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‘Don’t you want to see Rosie?’
‘Very much, Sid. But she is my sister. Use a bit of common. I haven’t exactly been fêted with crumpet over the last three months. Just to see a bird is a new sensation.’
Sid shakes his head. ‘I’d have thought that gang bang at the nick would have done you for three years. I don’t know. In front of your own Mum and Dad, too.’
‘It wasn’t my fault, Sid. I was stoned, wasn’t I? We all were. It could have happened to anyone.’
‘Yeah. But when that bird climbed on the table–’
‘I’ve told you before, Sid. I don’t remember anything about it.’
My bird has got up now and looks as if she is about to follow her mate out of the pub. She gives me a real ‘come and get it’ look and goes into the ladies.
‘That bloke is smiling at you again,’ I lie.
‘Right, I’m off,’ says Sid, hurriedly. ‘You’re not coming, then?’
‘No, I’ll find my own way back. Give Dad a heart attack by telling him I’ve gone down the Labour.’
Sid pushes off and I take a quick butcher’s at myself in the mirror above the bar. My hair is a bit on the short side and I certainly have lost a lot of weight. Lean and hungry – very hungry. What am I going to say to the bird? A lot depends on whether I can catch her eye when she comes out of the khasi. If we have got a nice little smile going, then it doesn’t matter what I say. Hang on, here she comes.
The little darling slips out of the toilet and, without taking my eyes off her, I coolly raise the water jug to my lips and take a sip from it. I realise my mistake when the spout collides with my cakehole. Typical, isn’t it? Bleeding Cary Grant never has my luck. The bird does a double take and before I can get back on track some other geezer wanders over and starts chatting her up. Together they walk to the door and in the space of a few cruel seconds my plans seem doomed to failure. I am so distressed that I take a giant swig from the water jug when meaning to knock back my beer.
‘It tastes stronger than the piss you serve,’ I say to the barman who is giving me an old-fashioned look, and move swiftly out of the boozer. All is not lost because my bird has separated from the bloke she was with and is walking towards a sports car. An MGB, no less. Can’t be bad, can it? Only the best is good enough for Lea. Now what am I going to say to her? For a moment I cannot think of anything and then a giant wave of inspiration drenches me.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, belting to her side as her hand collides with the door handle. ‘I wonder if you could help me?’
She gazes into my face and I am conscious that she must have been away on holiday or under a sunray lamp. There are little flecks of white at the corner of her eyes.
‘What do you want?’
‘My mate has just gone off without his keys. I meant to give them back to him and I forgot. Do you think you could catch him up? He’s only been gone a couple of minutes.’
‘Won’t he come back when he finds he hasn’t got them?’
‘He’s going to Brighton, you see.’
‘Oh, dear. Well, you’d better get in, hadn’t you?’ She slips inside the car and stretches across to open the door and – by the cringe! I darn near cream my jeans. The mixture of tit and exposed thigh is powerful stuff to a man in my position.
‘Which way would he have gone?’
‘Across the common, I reckon.’ The MGB rips away, leaving behind a small smear of tyre rubber and I am thrown back into my bucket seat.
‘Do you live around here?’ asks my companion.
‘All my life!’ I say, trying to sound proud rather than defensive.
‘We’ve only just moved in. We used to have a flat in Surbiton but it was a bit far out. Do I turn right here?’
‘Left,’ I say. I am feeling a bit short on words because we have pulled up at some traffic lights and Sidney is in the car beside us.
‘Tell me when you see any sign of him,’ says my unsuspecting friend.
‘I will.’ I lean across behind her and give Sid a friendly wave. He does not say anything but just watches, open-mouthed, as our car roars away. It is a very satisfying moment and one that I know I am going to cherish in the long winter nights to come.
‘Do you think we’ve come the right way?’
‘I think we may have lost him,’ I say, trying to sound really broken up about it.
‘Do you want me to take you back to The Highwayman in case he’s gone back there?’
‘Er–yes.’ I should sound more enthusiastic but I am not eager to say goodbye to the lady so soon. ‘Sure it’s not taking you out of your way too much?’
‘Oh, no. If he’s not there you can come back to the flat and phone Brighton.’
‘Brighton?’
‘You said that was where he was going. Have you got the number?’
‘Oh, yes.’ I pull myself together. If it means getting into the bird’s flat, of course I have the number.
‘I suppose I can trust you, can I?’
Whenever a bird says that you can reckon that you are in like Flynn. What she is really saying is: ‘Please make it perfectly clear that I can’t trust you so that I know I’m not wasting my time with some goody-goody creep.’
‘Worried about the ash-trays, are you?’ I say, giving her the chance to spell it out.
‘Not only that. You read some very disconcerting things in the papers. A girl isn’t safe these days.’
Not if she wears no bra and a nylon blouse through which you could read the small print on a hire purchase agreement. Talk about man-made fibres, more like man-mad, if you ask me. And her perfume doesn’t exactly act as a repellent either.
‘You’re safe with me,’ I leer, delivering the famous Lea slow burn with a couple of ounces of nostril quiver chucked in at no extra charge.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Timothy Lea. What’s yours?’
‘Elspeth Jones. But my friends call me Elly.’
‘Very unusual name, Elspeth.’
‘I hate it. My mother got it out of a romantic novel she was reading when I was born.’
‘My Mum was like that with Timothy. She reckoned it was very genteel – I used to get the mickey taken out of me something dreadful at school.’
‘Children can be very unkind, can’t they?’ says Mrs Jones, sympathetically. All the omens bode well for a nooky fest, the more so when The Highwayman hoves in sight without Sidney’s ugly mug decorating the front of it There is no reason why he should be there but with Sidney you never know. He can turn up with all the unwelcome inevitability of brewer’s droop on your wedding night.
‘His car isn’t here,’ I say, trying to sound disappointed. ‘Oh, dear.’
‘What a shame.’ Mrs Jones is a good actress too. ‘Well, you can use my phone if you want to.’
‘If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.’ We look into each other’s eyes for a couple of naughty moments and I can feel Percy stirring like a hibernating rock python that has just felt the first shaft of spring sunshine fall across its resting place after a long hard winter. Putting it another way, I reckon I am going to be up her faster than a rat up a drain pipe.
‘It’s not far.’ Mrs Jones puts her foot down and the edges of my seat nearly touch in front of me. I wonder if she always drives like this. Probably suffering from an attack of Lea-lust. Who can blame her? My confinement in the clink must have ushered in a period of strain for quite a few birds.
The Jones pad is very much what I might have expected. Fill it with water and you would have the world’s largest aquarium. I have nothing against glass but my fondness for it does not extend much beyond windows. I do not want the whole world gawping at me every time I scratch my action man kit.
‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ I say, looking at the spot where her legs meet. Mrs Jones pulls her skirt in the direction of her knees and noses her vehicle on to its slab of concrete.
‘I think it’s going to go up,’ she says. I assume she is talking about the value of the flat, but she might just be a mind reader.
‘How many girls do you share this with?’ It is obvious that she is married but all birds are flattered if you think they are just out of blue serge knickers.
‘I’m an old married woman,’ she says. ‘Three years.’
‘Three years? Good heavens, you hardly look past the age of consent.’
I have no idea what this is – probably about ten nowadays – but Mrs J. gets my drift.
‘I don’t know whether you mean that, but you’ve no idea how nice it is to receive a compliment again. I’d almost forgotten what it was like.’
‘Surely your husband tells you you’re attractive?’
‘Yes, but it’s not the same coming from him, is it?’
Sorry about that fellows, but once you have signed up with a bird you are on a hiding to nothing. If you don’t tell her she is beautiful she will say that she might as well be dead because you never take any notice of her. Tell her that she is the most gorgeous bit of crumpet under the sun and she will say that your love is stifling her. There never is a right way with women.
‘What does your husband do?’ I ask as we trip through the foyer and discover that the lift is out of order. A toffee-nosed middle-aged woman is standing beside it and she looks at me as if she can read my mind and does not like some of the four-letter words she finds there.
‘He works in an advertising agency.’ The middle-aged hag looks even more disgusted.
‘That must be very interesting.’ We start walking up the stairs and Lady Shagnasty’s eyes follow us like a couple of bloodshot private detectives. I turn round, screw up my face and throw her a big, wet kiss which shows her most of the inside of my lips. She turns away hurriedly.
‘I don’t know about interesting. They certainly get their money’s worth out of him. I hardly see him. And when I do he’s too exhausted to do anything but flop down in front of the telly. He brings home work at weekends and he’s always cutting things out of the papers. It drives me mad. I’m right in the middle of something and then, suddenly, there’s a great big hole.’
‘I know the feeling,’ I say sympathetically. ‘My sister used to be like that. All the pop stars went, and the stuff on three pages behind.’
We have so much in common, Mrs Jones and I. We must have been doomed for each other.
‘Here we are.’ Mrs Jones stops outside the door of Flat Number 69 and blushes. I do not know whether this is because the digits suggest something to her naughty little mind or because there is a red rose resting between the two yellow-top milk bottles.
‘I have a very passionate milkman,’ she says. ‘He is always leaving me things.’ I wonder why? I think to myself. My experiences as a window cleaner showed me that there are quite a few passionate customers about as well. Mrs Jones could well fit into that category. She strikes me as being quite a self-possessed lady and is quick to prove the point,
‘One disadvantage of living in this place is the neighbours,’ she says. ‘They’re always trying to organise your life for you. Maintenance committees for the lawn, sub-committees to decide what colour the flats should be painted. Nobody is allowed to be an individual.’
‘I wouldn’t like that,’ I agree with her.
‘I live my own life. I have my own set of values and I don’t give a hang what anyone else thinks.’
‘Very understandable.’
‘I wouldn’t have got married under any other conditions. I told Brian: “I demand to retain my freedom.” If I want to take a lover, that’s my affair. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Er–yes. Yes thanks.’ For some strange reason a faint feeling of nervousness comes over me. Mrs Jones is obviously one of those strong, passionate outspoken ladies who are filling the pubs with nervous men looking over their shoulders every time the door opens.
‘Nobody in this place would understand that. They conform utterly. Did you see that old harridan by the lift?’
‘You mean the vacuum cleaner?’
‘No! The woman who was looking at us as if she reckoned we were going to be at it like knives the minute we got through the door.’ She gazes at me and I swallow hard. It is bloody stupid but when she talks like that I feel quite embarrassed. I prefer to make the running while the bird traces ‘Lea is fabulous’ on a window steamed up by her own heavy breathing.
‘Do you like milk and sugar?’
‘Yes please. Two spoonfuls.’
‘The telephone is over there.’
I say ta very much and look up the dialling code for Brighton.
‘You can have something stronger if you like.’ She says it like she reckons I need something stronger.
‘No thanks. Tea is fine.’
‘She’s typical.’
‘Typical?’
‘The woman by the lift.’
‘Oh yes.’ Mrs Jones has sat down beside me and I should be feeling as chuffed as a bog with two pails. Damn it all! I haven’t had a bit for three months. The bird is distinctly fanciable and hardly giving indications of having her legs bound together with Sellotape. What is the matter with me?
‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘Have you found the dialling code?’
‘Yes thanks.’ I dial the code and the first numbers that come into my head.
‘Good morning. Hang Chow Chinese Noodle Palace,’ says a voice that sounds as if it comes from somewhere a good deal further east than Wapping Broad Steps.
‘Hello, Sid. Is that you? Oh, no. It can’t be can it?’ Not unless Sid has got down by one of those speeded up films they show on the telly.
‘Hang Chow Chin–’ continues the voice patiently.
‘Tell Sid I’ve got his keys, will you. I’ll hang on to them until I see him. I think there’s a spare set in the top right-hand drawer of the desk.’
The voice at the other end of the line is beginning to get agitated.
