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Confessions of an Ice Cream Man
Timothy Lea
The women melted at his feet - one lick at a time!Available for the first time on ebook, the classic sex comedy from the 70s.Its amazing what Ice Cream men will do just to sell a 99 Flake…Tina is kneeling in front of Clare and leaning forward threateningly and I sense that aggro is just seconds away.In such an explosive situation a man has to stay cool, think fast, and arrive at a split-second decision. I reach for my y-fronts and start to pull them on. If you start by saving yourself that’s always one life on the credit side.‘You ! ! ! ! –’‘Now girls,’ I say. ‘You musn’t –’ I reach for my trousers and turn round to see – blimey!Also Available in the Confessions… series:CONFESSIONS FROM A HOLIDAY CAMPCONFESSIONS OF AN ICE CREAM MANCONFESSIONS FROM THE CLINKand many more!
Tina is kneeling in front of Clare and leaning forward threateningly and I sense that aggro is but just split seconds away. In such an explosive situation a man has to stay cool, I think fast, and arrive at a split-second decision. I reach for my y-fronts and start to pull them on. If you start by saving yourself that’s always one life on the credit side.
‘You ! ! ! ! –’
‘Now girls,’ I say. ‘You musn’t –’ I reach for my trousers and turn round to see – blimey!
CONFESSIONS OF AN ICE CREAM MAN
Timothy Lea
CONTENTS
Title Page (#u71ad15f9-c1ba-5f2c-ac5c-fa821274c0ed)
Chapter One (#ud194dff8-5a6f-530e-a61f-7558b64f6d02)
In which Valentina, an Italian ice cream lady, nearly garrots brother-in-law Sid and proffers exquisite retribution to Timmy after an unpromising beginning.
Chapter Two (#ud8c00158-c31c-5c2e-9c74-128456251831)
In which Valentina’s mum arrives and an unexpected love idyll is rudely interrupted.
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy goes to buy some ice cream tricycles and meets dissatisfied, passionate Pam.
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Sid unveils his unique vehicle for selling ice cream and the family attend a taste test of the first batch of Mum’s ice cream.
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy goes down to the library to get some Italian ice cream leaflets translated and becomes involved with Tina and Clare who have come under the Italian influence.
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy prepares to go out on his first sales foray.
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy bumps into Mrs Betty Gregson on the job and is forced to do naughty things with her by a kinky and mistrustful husband.
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy makes an ice cream action painting with an uninhibited lady called Sybil who has an artistic bent and a desire to experiment.
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Sid gets the ice cream concession at the Clapham Open Tennis Tournament and things start to go wrong.
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
In which things continue to go wrong and get even worse when Sid and Timmy find themselves closely involved with Mrs Brewer and her sensitive daughter, Henrietta.
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Sid prepares to exhibit at The International Ice Cream Manufacturers’ Great Exhibition
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
In which everything hinges on the result of the competition for the best ice cream.
Also Available in the Confessions Ebook Series (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
In which Valentina, an Italian ice cream lady, nearly garrots brother-in-law Sid and proffers exquisite retribution to Timmy after an unpromising beginning.
‘Fifty thousand quid a year,’ says Sid.
‘You what?’ I say. I thought he had dropped off over his pint but this is clearly not the case.
‘I’ve just worked it out,’ he says, nodding towards the ice cream van barely visible beneath a pall of kids. ‘That’s what that Frascati geezer is taking home to his old lady and the bambinos. Three a minute at an average of ten pence a time. That’s eighteen quid an hour – make it twenty to keep to round figures. Start around ten and finish at six. That’s a hundred and sixty quid a day. Six-day week. That’s nine hundred and sixty nicker a week. Fifty-two weeks in a year. That’s fifty thousand quid near as damn it.’
‘He’s not working flat out all the time,’ I say. ‘There’s no market in the winter.’
‘He switches to hot dogs and field dressings during the football season,’ says Sid. ‘Even if he was only working half the year that’s twenty-five thousand quid. Can’t be bad. I’ve always said you can’t go wrong flogging nosh – provided you work for yourself, of course.’
‘I never remember you saying that,’ I observe.
‘That’s because you never listen,’ says Sid. ‘You just sit there wondering how long you can hang onto that pint so that you don’t have to buy another one.’
‘I bought the last one!’ I tell him.
‘What does it matter?’ says Sid. ‘You’re so petty. I don’t pay attention to things like that.’
‘That’s what I’m complaining about,’ I say. ‘You’re as tight as a french letter on a bollard.’
‘What a disgusting way to talk,’ says Sid. ‘I don’t know what your bleeding mother would say if she could hear you.’ He drains his pint and sighs. ‘Oh dear, it’s always the foreigners, isn’t it? They’re the only people making any money in this country at the moment. If the Arabs haven’t bought it, it’s only because the Pakistanis and the Chinese won’t sell. You have to go the other side of Thornton Heath to see an Englishman.’
‘I don’t understand it,’ I say. ‘If we’re in such desperate schtuck why are they rushing to get in?’
‘Because their standards are much lower than ours,’ says Sid. ‘They’ll accept things no Britisher would tolerate. Cold beer, that kind of thing. What they put up with at home makes this country seem like paradise.’
We watch an Alfa Romeo glide to a halt beside the ice cream van and a slim, dark girl get out and shake back her tawny black hair. She is wearing black satin trousers that cling to her high-hitched arse the way the outer skin of an onion is moulded to the inner layers. The pencil line of her panties runs round the curves like a contour line. She bends to get something out of the car and a parched cry of need breaks from Sid’s throat.
‘Blimey,’ he breathes. ‘She could have a lick of my cornet any day of the week.’
‘She looks foreign,’ I say.
‘They’re not all bad,’ says Sid ‘It’s the men that make the trouble.’
As we watch, the bird goes to the back of the van and opens the door. ‘One of the family,’ I say. ‘You’re right, Sid. They must be doing all right if she can afford an Alfa.’
‘It’s just a question of whipping up some powder and that,’ muses Sid. ‘We could do it at home. Your mum could do it.’ His face clouds over. ‘No, probably not. I haven’t got over the caraway seeds on that sundae turning out to be mouse droppings.’
‘It was the tiny footprints gave it away, wasn’t it?’ I say. ‘Taste-wise it was like everything else Mum dishes up.’
The bird comes down the steps of the van and she has a movement that would make a Swiss watch envious. She wafts along like she is dancing to a tune nobody else can hear. ‘I wonder if they do a recipe leaflet?’ I say.
‘No harm in asking,’ says Sid. He gets up and squares his enormous shoulders and I can see that Clapham’s answer to Paul Newman is about to strike again.
‘Be gentle with her,’ I say.
‘Piss off!’ says my brother-in-law. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and moves purposefully towards the Alfa. The bird has just closed the door as he approaches and he spreads his arms wide against the coachwork and bends down so that his head is nearly inside the car. It does not stay there long because there is a whirring noise and the automatic window nearly gives Sid a cleft palate. He starts back and then stops dead. I never fancied Sid’s cowpoke tie – two bits of string threaded through a brass bull’s head and decorated with metal spurs on the ends – and this instrument of sartorial torture nearly proves to be his undoing. The metal spurs get snagged inside the window and when the bird drives off Sid is forced to run along beside the car or indent for a smaller collar size. The bird does not immediately cotton on to what is happening and thinking that Sid is giving chase she accelerates. This is definitely not good news for Sid’s windpipe and it is a good job that the string snaps before his neck does. When I get to his side his adam’s apple is squatting on the brass bull like it is a golf tee. I don’t know if blue is his favourite colour but only the bloodshot eyes break the monotony of his bloated ultra-marine mug – it is like the flesh tints on a cheap colour tele. If I had a knife I could cut the string away but on the other hand there would be the danger of slitting his throat which I know he would not like. Decisions, decisions: I always wanted to find out what I would be like in an emergency and now I know – useless. ‘EEEurgh!!’ Sid plucks the string from his throat and lies writhing in the grass. For a moment I think he is going to be Uncle Dick but then he sits up and grabs me by the trouser leg. ‘Uuugh!’ he says.
‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘Take a few deep breaths, you’ll feel much better.’
A crowd is collecting and I am suddenly aware that the girl who was driving the car is amongst them. She looks worried – and very, very beautiful. Looking into her dark passionate eyes quite cheers me up after the distress of Sid’s predicament.
I think Sid likes her too because he immediately grabs hold of her leg and clings to it. ‘What ’appened?’ says the bird sounding appropriately worried.
‘You nearly killed my brother-in-law,’ I say sternly. ‘Snatched away in his prime he would have been.’ Sid nods vigorously and presses his face closer to the bird’s thigh. He looks like a tabby cat with suppertime approaching. I think he is overdoing it a bit but I can’t say anything.
‘It was an accidente,’ says a swarthy bloke who has emerged from the ice cream van. ‘Is nobody hurta.’
‘Nobody hurt?’ I say. ‘Are you a doctor, mate? Do you think he’s usually that colour? Why don’t you push off and shove your nuts in your cassata?’
A murmur of agreement tells me that the world cup preliminaries are still much in the mind of many of the onlookers and Beppo backs off and relapses into grumbling Italian.
‘How are you doing, Sid?’ I ask tenderly. ‘Is there anything you want you’re not already making a grab at?’ Sid withdraws his hand from the Alfa lady’s trousers and makes a hoarse, croaking noise. ‘I think he wants to go to the South London Hospital,’ I say.
‘But that’s a women’s hospital,’ says one of the onlookers.
‘He knows what’s good for him,’ I say.
‘Use my car,’ says the luscious eyetie bint. ‘I am zo zorry about all zis. I do not mean to ’urt ’im.’
‘That’s all right,’ I say. ‘The damages for this kind of thing never go above a couple of hundred thousand quid on average. Mind you, he’ll probably never sing again so it could be a bit more in this case.’
‘Sing?’ says the bird.
‘They called him the Clapham Caruso,’ I say. ‘He had the world at his feet. Now – who knows? – a summer season at Hayling Island if he’s lucky.’
‘You think he’ll sue?’ says the bird.
‘He’ll be forced to,’ I tell her. ‘Just for the sake of the wife and kiddies. That’s their violin lessons up the spout. Yehudi Menuhin will be casting around for a few bob.’ I can see that I have kindled nervousness in the bird’s eyes and I turn my attention to Sid. ‘Let go of the lady’s leg,’ I say in as kindly a tone as I can manage. ‘She’s going to help take you to hospital.’
‘I will never sing again,’ croaks Sid as we help him scramble to his feet. ‘“My old man, said follow the band –” See? It’s not there any more.’
‘Maybe with time and lots of money,’ I say comfortingly. I must say, there is something very sexy about being driven in a fast car by a handsome bird and I really enjoy the journey to St Bukes – Sid makes a noise as we go past the South London but we don’t stop. The way she shoves the stubby gear lever into position with scarlet-tipped fingers. The lunging aggression of her breasts thrusting against the soft angora. The restrained power of her gracefully muscled legs as they step on the pedals. It quite takes my mind off Sid’s gasps and groans. I wonder if the red mark round his neck will ever go? It looks a bit like one of those poncey necklaces you see worn by geezers with gold earrings and intense stares. It does nothing for him.
‘You’re one of the Frascatis, are you?’ I ask, remembering the sign on the front of the ice cream van.
‘Si – I mean, yes,’ says the bird. ‘I am Valentina. Pietro is my uncle.’
‘I’m Timothy Lea,’ I say. ‘This unfortunate creature here labours under the name of Sidney Noggett.’ Sid groans and tries to knee me in the balls.
‘I wish we ’ad met under ’appier auspices,’ says Valentina.’ ‘Ow is the Signor Noggetto?’
‘Multo dicey,’ I say. ‘I think he is in urgent need of medical attention.’
I soon wish I had not spoken because Valentina puts one of her lovely feet down and the landscape turns into a blur before we pull up outside St Bukes with a jerk – well, two jerks if you include Sid. I am disturbed to see that the old maestro is not looking as purple and ghastly as he did a few minutes ago and I consider throttling him back into a medically interesting colour. Probably not a good idea.
‘You had better give me your address and telephone number,’ I say to Valentina. ‘Just in case the repercussions of your inadvertent but ill-considered action are even more serious than I anticipate them being.’
‘I will come in with you,’ says the lovely creature. ‘You get out while I find somewhere to park.’
Half an hour later she is with us refusing a lukewarm cup of tea and a crumbling wad. The out-patients smells of disinfectant and babies and the benches have been polished shiny by countless millions of bums two hours late for their appointments.
‘Good job I’m a bleeding emergency,’ croaks Sid. ‘Some of those poor sods are going to die of old age before anyone gets round to them.’
‘Mr Chow? Mr Banwagi? Mr Ndefru?’ Nobody moves and the nurse goes away again.
‘They must have nipped out to get their free specs and dentures,’ says Sid. ‘You noticed that, did you? Not one of them was English.’
‘Ssh,’ I say. ‘Don’t be rude. Think of Valentina.’ I don’t think she has heard Sid because she smiles and goes on reading her edition of the September 1955 Exchange and Mart. Sometimes I wonder where they get the reading matter that is strewn about in these places. The British Museum must have a snappier collection.
‘Three hours I waited here on Thursday to end up with an Indian doctor,’ says the woman sitting next to me. ‘I didn’t mind that but then he started reading my medical card upside down.’
‘It’s not right, is it?’ I say.
‘Some of the nurses are all right but I wouldn’t trust them with a syringe. I mean, it’s right back to the jungle for them. I’ve had them trying to inject into the bone.’
‘Feeling better, Sid?’ I say.
‘And that Doctor Balbutti,’ says my neighbour. ‘He’s so nervous he terrifies you. He chewed the rubber out of his stethescope while I was describing my symptoms.’
‘Mr Noggett? Doctor will see you now.’
‘I don’t think it’s necessary,’ says Sid. ‘I’m feeling a hundred per cent now.’
