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‘Ladies please!!’
‘– perming a little kiddy’s hair.’
‘– looks more natural than yours!’
‘Baggage!’
‘Slut!!’
And, so help me, all the Mums start bashing the living daylights out of each other. Dominic and his assistants are spreadeagled protectively over their switches while Rose is trying to get into the studio with the rest of the mothers holding her back. Rising above this unseemly din can be heard the strains of ‘Dance to your Daddy, My Little Laddie’ sung by a very fat gentleman with a paunch so large that it looks as if he would have great difficulty getting into a position from which to achieve parenthood.
As always in situations like this I do not know what to do. To break into the studio seems like running stark naked into the audience chamber of the Vatican shouting ‘The Pope’s a Jew!’ and the sight of birds indulging in a punch-up freezes me to the marrow. The shenanigans in the control room are not going unnoticed by our studio panel and I am reassured about the state of Jason’s health when I see his face split into a wide grin at the sight of Rosie swiping another Mum around the kisser with her handbag. Only Miss Mealie is looking disturbed and I can see that Ralph must be able to contact her because she suddenly leaps up and tries to snatch the pills from Jason’s hands. Jason is not the kind of lad to take this treatment lying down and from what I can see on the central monitor screen, part two of the programme opens with the interesting sight of Miss Mealie and one of her little charges wrestling across the desk.
‘Dey my sweeties! My sweeties!’ screeches the treacherous little Jason. ‘My Uncle Timmy gave them to me.’
‘You swine!’ Rosie rounds on me immediately. ‘You’d stop at nothing to get on that programme, wouldn’t you?’
‘Now, Rosie, don’t be ridiculous –’
‘Poison your own nephew!’
‘Rosie. It was an accident. I thought they were the kid’s sweets. They haven’t done him any harm. Look!’
Miss Mealie has succeeded in wresting the pills from Jason and is quick to shove a couple past her own sensuous lips. No doubt she needs them. ‘Um, delicious!’ she pipes. ‘Would you like one of mine?’
Before Jason can think about it she pushes a packet of gob-stoppers along the desk and little Greedy Guts is on them like a flash. He is obviously the same stickler for principle as his Dad.
‘There, that’s all right then, isn’t it?’ I say, relieved. Miss Mealie clearly thinks so too.
‘Right, now here’s a question from Pauline Rogers of Twenty-four Crowmart Lane, Dagenham. She wants to know what the panel’s Daddies do when they come home in the evening. Who would like to answer that one? Jason?’
But Jason is not expressing a willingness to answer any questions. He now is looking very thoughtful and Miss Mealie has to probe. ‘I expect you’re glad to see Daddy when he comes home in the evenings. What do you do?’ She leans forward expectantly and Jason clears his throat and vomits all over the desk.
Chapter Two (#u60588bb1-0b50-5f2c-94f6-db7c88e697be)
‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ says Miss Mealie.
‘I think it made the whole programme very relevant,’ says Dominic soothingly. ‘It was terribly “now”. That’s what tellyvision is all about.’
We are in the saloon bar of the pub opposite the studio having what Dominic calls an ‘unwinding drinkypoo’ and I am wondering if one is going to be enough to get out all the twists.
‘Does your sister often behave like that?’ asks Miss Mealie.
‘You mean like when she threw me through the glass window?’
‘I was thinking of when she tried to strangle you with the microphone lead.’
‘She took evening classes in karate. That’s where she got the technique, she always had the temper.’
‘Remarkable. I sometimes think these programmes bring out the worst in the mothers.’
‘They don’t do a lot for the kiddies either,’ I say, gingerly rubbing the ankle that Jason tried to separate from the rest of my leg.
‘I won’t miss him,’ says Miss Mealie with feeling. ‘I don’t think I offend you too much when I say that?’
‘Oh no,’ I agree, ‘I wouldn’t miss him if I was looking down the sights of a rifle.’
Miss M. takes another hefty swig at her brandy and I signal for the barman to repair it.
‘He has some very nasty habits. He never went to the toilet, you know. When we came to check his locker we found out why.’
‘We had the same trouble with the broom cupboard at home,’ I say. ‘Mum used to think it was the cat. She belted the living daylights out of the poor bleeder.’
‘What have you got on tonight, Timmy?’ says Dominic suddenly, giving me one of those funny looks, as if he means in the underwear line.
‘Well, I – er,’ Miss Mealie is screwing up her eyes in a ‘don’t do it, buster’ grimace, ‘I’m going out with one of my mates,’ I lie. Miss Mealie nods approvingly.
‘I thought of having a few people round for drinks,’ says Dominic expansively. ‘Why don’t you and your friend drop in?’
‘I think he’s got tickets for something,’ I gulp.
‘Well, afterwards then.’
‘If we don’t get out too late. Ta very much.’
Dominic’s eyes narrow. ‘I hope you’ll be able to make it,’ he says firmly. ‘I want to get this situation regarding the new format straightened out as soon as possible. With us having to replace young Noggett it’s a good moment to introduce a new face at the head of the table.’ He looks at Miss Mealie whose smile is about as natural as a set of orange peel gnashers.
‘Jason is definitely out, is he?’ I ask trying to conceal my satisfaction.
‘Definitely. He’s lost the public’s confidence. They can accept what happened but they won’t want to bite their nails down to the quick waiting for a repetition. It’s not fair on the child, either.’
‘Indeed, no,’ I say, shaking my head gravely.
‘I must be off,’ says Dominic giving my arm a squeeze. ‘I’ve got to chill the crème de menthe. Do hope you will be able to look in later. It will definitely be worth your while. And – er, do bring your friend, there’ll be lots of people. Forty-seven Carmarthen Mews. You won’t forget it, will you?’ He gives a little wink and practically dances out of the pub.
‘The place is riddled with them,’ says Miss Mealie disapprovingly, before he is out of earshot.
‘U-mm,’ I say. It is occurring to me that I might be on the outskirts of a dicey situation. Dominic Ralph may well have a scrambled hormone balance but he is in a position to turn me into a telly star. As the solution to any sexual hang-ups that I feel in the next few minutes, Miss Mealie has a much bigger future, but she is obviously not sobbing with gratitude about the prospect of sharing the billing with Uncle Timmy. Maybe I had better keep the demon lust under control tonight and slip round for an arm distance chat with Dominic later.
‘I never meet a real man these days,’ says Miss Mealie, running her finger round the rim of her glass. ‘Only poofs and snotty little kids.’
‘Don’t you like children?’ I say innocently, sliding her glass towards her.
‘Are you kidding? Hey – did you hear that? Joke.’
‘Fantastic,’ I say.
‘The only thing I hate more than kids is mothers. But then you know that. Do you know what I like?’
’No,’ I lie to her.
She leans forward and whispers in my ear. ‘Does that shock you?’
‘These days, nothing shocks me. It’s funny though, isn’t it? You liking that though you don’t like kids.’
‘It never occurred to me to consider that there might be a connection until you mentioned it. It’s like being told that filling a fountain pen makes babies.’
‘Yes,’ I say. I am coming to the conclusion that Miss Mealie is well on the way to becoming very successfully pissed. This, of course, is sad but not so sad that I am going to lose any sleep about it. In fact I may well be able to use it as the framework of a very pleasant evening. If I take Miss Mealie home and put her to bed – and at a pinch myself – I can then go on to Dominic’s and seal my star status over a pitcher of crème de menthe.
‘You were lucky you managed to talk your way out of going to Dominic’s place,’ says Miss Mealie, colliding with my thoughts. ‘It’s a very kinky set-up. I don’t know who he’s living with at the moment but it’s quite awful, the things that go on there. I know that what people do in the privacy of their own homes is their own affair – or affairs – hey, did you hear that? I made another joke.’
‘Great.’
‘Well, laugh when I make a joke. Haven’t you got a sense of humour?’
‘I laugh a lot inside.’
‘You should let it bubble to the surface a little more often. Anyway, where was I?’
‘You were saying I should laugh more.’
‘No! Stupid. I was telling you about Dominic’s flat. I was saying how awful it is. You’re – er, not like that, are you?’
‘As a clockwork orange. Why do you think I’ve got this far with Dominic? There’s a kind of chemistry between us.’
‘Don’t be stupid! I can tell them a mile off. There’s nothing queer about you.’
‘I don’t think you should say that without proof.’
‘Are you serious? You’re having me on, aren’t you? You think you can talk me into taking you into my bed so that I can prove that you’re not queer.’
‘I’m confused already. Let’s just go to bed.’
‘You’re cool, aren’t you?’
‘You told me what you liked.’
‘I didn’t say anything about you.’
‘That would have been forward.’
Miss Mealie is now walking up the buttons of my shirt with her fingers. She gets to the collar, clambers over my chin, tramples on my lips and ends up on my nose. ‘Bite off your nose!’ she says gaily.
‘Let me take you home,’ I husk.
Five minutes later she has made a tellyphone call and I have poured – and pawed – her into a taxi. This evening had better come to something because it is costing me a fortune. There was a time when a bird could reckon she was in for a good time if I ordered a Babycham and two straws.
‘Oh, I’m feeling a sleepy girl,’ murmurs Miss M, snuggling up to me in the back of the taxi. Not long before I can say the same, I think to myself and try not to watch the meter ticking up. By the cringe, but it seems to move faster than the last column on a posh mileometer. At this rate I am going to have to thumb a lift home.
Home. The word makes me feel nervous. Even as I sit here Mum and Rosie are probably propping a vat of boiling oil above the front door. Jason’s golden future in ruins and all because Uncle Timmy slipped him a phial of Micky Phinns. That is what they are going to believe anyway, and little rat fink Jason is not going to come to nunky’s aid. Maybe it would be a good idea to steer clear of the ancestral pile for a few days. Until I am an established star in my own right. Once my mug appears on the screen, Mum at least will forgive all.
‘Here we are, mate,’ says the taxi driver.
‘It’s right next to the tube!’ I say, aggrieved.
‘Yeah. You want me to move it into the middle of Hyde Park for you?’
‘It would have been just as quick by tube.’
‘Yeah, well you’re here now, Rockefeller. There’s a pie stall round the corner if you want to take the lady out to dinner.’
‘Are we there?’ says Miss Mealie, waking up.
‘’Ere! I know you don’t I?’ says the cabby, registering Miss Mealie’s face. ‘You’re on the telly, aren’t you? My kiddies all watch your programme.’
‘How nice,’ says Miss M.
‘Yeah. And my little Trampas has got a birthday next week. Do you reckon you could read out his name?’
‘Drop me a postcard at the studio and I’ll see what I can do.’ Miss Mealie delivers a royal smile and sweeps into the block of flats. The taxi driver is so bowled over that he does not even examine the miserably small tip I have given him.
‘She’s a lady, that one,’ he says, looking me up and down as if I am not fit to dust her microphone lead.
‘A real pro.’ I agree with him and follow Miss M. into the flat. This kind of reverence could become habit-forming. I cannot think why I have never considered show-biz before.
‘ “Trampas”! Did you hear that?’ sniffs Miss M. when I join her in the lift. ‘We had one mother write in whose brat was called Ajax.’
‘He might have been named after the football team.’
‘I don’t think so. We got a letter about his sister next week. She was called Vimia.’ Miss Mealie shudders. ‘God, but I need a drink. You’re coming in, are you?’
Try and stop me, I think. The investment I have made this evening should entitle me to a season ticket.
We leave the lift and walk down a corridor long enough to house a rifle range before stopping outside a door with two hundred and forty-seven on it. I am feeling the excitement I feel before the start of a football match. I know what to do, it is just a question of manoeuvring myself into a position to do it. Miss Mealie inserts her key and pushes open the door. Very nice too. Lots of polished wood furniture and spotlights, and a thick white carpet.
‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ I say, ‘and here – and here.’
‘Down, tiger.’ Miss M. disentangles herself from my probing fingers. ‘Let’s have a drink first.’
‘I like the ‘first’. That must be a good sign.
‘What would you like?’ she says.
‘Scotch would be fine.’
‘Ice, water?’
‘Just water, thanks.’
