by Timothy Lea
‘Your father delivers a compliment very forceably.’ Mrs Fletcher touches the front of her dress thoughtfully.
‘Actions speak louder than words with Dad,’ I say. ‘At least, sometimes they do.’
‘At least you know you’re wanted.’
‘Er – yes,’ I gulp.
‘You’re not just a hollow clothes horse.’
‘Er – no.’ I gulp – I gulp easily in either direction. Mrs Fletcher takes the cup and saucer from my hand and pushes them under the settee. It is funny her doing that because I have not finished.
‘Will you do something for me before you go?’ she says.
Take the budgie for a walk? Wash up the tea things? ‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘Kiss me.’ My expression obviously shows her how startled I am. ‘Kiss me goodnight.’ She says it like the motivation will make it easier for me.
‘Of course I will.’ She turns her head to one side as she tucks her own teacup out of sight and then swings round so that her sensational mouth is hovering before mine. Once again I allow myself to be mesmerised by those dimples and that tonk-tweaking tremble of the roses (rose hips: lips. Ed). She rests a hand lightly against my shoulder and we kiss. And kiss. And kiss. I don’t know what the Guinness Book of Records says about kissing – probably nothing, knowing Ross and Truss – but this delicate and highly charged snog is more like a butterfly helping itself to pollen than an old fashioned lip-bashing. Very gentle and very satisfying – and very effective, too. I think I am more aroused by gentle snogging than the swallow-your-neighbour variety. Percy rises like one of those speeded-up films of the life cycle of a cucumber and if I walked out in the street the bulge in my trousers could get me arrested for carrying a deadly weapon. Oh, what a delicious north and south this bird has. It is like kissing a pitless crumpet. Soft and so, so warm. Honestly, it is tinglesville, folks.
While we kiss, her hand is crumpling up the lapel of my denim jacket and it is obvious that there are strong passions stirring beneath the surface – I could certainly lend them something to stir with, as I have already indicated. Not wishing that percy should keep the secret of his infatuation to himself, I pull Mrs Fletcher towards me and turn so that my love cosh is nuzzling her thigh through a couple of layers of unwanted material. If she does not know what is happening then she must reckon that I am smuggling baseball bats.
‘Oh!’ she says, closing her eyes and showing her teeth as she lets out a long shiver. ‘Do you feel it?’
I was about to ask her the same question but I keep quiet and nod my head up and down. ‘I think you’re very beautiful,’ I say.
‘Do you?’ She sounds really chuffed about the idea.
‘Yes.’ Nobody in their right mind or my position would say differently, would they?
‘I feel guilty about taking advantage of you to satisfy my needs.’
This statement does not surprise me. Birds have always got to go through a short period of self-accusation before they hit the sack with you for the first time. It doesn’t usually last long and can be made even shorter if you step in with the right measure of justification. ‘You’re not taking advantage of me,’ I say. ‘I’d love to make love to you.’ This is something of an understatement as my throbbing muffin-duffer will bear witness.
‘But you’re Rosie’s brother.’
‘I’m likely to be somebody’s brother,’ I say. ‘Ooh! You are beautiful!’
I kiss her again and let the palm of my hand plane her thigh. She slips her hand inside my jacket and slides it round my waist so that it rests in the small of my back. Pausing at knee level I start to tug up her long skirt while she hauls my shirt out of my waist-band. We might be working together to raise a curtain. I suppose, in a way, we are. Percy is certainly ready to hog the centre of the stage and after I have made a few preliminary passes along the inside of Imogen’s thighs it is obvious that the supporting cast are ready for the entrance of Super Star. There is certainly no danger of anyone drying up. Leaning back against the settee I whip down my zipper and let Show Stopper cop the limelight. Sometimes it is favourite to coax him in from the wings but there are moments when too much finesse can be a waste of time. This is clearly one of them. Imogen shows me the back of her neck before you can say ‘Roger Carpenter’ and I find myself digging my fingers deep between the cushions on the settee in an effort to keep a grip on myself. ‘Oh – no – OH!’ I gasp. It is like being plugged into a velvet light socket. Socket and see, is all I can say to those who wish to know more about the experience.
My desperate cries bring Imogen to my lips. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean to shock you.’
‘It’s not that,’ I say. ‘It’s – oh, let’s get on the carpet!’
The lady is clearly suffering from nunga-hunger, there is no doubt about it. Whipping the lantern down to ground level so that the room is in semi-darkness, she reaches behind her and steps out of her dress in one movement. I don’t watch what happens next because I am bent double trying to get my shoes off. Isn’t it amazing how your shoe laces always foul up during those romantic moments? When I am next in a position to cop an eyeful of the glorious blonde creature she is stretched out beside the lantern, the pattern of its light tattooed over her naked body. ‘Take me!’ she moans.
In my present mood of reckless enthusiasm I could easily leave her a couple of feet behind but I control my impetuosity and enter her no faster than I would the last bus home if there was strong competition for places. Now comes the difficult part. To say that I am exceptionally aroused is to put it mildly but I am aware of the golden maxim: ‘Easy come, easy no get invited back for a second whack at the crack’. I must control myself. This lady is very, very beautiful and I must make the most of the privilege that Dame Fortune has conferred upon me.
‘Oh, lordy, lordy!’ she murmurs. ‘That’s good, that’s good!’ I get the feeling that this is her first appointment with the groin greyhound for some time, and the way she is clinging on to me lends weight to the thought. Her legs are crossed round the small of my back and I don’t think it is just for luck.
‘Ride me! Ride me! You beautiful animal,’ she says. I try my best and she starts rippling like a crate of strawberry yoghurt on a bumpy conveyor belt. ‘Go on! Go on!’ The lady is clearly coming to the boil fast. Just as well really, because if I was standing for Parliament instead of you-know-what I would be in danger of losing my deposit. ‘You’re winning! You’re winning! Aaaargh!’
Typical, isn’t it? Romping past the post and I don’t have a bet on myself. I allow myself a similar freedom of expression to that accorded the lady and feel a warm glow of satisfaction and other things explode through my thighs. Fantastic! This is what life is all about. This is – hand on a minute! Never mind about this. What’s that?! The sound of a car door slamming in my right earhole? Mrs Fletcher hears it as well and slips out from underneath me faster than a greasy banana skin. She picks up her dress and races to the window showing a turn of speed that I notice women often find in this situation.
‘It’s Crispin!’ she hisses.
‘What! How did he get back?’
‘Your brother-in-law brought him.’
Trust bleeding Sid to drop me in it! Why the hell couldn’t he wait? I glance at my watch. Blimey! Is it that late?
‘Get out!’ I start to move towards the door. There is the sound of the front door opening. ‘Not that way!’
It doesn’t take long for the magic to disappear up the spout, does it? I start to pull on my trousers as Imogen opens a window. ‘You can get out here!’
‘Imogen! Where are you?’ That is Crispin’s voice and he sounds a bit uneasy. I don’t hang about to recite the farewell speech from Romeo and Juliet but hop up on the window ledge. There are a row of spikes guarding the basement but, with any luck, I should clear them. With any luck. I mean, this is my lucky night, isn’t it? ‘My shoes –!’
‘Jump!’ Imogen gives me a helpful bunt up the arse and I leap into space.
>
It is wonderful what a few iron spikes can do for your high jump potential. I practically land in the gutter. No sooner have I checked that everything is in the right place than I cast an eye about to suss out the situation. Sid’s Rover is parked behind the Fletcher motor so it seems favourite that I slip into it and hide behind the seat until I am driven away. Fast thinking, but then I am like that. I take a couple of steps towards safety and then freeze. Crispin comes out of the front door and looks straight at me: ‘– left it in the back seat,’ he is saying as his voice tails away. For a second, I consider running for it and then I have an inspiration.
‘There you are,’ I say as if what I am doing is the most natural thing in the world. ‘I couldn’t get your car started. I’ve been trying to find a garage that’s still open. It’s very difficult round here, isn’t it?’ I walk towards the Fletcher car and feel in my pocket for the ignition key. For one terrible moment, I think I must have left it in the house. Then my desperate fingers close round it. ‘Here are the keys. I’m sorry. I should have rung you, but I didn’t want to disturb Mrs Fletcher.’ I look towards the bay window. There is no sign of Imogen and the window is closed.
Crispin’s face relaxes. ‘I’m sorry you had all that trouble,’ he says. ‘She is a trifle temperamental, sometimes. I’ll have a look at her tomorrow.’
Sid glances at my feet and waves me round behind the Rover. ‘You never know,’ he says to Fletcher. ‘You may find she starts first time in the morning.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘Well, you nearly messed that lot up, didn’t you?’ says Sid. ‘Bleeding good job your flare bottoms pull off over your head otherwise he’d have seen your feet. I still can’t understand why he didn’t notice the niff.’
Fletcherville is disappearing behind my right shoulder and I hope that Sid is taking me home. ‘Hang on a minute,’ I say. ‘You did the messing up. Why did you want to come rushing round and spoil everything? Mrs Fletcher and I were just beginning to get acquainted.’
‘Oh yeah?’ says Sid. ‘I hope she sends your shoes back to you.’
‘You never know your luck,’ I say. ‘Come on. You haven’t answered my question.’
‘I wanted to get Crispin alone, didn’t I?’ says Sid. ‘Fat chance there was with your Dad throwing up in the coal bucket and Rosie doing her nut.’
‘Oh yes,’ I say. After Imogen’s comment about her old man’s feelings towards Sid, I am not so certain I care for the implications of my brother-in-law’s desire to get Crispin Fletcher alone. ‘Why, may I ask?’
‘Because I wanted to make an approach to him,’ says Sid.
‘I see,’ I say. ‘Well, I admire your honesty in coming out in the open with it. I suppose it will be a weight off Rosie’s mind in the long run – a weight off a few other things, as well.’
‘I hope so,’ says Sid. ‘I honestly think that this would be the start of something big.’
‘I don’t want the sordid details!’ I say.
‘There’s nothing sordid about it,’ says Sid. ‘Of course, when we set up the business, there may be a –’
‘Business?’ I say.
‘Of course. What did you think I was talking about?’
‘Nothing, Sid,’ I say. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Don’t be bloody rude. I’m talking about going into partnership with Crispin, aren’t I? We’ll do the conversions and all that and he’ll do the interior decorating and poncing about.’
‘Conversions?’ I say. ‘I’m not playing bleeding Rugby League Football for you or anyone! Have you seen those blokes? They train by nutting steam rollers!’
‘Shut your mouth, you daft custard!’ says Sid. ‘I’m talking about house conversions, aren’t I’?
‘House conversions?’ The mind boggles.
‘Yeah,’ says Sid. ‘There’s a ton of blokes who need a little job doing round the house but get choked off waiting for a builder to take any notice of them or pissed off at the price he asks for the job. Most of your builders only want to know about building a fleet of bungalows or a block of high rise flats. You could make a fortune going round putting in the things they leave out.’
‘You could if you knew anything about it,’ I say. ‘Since when have you had any qualifications?’
‘You don’t need them,’ says Sid. ‘I mean, if a load of micks can build a motorway we’re not going to have any trouble dividing up some old biddy’s sitting room, are we?’
‘But you’ve got to have some technical knowledge!’ I say.
‘Of course you have,’ says Sid. ‘I’m not denying it. I’ve been accumulating quite a bit lately.’
‘Night classes?’ I say.
‘No, watching them knock down old buildings. You can learn quite a lot by doing that. Where the beams and joists are and all that kind of thing. Did you know that one chimney serves three fireplaces? I thought that each one was attached to an individual fireplace.’
‘Amazing,’ I say. ‘So, on the strength of your observations, we’re going to start ripping people’s houses apart?’
‘I made some notes,’ says Sid defensively. ‘They’re on the back of a fag packet. I hope I didn’t throw it away.’
‘You want to watch that someone doesn’t throw you away,’ I say.
‘It’s not all going to be heavy stuff,’ says Sid. ‘A lot of it will be wallpapering and that kind of caper. Crispin will specify the materials and we’ll put them up. With his creative fee we’re going to make a fortune. We’re just the back-up he needs.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ I say. ‘You know he fancies you, don’t you?’
Sid turns pink. ‘What do you mean?’
‘His old lady told me. She reckons he’s a borderline ginger. Hasn’t quite got into his stride, yet.’
‘Well, calm yourself. He’s not getting into my strides!’ Sid tightens his grip on the driving wheel. ‘Just because he admires certain aspects of my life style it doesn’t mean he’s a raving poofter. A friendship between two men can be a beautiful thing, Timmo. Especially if you stand to make a few bob out of it. What Crispin gets up to when he takes his embroidery round to the Turkish baths, I neither know nor care.’
‘I still don’t see how it’s going to work,’ I say.
‘You never understand how anything’s going to work!’ says Sid bitterly. ‘You’re a blooming pessimist, that’s what you are!’
‘Not without some reason,’ I remind him. ‘Our track record isn’t exactly Hall of Fame material, is it?’
‘We’ve been crippled by a capital commitment, that’s why,’ says Sid. ‘Too much money tied up in plant.’
‘I didn’t know you were running a market garden on the side,’ I say. ‘I always wondered why your hands were so dirty.’
‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that was an attempt at humour,’ says Sid. ‘I’m talking about overheads, aren’t I? – and if you mention clouds, I’ll smash your face in. The trouble with the road haulage business was that we had all that money tied up in the lorries. It’s not a mistake I’m going to be in the position to make again.’
‘Because of your heightened perception of the factors affecting the deployment of available assets?’ I ask.
‘Because I’m skint!’ says Sid. ‘The only face I possess is the one on my shoulders.’
‘That’s awful – I mean, your predicament is awful,’ I say.
‘Yes and no,’ says Sid. ‘In this sort of situation you’ve got to be sophistical. I’m poor in moola but rich in experience. What’s happened over the last few years has taught me a lot. If you’re starting a business, Timmo, never use your own money. Always borrow it. That way, when you go bust, some other poor bastard cops it. Also, don’t go in for something that requires a lot of capital equipment. If you have a bomb site and you build a factory on it to make transistor radios, the capital outlay is fantastic and you’ll probably find that the Nips have undercut your price by half before you’ve settled the demarcation dispute with
the forty-seven different unions all of whom are on strike anyway. If you turn the bomb site into a car park, you wouldn’t have to lay out any cash and you’d be making money from day one with no sweat.’
‘That’s great!’ I say. ‘Let’s get ourselves a bomb site.’
‘They’ve all gone,’ says Sid. ‘You’ll have to wait for the next war and move sharpish. Getting in with Crispin is the best I can manage at the moment. He’s going to pay for our tools.’
‘That sounds interesting,’ I say.
‘You’ve got a one-track mind,’ says Sid. ‘And talking of that, you’d better watch it where Mrs Fletcher is concerned. There’s nothing so unsettling to a business relationship as finding that one of your partners is doing press-ups on your old lady.’
‘You’re a fine one to talk!’ I say. ‘What about Liz? Do you remember her, when we were cleaning windows? We were practically engaged until you messed everything up.’
‘Just goes to show you,’ says Sid. ‘I know what I’m talking about. I’ve learned from your bitter experience. You ought to try and do the same. Anyway, as far as Liz was concerned, I was just trying to show you that she wasn’t right for you. You have to be cruel to be kind sometimes.’
Despite what Sid says, I am determined to see Imogen Fletcher again. I want my shoes back, for one thing. I am also more than a little smitten. It will take me a long time to forget that formidable bout of in and out, accompanied as it was by all the romantic overtones – plus the fact that everything seems better when you are pissed.
Sid is mad keen on his new venture and promptly sets out to flog Enid, that being the only remaining member of the Noggett Transport fleet and his only asset – apart from terminal optimism. He takes her back to Square-Deal Motors and is informed that the incredible demand for lorries at the time when he bought the vehicle has now changed dramatically so that there is a glut of lorries on the market and nobody wanting to buy them. This in turn means that Mr Square-Deal is doing Sid a favour by taking the vehicle off his hands and finding parking space for it. Any price higher than one fifth of what Sid paid for the lorry is out of the question.