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Confessions of a Window Cleaner
Timothy Lea
It always took longer to clean the inside of the windows…Available for the first time on ebook, the classic sex comedy from the 70s.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.Sandy drew the line at taking her clothes off.Sonia performed for an audience.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 girl friend Elizabeth.But even the quiet and virginal Elizabeth was full of surprises…Also Available in the Confessions… series:CONFESSIONS FROM A HOLIDAY CAMPCONFESSIONS OF AN ICE CREAM MANCONFESSIONS FROM THE CLINKand many more!



CONFESSIONS OF A WINDOW CLEANER
Timothy Lea


When I look back on it, I was very green when I became a window cleaner. Eager for experience but making less headway than a marshmallow on a pin table.
Still, the customers were kind and some of them leant over backwards to be helpful.
It’s amazing what you can learn in the right hands …
I even got better at cleaning windows.

CONTENTS
Title Page (#u9435ab98-139d-585d-afb4-42673933ad46)
Epigraph (#u7a540a05-ac03-5267-baf1-595a215db761)
Introduction (#u5faf4b32-ca3d-58c8-aeea-bf33c85d86ee)
Chapter 1 (#ua369d9d8-1f51-5ac3-a266-3cc928adaa15)
In which Timmy is introduced to the charms of the window cleaning profession and sets out to prove to Sid, his sceptical brother-in-law, that he knows how to conduct himself with women. This intention resulting in a very embarrassing incident on Clapham Common
Chapter 2 (#u84f27606-e54f-52d1-bfd6-b66af8ee6e86)
In which we meet Timmy’s mum and dad; also sister Rosie through whose wiles Sid is persuaded to take Timmy into the business. Sid shows Timmy the ropes and introduces him to one of his more responsive customers with whom our hero spends an instructive afternoon
Chapter 3 (#u490bc597-b6dc-51c1-addc-def037aca8a2)
In which Timmy sallies forth on his own and meets a lady called Dorothy, who is bored and lonely
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy has a lot on his hands when he does a job for the animal-loving Mrs. Chorlwood and takes tea with the eccentric Mrs. Armstrong
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy offers some advice on how to succeed with women and meets Sandy, a girl of mature tastes and advanced ideas. Also, her friend Amanda with whom he shares a striking experience
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy finds a girlfriend, Elizabeth, at the Palais and has a confusing experience with Mrs. Villiers’ maid—and her mistress
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy’s style is cramped by a girl called Brenda with surprising consequences. And in which Elizabeth unexpectedly succumbs to our hero’s charms
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy meets an acrobatic dancer called Sonia who is forced to go to unusual lengths in order to secure a platform for her talents
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy attempts to repair a rift between a girl called Elvie and her friend, with results only a little less disturbing than those arising when he responds to the advances of Carla, an amorous Italian with an identity problem
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy meets Mrs. Evans during a convivial evening at the local, and finds that her predilection for cleanliness has some remarkable inconsistencies
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy decides the time has come to settle down and enjoys a last fling at an unusual party given by Sandy—an evening which has a number of unexpected consequences
Also Available in the Confessions Ebook Series (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

INTRODUCTION
How did it all start?

When I was young and in want of cash (which was all the time) I used to trudge round to the local labour exchange during holidays from school and university to sign on for any job that was going – mason’s mate, loader for Speedy Prompt Delivery, part-time postman, etc.
During our tea and fag breaks (‘Have a go and have a blow’ was the motto) my fellow workers would regale me with stories of the Second World War: ‘Very clean people, the Germans’, or of throwing Irishmen through pub windows (men who had apparently crossed the Irish sea in hard times and were prepared to work for less than the locals). This was interesting, but what really stuck in my mind were the recurring stories of the ‘mate’ or the ‘brother-in-law’. The stories about these men (rarely about the speaker himself) were about being seduced, to put it genteelly, whilst on the job by (it always seemed to be) ‘a posh bird’:

‘Oeu-euh. Would you care for a cup of tea?’
‘And he was up her like a rat up a drainpipe’

These stories were prolific. Even one of the – to my eyes – singularly uncharismatic workers had apparently been invited to indulge in carnal capers after a glass of lemonade one hot summer afternoon near Guildford.
Of course, these stories could all have been make-believe or urban myth, but I couldn’t help thinking, with all this repetition, surely there must be something in them?
When writing the series, it seemed unrealistic and undemocratic that Timmy’s naive charms should only appeal to upper class women, so I quickly widened his demographic and put him in situations where any attractive member of the fairer sex might cross his path.
The books were always fun to write and never more so than when they involved Timmy’s family: his Mum, his Dad (prone to nicking weird objects from the lost property office where he worked), his sister Rosie and, perhaps most importantly, his conniving, would be entrepreneur, brother-in-law Sidney Noggett. Sidney was Timmy’s eminence greasy, a disciple of Thatcherism before it had been invented.
Whatever the truth concerning Timothy Lea’s origins, twenty-seven ‘Confessions’ books and four movies suggest that an awful lot of people share my fascination with the character and his adventures. I am grateful to each and every one of them.

Christopher Wood aka Timothy Lea

CHAPTER ONE
The window cleaning lark first begins to appeal to me one evening when I am up at the pub with my brother-in-law. It is on Clapham Common and we are sitting on a bench outside, watching the sun go down and this big bird with the white silk blouse on. It is a bit small – the blouse I mean – and rides up from her waist so you can see her two tone flesh and the top of her knickers.
She has been in the sun, that is for sure. She has dyed hair, too much lipstick and a diabolical eyebrow pencil beauty spot that dates her a bit, but if she is going down hill I can think of a few blokes who wouldn’t mind waiting for her at the bottom – me included.
“Sup up,” says Sid. “You’re supposed to drink it, not pour it all over your balls. You’re right out of practice, aren’t you?”
I nod and correct the angle of my glass. Sid is right. I am straight out of reform school, ‘for the holidays’, my poxy father says, and there haven’t been a lot of opportunities for elbow bending – or lapping up birds like Silk Blouse. She has a black bra underneath it which I think is a bit of a liberty. Sid looks at her as if it is an effort to keep from yawning. “I’ve had her,” he says, switching his gaze to his finger nails. Very neat they are, too. Say what you like about Sid – and most people say plenty – but he keeps himself in good nick.
“Oh yes,” I say. “You and who else?”
“I don’t know about that, do I?” he says. “But I know I have. Why, don’t you believe me?”
“If you want to put it like that – no?” I say. I mean, she is with two blokes who look sharp as tin tacks and have a white Jag to prove it. I can’t see our Sidney with her legs up against the dashboard of his mini van.
“Hang on,” he says. “I’ll show you.”
Before I can say anything he picks up my glass and slides off towards the bar. The bird hasn’t noticed him up till then, but when she does I begin to believe Sid might be right. She half smiles and shoots a quick glance at one of the blokes she’s with. You can see she doesn’t quite know what to do. Sid is a gent because he nods to her ever so politely like she was his Sunday school teacher and carries right on into the pub. I can’t help it, I’m impressed. Seeing Sid must have done something to her, for her fag goes out and she starts tugging her blouse down and smiling slightly out of time with the conversation she’s supposed to be part of; as if there’s something on her mind. I look at Sid through new eyes when he comes out of the pub. He’s quite a good-looking fellow, I suppose. Not tall, but with very broad shoulders and narrow hips. Looks a bit like one of those poufdah ballet dancers you see on the telly before you turn over to the wrestling. I know my sister thinks his arsehole plays ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ every time he farts.
“Try and keep this one inside you,” he says, handing me a pint. “You look as if you’ve pissed yourself. I’m ashamed to be seen with you.”
He runs his fingers through his hair, kneading in every wave – Sid has lovely hair, even my mum remarks on it – and gives Silk Blouse a big smile as she glances at him. She blushes and turns away double quick. Sid shakes his head and stares out over the common towards the pond where the kids and the middle-aged wankers sail their model boats. It’s as if he doesn’t want to be the cause of any embarrassment to her. Very thoughtful.
“Well?” he says. “You saw that?”
“Yes,” I say. “She looked pretty twitched up. Who are those blokes she’s with?”
“I don’t know. Her husband travels, I believe. I expect she gets a bit lonely in the evenings.”
“How did you meet her?”
“On the job, how else?”
“What, window cleaning?”
“I haven’t got any other jobs, have I?”
I’m registering surprise because Sid and Rosie, my sister, have been married for three months and Rosie is already great, too great if you ask my mother, with child, which everybody in the family, and even a few of the neighbours, are prepared to accept as Sid’s. What’s more, Sid has only been cleaning windows since they came back from their honeymoon, which is what they called the weekend they spent at Brighton where one of Sid’s friends was supposed to have a boarding house. In fact, they never found a trace of the friend and spent two nights trying to sleep rough at Butlins before they were thrown out. I missed the wedding because I was being reformed at the time and heard all about it, and the honeymoon, from Rosie, who could not be accused of exaggeration because she was bonkers about Sid and would burst into tears every time Dad said he was a ponce.
“What about my sister?” I say, feeling I’d better show a bit of family loyalty.
“She’s getting all she can handle,” says Sid. “You haven’t heard her complaining, have you?”
This is true. I’ve heard my old man complaining about the row they make but not a squeak out of Rosie. In fact, Rosie doesn’t make much noise of any kind. This evening we’ve left her at home in front of the telly, knitting some woolly horror for ‘her Sid’ and I know she’ll be in exactly the same position when we get back, with her head jutting towards the screen and just a few more rows of puce to show for it. She and Sid have been living with us since the wedding and show every sign of continuing to do so until they find ‘the right place’ as Sid puts it. Dad says that Sid’s idea of the right place is the one he seems to be finding every night and he can hardly expect his daughter to be a contortionist as well as a wife. Mum tells him not to be dirty, though she doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about. She just knows Dad.
“Anyhow, I’m doing it for her, aren’t I?”
I give him my ‘pull the other one’ look.
“Oh, you can act all disapproving, but you’ve no idea what it’s like. I’m trying to build up a business, aren’t I? Half of these birds don’t just want their windows cleaned. You say no dice and they swear blind you did it anyway. I’ve been told that. Straight up, I have. One terrible old bag, she blackmailed me, said if I didn’t give her what she wanted, she’d start screaming the place down. What could I do? You soon get the message. Put yourself in my position.”
I steal a quick glance at Silk Blouse and wish I could.
“You want to keep them happy, don’t you, because you want the work; and you’re only human, aren’t you? When a bit of stuff like that starts offering to squeeze out your chamois, you don’t start retracting your ladder, do you?”
“I suppose not,” I say. “But is it really like that? I mean, you hear all those stories about milkmen, but I never believe half of it.”
“I don’t know about milkmen,” says Sid. “But you wouldn’t coco some of the things that have happened to me, and I haven’t been in the business four months. I won’t start to tell you, because you wouldn’t credit it. I think maybe it’s because you look more athletic cleaning windows. You might laugh but sometimes I feel I’m almost hypnotising them when I sweep the old squeegee backwards and forwards. I always wear a T shirt or white nylon – that’s favourite because when it gets wet they can see your nipples. Press up against the window and give ’em a smile occasionally. You can see their hands shaking as they put the kettle on.”
“So that bird isn’t the only one?” I say slowly.
“God, no. It’s a bad week in which I don’t get half a dozen solid offers – and that’s new business, not my old customers.”
“How do you manage?”
“Well, you have to box a bit clever, don’t you? You can’t leave them without it for too long, otherwise they get all resentful. You have to spread it out a bit. Keep everybody happy. In fact,” he looks round at Silk Blouse, who is climbing into the Jag and showing thigh clean up to her arse, “the business is expanding, so fast I’ve got almost more than I can handle. Work and all.”
I lean forward hopefully, and the bastard pauses, leaving me dangling on his words. Silk Blouse gives him a discreet little wave as the Jag pulls away and Sid inclines his head. “I was thinking of asking you if you’d like to come in with me—”
“It’d be great, Sid,” I interrupt, thinking of Silk Blouse’s thighs and nearly creaming my jeans. “Great, I’d—”
“—cool it.” Sid’s voice sounds just like Paul Newman’s which is exactly what it is meant to sound like. Rosie, or some other bird, once told him that he looked like Paul Newman and the world has suffered for it ever since, “don’t get your knickers in a twist. I just said I was thinking about it, I’m not certain you’re up to the work.”
“There’s nothing to cleaning windows, is there,” I say. “and I’m not afraid of heights. Shouldn’t be any problem getting a ladder and a bucket – one of those polythene—”
“I wasn’t thinking about that side of it. Rosie said she reckoned you’d never had your end away.”
He runs his fingers round the edge of his glass. It’s one of those tall thin ones and made an apologetic whining noise. They don’t give Sid and me the thick chunky ones with the handles.
“That’s what Rosie said, is it?” I say, trying to give myself time to think.
“That’s what Rosie said.”
Of course, Rosie is right but I don’t thank her for opening her trap to Sid. Must be envy on her part. Before she met Sid she was known as the easiest lay in the neighbourhood. On Saturday night, after the pubs closed, there used to be a queue outside the front door. Talk about watching the quiet ones.
“How does she know?” I say.
“Said you told her.”
This is true too. I once had a confidential word with her because I was desperate to score and I reckoned she must have a mate who could oblige me. Fact was that all the other birds in the district hated her guts because the way she gave it away was ruining the market. Their blokes only had to get a sniff of our Rosie and that was that. In my present mood I have half a mind to tell Sid all about her but I think better of it.
“That was before I went inside.” I say.
“You had birds in there!?”
“Of course. I had this mate. We used to get out at nights and go round the local girls’ school. They’d hang their knickers out of the window so we knew which one to get in at. Very posh birds they were but they were crazy for it.”
Of course, it’s all a load of lies but I think it sounds quite good.
“Really,” says Sid. “Bentworth Grange wasn’t it? Must have changed a bit since I was there. In those days the screws would go spare if you as much as looked out of the window.”
“I didn’t know you were there, Sid,” I say – trying to appear interested.
“Yeah, we went to the same school. I’ll let you borrow my old boys tie some time. Now look, I’m still a bit sceptical about whether you’ve had your end away or not.”
Sid is very strong on long words and ‘Quotable Quips’ he gets from the Reader’s Digest. He used to spend so much time in Doctors’ waiting rooms trying to get a medical certificate that he is quite well read.
“I don’t want to go on about it, but I can’t afford to have someone with me who goes around disappointing people. You’ve got to know how to handle yourself.”
Make no mistake, I’m not a fairy or anything, and my equipment is alright. It’s just that something always seems to go wrong just when I am about to score. The bird passes out or a copper starts flashing his torch or I’m too pissed to do it. A lot of trouble is the birds themselves. Because I am inexperienced I end up with inexperienced girls and of the two of us I have the most to lose. Rosie doesn’t help because I feel embarrassed about her, and that puts me off my stride a bit, and of course, there wasn’t anything happening at Bentworth, apart from the danger of spraining your wrist or getting a bent screw up your backside. I say all this because a lot of people seem to believe that every working class lad has it regular from the age of eight and it just isn’t true. I wish to God it was.
“Don’t worry about me Sid,” I say, “I won’t let you down.”
“Um.” Sid looks at me and then past me to the plump old bird we can see just inside the boozer, sitting up at the bar and sipping what must be a port and lemon.
“Could you handle that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Chat her up, buy her a drink, take her home. She’s a pushover, that one. Always up here begging for it.”
“I don’t fancy her.” I say quickly. It’s the truth too. Talk about mutton dressed up as lamb. She’s bulging out all over the place like a badly tied parcel and they must be able to hear her laughing down at the Plough. It sounds like somebody cutting through giblets with a hacksaw.
“Don’t fancy her? You’re going to be no bloody good to me if you go on like that. Who do you think you are, Godfrey Winn?”
“If I was, I’d be calling her mother. She won’t see forty again if you give her a telescope.”
“You mean you won’t even say hallo to her? Look, go and chat her up a bit, that’s all. You don’t have to do anything. I just want to see how you handle yourself. I tell you she’s a bit of class compared to some of the scrubbers you’ll come across if I take you on.”
“Well I won’t be coming across them then.”
“Get over there and overpower her with some of your sophisticated banter,” sneers Sid, “and remember, I’ll be watching.”
“I won’t forget,” I say and I start towards the bar. I feel less enthusiastic than a bloke setting out to poke a bacon slicer, but it isn’t a boozer I go to a lot, so I can afford to make a bit of a Charlie of myself. Above all, I want to show Sid that I am a man of the world.
The old bag gives me a quick up and down as I go in and returns to her drink. She has terrible legs and wears patterned stockings so you’ll notice it. It is difficult to know where the pattern ends and her varicose veins begin. I stroll up to the bar and lean on it as casually as I can, discovering as I do so that I have chosen a large puddle of beer to put my elbow in.
“Learning to swim, dear?” says the old bag. I blush and hope that Sid has noticed how smoothly I have started a conversation.
“Lovely evening,” I say. The words are alright but unfortunately I am so tense that my voice cracks and the alsatian in the corner growls and pricks up its ears.
“What did you say, dear?”
“I said ‘it’s a nice evening’.”
“Very nice, dear.” She sounds a bit nervous. I can feel. I am sweating and I start licking my lips. The barman is in the saloon and I try to catch his eye.
“I don’t get up this way often.”
“Really dear? I thought I hadn’t seen you before.”
“Not on Thursdays, anyway.” Why did I say that? The old bag looks even more worried. “Thursday is early closing day,” I go on desperately, “I work in a bakery, you see, and we get the afternoon off.”
“Very nice, dear. I expect you look forward to it?”
The barman is coming towards me. Now for my big push.
“Can I buy you a fuck?” I say. She goes scarlet, the barman breaks into a run and the alsatian sits up.
“I mean a drink,” I shout, wishing I was dead.
“Make up your mind,” says Sid, who has miraculously appeared behind me. “You know, sometimes, I think he doesn’t know the difference,” he adds, flashing his pearlies at the old bag who is staring at me like I had eye teeth down to my navel.
“Is he with you?” she screeches. “You want to watch him, he’s round the twist. You heard what he said. He should be locked up.”
“In an asylum, Madam,” agrees Sid, “Anybody making a suggestion like that to you must be insane.”
“Hey, what do you mean,” says the old bag. “You trying to be funny or something? You’re no bleeding oil painting yourself.”
“That’s enough,” says the barman, “You two hop it.” He means Sid and me.
“Why should we?” says Sid. “We aren’t doing any harm. My friend merely asked the lady if she’d like a drink.”
“I heard what he asked the lady,” says the barman, “Now hop it before I call the police.”
“If you’re going to call anybody make it Hammer Films, mate,” says Sid. “They can’t start shooting till she turns up. ‘Daughter of the Vampires’, that’s what she’s in, and guess who’s playing mother!”
“Ooh, you little bastard!” The old bag swings her handbag, Sid ducks, and the barman catches it, smack in the kisser. You have to laugh. At least Sid and I do. The other two don’t seem to be finding it so funny. The barman shouts to the alsatian and before I can get really scared it has torn the old bag’s skirt off. By the time we get outside I am laughing so much I can hardly stand up.
“You did a bloody marvellous job in there,” says Sid all sarcastic. “My God, you came on strong. Nothing like getting to the point quick.”
“It’s no good with me if I don’t fancy a bird,” I say. “If my heart isn’t in it, nothing else is.”
“I don’t believe you could stick your old man in a fire bucket without someone shouting instructions through a megaphone,” says Sid. “What a bloody hopeless performance. That’s done it for me. You’d have both of us locked up on your first morning.”
“Come off it, Sid. You know it was an accident. I just got a bit flustered, that’s all.”
“Flustered?” says Sid. “Christ, I wonder you didn’t stick it in her hand and burst into tears.” I can see there isn’t much point in going on about it, so we walk across the common in silence. Dusk, as they say, is falling and I notice that Sid keeps taking a few strides and jumping as far as he can. I’ve never known him show any interest in athletics, apart from running away from hard work, so I ask him what he is doing.
“Trying to put the alsatian off the scent,” he says.
“You didn’t think of telling me, did you?”
“I was just going to mention it,” he says, managing to sound all hurt.
So I’m off across the common with a hop, skip and a jump and a right fairy I feel. Then Sid tells me to stop.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I was taking the piss out of you, you stupid berk, and it isn’t funny any more.”
Sometimes I really dislike Sid.
We are near the boating pond by now and I can make out a few shadowy figures moving about in the darkness. Most of them are bent or on the game because the pond, after dark, is very much the place you wouldn’t arrange to meet the Archbishop of Canterbury. There are also a few anglers but their presence is a bit suspect, for the last fish must have coughed itself to death about ten years ago, and the surface is too thick with fagpackets and french letters that you’d need a half pound ledger to get through it. I reckon the anglers just want an excuse to get away from the old woman and have a bit on the side. I must confess, I’ve thought about it myself, but somehow I feel I need something more private for the first time.
“Look, Sid,” I say, my mind returning to the window cleaning, “couldn’t you just give me a trial? A couple of weeks maybe. I’m certain I could do the job. If I can’t, well, O.K. then.”
Sid is exploring the darkness and doesn’t seem to be listening to me. Eventually he sees what he’s looking for and, beckoning to me to follow him, makes towards the pond. By the water’s edge a fat old git is buttoning his oilskin trench coat and spitting words at a thin bird who is picking pieces of grass off her skirt. No prizes for guessing what they’ve been up to. The man bends down and reels in his line which, I notice, only has a weight on the end of it – no hooks. Presumably his technique is to whirl the weight round and round above his head and bash the fish over the bonce with it.
“Hallo, Lil” says Sid all cheerful like, “You busy?”
“With old kinky-coat” says the bird, “You must be joking. He exhausted himself screwing his rod together.”
The fat man says something ‘not nice’, as my mother would say, and collapsing his collapsible stool, hurries away.
“Lil,” says Sid, “I’d like you to meet my brother-in-law, Timmy. Timmy this is my aunty Lil.”
“Not so much of the aunty, ta.” says Lil. “Pleased to meet you Timmy. I don’t remember you at the wedding.”
“Timmy was detained elsewhere. He was giving her majesty pleasure.”
Sid’s aunty! What a turn up. She doesn’t seem old enough.
She’s not bad looking really. A bit tired and a bit skinny but not bad. Fancy her being on the game.
“She’s my mum’s youngest sister. Much younger.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I say. I have a nasty feeling that Sid has engineered our meeting with what the B.B.C. calls an ulterior motive in view. Sid immediately proves me right. Waiting no longer than the space of time it takes fatso to merge into the background he begins to speak.
“Lil,” he says, “with my friend Timmy, actions speak a bloody sight louder than words, or so he would have me believe. He’s not much of a chatterbox but he’s shit hot when it comes to the proof of the pudding. I’d like you to take him in hand or anything else you have to offer and give me your views.”
I start to say something but Sid shuts me up and sweeps Lil away into outer darkness. I hear them rabbiting away and then Lil nips back again all peaches and cream. Before I can say anything she’s kneading the front of my trousers like dough and steering me towards the wide open spaces.
“Hey, Sid—” I begin but there’s no stopping her.
“Don’t be frightened,” she murmurs, “Lil’s going to take care of you.”
The minute she opens her mouth with that quiet reassuring tone I can feel my old man disappearing like a pat of butter at the bottom of a hot frying pan. It’s about as sincere as Ted Heath singing the Red Flag. At the same time I realise that Sid is setting this up so he can see what I’m made of, and that after the last cock-up I can’t afford to blow it.
It’s in this uneasy frame of mind that I find myself wedged up against a tree with the lights of Clapham sparkling all around me and Aunty Lil’s hand pulling the zip of my fly out of its mooring.
“Ooh, ooh, ooh,” she grunts fumbling away, but my cock has got about as much sensation in it as a headline in ‘Chicks Own’.
“Come on, darling,” she pants, “don’t you want a nice time?”
“I feel we’re being watched” I say and it’s no exaggeration. Talk about Edward G. Robinson in ‘The Night Has A Thousand Eyes’. There’s a crackle of plastic macs around us like a crisp eating contest. That’s another thing I’ve got against Clapham Common. The public don’t only come to watch the football matches.
“Don’t worry about them,” says Aunty Lil soothingly, “they’re only jealous.”
Nothing is happening down below and I can see she’s getting a bit fed up. What with the beer and the tension I’m under, and all those dirty old buggers creeping round us like red indians, I don’t think it’s going to be one of my nights. Lil stops mauling me and puts her hands on my shoulders.
“Don’t worry about the money,” she says, “it’s on the family.”
I try and blurt out my thanks and in a desperate effort to get in the mood I attempt to kiss her. This is definitely not a good move, for she twists away as if I’ve sunk fangs into her neck.
“Don’t do that!” she snarls, “Don’t ever do that.”
It’s obvious that I’ve seriously offended her and I’ve since learned that a lot of whores don’t mind what you do to them below the waist but they reserve their mouths for their boyfriends – or girl friends since quite a few of them are bent. There is also the problem of smudged make-up and Clapham Common isn’t exactly crawling with powder rooms.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter.
“Get on with it,” she spits. I can see she’s had enough. I’m all for chucking it in but I think of Sid and some kind of pride drives me on.
“Come on, come on.”
I put my hands underneath her skirt and she sucks in her breath because they must be quite cold. She’s not wearing any knicks which is no surprise and I fumble till I find something like a warm pan scourer, Lil’s arms are round me and I’m gritting my teeth and staring over her shoulder towards the string of lights that run across the common. There’s a bit of something going for me down below now, so I grab hold of it and lunge forward until I feel myself secured between her legs. It’s really very disappointing after all I’ve read and heard about it, but at least I’m there. I put my hands behind her arse and start pulling her towards me. Sid should be quite impressed.
“Well,” says Lil, “aren’t you going to put it in?”
“I have put it in!” I gulp.
“You stupid berk. You’ve got it caught under my suspender strap.”

CHAPTER TWO
We return home in silence. At least I’m silent. Sid keeps pissing himself with laughter and has to be left behind to recover. I can hear him wheezing: “her suspender strap, oh my God,” and terrifying people out of their wits. I feel like belting him but I know it won’t do any good and frankly I’m a bit frightened of him anyway.
We live in a semi off Nightingale Lane which is the class street round these parts. In fact Scraggs Road is quite a long way off but my old mum always mentions the two in the same beery breath and the habit has rubbed off on me. Mum is very sensitive about her surroundings and I’ve heard her tell people we live at Wandsworth Common because she thinks it sounds better. I reckon its Balham myself but mum doesn’t want to know about that. She has a photograph of Winston Churchill in the outside toilet so you can see where her sympathies lie. It’s pretty damp out there and poor old Winnie is getting mildew, but when mum gets in there its like Woburn Abbey as far as she’s concerned.
When we lumber into the front room the family are grouped in their usual position of homage to the telly. Dad is dribbling down his collar stud and his hands are thrust protectively down the front of his trousers as if he reckons someone was going to knock off his balls the minute his eyes are closed. As he gets older he gets more and more embarrassing does dad. He must be the world champ at pocket billiards. Mum is sitting there guzzling down ‘After Eights’ and smoking at the same time so the ashtrays are full of fag ends and sticky brown paper spilling onto the floor. Rosie’s position has hardly changed since we went out except that her mouth has dropped open a bit as if her jaw has started melting. Her fingers are still clicking away seemingly independent of the rest of her body. Looking at her I have to confess that our Rosie is going to seed fast.
They are all watching ‘Come Dancing’ and every few seconds the birds make little exclamations of wonder and surprise as another six hundred feet of tuile and sequins hover into sight or Peter West cocks the score up. Dad’s head has lolled back and from the noise he is making it sounds as if his dentures are lodged in his throat.
“Did you have a nice time?” says Mum without taking her eyes off the set. She’d say that to you if you had just come back from World War Three.
“Alright” I say quickly before Sid can get his oar in. “We had a couple of jars at the Highwayman.”
Its amazing but on the mention of the pub Dad’s eyes leap open as if a little alarm bell has rung in his mind.
“Did you bring us back a drop of something?” he says.
“Sorry Dad” says Sid, “we moved out a bit sharpish and it quite slipped my mind.”
“Leave him alone Dad” says Rosie. “That’s a nice little dress isn’t it mum. Eh, Sid, how would you fancy me in that?”
“You’d look bloody nice on top of a Christmas tree” says Sid.
“It’s no good asking him,” goes on Dad, “he can’t even afford a bottle of brown ale for his father-in-law. You won’t get any dresses out of him.”
“I told you, to leave him alone Dad. Sid is saving up for the down payment on one of those new flats up by the common. He hasn’t got the money to keep you in booze.”
“I don’t want champagne and caviar. I just ask to be remembered, that’s all. A bit of common civility – that’s all I ask for. Bugger me, he isn’t bankrupting himself, the rent he’s paying to stay here.”
“Give over, Dad” says Mum. “You’ve already said all that. You know Sid is doing his best.”
“That’s what he tells me” says Dad, who is probably the most boring old git in the world when he puts his mind to it. “I haven’t seen any evidence of it – not even a single solitary bottle of brown ale.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes,” explodes Sid, “I can’t stand any more of this. I’m going to bed. Look, here’s some money. Go and buy your own bloody brown ale.” And he chucks two bob down at dad’s feet and slams out. Immediately everybody starts shouting and it’s all turning into another typical evening at the Lea’s. Rosie throws a tizzie and has to be comforted by Mum and they both turn on Dad while Peter West tells us it all depends on the result of the formation dancing. Dad is in a spot because you can see he wants to pocket the two bob but knows that if he does the women will really start riding him. He solves that one by picking the money up and resting it casually on the arm of his chair as if he was frightened that someone might trip over it. Rosie is ranting about how they both might as well get out because Dad has never liked Sid and Mum is trying to quieten her down, saying things like “ssh, think about the neighbours”.
She’s very neighbour-conscious is Mum. It nearly broke her heart when Mr Ngobla moved in next door with the five little Ngoblas. She’s dead keen that nothing untoward should take place which might make the Ngoblas suspect that they aren’t a great deal less refined than we are. “Is that really his wife?” Mum keeps saying. “I’d never have recognised her. They all look the same to me. No, of course I didn’t mean to give offence. I thought it was one of his – you know – one of his other ones.”
Dad is much more tolerant than Mum. He’s always leaning over the wall and explaining to them that many of our ways must strike them as being a bit strange and that a few years ago we had some pretty primitive customs ourselves. You can see them looking at each other when he’s talking.
Anyway, that’s nothing to do with this evening’s caper which ends with Central London winning by one point and Mum going off to make a cup of Ovaltine. Dad, choosing his moment well, pockets the two bob and shuffles off to bed. Rosie is still snivelling and showing no interest in professional wrestling from the Winter Gardens, Morecambe, which shows how serious things are. I turn the set off and for a few minutes we have to get used to the strange sound of our voices unaccompanied by the background noise of the telly.
“I should have married Rory,” sniffs Rosie, “that would have made Dad happy.”
Rory was a big silent slob who worked in a garage and used to leave greasemarks all over the settee. He and Rosie were very close for a while and it was a union Dad would have smiled upon since Rory’s old man owned the garage. They even went on holiday once. Rory and Rosie I mean, not his old man. A few months after that Rosie faints down at the palais and tongues start wagging backwards and forwards like wedding bells. They’ve got it a bit wrong though, for it’s about that time that Sid rolls up and Rosie falls like a pair of lead knickers. She nips off to see a friend of a friend one evening and comes back looking pale but relieved. A couple of weeks later they’re calling the banns. Rory is very cut up about it and saying how he’s going to smash Sid’s face in, but he never does anything. How much Sid knows about it all I’ve never found out.
“I saw Rory the other day,” I say. “He was asking after you.”
Now this is a complete lie and I don’t know why I say it but I just have the feeling that I might be doing myself a bit of good. Rosie looks really agitated.
“What did he say?”
“Said how about having a drink.”
“What me?”
“No, no. Me.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said fine.”
“Did he say anything else?”
I’m thinking very fast now. Rosie is obviously dead worried that Rory is going to start blabbing his mouth off. She also has a lot of influence over Sid. More than he’d care to let on. This might be what I’m looking for.
“Oh, he started saying there were a few things he’d like to tell Sid. He was a bit pissed, you couldn’t take him seriously.”
“I don’t want him near Sid.”
“You’ve nothing to worry about. He didn’t say he was going to glass him or anything.”
“No, well I still think its better that they don’t meet. Let bygones be bygones.”
“Yes, you’re probably right. Trouble is, Rory was talking about a job up at the garage and you know what Dad’s been like lately. I was thinking of taking it.”
It’s a fact that Dad has had the dead needle with me ever since I got back from Bentworth, and I usually get more of it than Sid. This evening’s little interchange has not been typical.
The reference to the job with Rory is obviously a master-stroke and I can see Rosie wriggling.
“It’s a bit difficult isn’t it,” I go on, “I mean, I’ve got to get a job and the garage seems favourite but I can understand your feelings about Rory. It would be difficult to stop him coming round here.”
“I haven’t got any feelings about Rory” she snaps, “I just don’t want him telling Sid a lot of lies about me.”
‘No, of course not.” I shake my head understandingly and then my face lights up as an idea suddenly comes to me. “I’ve just thought,” I say, “Sid was telling me that the old window cleaning lark was picking up a treat. Perhaps I could go in with him? Keep it in the family and all that. I’ve heard him saying he’s got more work than he can handle.”
I’m holding my breath and crossing my fingers and, by Christ, it works.
“That’s a good idea,” she says. “Why don’t you have a word with him about it?”
“I would but – you know – it’s his business, and what with him living here and me being family, I don’t want him to feel that I’m pushing it too much. You know what I mean? I think it would be much better if you could mention it to him first. Might make things easier with Dad too.” I soon learn that I’m overplaying my hand there.
“Dad can get stuffed,” she says, “he’s always had it in for Sid and now he’s beginning to do alright for himself he’s getting jealous.” He’s not the only one I think.
“Yes, you’re probably right. Well, if you could have a word with Sid and see if there’s anything going, I’d be very grateful, Rosie. I’m supposed to be seeing Rory tomorrow and he was pushing me for an answer so maybe I can say ‘no go’ and warn him off, so to speak.”
“I’ll talk to him tonight,” says Rosie firmly, “it seems a good idea to me, really it does. And if you can, see Rory doesn’t make any fuss – of course he can’t do anything but you know what it’s like.”
“Of course, Rosie, don’t worry yourself. I’ll see you alright. It’ll be a sort of tit for tat won’t it?”
She looks at me a bit hard but I give her my brotherly smile and I don’t think she suspects anything.
A few minutes later she goes to bed and I have my Ovaltine with Mum. It makes me think how I could have used all that malt, milk and eggs and added vitamins earlier in the evening. I can never understand how the stuff is supposed to give you more energy than you know what to do with and yet help you to sleep at the same time. Mum pushes off and I take a quick shufty in the hall stand where Dad keeps all the dirty books he’s ashamed to bring into the house. Things must be bad down at the lost property office where he works because there’s not so much as a censored copy of ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’ let alone the hard core porn he thrives on. Dad and his mates down at the L.P.O. are on to a good thing because, knowing that no one is ever going to come round and confess to having lost a fully illustrated copy of ‘Spanking through the ages’ they nick everything juicy they can lay their hands on.
My room is at the top of the house; in fact if it was any higher my head would be sticking out of the chimney, and I have to go past Sid and Rosie’s room to get there. Normally, at this time, I would be treated to the sound of creaking springs, but tonight I can hear Rosie rabbiting away and Sid making occasional muffled grunts that sound as if he’s got a pillow over his head. I hope she is getting stuck in on my behalf.
I lie in my bed, naked, and listen to somebody’s wireless playing a few houses away. Or maybe they’re having a party. Now that I don’t need it I’ve got a bloody great hard on and when I think of Silk Blouse, or even Aunty Lil, or any of the millions of birds who must be lying alone in bed and feeling like a bit of the other, I’m bloody near bursting into tears.
When I come down the next morning Sid is sitting there with his hands wrapped round a cup of tea and he’s giving me an old fashioned expression that tells me Rosie has been getting at him.
“Morning” I say agreeably. Sid doesn’t answer.
“You going down the Labour today?” says Mum.
“I went yesterday” I say. “I don’t want to look as if I’m begging.”
“Well, don’t leave it too long, dear, you know what your father is like.”
I help myself to a cup of tea and ask Sid for the sugar. He slides it across very slowly without taking his hand off the bowl. I think Paul Newman did it in ‘Hud’ but I can’t be certain.
“I had a talk with your sister last night,” he says.
“Oh, really.”
“Yes, I thought you’d be surprised.”
“Well, I didn’t know you talked to each other as well.”
“Don’t be cheeky” says Mum.
“Don’t suppose you’ve any idea what we were talking about?” says Sid.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Well it was about what we were talking about yesterday.”
“Really? Oh, interesting.”
“Yeah. And to stop us poodling on like this any longer I might as well tell you that I’ve agreed to give it a go.”
“Great!” I say. “Ta very much. You won’t regret it.”
“Um, we’ll see.”
“What you on about?” says Mum.
“Sid and I are going into business” I say. “I’m going to be a window cleaner, Mum.”
“That’s nice, dear. Do you think he’ll be alright, Sid?”
“No” says Sid bitterly, “but you don’t expect much from a brother-in-law do you?”
“Now Sid,” says Mum, all reproachful, “that’s not very nice. That’s not the right spirit to work together in.”
“It’s alright, Mum,” I say, “he’s only joking, aren’t you, Sid?” Sid can’t bring himself to say ‘yes’ but he nods slowly.
“Today, you can do your Mum’s windows” he says, “It’ll be good practice for you. Tomorrow we’ll be out on the road.” He makes it sound like we’re driving ten thousand head of prime beef down to Texas.
“That’s a good idea” says Mum, “I was wondering when someone was going to get round to my windows.”
Sid gives me a quick demo and it looks dead simple. There’s a squeegee, or a bit of rubber on a handle, that you sweep backwards and forwards over a wet window and that seems to do the trick in no time. With that you use the classical chamois and finish off with a piece of rough cotton cloth that won’t fluff up called a scrim. It seems like money for old rope and I can’t wait to get down to it. Sid pushes off to keep his customers satisfied and I attack Mum’s windows. Attack is the right word. In no time at all I’ve put my arm through one of them and I’m soaked from head to foot. The squeegee is a sight more difficult to use than it looks. Whatever I do I end up with dirty lines going either up or down the window and it gets very de-chuffing rearranging them like some bloody kid’s toy. When I get inside it’s even worse because the whole of the outside of the windows look as if I’ve been trying to grow hair on them. That’s what comes of wearing the woolly cardigan Rosie knitted for me last Christmas. I get out and give the windows a shave and then I find that there are bits that are still dirty which you can only see from the inside. I’m popping in and out like a bleeding cuckoo in a clock that’s stuck at midnight. Inside at last and I drop my dirty chamois in the goldfish tank and stand on Mum’s favourite ashtray which she brought back the year they went to the Costa Brava. By the time I’ve cleaned up and replaced the broken window-pane – twice – it’s dinner time and I’m dead knackered.
Sid drops in to see how I’m getting on and you can tell that he’s not very impressed.
“At this rate,” he says, “you might do three a day – with overtime.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s a knack. It’ll come.”
Sid shakes his head. “What with that and your lousy sense of direction” he says. “I’ll be surprised if you last the first day.”
But he’s wrong. It doesn’t go badly at all. Sid starts me off at the end of a street and gives me a few addresses and though I’m dead nervous, I soon begin to get the hang of it. I drop my scrim down the basement a couple of times but there are no major cock-ups and nobody says anything. A few of them ask where Sid is but on the whole it’s all very quiet. In fact, if I wasn’t so busy trying to concentrate on the job I’d be a bit choked. After what Sid has led me to believe, these dead-eyed old bags look about as sexed up as Mum’s Tom after he had his operation. Curlers, hairnets, turbans, carpet slippers, housecoats like puke-stained eiderdowns – I was expecting Gina Lollamathingymebobs to pull me on to her dumplings the minute I pressed the front door bell. Perhaps Sid was having me on or perhaps, and this is much more likely, its some crafty scheme to con me into the business for next to nothing. Sid hasn’t been over-talkative about the money side of the deal. I do get one spot of tea but the cup has a tide-mark on it like a coal miner’s bath and I reckon the slag that gives it to me has the same. Perhaps Sid has purposely given me a list of no-hopers after my performance, or lack of it, with Aunt Lil.
This is a subject I tax him with when we’re having a pint and a wad in the boozer at lunch time but he is quick to deny it.
“Oh no,” he says, “I wouldn’t do a thing like that. No, it’s the school holidays, you see. That always calms them down a bit. You wait till the little bleeders go back – then you’ll be amongst it.”
I had to admit that a lot of kids have been hanging around asking stupid questions and generally getting in the way, so perhaps he’s on the level.
“Don’t worry,” he goes on, “I’ve got a little treat lined up for this afternoon. Very good friend of mine, she’ll see you alright.”
“Not Aunt Lil?” I say nervously.
“No. You won’t be seeing her again. Not if she sees you first.”
“Who is it then?”
“Nobody you know. Sup up and we’ll have a game of darts.”
And that’s all he will say. Of course it preys on my mind and I’m playing like a wanker. Two pints it costs me before Sid rubs the back of his hand against his mouth and looks at his watch.
“Right, off we go.”
It’s overcast and a bit sultry as we cycle along and I envy the way Sid handles his bike. With the ladder on my shoulders I’m wobbling all over the shop.
“Where are we going now, Sid?”
“You’ll see.”
We’re round the back of Balham Hill and I’m all of a tingle. What is Sid up to? We cycle past a row of lock-up garages and Sid hops off his bike and swings up his ladder all in one easy movement. I put both feet down and drop mine in the gutter.
“Clumsy berk,” says Sid.
Still with the ladder on his shoulder, he pushes open the gate of one of the semis and does a quick “dum, de, dum dum,” on the doorknocker before running his fingers through his hair and sucking his teeth. The door opens fast and there’s a bird of about thirty, standing there, wearing a short-sleeved blouse and a miniskirt. She has a large charm bracelet round her wrist and high-heeled furry slippers that make her look as if she’s balanced on a couple of rabbits. She has a bright-eyed cheerful face and it looks more cheerful when she sees Sid.
“Hallo Sid,” she says, and I can tell by her expression that he doesn’t have to threaten her with a gun to get through the front door. Her eyes wander over him as if trying to remember bits that she particularly likes and she steps to one side to let him in. Then she sees me.
“That’s my new mate, Timmy,” says Sid without turning his head.
The bird’s face clouds over for a moment and then snaps back to normal.
She gives me the all-over eyeball treatment and I feel as if I’ve been fed into an IBM machine.
“I never reckoned you needed any help, Sid,” she says drily.
“Very kind of you, Viv,” says Sid with dignity, “but you know how it is. You can’t stand still nowadays, otherwise you’re going backwards. If you’re going to get anywhere you’ve got to expand.”
“Fascinating” says Viv. “Well, did you just come round to tell me how it was going to be you and Charlie Clore from now on, or was there something else?”
“We’ve come round to do your windows, of course,” says Sid. “I just thought I’d introduce you to Timmy.”
“Very nice. Hello Timmy.” She half drops her eyelids as she smiles at me and it’s very effective.
“Timmy hasn’t had much experience—”
“—oh dear.”
“—and I’m keeping an eye on him for the first few days.”
“You always were thoughtful, Sid.”
“Yes, well, I’ll leave him to get on with it then.”
“So I won’t be seeing you again, Sid?”
“Oh yes. I’ll be around I expect, you know. I just thought that—”
Sid’s voice tails away.
“Yes?”
“Well, you know.”
“Yes.”
Viv smiles an understanding smile which is obviously aimed at adding to Sid’s discomforture – and succeeds. Seeing that things are getting sticky I decide to take the initiative and step forward smartish only to be brought to a sudden halt in the doorway.
“You don’t use that inside the house do you?” says Viv, “the rooms are quite small, you know.”
I mumble something and take the ladder off my shoulder. Stupid berk!
“Well, ta ta,” says Viv cheerfully.
“Ta ta, Viv! Be seeing you. I’ll see you later.”
“O.K. Sid,” I say and the door closes behind me.
“In there,” says Viv smoothing down her skirt, and her hands don’t have a lot of work to do, I can tell you.
“In there?”
“That’s right.”
Something about the way she says it makes me feel there’s going to be a bloody great four-poster behind the door but maybe it’s my imagination. I push the door open and I’m in the kitchen. She notices my surprise.
“You want to fill your bucket, don’t you.”
“Oh yes, of course.”
She watches me do it and starts fanning herself with the Daily Mirror.
“Bloody humid, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t stand this kind of weather. Makes me feel sort of itchy all over.”
“How long have you been with Sid?”
“On the window cleaning? Only today, but I’ve known him for a long time. He’s married to my sister.”
I wonder if I should have said that but Viv doesn’t seem over-worried.
“So you’re all living with your Mum and Dad?”
“That’s right.”
All this time she’s talking her eyes are wandering over me and there’s a sort of amused expression on her face. You don’t feel that she’s interested in any of the answers she gets but that she’s just trying to unwind you with conversation.
“I don’t think you’ll get any more in there.”
I turn off the tap and empty some of the water out of the bucket so it manages to spill across the floor.
“Don’t worry,” she squeezes me just above the bicep. “You get on with the windows. I’ll clear this up. You’re a strong boy, aren’t you?” She fans herself with the paper so her tits wobble.
“It’s so muggy, I’m going to take a bath. See if that doesn’t do any good. The bathroom curtains are in the wash, so don’t take any liberties, will you?” She reaches down underneath the sink and I practically need another pair of hands to keep the ones I’ve got from grabbing her. Talk about a nice arse. It shouldn’t be allowed, it’s so nice. Once you see that, all other arses are just bums.
I grab my bucket and get outside breathing deep. I do the downstairs windows and am just getting the ladder up and my blood pressure down, when I hear a tapping above my head. It really is very sultry now and the sky looks as if it’s going to piss down with rain at any moment. I’ve seen enough flicks to know that when nature starts rearing it’s ugly head someone usually gets their end away and I hope the signs do not lie. I am round the side of the house and the window from which the tapping is coming is clearly the bathroom as there is a stream of drain-bound soapy water splashing over my boots. Perhaps she has locked herself in and needs help. The very thought has me whipping up the ladder like a clockwork monkey. Viv is pressed against the window which should be alright because the lower half is frosted glass. However, she is pressed so tight that the first thing I see is a nice bit of milky white tit with a flattened nipple in the middle of it. She moves back when she follows my eyes.
“You alright?” I say.
“I haven’t had any complaints.”
“No. I mean I thought you’d, oh, it doesn’t matter.”
“I wondered if you’d like a cup of tea?”
“Yes, that would be nice. I’ve just got the front to do and I’ll pop in.”
“Right, I’ll put the kettle on.”
The inside of the window is steamed up, and there’s a cracking niff of perfume bashing my hooter. She needn’t have bothered because I’d go for her if she had a spoonful of dripping behind the ears – or would I? I can hardly finish the windows for thinking about it and three times I drop my scrim in the same flower bed and have to rinse the bastard out. I’ll never have a better chance to score and yet that very fact is making my old man feel like it would have difficulty making a dent in a plate of cold soup. It’s like having an empty goal to shoot at and knowing you’re going to bang the ball eight yards over the bar. For a second, I even considered pissing off and leaving the whole thing for another time but I know I’ve got to go through with it – or try to.
Taking another of my deep breaths and feeling absolutely certain that my old man has dropped off and got lodged half way down one of my trouser legs, I rap on the back door and wait for Viv’s husband to open it.
“It’s open” she calls and when I go in she’s just taking the kettle off. She’s still wearing the slippers but on the rest of her is one of those big padded housecoats with frills around the hem. It is tied tightly around the waist but somehow manages to spring apart up top so I get another eyeful of her bristols.
“Do you like it?” she says, and for a moment I’m on the point of telling her I like both of them. Then I realise she means the housecoat.
“Very nice,” I gulp. “Er, it makes you look very sexy.”
“You don’t sound very convinced,” she says. “How do you like it, hot and strong like Sid?”
She has this habit of suddenly switching from one subject to another which throws me a bit.
“You mean the tea?”
“What else?”
“Anyway it comes, I’m not fussy.”
“Why don’t you sit down. You make me nervous standing there.”
I sit down and find myself playing with the sugar bowl and trying to think of something to say.
“I think we’re going to have a storm,” I manage eventually.
“Shouldn’t wonder,” she puts a cup of tea in front of me and sits down on the other side of the table.
“Do you smoke?”
“No thanks.”
She lights a fag and blows a puff of smoke at me as if from a peashooter. She’s got that amused, distant look on her face again.
“Cheer up.”
That’s always a disastrous thing to say to me because it’s like telling a bloke you can see his trousers are falling down.
“I’m very happy” I say and listen to the silence. If only I could be like Sid. He’d be chatting her up and dancing about so the whole thing would be like ‘Spring in Park Lane’. The same though obviously occurs to Viv because she rests her head in her hand and gazes at me sadly.
“You’re a quiet one compared to Sid,” she says.
“Still waters.”
“Pardon?”
“Still waters run deep.”
“Oh, I see. You’re a deep one, are you?”
“Well, I don’t know about that—”
She gets up and comes behind me resting her fingers lightly on my shoulders for a second.
“How deep do you go?”
“What do you—”
“—It doesn’t matter. Have another cup of tea.”
She reaches down past me and her warm arm brushes against the side of my face. Now’s your chance, I shout to myself but by the time I get around to moving, she’s over the other side of the kitchen filling the teapot.
“There you are,” she says, “a nice cup of cha. Do you fancy a biscuit?”
“Yes, very nice. Ta.”
She couldn’t be more obliging but she’s obviously waiting for me to do something. So am I.
“Chocolate finger or a ginger nut?”
“Ginger nut, please.”
“I won’t join you because I have to watch my figure.”
“I should think you have a lot of company.” That’s not bad and I can see it goes down well.
“Cheeky. No, its alright for an old married woman, I suppose, but I have to work at it.”
“What does your old man do—” I say very casual.
“Oh, he’s in the navy. In Singapore at the moment, lucky basket. I can just imagine what he’s up to.”
I’m glad there are a few thousand miles between us.
“How long is he away for?”
“Oh, months at a time. Why, are you thinking of moving in?”
“It’s an idea.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic. I know some blokes who would jump at the chance.”
I would jump at it too if I wasn’t such a stupid tongue-tied twat. I can listen to myself like some gormless berk you overhear on the bus and feel sorry for, but I can’t get off my arse and tell her I want to fuck her. I feel it so badly I’m nearly crying but it’s stuck inside me and I don’t think anything is going to bring it out. Now, I can’t think of a thing to say. Not a single bloody little word. I’m sitting there concentrating and I know my face is setting as if its in a jelly mould. I’ve got to get out. The whole thing was a stupid mistake. Its much better if you stick to thinking about it. I stand up fast and my knee jars the tea cup across the table.
“Well—” And then it rains. It doesn’t just rain, it explodes. One moment there’s nothing and then the water is hitting the ground like bullets. One moment Viv is looking at me startled the next our eyes are pulled towards the window. Its frightening – and exciting. Watching it I forget my tensions and when she struggles to close the top window I help her and our bodies are touching and the rain’s splashing all over our faces. I don’t know whether she starts kissing me first or it’s the other way round but it seems like the most natural thing in the world and when I feel her beautiful soft mouth against mine I want to come, it’s so fantastic. Her housecoat falls open and I pull her down on the floor knocking over the garbage bucket as we go. All the rubbish spills out and for some reason I find myself looking at a tin which says ‘Honest Katkins – a satisfied cat or your money back’. But not for long. Viv is coming at me like eight drunken Irishmen locked in the ladies’ and she tears at my fly like it’s the way out of a burning building.
“Get it in, get it in!” she hollers and I’m struggling with my skin tight jeans in a graveyard of potato peelings. I tear my boots off with my feet practically still in them and she’s plucking the buttons off my shirt as if she’s shelling peas. Talk about ‘Beat the Clock’. At last I get my jeans off and she grabs my cock like it’s a lifebelt and she’s going down for the third time.
“Come here,” she howls, and I’m so twitched up I nearly do – on the spot. Once she’s got her hands on you you’d be a fool to try and resist and I’m inside her faster than a pouf on a choirboys outing. Then she really starts. If I didn’t know I’d think she’d just plugged herself into the electrical circuit. I’m not complaining mind you, but it’s all a bit overpowering for me considering it’s my first time and I soon realise that things are getting out of control.
“Yowee,” I howl and suddenly its like going over a bump on a toboggan incredibly fast. Everything speeds up and I hear myself shouting as if from the other end of a long corridor.
“Thank you, thank you,” I sob, “you’re marvellous, fantastic—”
Viv moves her head to one side and squints down my body.
“You’ve cut your heel,” she says, ‘We’d better put something on it before you bleed all over the mat.”

CHAPTER THREE
When I leave Mrs. Stanmore’s – that was Viv’s name because I saw an envelope with her address and a foreign stamp on it in the kitchen – I feel about a hundred feet tall. I’ve scored at last and I want to rush off and tell everybody about it. I am a bit disappointed that Viv seems so unaffected and is thumbing through the T.V. Times when I leave but you can’t have everything. The main thing was that I’ve got my end away, and on my first day too. I rolled my eyes at all the girls I passed and wonder if they knew what they are missing. And a married woman too. She must have been on the pill – or something. How should I tell Sid? For no reason that I can think of I terrify everybody waiting for a bus outside Balham Station by shouting ‘Up the Blues!’ and race myself home.
But I don’t have to tell Sid. A couple of hours later he comes in and chucks himself down in front of the telly. Mum was getting tea and Rosie is washing her hair. Dad is presumably down at the Linnet explaining to those who haven’t heard it before how he won the Second World War.
“How’s it go?” I say waiting for him to ask the same question.
“Much as usual. I brought your ladder back.”
That takes the wind out of my sails. Sid grins.
“Yeah, you start leaving those all over the place and its going to get expensive.”
“Sorry Sid, my mind just went blank.”
“Only just?”
I try and smile but I don’t really feel like it. What did Sid go back for? I don’t have to wait long to find out.
“Viv told me you had a little tussle. Very little I believe, You’ll have to do better than that with Viv, she’s a very greedy girl.”
It occurs to me that Sid has secretly been a bit jealous once he’s handed over his bird and hopped back smartish to see that everything is alright. His swagger suggests that he has been reassured that he is still Number One in the farm yard. Lucky old Viv. She’ll really be looking up when we take on a few partners. I can’t help feeling a bit choked about it but at the same time the fact that Sid might have been worried gives me confidence. I’ve never known him show any signs of flapping before.
“She didn’t seem overimpressed with you if you must know.” I lie.
Sid goes scarlet. “What did she say?”
“Oh, nothing really. It’s not worth talking about.”
“Go on. What did she say?”
“Well, she said – oh, no. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Sid.”
“She didn’t say anything. You’re lying.”
“That’s right Sid. I was just having a little joke.”
“She’s never complained to me.”
“No, of course not.”
Poor Sid. You can see him racking his mind to think of every single time he’s had it away with her.
“She said I was the best poke she’d ever had.”
“Well, there you are.”
“What did she say?”
“I told you Sid. It was nothing really.”
Sid is starting to speak again when Mum comes in with our tea.
“What you got lined up for me tomorrow?” I says to him all innocent like.
“You can get stuffed,” he snarls, and storms out, nearly knocking over Mum’s tray.
“What’s the matter with him,” she says. “You two haven’t been quarrelling have you? Not when you’ve only just started together. Oh, dear, that’s not very nice is it?”
“It’s alright Mum,” I say loud enough for Sid to hear before the front door closes, “he’s strained his groin and I was telling him to look after himself.”
That’s the last bit of spare I get from Sid and for the next few weeks our relationship is dead official. Every morning he gives me a list of addresses and tells me the area he wants me to cover and off we cycle in opposite directions.
My little adventure with Viv has totally changed my approach to women and I’m now a different person. It’s like learning to ride a bike. Once you find you can stay up there’s no holding you. In fact, looking back I think I overdid it a bit. I was all straining biceps and too-tight T-shirts; whistling through clenched teeth and bouncing about like the bloke who takes your money on the Giant Whip. I must have looked like the cover of ‘Butch Male’. Not that I didn’t realise there was room for improvement. I had sensed that Viv went off the boil pretty quickly, before Sid started riding me, and it was easy to tie this in with the fact that I’d been in and out of her faster than the Pope mistaking the local Synagogue for the Gents.

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