!’ snaps Sidney. ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’
‘I forgot something,’ I mumble.
‘Forgive him, he’s a bit off-colour tonight,’ says Sid. ‘Oh, this is nice isn’t it?’
He is no doubt referring to the lanterns, candle light, low tables layed out with all kinds of invisible goodies and, not least, the lovely Daughters of the Cherry Blossom who have also slipped into traditional Nippon gear.
I try not to look at Ishy’s sword and prepare to encounter the next hazard to my enjoyment of the evening. Neither of them seem to be here.
‘You look around for my nieces?’ says Ishy reading my mind. ‘Unfortunately they not come. They indisposed. Great pity. They have very soft spot for you.’
I doubt it, I think to myself. You would not find a soft spot on those girls if you went over them with a set of drain rods.
‘What’s the problem?’ says Sid.
‘Strained their stomach muscles,’ says Ishy with obvious satisfaction. ‘They take their sport very seriously.’
‘Sid knows all about that, don’t you, Sid?’ I chip in. ‘You had a game with the girls, didn’t you?’
‘Something l
ike that, Timothy,’ says Sid narrowing his eyes at me. ‘Ah, what is this?’
With exquisite timing he turns his attention to a tray of thimbles which is being proffered by one of the birds.
‘Saki to warm your heart,’ beams Ishy. ‘Tonight we give you true Geisha evening. Our ladies will do everything in their power to pleasure you.’
Can’t be bad, I think, as I raise my tiny cup to my lips. Ugh! The liquid inside is warm and tastes like armpit nectar. I make the mistake of knocking mine back sharpish and another one is quickly made available.
‘Delicious, isn’t it?’ says crawler Noggett as we are bowed towards a pile of cushions.
‘U-u-um,’ I say nodding my head vigorously. My gaze is directed towards the bird who spoke English when the party first came to the hotel. She is looking at me like a spaniel watching its master unwrap half a pound of sausages, and her interest mirrors my own. Small delicate features and those beautiful almond eyes. The thought of her nestling against the enormous expanse of my chest inspires thoughts that would get my membership card torn up by the chief Ovaltiney.
‘Please be seated.’
I settle down on a cushion and immediately realise how uncomfortable these can be if you are used to chairs. Cushions are alright for lounging on and one or two other things you have probably read about, but they are no good if you have to ‘sit up properly’ as my mother used to say. Sid is even more clumsy than I am and knocks half the little dishes off the table with his knee.
‘I wonder where they got this table from,’ he says. ‘It’s low, isn’t it?’
‘It didn’t used to be,’ I inform him. ‘They’ve sawn the legs off the one that used to stand at the end of the corridor.’
Before he can comment on that we have another round of saki and food begins to appear. This takes the form of a procession of sugar bowls each containing what looks like someone else’s leftovers. It would take you about five hundred bowls to get through the equivalent of a plateful of English grub. What is being dished up does not exactly offer a blooming great incentive to get the gnashers flashing either.