by Timothy Lea
‘Please take a seat, Miss, -er, Pullova.’ Rightberk jumps to his feet so fast that he pulls something. His cakehole opens a couple of inches wider than usual and he makes a grab for the summit of his inside leg measurement.
‘Call me comrade, please,’ says our shapely visitor sitting down and crossing one gracefully booted leg over the other as she rests her balalaika against a temptingly curved thigh. ‘You are Comrade Humpbridge?’
‘Umbrage,’ says Fred quickly as Nitya addresses herself to Rightberk. ‘Welcome to the squalor that is Slumbernog. I hope that this graveyard of capitalist decadence will not dull your revolutionary fervour.’
‘Have no fear, comrade. Yet, I am surprised to find you here. I had believed that we would meet only in the skies.’
‘In the Workers’ Heaven?’ says Umbrage, clearly confused.
‘No, but there, too,’ says Nitya. ‘I had thought that you would take control of my job as I take control of yours. Even now, at Omsk, they are searching the skies for sign of your come.’
‘Me coming,’ says Umbrage. ‘Yes, well, -er, I hadn’t seen it quite like that. I thought it was more of the cultural visit: twice round the Kremlin, a look at a couple of power stations, and a trip to a vodka distillery.’
Nitya looks unhappy and every man in the room wishes he could do something about it. ‘Comrade, comrade. I understand your desire to stay here and shatter existing production records but I believe fervently —’ she smites her smock between her knockers and her mitt almost disappears from sight ‘— that the cause of international communism can be best served by us spreading ourselves across our brothers and sisters in the movement. Oh my little comrade Humbug! Imagine how it would be at my darling factory at Omsk: at four o’clock in the glorious Soviet morning you awake, light candle and enjoy soul-enriching reading from the immortal works of Karl Marx or some other writer not classified as counterrevolutionary. At five it is time for bran cakes and parsnips, crisp as frostbite. By half past five, your lantern lit and your heart bursting with joy at the thought of the uninterrupted eighteen hours labour to come, you dance down the road to break ice from machines and start work.’
There is a pause while everybody in the room looks at Umbrage.
‘Sounds just your cup of tea, Umbrage,’ says Rightberk cheerfully.
Umbrage gulps. ‘Well, -er. Yes, of course, naturally. I think it would be the experience of a lifetime.’
‘Six months,’ says Nitya. ‘Unless you wish to stay longer. Then is matter for discussion.’
‘There’s no need for discussion,’ says Rightberk eagerly. ‘I can tell you right now that—’
‘I think the point made by Comrade Pullova in her first sentence represents the crux of the matter,’ says Umbrage soberly. ‘Much as I would like to go, there is so much that remains to be done here. While I’m still granted the strength I feel that I can best serve my brother S.C.A.B.s by continuing to dedicate myself to their needs.’
‘Bravely spoken, comrade,’ says Nitya. ‘But I am prepared to undertake your responsibilities here while you fill mv hole in Omsk. That was part of arrangement, I think.’
‘Yes!’ say Sid and Rightberk together.
Umbrage takes another deep breath, ‘Comrade. I would counsel caution when listening to the words of these two men. You are not amongst your own kind here. These are capitalists, dedicated to class manipulation and other reactionary bourgeois practices.’
‘So,’ says Niyta, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward to study Sid and Rightberk closely. ‘I have never seen a capitalist before.’
‘And I’ve never seen a Russian bird before,’ says Sid leaning forward to deliver the famous Noggett slow burn.
Umbrage clears his throat. ‘At this time, now, the situation is made doubly difficult by the threat of industrial action of quite overwhelming magnitude that is hanging over the company. Even at this moment I am about to convene a meeting of my executive prior to putting a motion to our comrades on the shop floor that they lay down their tools forthwith — if not immediately. At this time it seems to me that it would be an act of cruel and inexcusable selfishness if I, their leader, did not remain here to demonstrate my solidarity with the workers.’
‘In other words, there’s going to be a strike,’ says Rightberk bitterly.
‘Strike? What is strike?’ Nitya sounded puzzled.
‘It’s when everybody stops work,’ says Sid.
‘Stops work?’ A note of horror mixes with the amazement in Nitya’s voice.
Umbrage steps in hurriedly. ‘I think it would be best if I gave you the detailed picture in private, comrade. Remember, these men are the enemies of the people. If you would come to my humble office we could —’
‘Very well,’ says Nitya. ‘I hope we can also discuss question of where I stay.’ She stands up and bows to Sid and Rightberk. ‘Good day, comrades. Up the revolution!’ So saying, she sweeps out. I would love to stay and hear what Sid and Rightberk have to say to each other but Umbrage drags me out with him.
In the end, Nitya comes and stays with us. Mum is not over keen on the idea at first because she didn’t fancy the end of Nicholas and Alexandra but she soon comes round when Nitya gives her a copy of The Implementation of the Revolutionary Spirit and a big smile. Nobody seems to be able to resist Nitya. My big worry is when suppertime comes. I know Nitya isn’t used to caviar on toast but she must be getting something better than what Mum dishes up.
‘Here we are, dear,’ says Mum when the evil hour arrives. ‘I thought I’d try something special in honour of your visit: spaghetti fish fingers.’
It’s amazing, isn’t it? You’d think that she would cut up the fish fingers and lose them in the spaghetti if she was going to do anything at all. Instead of that she chops up all the spaghetti and sprinkles it over the fish fingers. ‘There’s some red currant jelly, if you’d like it,’ she adds as an afterthought.
‘It’s jam, Mum,’ I say, but by that time, Nitya has started dolloping it over her plateful.
I watch in horror as she shoves the first mouthful into her cakehole. There is a pause and then, to my amazement, an expression of pleasure illuminates Nitya’s face. ‘Is good,’ she says. ‘Very good.’ She smiles and squeezes Mum’s arm. ‘You cook just like my comrade mother.’
When I next see Sid he is smarting with rage. ‘That cunning bleeder, Umbrage,’ he says. ‘You know when he’s called the next union meeting? After work! There won’t be a bleeding soul there except him and his perishing executive. They’ll vote to bring the factory out and the question of him going to Russia won’t even be raised.’ He clenches his mit and glares at me. ‘You know who I blame for all this, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Sid,’ I say. ‘Me.’
‘Right! if you hadn’t got your horrible little private parts enmeshed with Mrs Rightberk we wouldn’t be in this mess.’ He looks round to see if anyone is within earshot. ‘Bit of a goer, isn’t she?’
‘Have you been there, Sid?’ Somehow, Mrs Rightberk seems to get about quicker than Asian Flu.
‘Had to, didn’t I? You’ve got to keep in with the right people, Timmo. All these upper class geezers are under the thumbs of their wives. You never know when you might need a word in the right quarter.’
Sid is wrong about nobody turning up to the union meeting. The canteen is packed out. Umbrage takes a step backwards when he sees how many people there are there.
‘Greeting, brothers and sisters,’ he says. ‘I am glad to see that there are so many of you here this evening despite the rival attraction of the European Cup Final between Slobbo Poko and Groinkic which kicks off on your tellies in ten minutes.’ He waits hopefully but nobody moves. ‘I can only construe this exceptionally large turnout as indicating how aggrieved you feel about the heinous wrong that has been done to brother Lea here.’
‘Where’s the Russian bird with the big knockers?’ shouts a voice from the hall. There is murmur of agreement which shows that the speaker’s interest i
s shared.
Before Umbrage has time to reply, the canteen door opens and Nitya enters. What a sight she is! At first I do not recognise her because she looks so different. Still the same beautiful girl but wearing a dress that I find faintly familiar. Then it comes to me. It is one of sister Rosie’s old numbers that Nitya must have found at Scraggs Lane. My sister was never one to conceal her charms and on Nitya the effect is staggering. She is a harvest of curves as she strides down the aisle towards the platform and her nipples stand out like the rivets on the side of a battleship.
‘I am sorry that I am so late, comrades,’ she says. ‘I thought that it would be a good idea to change into local costume for meeting. You like?’
There is a chorus of wolf whistles and Arthur Dunge falls off his bench.
‘Er — very fetching, comrade,’ says Umbrage. ‘I’m certain that Comrade Nitya Pullova needs no introduction from me. You have all seen her about the factory.’
‘Not half!!’ shouts another voice from the floor.
‘Now, let us get on to the nub of the meeting. The serious wrong that has been done Brother Lea. I have enjoyed full and frank discussions with my fellow members of the executive and we have reached the unanimous decision that —’
‘Excuse that I interrupt but I know that the words cannot come from your own lips.’ Nitya has risen to her feet.
‘Thank you, comrade. Your interest is very much appreciated. However it is out of order to interrupt the chair and I must ask you to postpone your comments until such time as —’
‘Let her speak!’ shouts one of the audience.
‘Yeah. Belt up, Fred. We get enough of your rabbit!’ complains another voice.
Umbrage looks as if he is going to say something and then extends a hand towards Nitya.
‘Thank you, comrade,’ says the husky Rusky, brushing her tawny hair from her heart-melting eyes. ‘It is for you that I speak. I know that deep down inside you wish passionately to visit Mother Russia yet your praiseworthy sense of loyalty to the cause for which we all fight makes you feel that you must stay here. If you will not listen to me, listen to the voice of your fellow workers.’ She turns and faces the audience, her bristols bristling with revolutionary fervour and sequins. ‘Will you help me hold the fort so that we can send Comrade Umbrage to Omsk to work shoulder to shoulder with his brothers at the Heavy Metal Works?’
‘Yes!!!’ roars the audience.
‘Wait a minute,’ says Umbrage. ‘My heart —’ But it is no good. Nitya kisses him on both cheeks, and as he slumps into his seat he must reckon that he has already got his plane ticket.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Nice little wine, this, isn’t it?’ says Sid. ‘Simple without being naive.’
‘I’m pissed,’ I say. I am, too. It is three weeks after Fred Umbrage left for Omsk and Sid has taken me out to this posh restaurant down by the Thames. He is not usually so generous, certainly not in regard to the booze he has been pouring down my throat. It must all be to do with the way things have been going so well since Fred left. Nitya explained to the workers that strikes were anti-social and that the best way of hitting at the bosses was to exceed the production estimates they had laid down so that management was made to look foolish in the eyes of the party executive. Since she advanced this line of thinking production has gone up five hundred per cent and business is booming.
‘Marvellous girl, isn’t she?’ muses Sid as if reading my mind. ‘Every dinner time they group around her while she reads to them from the life of Karl Marx. They’ve even started putting flowers on his tomb in Highgate Cemetery.’
‘I like the way she sings to us with her balalaika,’ I say.
‘I never knew they had all those Russian versions of western songs; “The Sound Of Mujik”, “Where the Boyars are”, and of course “Marx, He’s Making Eyes At Me”.’
‘Yeah. That’s smashing, that one,’ agrees Sid. ‘Have another drink.’
‘I shouldn’t really,’ I say. But it is too late. Sid has already sloshed the stuff into my glass. ‘How are the Rightberks? I haven’t seen much of them lately.’
‘Well you wouldn’t,’ says Sid. ‘They’ve gone on a cruise. By the way. Have you ever done any sailing?’
‘No, Sid. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, nothing. It’s not important. Fancy stretching your legs, do you?’
‘I think I’d better,’ I say. ‘I hardly feel capable of getting to the car.’
Sid takes my arm and steers me out of the door. ‘I’ve got a little present for you,’ he says.
‘Oh, that’s nice, Sid. What is it?’
‘It’s a jacket, Timmo.’ Sid produces this parcel and, I must say, I do get a surprise when I open it. It is all thick material divided up into little pouches. ‘Try it on.’ I struggle into it and I find it difficult to know what to say. It is very kind of Sid but it is not me, you know what I mean? It even does up with a piece of string at the front and it doesn’t have any sleeves. ‘How do you like it?’
‘Well, Sid,’ I say. ‘I usually go for something with a bit of a slimmer fit. And yellow isn’t a colour I’ve tried before.’
‘You’ll find it very handy if you get swept out of bed.’
‘Yes, Sid,’ I say. ‘I expect I — wait a min —’
‘Come this way,’ says Sid. ‘It’s nice down here by the Thames isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Don’t walk too fast. I’m feeling a bit woozy.’
‘One of the great navigational highways of the world.’
‘Yes, Sid.’
‘Gateway to excitement and adventure.’
‘You could put it like that, I suppose. Is there anyone about? I need a pee.’
‘Ever thought about sailing round the world, have you, Timmo?’
‘Not for very long. Aaaaaaaah! That’s better.’
Come this way. I want to show you something.’
‘Hang on! I haven’t bleeding finished yet.’ Sid lets go of my arm and I rub my shoe on the back of my trouser leg. ‘What is it?’
Sid leads me to the water’s edge and points to something moored to a jetty. ‘What do you think of her?’
‘It’s a bed,’ I say. ‘A bed floating in the water. It must be that thing that Nuttibarm was messing about with.’
‘How would you like to be the first man to sail a bed round the world?’ says Sid.
‘Are you mad?’ I shriek.
‘Just think of the prestige for the company,’ purrs Sid. ‘It would open up markets all over the world. You’d be famous.’
‘Famous and dead!’ I yelp. ‘Here! What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Just helping you aboard,’ says Sid shoving me over the side of the jetty. ‘Don’t worry. You won’t be alone.’ He bends down and starts undoing the piece of rope that holds the boat.
What do you mean? Are you coming?’ I wish I could do something but I am so pissed that I have to cling on to the bed to stop my head spinning.
‘We’ll probably meet up with you in Rio de Janeiro. I thought it was about time Rosie and the kids had a little holiday.’
‘Rio de Janeiro?!’ I croak.
‘That’s right. I wouldn’t try and do it all in one go. Let the current carry you across the Atlantic and then hop down the coast of South America.’ He gives the bed a push and I start drifting out into the river.
‘What about food?’ I shout.
‘There are some tins under the pillow — oh, bugger! I’ve still got the opener. Catch!’ I hear the sound of something plopping into the water. ‘Don’t forget. Turn right at the mouth of the Thames. Then right again. Then —’ His voice fades away into the darkness.
What a carve up! In the circumstances there seems to be only one thing to do: go to bed and hope that things look better in the morning.
THE END
Also available in the CONFESSIONS series:
Confessions of a Window Cleaner
It always took longer to clean the inside of the w
indows…
Timothy Lea is asked to be a window cleaner by his brother-in-law Sid, and he helps to satisfy all of his customers… in whatever way is necessary.
Viv preferred a man with experience.
Dorothy was a little careless with her underclothes.
Mrs Armstrong provided tea and cake beforehand.
Brenda consumed marshmallows afterwards.
Overwhelmed by the hospitality of his customers, Tim found it increasingly difficult to keep his mind on the job. Soon he longed for the peace and quiet of a steady relationship with his girlfriend Elizabeth.
But even the quiet and virginal Elizabeth was full of surprises…
Confessions from a Holiday Camp
Sun, sea, sand… oh, and plenty of sex!
When you’re a Holiday Host at Melody Bay Holiday Camp you’re expected to provide most of the entertainment in whatever fashion the happy campers demand. And some of the demands are distinctly above and beyond the usual call of duty. Not that Timothy was unwilling to oblige what with Janet, June, Elise and the rest of them shattering their fingernails on the door of his chalet.
And then of course there were Nan and Nat, the Camp owner’s nieces, pursuing their own ideas of female liberation through the shuddering chalets…
Confessions of a Milkman
Fresh, creamy and delicious – the milkman who always asked whether they wanted it delivered in front or round back…
‘It’s terrible what you milkmen do to get business,’ she says, squirting another load of foaming suds into the bath. ‘You stop at nothing, do you?’
I don’t answer her at once because it had never occurred to me that there was a business angle to what I am doing – or about to do. … There was I, feeling a bit guilty about being on the job when I should be on the job, and all the time I am on the job … with this happy thought bubbling through my mind I step forward briskly.