Confessions of a Travelling Salesman

by Timothy Lea

  The minute I get into my room I stop by the not quite closed door and shed my clothes noiselessly. Five minutes pass and the silence is deafening as I ease my naked body out into the dark corridor. I creep over against the banisters where the creak is least pronounced and can see no more cracks of light under any of the doors. Good. Step by delicate step I ghost round to a position outside Sidney’s room judging the distance from the patch of grey sky I can see through the landing window.

  No sooner have I arrived than I hear Sidney’s bed creaking and the unmistakable sound of his dirty great plates of meat colliding with the carpet. No doubt he is tripping off on a similar errand to my own. Disaster! I do not fancy bumping into him at a moment like this. I put a restraining hand on the door knob and find my finger brushing against a key. Almost before the thought has formed itself in my mind I have turned the key and Sidney is imprisoned in his bedroom. I am hoping that the realisation of this fact will not prompt a typically unseemly reaction from my brother-in-law, when the bedroom door beside Sid’s opens swiftly and a hand reaches out and seizes me by the—well, I don’t think it means to seize me by that.

  ‘Ssh!’ says Rita’s voice, suppressing a giggle. ‘Don’t wake my mam.’ Transferring her hand to my wrist, she draws me into her room. This is something of a surprise, but what is life without a few surprises?

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ she whispers, ‘you can hear everything in this house.’

  ‘U-u-m,’ I murmur, only too happy to oblige. Her arm slides round behind my neck and as her mouth seeks my own I make the not unpleasant discovery that the wicked minx is stark bollock naked. Terrible the way some of these birds go on, isn’t it? And to think that all this might have been Sid’s. It is too horrible to dwell on. Behind me my sharp ears can detect the sound of Sid employing gentle force on his door knob.

  ‘You’re bigger in the darkness,’ whispers Rita. I think she is comparing me with Sid height-wise but there is another dimension in which I am responding favourably to the presence of the lanky curve-carnival. Miss Runcorn is not slow in expressing a desire to exploit it and draws me down onto a pile of bedclothes she has distributed across the floor. Delicately I run my fingers over her lightly stirring body and enjoy her own well-practised digits stroking me like a favourite kitten. I am usually a lights-on performer myself, but I must say that a spot of darkness does tend to heighten the sense of touch and smell. Rita Runcorn pongs as if she has immersed herself in a vat of Carnal no. 5 and my nostrils are twitching like a bunny with hay fever. It is just as well that she seems wrapped up in what she is doing because behind me I can hear Sid losing his temper with the bedroom door.

  ‘Uu-m,’ I murmur, ‘u-um, uu-m, u-um!’ and like a guided missile Percy zooms onto target.

  In the minutes that follow I try and perform as quietly as possible, mainly because being the kind of sensitive person I am, I do not want to hurt Sid’s feelings. Unfortunately, with Rita, it is rather difficult. She is a big girl and obviously likes throwing her weight about. Making love to her is like struggling with a giant conger eel in a small rowing boat at midnight when there is half a gale blowing. Why her mum is not down the corridor I will never know.

  At last we lie panting amongst the crumpled sheets and I am relieved that I can hear no sounds from next door. Sidney has presumably gone back to bed to cry himself to sleep.

  ‘You’d better go,’ murmurs Rita. ‘That was lovely, but I don’t want mum to catch us. Let’s do it again tomorrow.’

  ‘Alright,’ I whisper gratefully, thinking that somewhere along the line there is going to be a bit of explaining to do. I surrender to a last hungry kiss and drag my bruised body to the door. It is still as dark as an Ethiopian’s inside leg measurement when I get out onto the landing and I start tip-toeing back to my room.

  Maybe I am a bit too relaxed or something, but suddenly I hear a door opening and Mrs. Runcorn’s voice whispers into the darkness: ‘Sidney?’

  Now, of course, I could say ‘no’ and explain that I have been to the bathroom and lost my way, but I am so wrapped up in my deception that I can only blurt out ‘u-urn’, a phrase that is now becoming the sole item in my vocabulary.

  ‘Oh, Sidney,’ whispers Mrs. R. seductively, ‘Sidney, Sidney, I was dreaming about you.’

  Before I can do anything I feel her nightdress bristling – or, more likely, bristoling – against my chest. Her warm comfortable hands close round my haunches and she pulls me towards her passionately.

  ‘I’m cold, Sidney,’ she murmurs, ‘come and keep me warm.’

  Well, what can I do? I mean, I don’t want to disappoint her, do I? And since she thinks I am Sidney I don’t want to do anything to harm his reputation either. You’ve got to think of other people, haven’t you?

  ‘Uu-m,’ I say, letting myself be led away.

  She is a remarkable woman that Mrs. Runcorn. I have always had a soft spot for the more mature bird and this one is no exception. Far gentler than her daughter and more of a giver, if you know what I mean. A sort of English version of Spring Fragrance.

  ‘Is that nice?’ she keeps saying to me. ‘Do you like it when I do that?’

  My part in the conversation is entirely composed of ‘U-ums’.

  After my energetic session with daughter Rita, mum is just what I need and she brings me to the boil at just the right moment for us to enjoy a really refined spot of in-and-out that moves from raindrop to mountain torrent like a beautifully orchestrated piece of music. I am a bit worried about the bedsprings, but Sidney must be getting used to noises off by now. He is probably asleep anyway.

  At last our love-making reaches a proud crescendo, and once again I am left gasping on a grateful Runcorn bosom like a fish stranded by a giant wave. I am about to emit my most grateful ‘u-um’ yet when the lights go on.

  At first I think that someone must have come into the room, but then I realise that the bedroom light must have been on when Hirohito’s Revenge did its cruel work. One person who does register intense surprise is Mrs. Runcorn. She takes one look at me and snatches the bedclothes over her ample knockers.

  ‘O-oh ! !’ she screams. ‘Rape! Help!’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ I gasp. ‘You invited me in here, remember.’

  ‘Not you!’ Her face is contorted with disgust. ‘You filthy, dirty beast. Help!’

  ‘Shut up. You’ll wake everybody! Don’t be bloody stupid. You enjoyed it!’

  ‘Rapist!’ Mrs. R. gives an almighty heave and pushes me onto the floor as the door flies open and Rita is standing there.’

  ‘Mother!’

  ‘He attacked me!’

  ‘She’s round the twist!’

  Rita struggles to take in the situation. ‘I’ll fetch Sidney. He’ll know how to deal with him.’ She looks at me with the same disgust as her mother. I am surprised that Sidney has let a locked door prevent him from being here to enjoy my discomfort. Maybe he has slept through everything. Sidney always was a sound sleeper.

  At that moment there is a loud blast on a police whistle, the sound of a man shouting and the crash of broken glass. The loudest sound is the last and comes from directly below us.

  ‘Oh! !!’ screams Mrs. R., ‘what’s that? We’re all going to be murdered in our beds! Rape! Murder! Help!’

  I cross to the window just in time to see a police dog flashing through what must be the Runcorns’ shattered sitting room window. Its departure from my view is followed by a loud bellow which is unmistakably Sid’s.

  Now, both the Runcorns are screaming uncontrollably and it is almost in self protection that I go downstairs to the sitting room. Cowering in the middle of a pool of shattered glass is Sidney wearing only underpants and a hang dog expression. The dog he would like to hang is watching him with saliva dripping from its eager jaws.

  ‘Right,’ says a dark blue voice from just outside the window. ‘Perhaps you would like to tell me what you think you are doing?’

  Fortunately, by the time we have explaine
d to the dog handler, that Sidney was accidently locked in his bedroom and climbed out of the window because he did not want to wake anybody up, thinking that he could climb in through the sitting room window, Mrs. Runcorn has cooled down a bit and decided to abandon her rape charge. Nevertheless, she continues to give me a few very old-fashioned looks and Rita’s expression when she gazes upon me is that of someone putting one and one together and not liking the answer she is getting.

  All in all it is not surprising that Mrs. R. suggests that we leave as soon as the window has been repaired and, once again, I find myself making my way to the glazier. I observe to Sid that this might be a better line of business for us if the present trend continues but he does not find this amusing. He does not have much of a sense of humour, does Sidney, though in the present situation his reluctance to laugh may be caused by the sticking plaster which prevents too much facial movement.

  We finish mending the window and get to court in time to hear Happy Spirit and the girls being bound over. Sidney is perking up by this time because there are a lot of reporters about and he has saved on a night’s accommodation at the Grand. He poses the girls holding up an arch of Nuggets with himself in the middle and badgers the newsmen to take photographs until the court ushers tell us to move on.

  ‘This could be the turning point,’ he says to me grimly, ‘remember the darkest hour is just before the dawn. By the way, talking about darkest hours, were you the bleeder who locked me in my room?’

  ‘Who, me, Sid? What would I want to do a thing like that for? I reckon it was Mrs. Runcorn herself. She fancied you rotten, you know, and was dead jealous of you getting across Rita.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sid gazes dreamily into the distance. ‘It’s almost a disadvantage sometimes, pulling birds the way I do.’

  ‘Absolutely, Sid,’ I say admiringly. ‘You never said a truer word.’

  When the last photographer has escaped Sid takes the girls off for another onslaught on the trade and I start banging door knockers again. At half past eleven I sell my second Nugget and by three o’clock I have sold another one. It is not world shattering but at least it is twice as good as yesterday. I am therefore in reasonably good spirits when I decide to try my luck at a large block of council flats before calling it a day. I can cover a lot of families without walking too far and on the law of averages there must be one or two people inside those flats who need a cleaner.

  I get right to the top and am amazed how windy it is up there. Below me trails of smoke lie across the town and I can see a panorama of green moorland surrounding the blackened chimneys. I would needs wings before I could live up here.

  My first prospect says she does not need a cleaner and my next is an old lady who only wants to chat to someone. I can tell that the moment I see her, but I have a cup of tea with her and take her through the product feature by feature and I suppose it cheers her up a bit. I leave her saying that she will think about it and push on past three no-answers and a sad-voiced kid who tells me through the letter box that his mother is at work. I suppose a lot of the bints in the flats will be at work. Maybe I should have left it a bit later in the day before calling.

  The flats are built in the shape of an L and I come round a corner just in time to see a slim bird with long blonde hair trying to open the door of her flat while holding onto a large carton of groceries.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I say, tossing aside the loathsome Nugget and relieving her of her load before she can say no.

  ‘Ta very much.’ She looks me up and down. ‘You’re not from around here, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m from London.’

  ‘I thought so. It was your accent.’ I restrain myself from congratulating her. ‘What are you doing round here?’

  ‘I’m a salesman.’ It has taken me a little time to get used to the accent of Northern birds but now I find them almost attractive. A bit harsh but a nice contrast with what is underneath.

  ‘Welcome to the Windy City. What are you selling?’

  ‘Take me in out of the cold and I’ll show you.’ She is the kind of bird you know is going to start saying ‘yes’ before you have started asking the questions and she turns the key and leads the way into the flat.

  ‘O.K. Sir Galahad, but you’ll have to be a good salesman. On the money my old man gives me there’s not much left over for luxuries.’

  ‘The Noggett Nugget is not a luxury, madam,’ I purr, ‘it’s a necessity in any home.’

  ‘“The Nogget Nugget”? What a funny name.’ This is what everybody says but I am not going to tell her that.

  ‘A rose by any other name,’ I murmur.

  ‘Would what?’

  ‘Would what what?’

  ‘A rose by any –’

  ‘Oh, that! “would smell as sweet”.’

  ‘Oh.’ She nods vacantly. By the cringe but she is no Brain of Britain contestant, this one.

  I look round the room we are in and see plentiful evidence of an Irish influence. There are green china shamrocks in the spaces usually reserved for flying ducks and two sawn-off hockey sticks mounted above the electric fire which I take to be weapons used in hurling. If that was not enough there is a card on the mantelpiece inviting Mr. and Mrs. Seamus O’Hanrahan to a St. Patrick’s Night dance at the local town hall.

  ‘Your husband is Irish, is he?’ I ask.

  The lady of the house looks at me admiringly. ‘How did you know that? I’m not speaking with an Irish accent, am I?’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘God forbid that I ever should.’

  ‘No. It was all the Irish emblems about the place. What does your husband do?’

  ‘He builds motorways.’

  ‘And you said you were short of housekeeping? Forgive me, but I thought you could make a lot of money working on the motorway.’

  ‘You can, and Seamus does. It’s just that not enough gets back to me and the children. He drinks too much and gambles what’s left.’

  I am beginning to feel that I could construct an identikit picture of Seamus O’Hanrahan without any difficulty. About six foot seven with hands like ditch delvers and a Desperate Dan stubble on his rocky chin which he uses for striking matches. He drinks his own weight of draught Guinness every night and flies into an uncontrollable rage if someone so much as offers his wife a crisp in the local boozer. Not the kind of bloke you would like to catch you pressing the curl out of his old lady’s pubics.

  ‘I suppose he is away quite a lot?’ I say just to be on the safe side.

  ‘Yes, thank God. If I had him round this place the whole time I’d go mad. He’s down at Bristol at the moment.’

  That seems far enough away. ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Let me show you what I’ve got in my little cardboard box.’

  I assemble the Nugget and, I must say, it is one of my best ever demonstrations. The product does not play up and sucks and blows strictly on cue. Mrs. O’Hanrahan, or Peggy as she tells me to call her, is obviously impressed.

  ‘I suppose it’s very expensive?’ she says.

  ‘How much would you think?’

  ‘About thirty pounds?’

  ‘A little more than that. Thirty-eight ninety-eight to be precise, but remember, that’s really five different cleaners you’re buying. It’s unbeatable value. I think your best bet is to pay for it on our unique extended credit plan.’

  In fact Sid is buying the cleaners for a figure not much in excess of five quid, so the profit margin is fairly respectable despite all the sheets of glass we seem to get through.

  ‘Isn’t there a chance of getting a little bit off?’ pouts Peggy waggling her tits at me. ‘Come on, be a sport.’

  ‘I can’t change the price but I might be able to offer you a trade-in,’ I say, trying to keep my mind on the business in hand. The trouble with me is that once I start scoring I go mad. A couple of birds last night, and a couple of Nuggets today and I am away.

  ‘What’s a trade-in?’ says Mrs. O’H. roguishly. ‘Do I have to trade you somethi
ng?’

  ‘Yes. Have you got an old vacuum cleaner?’

  ‘I’ve only got a floor sweeper. Would that do?’

  ‘Sorry, no. It must be electrical.’

  ‘Oh dear. I must have something you’d like?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea.’

  ‘You’re on,’ she holds my glance for a second, ‘cheeky.’ When she has gone into the kitchen I gaze out of the window and look at the hundreds of little boxes on the other face of the building. Most of them have lace curtains up but one or two shameless occupiers allow the eye to wander in unchallenged. I am glad that Mrs. O’Hanrahan favours lace curtains, though hers are gathered up artificially, as if arranged for an unveiling ceremony, appropriately, perhaps.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she says as she advances towards me with a cup of tea. ‘Oh!’ The last remark is occasioned by one of my mits reaching out and squeezing one of her knockers.

  ‘I was thinking that it was probably too long since you were kissed,’ I say, remembering a snatch of dialogue from an old movie I saw at the Classic, Tooting. Maybe Mrs. O’Hanrahan saw the same movie.

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’ she says helpfully.

  Twenty minutes later we are stretched out on Mrs. O’Hanrahan’s bed under a gigantic painting of a shamrock, and they have been twenty minutes very well spent. I am lying on my back watching the clouds chase each other past the window and I am reckoning that this is the only way to clinch a sale.

  Suddenly I hear a voice raised in anger outside the flat and an accent that freezes my blood so that you could snap my arm like a stick of celery.

  ‘Get that fockin’ troycycle out of the fockin’ way, woman! Do you want me to break my fockin’ neck ! !’ Whilst a female voice gives half-hearted battle Mrs. O’Hanrahan rises vertically into the air like a helicopter.

  ‘Get out! Get out!’ she screeches. ‘He’ll kill us both.’

  There are no prizes for guessing who the gentleman in the corridor is and I start running round the room snatching up my clothes like it is some kind of party game.