Confessions of a Plumber’s Mate

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We have gone through to the mod kitchen and Mrs F throws off her coat and gets down to the teapot in a blaze of spotlights. It reminds me of one of those ads in the women’s monthly glossies. Birds always seem to be doing the housework in evening dresses.

Some might be surprised by the turn of events but it is amazing how people, especially women, suddenly start telling you their life history after a few moments’ acquaintance. I find it difficult to believe my ears sometimes.

‘I don’t think Crispin is very interested in women,’ continues Imogen, reaching for a very ancient-looking biscuit tin – blimey! I hope the biscuits aren’t that old. ‘Not sexually, I mean. Has your brother-in-law said anything to you about it?’

‘What? About your husband? No, why should he?’

‘I think Crispin finds him rather attractive.’

‘Sid?!’ The mind boggles. I never saw Clapham’s answer to Paul Newman as a lighthouse for gingers.

‘I think it’s latent, mind you.’

I look at my watch. ‘Yes, it is a bit, isn’t it?’

Mrs Fletcher shakes her head and pours the hot water into the pot. ‘You probably have no idea what I’m talking about. Your sister’s talked to me about you.’ The two remarks seem contradictory but I don’t say anything. I find that when birds are in this mood it is best to let them do the talking. ‘She intimated that you’d led a very protected childhood.’

I am not quite certain what Rosie could have meant by that. Maybe she was referring to the short period I spent giving Her Majesty pleasure at Bentworth Grange. I suppose I was protected then, though I seem to recall the beak saying that he was bent on protecting other people. I reckon he was bent himself, stupid old bleeder! Putting me away for helping in a slum clearance scheme – that’s what it was! I swear to this day that I never thought I was stealing when I helped take the lead off that old building. If anything, I was easing the load on the foundations. Of course, it could have been that Rosie was referring to my sexual innocence. It is amazing how your relations can fool themselves. Especially when they are like Rosie – ravers to the bitter end.

‘I wouldn’t say I was all that protected,’ I say. ‘Ta.’ I accept a cup of tea and Imogen pushes the sugar bowl towards me. ‘I have an artificial sweetener,’ she says. She smiles when she speaks as if enjoying a private joke. I wonder what she is talking about?

‘Come through to the sitting room.’ I do as I am told and follow her into a room with a big bay window and a huge circular lantern that goes up and down on a pulley. Some of the bits of sculpture I wouldn’t hang Dad’s collection of gas masks on, but it’s purely a question of taste. It goes to back up what I was saying earlier about terms of reference. ‘Is it a problem being a good boy?’ she says, patting the sofa beside her.

Now, I know I am going to appear stupid when I say this, but it has never occurred to me up till now that this smashing bird is looking for what I would only be too pleased to give her. I can’t reckon that a lovely tart like that could ever fancy me buttering her tea cake. Even now I am not certain.

‘I’m not very good,’ I say. You don’t want to believe everything Rosie tells you. Sisters don’t always know, you know.’ I try and take a crafty gander at my watch but she notices immediately. She doesn’t miss much, this bird.

‘Worried about getting back?’ she says. ‘Don’t bother yourself about Crispin. He’ll be quite happy talking about false walls or curtain lengths.’ It occurs to me that Imogen Fletcher is a lot more worried about Crispin Fletcher than I am. She never stops talking about the bloke.

‘I was thinking of Mum and Dad, actually,’ I say. ‘I expect they’ll want to be getting back soon. The last bus goes soon.’

‘You’re not going to take him on the bus?! Not in that condition?’

‘No, I suppose you’re right. Sid will have to run us home.’

‘Your father delivers a compliment very forceably.’ Mrs Fletcher touches the front of her dress thoughtfully.

‘Actions speak louder than words with Dad,’ I say. ‘At least, sometimes they do.’

‘At least you know you’re wanted.’

‘Er – yes,’ I gulp.

‘You’re not just a hollow clothes horse.’

‘Er – no.’ I gulp – I gulp easily in either direction. Mrs Fletcher takes the cup and saucer from my hand and pushes them under the settee. It is funny her doing that because I have not finished.

‘Will you do something for me before you go?’ she says.

Take the budgie for a walk? Wash up the tea things? ‘Yeah,’ I say.

‘Kiss me.’ My expression obviously shows her how startled I am. ‘Kiss me goodnight.’ She says it like the motivation will make it easier for me.

‘Of course I will.’ She turns her head to one side as she tucks her own teacup out of sight and then swings round so that her sensational mouth is hovering before mine. Once again I allow myself to be mesmerised by those dimples and that tonk-tweaking tremble of the roses (rose hips: lips. Ed). She rests a hand lightly against my shoulder and we kiss. And kiss. And kiss. I don’t know what the Guinness Book of Records says about kissing – probably nothing, knowing Ross and Truss – but this delicate and highly charged snog is more like a butterfly helping itself to pollen than an old fashioned lip-bashing. Very gentle and very satisfying – and very effective, too. I think I am more aroused by gentle snogging than the swallow-your-neighbour variety. Percy rises like one of those speeded-up films of the life cycle of a cucumber and if I walked out in the street the bulge in my trousers could get me arrested for carrying a deadly weapon. Oh, what a delicious north and south this bird has. It is like kissing a pitless crumpet. Soft and so, so warm. Honestly, it is tinglesville, folks.

While we kiss, her hand is crumpling up the lapel of my denim jacket and it is obvious that there are strong passions stirring beneath the surface – I could certainly lend them something to stir with, as I have already indicated. Not wishing that percy should keep the secret of his infatuation to himself, I pull Mrs Fletcher towards me and turn so that my love cosh is nuzzling her thigh through a couple of layers of unwanted material. If she does not know what is happening then she must reckon that I am smuggling baseball bats.

‘Oh!’ she says, closing her eyes and showing her teeth as she lets out a long shiver. ‘Do you feel it?’

I was about to ask her the same question but I keep quiet and nod my head up and down. ‘I think you’re very beautiful,’ I say.

‘Do you?’ She sounds really chuffed about the idea.

‘Yes.’ Nobody in their right mind or my position would say differently, would they?

‘I feel guilty about taking advantage of you to satisfy my needs.’

This statement does not surprise me. Birds have always got to go through a short period of self-accusation before they hit the sack with you for the first time. It doesn’t usually last long and can be made even shorter if you step in with the right measure of justification. ‘You’re not taking advantage of me,’ I say. ‘I’d love to make love to you.’ This is something of an understatement as my throbbing muffin-duffer will bear witness.

‘But you’re Rosie’s brother.’

‘I’m likely to be somebody’s brother,’ I say. ‘Ooh! You are beautiful!’

I kiss her again and let the palm of my hand plane her thigh. She slips her hand inside my jacket and slides it round my waist so that it rests in the small of my back. Pausing at knee level I start to tug up her long skirt while she hauls my shirt out of my waist-band. We might be working together to raise a curtain. I suppose, in a way, we are. Percy is certainly ready to hog the centre of the stage and after I have made a few preliminary passes along the inside of Imogen’s thighs it is obvious that the supporting cast are ready for the entrance of Super Star. There is certainly no danger of anyone drying up. Leaning back against the settee I whip down my zipper and let Show Stopper cop the limelight. Sometimes it is favourite to coax him in from the wings but there are moments when too much finesse can be a waste of time. This is clearly one of them. Imogen shows me the back of her neck before you can say ‘Roger Carpenter’ and I find myself digging my fingers deep between the cushions on the settee in an effort to keep a grip on myself. ‘Oh – no – OH!’ I gasp. It is like being plugged into a velvet light socket. Socket and see, is all I can say to those who wish to know more about the experience.

My desperate cries bring Imogen to my lips. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean to shock you.’

‘It’s not that,’ I say. ‘It’s – oh, let’s get on the carpet!’

The lady is clearly suffering from nunga-hunger, there is no doubt about it. Whipping the lantern down to ground level so that the room is in semi-darkness, she reaches behind her and steps out of her dress in one movement. I don’t watch what happens next because I am bent double trying to get my shoes off. Isn’t it amazing how your shoe laces always foul up during those romantic moments? When I am next in a position to cop an eyeful of the glorious blonde creature she is stretched out beside the lantern, the pattern of its light tattooed over her naked body. ‘Take me!’ she moans.

In my present mood of reckless enthusiasm I could easily leave her a couple of feet behind but I control my impetuosity and enter her no faster than I would the last bus home if there was strong competition for places. Now comes the difficult part. To say that I am exceptionally aroused is to put it mildly but I am aware of the golden maxim: ‘Easy come, easy no get invited back for a second whack at the crack’. I must control myself. This lady is very, very beautiful and I must make the most of the privilege that Dame Fortune has conferred upon me.

‘Oh, lordy, lordy!’ she murmurs. ‘That’s good, that’s good!’ I get the feeling that this is her first appointment with the groin greyhound for some time, and the way she is clinging on to me lends weight to the thought. Her legs are crossed round the small of my back and I don’t think it is just for luck.