Confessions of a Window Cleaner

by Timothy Lea

  Funnily enough, my first reaction is one of fear because I’ve never felt the same about cellars since I saw ‘Pyscho’. My state of mind is not improved by Mrs. E. dropping to her knees and gripping one of my thighs with something like the intensity she showed when scratching me in the boozer. Maybe she’s got a carving knife concealed behind her back. Just to be on the safe side I sink down beside her and run my hands lightly over her body but all I come up with is a light bulb.

  “Put it in,” she moans. This request opens so many possibilities that I’m at a bit of a loss as to what to do. Surely she doesn’t want to have it away here? Not the very clean Mrs. E. But maybe that’s it. Maybe, hygienically sealed away from the world, a very dirty lady has been trying to get out.

  Her breath smells of toothpaste and there’s no better indication of a woman’s plans for you. I take the heavy fruit of her breasts in my hands and even in the darkness I can see she looks as if she’s been lying in black sand. Her nipples come up like champagne corks and she sinks back into the coal dust and starts unpopping my jeans.

  I’m about to chuck the bulb away but she makes it clear she wants some light on the subject and when I’ve fixed things I find that red must be her favourite colour. The bulb gives off a soft pink glow so the cellar looks more like Father Christmas’s grotto than the remains of last years’ coal supply.

  By now I reckon I must be dreaming the whole thing, and when she starts writhing in the coal dust I know I am.

  “Come down here, come down here,” she begs. Some might refuse but Percy has become a bit of a handful and I know that in this mood it is pointless to try to control him. So, off with my jeans and down I go, and – oh! what fun takes place. Mrs. E. is a very selfish lover but you don’t mind when she is obviously enjoying herself so much. I mean, for a man, the pleasure has got to be in making someone else happy, hasn’t it? Otherwise we’d all get the problem off our tiny minds immediately and have a nice kip.

  By the time we’re finished, we’re blacker than a bus conductor’s finger nails. If Al Jolson saw us he’d be on to his lawyers within seconds.

  “Now what?” I say and it’s a fair question. Unless she’s got a shower in the coal cellar her lovely clean house is going to look like her old man is a chimney sweep who brings his work home with him.

  “Over there,” she snaps, and it’s obvious she’s reverting to type faster than most. “In the corner you’ll find some plastic clothes bags. Put one on and hop up to the bathroom.”

  So help me, she says it just like that. As if she’s telling you where to empty the waste bin. I think she’s joking but when I get over there it’s just as she says. A pile of bags with a sash round them saying ‘One dozen suit or costume containers. Keep away from children’ etc., etc. Feeling like a right Charlie I put one on and start shuffling upstairs. Something inside me makes me almost wish George would come in as I’m hopping past the front door. I think maybe it’s that there are only four bags left in the pile and I’m wondering who the other four blokes were.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When I left Mrs. Evans’ place I was still feeling dirty. Not physically, you understand, because Mrs. E. had taken great care to see that there wasn’t a smidgeon of coal dust on me. There was a shower in the bathroom, a proper one with a frosted glass door and Mrs. E. had taken me inside it with a bottle of shampoo and – Well, you can imagine, can’t you? The lather; the warm, wet bodies rubbing against each other; the slippery fingers gliding everywhere. I was putty in her hands – no, not putty. I do myself a disservice when I say that. What I mean is, she had me again, just as she presumably had all the other blokes. I had played my part in her kinky games and when it was over I was patted on the head and sent on my way.

  It began to dawn on me that I wasn’t screwing anybody. All these birds were screwing me. When I thought about it, most of the birds I’d been with had made me fit in with their plans. Their fantasies, or whatever, never changed; only the man who took part in them, and he could have been anyone.

  Nothing wrong with that except that it was getting more and more complicated and I was never doing things my way. Having it away in the coal cellar was the last straw. A few more like Mrs. E. and I’d probably only be able to do it standing in a bowl of custard with a rose behind my ear. I could see it affecting my relationship with Elizabeth. Nice, simple girl like that, it would break her heart if she knew what I was getting up to. Imagine, on your wedding night having to say, ‘I’m sorry, love, but you’ll have to hang upside down from the lamp bracket before I can do anything – oh, and don’t forget to put on your riding boots.’ I mean, it would put the mockers on everything, wouldn’t it?

  I think that was the moment I made my resolve to give up all the frigging about and settle down.

  “It’s got to stop.” I can remember saying the words out loud so that an old lady at the bus stop almost jumped out of her skin and I got embarrassed and tried to cycle on and cracked the back window of the van in front with my ladder. The bloke was very nasty about it and I was still thinking about some of the things he had called me when I got home.

  When I arrive, Mum is rolling out pastry in the kitchen, and she looks at me with that ‘I’ve-got-something-to-tell-you’ expression on her face.

  “Lady left a note for you,” she says.

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t stop. I just saw her walking away.” Nobody in the world is faster off the mark than Mum when she hears somebody near the front door, and she has eyes that can see through curtains two inches thick.

  “She looked like one of those hippies to me. Got some kind of leather cowgirl costume on and a ton of beads.”

  “Well, I’d better read the note, hadn’t I?”

  “She went off with a black man on a motor bike.” Mum speaks the words as if she expects to be struck down for blasphemy. She doesn’t go and see a lot of Sidney Poitier movies, does Mum.

  “I reckon it must be Sandy. My friend Miss Rachel Devroon to you. She has a lot of time for Spades. She says they are much more exciting lovers than white men.”

  “Oh! Timmy!”

  I have said that strictly for Mum’s benefit and the reaction is exactly as anticipated.

  “How can you say such a thing? I hope you aren’t being silly, are you? You don’t want to get into bad company again. Remember what happened last time.”

  “No. O.K. Mum, you’ve made your point. Now where is this letter?” Eventually I get it off her and, as I expected, it is from Sandy. ‘Superthrash. Tonite. Ten till then. Now is the time for all good pokes to come to the aid of the party. So please do. Luv, Sandy.’ Of course it’s typical, isn’t it? I’ve no sooner decided to give it all up and live happily ever after than a bloody great load of temptation lands in my lap. I haven’t seen Sandy for weeks and now she comes bouncing back into my life. I hold the letter up to my nostrils and breathe in memories. Mum looks worried.

  “She looked a bit old for you, dear,” she says.

  “Don’t worry about that, Mum, we’re just good friends.” I’ve never been to one of her parties though she’s talked about some of the things that have gone on at them. Just this once couldn’t do any harm could it? I mean, I’m giving up my wicked ways and turning over a new leaf, so starting tomorrow won’t make any difference. Just to going to this party will serve as an innoculation against any more depravity.

  Well, in no time at all I’ve talked myself into it and decided to do something about Elizabeth the next day. I could take her of course, but somehow I don’t think it’s going to be her scene.

  I’m dead right there because I can hear the noise before I even get to the street and the sound waves are coming at you like a coloured hangover.

  There are cars parked down both sides of the road and there’s everything from puce landrovers to minis painted like unwound marbles. A group of spades are noshing fish and chips outside the front entrance and there is one guy already stoned out of his mind and doing
an old-fashioned waltz on the front lawn – by himself, of course.

  You can see where the party is, because through the window it looks like an aquarium chock full of people with a few more slid in sideways along the top to fill in the spaces. Sometimes you feel confident that an evening is going to be different and I have a lot of faith in this one.

  I bound up the stairs and go in with the kind of upper class twit I normally meet when he leans out of his sports car and asks me how to get to Dulwich. He is all cuff and silk choker, with shiny black shoes with a gold chain across the instep, and it’s obvious that the dolly who is lumbered with him can’t love him half as much as he does.

  “You’re looking drool-making, darling,” he lisps, and for a moment I think he’s talking to himself because he’s certainly not looking at the bird.

  “Let’s just take a little looksee and if it’s not us we can slope off to my place for drinkypoos.”

  “Super!” says the bird who looks the kind of blonde old English Sheep Dog who can’t say anything else, except perhaps “dishy” when describing people like the upper class berk to her friends.

  Luckily Sandy appears before they can really get up my nostrils and leads me to a table which is an alcoholic’s dream. She is wearing a silver suit which fits her like a skin below the waist but on top turns into an open waistcoat so you can shake hands with her boobs if you want to. I do want to, but I content myself with giving her nipples a friendly squeeze.

  “Where’s the boyfriend?”

  “Oh, he had to go back to Nigeria. He’s king or something. Now, who can I introduce you to?”

  “You don’t have to bother. I’ll get amongst it when I’ve finished my drink. Who are those people over by the window?” There are three middle-aged couples sipping what looks like sherry and smiling nervously at each other.

  “They’re some of my neighbours. I always invite them as a kind of tip off. The smart ones take the hint and stay with friends for the night, but they obviously haven’t got the message. It doesn’t matter because once they’ve been here they can hardly kick up a fuss about the noise. It wouldn’t be British. Oh, look, there’s Amanda. You remember Amanda, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  So I re-meet Amanda who looks a hell of a sight better with her clothes on, and am introduced to her husband, Sebastian. He is a pleasant enough cove but only capable of talking about rugger which limits our conversation a bit as I don’t know a scrum from a line out and couldn’t care less about either. Not that this worries Sebastian who goes rambling on about building a new clubhouse for the Old Shithousians or someone until I’m getting glassy-eyed. Luckily, a wave of dancing breaks out at this moment and I seize Amanda and plunge into the middle of it. She is a good girl to be with because she’s built like a padded bumper car and soaks up most of the punishment that is being dished out. Some of those spades really cut loose when they’re dancing and the amount of black tit shaking about would fill a couple of hammocks.

  It’s about this time that I notice a lot more flesh than I was seeing earlier in the evening and realise that there are a lot of birds following Sandy’s lead. One fantastic dolly with an Afro hairstyle, blue lips and luminous eye make-up has tassels on her tits and could save you buying an electric fan the way she whirls them around.

  Not everybody is dancing though. In one of the bedrooms there is a small group of pot smokers passing round a joint and a couple who have just found they are very much in love and are proving it to anyone who cares to watch.

  I snake off for a slash because I can sense that Amanda is getting a bit fruity and I don’t fancy it. Also, husband Sebastian is making going-home noises and I can see that a big row is looming up. I want Sandy, but she is being the good hostess and helping people to vomit or find their coats, according to need, so there is nothing for me there. “Later, darling, later,” she breathes.

  Frankly, the way things are going, I’m not certain there is going to be a later. I can definitely feel the walls moving when I lean against them and some of the dancing can only be described as screwing to music. The whole scene has gone up as if it had been soaked in petrol and set fire to and when that happens the flames can be pretty high but they don’t last long.

  Things aren’t helped by a gang of skinheads who resent the spade influence at the party – and anybody except themselves having a good time – and are pelting the front entrance with milk bottles. This kind of activity is not slow to stir a response and soon the party divides itself into groups. Sebastian at last begins to enjoy himself and leads a party of idiots on to the balcony to hurl bottles at the skinheads; the pot smokers go on smoking pot; a few mainliners are linking arms in the lav and sharing a love fix; and the rest of us are trying to screw each other. This latter pursuit is helped by the fact that nearly all the lights are off and even the most faint-hearted start stripping down to their birthday suits. It is at this moment that Sandy makes a spectacular entrance stark naked except for her minge cosy into which she has woven some luminous coloured wool. This merry little device catches the fancy of everyone and in no time we are all sitting on the floor weaving patterns in each other’s pubic hairs. Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? But it’s amazing how something as bloody stupid as that can seem like the most amusing thing in the world when you are pissed. Of course none of the patterns ever got finished because with all the touching up that is going on people’s enthusiasm soon gets syphoned away into other pursuits. I am a bit disappointed because I am doing a lovely white Star of David in this black bird’s fuzz when she suddenly makes it impossible for me to continue. Not that I am complaining, mind you, and none of the other writhing couples around us seem unduly upset either.

  I never finish with the black bird because Amanda grabs me and by the time I’ve given it a little wiggle for old times’ sake, Sandy is tapping me on the shoulder and I’m in to number three. I am vaguely aware that the battle outside is hotting up and I think I can hear Sebastian yelping because he has got a dustbin lid stuck in his cake hole but I am now only capable of concentrating on the job in hand. The flesh trading is getting a bit complicated because any spare mouth, or whatever, is speedily seized upon so you are never quite certain who is doing what and with which and to whom.

  I can’t remember how long we go on like this but I do recall the pressure of feet along the small of my back and someone shouting, “The Fuzz! The Fuzz!” Immediately, all hell breaks loose and there are blokes leaping about like rats in a burning cage. My mind clears faster than Stamford Bridge after an away win and I am out of Sandy and into my trousers before you can say “I was framed”. Not a second too soon either, because the first Bule comes steaming through the door as I am doing up the zip. He has his truncheon in his hand and must feel quite at home when he looks round some of the blokes in the room.

  “I don’t remember inviting you,” starts Sandy, but she gets shoved up against the wall and told to shut up. The Bule is joined by a few of his mates and they are all shaking with outrage and excitement. You can see they haven’t had so much fun in years. It is then that I notice the upper class twit who came in with me. He is bollock naked except for a tiny pair of yellow silk pants and though this might cramp the style of lesser men, it has no effect on this Herbert.

  “Can you tell me who is in charge here?” he says. “I would like to register a very strong protest. This is a private party in a private house and so far I have seen no evidence of a search warrant or any other reason for your impertinent intrusion. I will most certainly be bringing this matter to my father’s attention and I can assure you that – Ow!!” The exclamation is caused by one of the Bules stepping on his naked foot and causing him to leap back onto the burning joint of the hopped up idiot behind him. A small spot of pandemonium breaks out and the spades around me start muttering about police brutality.

  By this time I am dead scared because I can see that my Ovaltiney’s badge will be right up the spout when this little lot comes to court and
after my last brush with the law it’s a bit soon to be coming back for another dose. There is only one thing for it. And that is to get the hell out of the place – fast. Choosing the moment when the upper class twit has accused the Bule of stamping on his foot and sparked off a near riot I sidle towards the window and slip onto its broad ledge just as a shout of alarm indicates that my departure has been noticed.

  Luckily, as I have said before, you could wheel a pram along the ledge and even at night I can scoot along it easy as winking. My problem now is the crowd gathered outside who start howling the moment they see me. I nip round the corner of the building and to my relief the ground slopes up sharply so I don’t have so far to jump. Right behind me, some old bag is screaming her guts out at the prospect of being murdered in her bed and that is just the nudge I need. I hit the bank as the first Bule comes round the corner and am across the grass at a speed that would have brought tears to the eyes of my old games master. There’s a fence in front of me but I’m over that like it’s an upturned fag packet and crashing through someone’s back garden. Another fence and then a wall. Down from that just missing a bamboo stake and I branch off at right angles and tip toe up beside a house. Tip toe is the right word because I don’t have any shoes on, remember. Behind me I hear somebody curse and two torch beams bob across the garden and disappear over the next wall. I wait a few more minutes massaging my tortured feet and creep on round the side of the house. There is a door and behind that, I hope, freedom. I press the catch and push. At first nothing, then it suddenly cracks open as if it has just been freshly painted and I nip through like a spurt of flame. Beside me a flight of steps is going up to the first floor but as I step forward, all relieved and relaxed, a face suddenly looms over the side so I can smell the stale booze on the owner’s breath. He shows no sign of fear or surprise to match my own, because he is obviously stoned out of his mind; but I see his eyes weighing up my half-naked body. I could run for it but if he starts shouting, the rozzers will come quicker than a Wop in a warm bedroom. Suddenly, to my amazement, a broad smile spreads across his face and he pats me on the shoulders.