скачать книгу бесплатно
‘That wasn’t me, that was Courtenay!’
The crying that has continued unabated from the moment I crossed the threshold ceases instantly. ‘Dad! Dad! He’s lying. I haven’t been to the toilet since I got home.’ An even less appealing version of Benedict appears at the top of the stairs. He is wearing pyjama trousers with the front gaping open.
‘You liar! Whose toy soldier is that down there, then?’
‘Dad! Dad! He put my toy soldier down the toilet!’
‘Liar! You were playing glacier skiing and he slipped.’
‘Ooooh! You rotten liar!’
There is a thunder of bare feet and two bodies lock in the middle of the stairs. ‘Go to your room, both of you!’ shouts Mr Wilkinson. ‘Your mother will have something to say about this.’
‘He’s a liar!’
‘Shut up!’
‘I hate you!’
‘Bully!’
Mr Wilkinson picks up the bundle of flailing arms and legs and throws it through the door at the top of the stairs. He closes the door firmly and dusts his hands together.
‘They won’t give you any trouble,’ he says, sounding as if he would like to believe it. ‘Just normal high-spirited kids.’ He rips open the door and I see the veins at his forehead bulge like burnished worm casts. ‘One more word and I’ll swing for you!’ In the silence that follows you could hear a nappy pin drop. Mr Wilkinson closes the door with a wry smile. ‘It’s just a question of knowing how to handle them,’ he says, flexing and unflexing his fingers. ‘Let’s have a go at that bow tie.’
But despite the fact that we undo the clip-on bow tie and lay the pieces out all over the large double bed in the Wilkinsons’ bedroom we do not make any progress. They obviously make clip-on bow ties in a different way.
‘Now we’re got a problem,’ says Mr Wilkinson. ‘We’ve destroyed the clip-on bow tie and we can’t tie the velvet bow tie. What am I going to do?’
‘I feel awful about this, Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘The whole thing was my idea and I’ve let you down. Let me have a go at tying the velvet bow tie. It can’t be too difficult.’
But it is difficult. Especially when I am facing Mr Wilkinson. There is something about the smell of his after-shave lotion being right under my nose and the half smile on his lips as he looks into my eyes. ‘I think it would be easier if I got behind you,’ I say. ‘Then I would feel as if I was doing it, if you know what I mean.’
‘Righty-ho!’ says Mr Wilkinson. ‘I’ll try anything once. Where do you want me?’
‘Sit at the dressing table,’ I say. Rex Wilkinson does as I suggest and I kneel down behind him and slide my arms round his neck.
‘Ooh, that’s nice,’ he says, wriggling his shoulders.
‘Please, Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to concentrate. I can’t remember whether it goes over or under.’
‘Let’s try both,’ says my client, rubbing his hands together.
‘Dad. What you doing?’ The voice is shrill and accusing and belongs to Courtenay Wilkinson who is watching us from the door.
‘Er-hem. Rose is helping me tie my bow tie,’ says Mr Wilkinson, sounding uncomfortable. He removes my arms from around his neck and stands up. ‘Go back to bed!’
‘Daddy can’t do it,’ I say with a bright friendly smile. Courtenay looks at me with distrust and loathing in his eyes and then turns his gaze on his father.
‘Are you going to teach her to do press-ups like Aunty Brenda?’ he asks.
Mr Wilkinson turns scarlet. ‘Back to your room!’ he shouts. ‘I don’t want another word out of you. Rose will be along to tuck you up in a minute.’
‘Don’t want Rose. Want Mummy.’ Courtenay’s lip is trembling.
‘You heard what I said!’ Mr Wilkinson strides across the room to confront Courtenay and receives an expertly delivered kick in the shins – Courtenay Wilkinson must be one of the only children in the country with steel toe-caps in his slippers. There is a brief struggle and Courtenay is overpowered and carried from the room. A door slams and the sound of his screams and curses becomes more muffled. Mr Wilkinson returns looking even more harassed.
‘I knew those bloody karate lessons were a mistake – excuse my French,’ he says. ‘Teaching those two unarmed combat was like issuing the Manchester United fans with flame throwers.’ He realises that he may be creating the wrong impression and pounds his hands together briskly. ‘Not that there’s anything basically wrong with the boys, of course. Just normal high-spirited lads.’ He has to raise his voice so that I can hear the last bit over the rising tide of Courtenay’s screams. Benedict appears to be howling as well. Mr Wilkinson looks at his watch. ‘Good heavens! Is that the time? I’m going to miss the curtain if I don’t hurry.’
‘What about your tie?’ I say. ‘Do you want me to have another – – ’
‘No.’ Mr Wilkinson shoots a worried glance towards the boys’ room. ‘I don’t think so. They get funny ideas in their heads sometimes. I’ll do it on the way. Help yourself to a drink if you want one. The telly is straightforward and everything is where you’d expect to find it in the kitchen.’ He squeezes my hand and lowers his voice confidentially. ‘You’re a very attractive girl, do you know that? I hope we have you again.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘What time will you be back?’
Mr Wilkinson looks thoughtful. ‘Well, let’s see. There’s usually a celebration in the dressing room after the first night. It could be a bit late – say, after midnight. That won’t be too late for you, will it? I expect you’ve stayed up that late before?’ He gives me another Wilkinson wink and I assure him that any time will be all right with me. ‘Don’t worry about the boys,’ he shouts. ‘They’ll settle down in a few minutes.’ He has to shout because that is the only way I am going to hear him. Honestly, I would hate to live next to the Wilkinsons.
I wait hopefully for five minutes after Mr Wilkinson has left the house but the noise level is still unbearable. I will have to do something. ‘Now, now,’ I say, nervously sticking my head round the bedroom door. ‘What’s all this noise about, then? This isn’t going to help us grow up big and strong, is it? You know what they say about sleep before ten?’
Benedict’s tear-filled eyes glow red over the sheets. They look as if they have got a lot of tears left in them. ‘No,’ he says.
‘Oh.’ I try and remember what they do say about sleep before ten. ‘They say it’s very good for you,’ I proffer, lamely.
Courtenay makes a rude noise which just may be natural. ‘I want a drink,’ he says.
‘Water?’ I say.
‘Coca-Cola.’
‘You can’t have a Coca-Cola now,’ I say. ‘It’s very bad for your teeth just before you go to sleep. And all those bubbles will give you the colly-wobbles.’
‘What’s colly-wobbles?’ says Courtenay.
‘Diarrhoea,’ says Benedict. ‘You’ve got that.’
‘No, I haven’t!’
‘Yes, you have!’
‘No, I haven’t!!’
‘How about a nice story?’ I say. ‘Do you know the one about Little Red Riding Hood?’
‘She gets rubbed out by the CIA,’ says Benedict smugly.
‘Not in my version,’ I say. ‘There’s this nasty old wolf – – ’
‘He’s not a wolf, he’s an FBI man,’ says Courtenay contemptuously. ‘He figures that Riding Hood is a subversive misappropriating funds earmarked for underdeveloped countries so he liquidates her.’
‘Where did you get all that from?’ I ask him.
‘From the book that Daddy reads us.’ Benedict hands me a thick volume entitled Nursery Stories with a Modern Message.
‘All right,’ I say, thumbing through it. ‘What about How Cinderella hit the Big Time?’
In the end we settle for Ali Baba and the Forty Investment Analysts and by the time that Ali Baba has been boiled in North Sea oil and the investment analysts have drawn up a tentative, outline, provisional, non-binding contract with a pilchard packaging plant, the children’s heads are beginning to droop. I pause in the narrative, wait a few moments until I hear the sound of regular breathing and then tiptoe out. Phew! Thank goodness for that. Those stories were so gruesome I was beginning to frighten myself. I am quite glad that I have got the remains of the strong gin that Mr Wilkinson gave me, to buck me up. I have just glugged it down and am reaching for the Radio Times when the telephone rings. It takes me some time to find it because it lives under the flared skirt of a knitted woollen doll and I am slightly flustered as I raise the receiver to my ear. ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘Er – Chingford four three two one.’
‘Rosie, is that you?’
The breathless catch to the voice is immediately known to me.
‘Geoffrey!’ I gasp. ‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I rang up your mother,’ says Geoffrey. ‘Or rather – I rang up you and your mother answered the phone. Home on leave, are you?’
‘Er – no,’ I say. ‘I’ve finished with the army.’
‘I am glad,’ says my old beau. ‘I never thought the WRACs was really you.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Well, Geoffrey, it’s nice to hear your voice. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?’ I cannot help feeling a slight tremor of excitement as I await the answer to my question. My bitter-sweet romance with Geoffrey has waxed and waned over the years and I have never been able to truly analyse my feelings for the man. When he is attentive, I don’t want him. When he is not about, I do. I suppose all women are a bit like that.
‘I’d love to see you,’ says Geoffrey eagerly.
‘Not tonight, surely,’ I say. ‘You know I’m babysitting.’
‘I could pop round for a bit – I mean, for a little while,’ says Geoffrey. ‘Nobody would mind. There’s no need why they should know.’
‘Well – – ’ I pause, waiting to be persuaded. Geoffrey does not say anything. Oh dear, I do wish he would display a little more gumption sometimes. Not enough to do anything untoward, of course, but just enough to be told not to. Sometimes I wonder if anything really did take place behind the heavy roller at the Eastwood Tennis Club after somebody put something in the punch.
‘If you don’t think it’s a good idea I quite understand.’
‘It’s terribly impulsive of you, Geoffrey,’ I say trying not to sound sarcastic. ‘Just for a little while then. You know the address, do you? Fifty-seven, Glastonbury Gardens.’
‘Got it,’ sings out Geoffrey. ‘Super! I’ll be round as soon as I’ve finished marking my balls.’
I put the telephone down and stare thoughtfully into the artificial flame effect of the plastic-bronze cowled simulated teak surround Magi-Glo Gas Fire. One of the buttons on the lilac plastic padding has dropped off but it still throws out a cheerful, heart-lifting glow. It will be interesting to receive Geoffrey in the Wilkinsons’ home. I will be able to imagine that it is our own and gauge a reaction to my long-time boyfriend in a setting which is not dominated by my own or his parents. I immediately start puffing up the cushions and arranging the magazines in a tidy pile. There is no sound from Benedict and Courtenay and when I peep my head round the door they are both lying on their backs with their mouths open and snoring – yes, snoring. I never knew that children snored. Still, I never knew that there were children like Benedict and Courtenay Wilkinson – and that is saying something when you have a sister like Natalie.
I feel quite light-hearted after the gin and take another look in the Wilkinsons’ bedroom. It is fun nosing round other people’s houses, isn’t it? Mrs Wilkinson has a very sexy negligée-type robe and for a moment I flirt with the idea of putting it on to receive Geoffrey. I wonder what he would say – and do? Still, you can’t really behave like that, can you? I wander over to the dressing table and examine the bottles. Mrs Wilkinson certainly has enough perfume. What is this one? ‘Forbidden Love’. Umm. Sounds pretty potent. I remove the stopper and take a sniff. Wow! I wonder what Geoffrey would make of this? No harm in finding out. A little dab won’t be noticed. It will have worn off by the time the Wilkinsons get back. I pop some on my wrists and between my breasts and behind my ears – Geoffrey does not smell very well – I mean, he does not have a very powerful sense of smell – and put the bottle back. I have undone the top two buttons of my blouse in order to apply the perfume and I decide to leave it like that. There can be no harm in subjecting Geoffrey to a little feminine allure. It will be interesting to see if he notices.
I go downstairs and see that Mr Wilkinson has left his gin on the mantelpiece next to the clock set in the side of a carved elephant – I suppose you never forget the time. Ho! Ho! It seems a pity to waste it – the gin, I mean. I take some more ice from the plastic pumpkin and turn on another bar of the gas fire. Live dangerously, Dixon, this could be one of the most important nights of your life. A new career under way and – who knows? – perhaps a proposal of marriage to consider. I may be reading between the lines but I thought that Geoffrey seemed a little pent up and breathless on the phone tonight. As if he had been turning something over in his mind for a long time and come to a decision. What shall I say if he asks me? Now that Captain Rollo D’Arcy of the Royal Horse Guards seems to have gone out of my life for ever, I am not exactly overburdened with suitors. Mum did say wistfully that she wondered when I would be needing a babysitter of my own. Not that I am worried, of course. I have no intention of rushing into marriage with Geoffrey Wilkes unless I am certain that is what I want. Oh dear. It is difficult. If only Geoffrey was a little more exciting and some of the exciting men were a lot more dependable.
Ping pong! Ping pong! The tasteful warble of the doorbell announces that the man of destiny has arrived. Perhaps everything will be revealed when I face him. It is at moments like this that one can really tell. I glance into the frosted gilt mirror with the musical notes in one corner of it and see that my neck and shoulders are flushed. Is it the gin or am I more on edge than I care to admit to myself? I wonder whether to do up the buttons of my blouse and end up by undoing another one. Let it all hang out as I believe they say in America. Just because I have scruples, it does not mean that I have to be ashamed of my body.
I pat my hair into place and go out into the hall just as there is a long blast on the chimes. Impetuous Geoffrey! The signs bode well. I throw open the door and am taken aback to find myself face to face with Mr Wilkinson. His eyes travel from mine down to my breasts and then back again.
‘Hi!’ he says. ‘I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you.’ His eyes go back to my breasts again and I raise a nervous hand to my throat.
‘Mr Wilkinson! I wasn’t expecting you for hours.’
‘Just thought I’d nip back and see that everything was all right.’ He takes a deep sniff. ‘Uuuum! That perfume is fantastic. You must tell me what it’s called so I can buy some for my wife.’ He holds my arm lightly and presses his nose to my hair. ‘Whew! I don’t expect it would smell the same on her, though.’
‘Very likely,’ I say. ‘How’s the play going? You don’t want to miss an exciting bit.’
‘I realised I’d seen it,’ says Mr Wilkinson, heading for the lounge with me trailing after him. ‘The minute the curtain went up I said, “I know, the butler does it.” That’s the trouble with having them all on the telly. You’re robbed of any suspense. Drink?’
‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘But won’t your wife be expecting you to be there?’
‘I’ll roll up at the end,’ says Wilkinson, half filling two tumblers with gin. ‘She won’t notice the difference. She doesn’t like me back stage between acts. In fact, to tell you the truth, she doesn’t like me very much anywhere.’
‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘I am sorry.’
‘There’s nothing to be sorry about,’ says Mr Wilkinson. ‘We’re modern people living in a modern world. We respect each other’s freedoms. I don’t mind her theatricals – and all that goes with it – and she doesn’t mind if I have the occasional fling.’
‘That’s – er, probably very sensible,’ I say. Oh dear. It is going to be so embarrassing if Geoffrey suddenly turns up.
‘I think so,’ says Mr Wilkinson shoving a glass into my hand. ‘I mean, let’s face it, you are drawn to people in this life, aren’t you? It doesn’t matter if you’re married or not. People are only human.’
‘Very true,’ I say. Maybe I had better mention Geoffrey. It would be much easier if I did. I wouldn’t feel so guilty. ‘Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘Would you mind if I had my boyfriend here?’
My client’s eyes widen in interest. ‘I see you think about these things too,’ he says. ‘No, I wouldn’t mind. Not as long as you respected the place and tidied up afterwards. I don’t like to find anything that would embarrass the children.’ It occurs to me that Mr Wilkinson might have misunderstood my question but I don’t have time to correct any wrong impressions. ‘Better have a look at the little chaps, hadn’t we?’ he says. ‘Bring your drink.’ I glance at my glass and am surprised to see that I appear to have drunk half of it. Just shows how nervous I am.
‘I’m quite all right,’ I say. ‘Everything’s under control. Don’t feel you have to stay on my account.’
‘You’re a girl it’s very easy to stay with,’ says Mr Wilkinson, taking my arm. ‘I believe we think alike, you and I. If we want something enough, we take it. We don’t hold back.’
Is it my imagination, or do I hear the squeal of brakes outside the house? The last car that Geoffrey owned had very squeaky brakes.
‘Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘I’m worried about your wife – – ’
‘You needn’t be,’ says my client, steering me up the stairs. ‘She hasn’t finished the second act yet. She’ll be out of the way for hours.’
‘I mean, I’m worried about her not having your support.’
‘I don’t wear one. Anyway, what good would it be to her?’ Mr Wilkinson chuckles at his joke and I begin to despair – especially when he marches me into the double bedroom. ‘Ooh!’ he says. ‘That scent. It belongs in the boudoir, it really does, I hardly know how to control myself.’
‘But you must control yourself, Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘Your little children may be stirring restlessly down the corridor.’
‘They sleep like logs once they go off,’ husks my client. ‘Oh, you’re beautiful. I really do fancy you.’ Just in case I do not believe him, he pulls me towards him and attempts a clumsy embrace. Of course, I struggle with every ounce of strength I possess but it is amazing how strong he is. All I succeed in doing is causing us to fall across the bed. ‘That’s better,’ he says. ‘Oh yes. You’re really something.’ I can’t answer because his mouth is suffocating mine like a chloroform pad – or, in Wilkinson’s case, a bathmat soaked in gin. What a terrible moment to feel myself going suddenly dizzy. I should never have bolted back those gins.
Mr Wilkinson is clearly not a man who beats about the bush and one of his hands plunders my panties like a gorilla fumbling in a Christmas pudding for a silver threepenny bit.
‘Mr Wilkinson!’ I exclaim, wrenching my mouth free. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? What about the children?’
‘If you stop wriggling about they won’t hear anything, will they?’
Wilkinson’s words fill me with a new fear. I can just imagine the effect on the deadly duo of seeing me grappling with their father on the family bed. There have already been unfortunate references to Aunty Brenda – whoever she may be. Exposure to such a sight could cause untold psychological damage and possibly affect their whole lives. It might even turn them into sex maniacs – everybody has to start somewhere. In the circumstances, is it fair for me to resist? Could it perhaps be said that I was self-centred if I brought my knee up sharply into Rex Wilkinson’s soft centre? While I ponder these important points I have declared a ceasefire on the resistance front and my client’s fingers take the opportunity to make considerable inroads into that most intimate of garments which a girl may wear to protect her most precious possession. If I don’t make up my mind soon, there will be nothing left to decide except whether to include a service charge on my bill.
‘For the last time, Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘Please stop!’ You can’t be much firmer than that, can you? Not without being rude.
