Confessions of a Travelling Salesman

by Timothy Lea

  ‘No!’ says Arthur contemptuously. ‘What do I want that for?’

  ‘I thought you were supposed to sell from it.’

  ‘Bloody dealers would think I was some kind of narner if I had to read everything out of a bloody book, wouldn’t they? I’m a salesman, lad.’ Arthur flicks the dandruff off his collar disdainfully and continues getting out of the car.

  The dealer we have stopped outside is called T.M.I. Electrics and has a sign in the window saying ‘Certified HomeClean Dealer’. Arthur follows my eyes.

  ‘Some of them should be certified and all,’ he says. ‘Come on, lad, it’s not much but it keeps the wife in custard powder and knickers.’ He pushes open the door and for a moment I think we have arrived after a snatch of burglars have turned the place over. Appliances are piled higgledy-piggledy on top of each other and every available surface is inches deep in leaflets and invoices. It is only when I notice the layers of dust and the tabby cat asleep inside the open porthole of an automatic washing machine that I realise it is probably like this all the time.

  The bloke emerging from the back of the shop makes Arthur look like Douglas Fairbanks Junior. He is wearing a khaki cardigan, plaid shirt, baggy trousers tied at the waist with a tie, carpet slippers and mittens. His face is a disturbing grey colour broken by a multitude of small red veins converging on his nose.

  Despite the surroundings I feel a small current of excitement rippling through my body. After nearly four weeks of intensive training by some of the finest salesmen in the business, this is it.

  ‘Hello Alf,’ says Arthur. ‘Bloody parky, isn’t it?’

  ‘Real brass monkey weather. You fancy a cup of tea, Arthur?’

  ‘That’s very nice of you, Alf. Oh, Alf, this is Mr. Leak. He’s just joined the company and he’s spending a bit of time with me.’

  Alf looks me up and down disinterestedly. ‘Management Trainee, is he?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. I wouldn’t bring any of them round, Alf.’ Arthur sounds as if he is talking about smallpox germs. ‘How’s it going, then?’

  Alf’s expression grows even sadder.

  ‘Very slow. Sold a cylinder the other week. When is that Wonderwasher coming back?’ Alf’s voice takes on a note of genuine anxiety.

  ‘I wish I knew, Alf. It’s not good, is it? I don’t know what they’re doing down there, really I don’t. They’ve had the strike of course, and the power go-slow. Then one of the component suppliers closed down. But there’s no excuses really, I know there isn’t. I feel very bad about it.’ Arthur looks at me and I nod vigorously.

  ‘You’ve got a funny lot there and no mistake.’ Alf pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his cardigan and gazes out of the window. Arthur nods and we preserve a respectful silence.

  ‘It was the same with the RG 238’s.’

  Arthur is swift to agree. ‘Just what I was saying to young Mr. Leak here. I was saying that, wasn’t I? After the RG 238 we all said, “it can’t happen again”. And what’s happened? It’s happened again. It’s not good, is it? Oh, no. It really isn’t good at all.’ We all nod vigorously this time and gaze out of the window as if having our photograph taken from the street.

  Eventually the silence is broken by Arthur.

  ‘Do you—er, need anything?’ he asks, rather in the manner of a barber pushing forward a carton of french letters. Alf scratches his nose thoughtfully.

  ‘I suppose I’d better have another cylinder. What is it? 478321G isn’t it?’ Arthur shakes his head.

  ‘I’m not certain. Bloody stupid, these numbers. You can never remember them, can you? Is one going to be enough?’

  ‘Should be. The last one was here for six months. The cat had kittens in the carton.’

  ‘Nice pussy,’ I say, deciding it is time I made some kind of contribution, and waggle my finger at the sleeping moggy. Alf turns to me and looks at the calendar with the nude bint on it. He nods slowly.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘And the rest of her isn’t bad either.’

  In the end we have a cup of luke-warm tea out of a chipped mug, leave a pile of leaflets for products Alf does not stock and sell one cylinder cleaner. By the time we have finished it is getting on for twelve o’clock.

  ‘Not much point in making another call before dinner,’ says Arthur. ‘What do you fancy eating?’

  ‘I’m easy. I wouldn’t mind a pint and a wad.’ Arthur shakes his head.’

  ‘I daren’t risk that. It makes me too sleepy.’ I feel like saying that few people would probably be able to tell the difference between Arthur awake and unconscious but I restrain myself. On the basis of this morning’s exercise I cannot see how HomeClean can afford to support a sales force. A whole morning to sell one lousy cylinder cleaner? The mind boggles.

  Arthur, though, seems to be in quite good spirits.

  ‘I built that one up all by myself,’ he says. ‘He never used to take any of our stuff. Now, I get an order every time I go in there.’

  ‘You didn’t push him very hard,’ I say, remembering everything they taught us at Knuttley Hall. Arthur shakes his head.

  ‘Doesn’t do any good with these fellows. You can’t push them. They reckon they know what’s best for them and you’ve just got to play along. Besides, when half the products you sell them are duff or out of stock, it becomes a bit difficult to lean on them. Now, how do you fancy a nice salad?’

  ‘A salad?’ I say unenthusiastically. ‘Well, if you say so.’

  ‘It’s free,’ he says, ‘and served without dressing.’ He giggles and I wonder what he is on about. I am even more perplexed when we stop outside a semi-detached house and Arthur turns off the engine.

  ‘Is this where you live?’ I ask him, imagining a cosy dinner with Mrs. Seaton.

  ‘Blimey no,’ says Arthur. ‘This is what you might call a cold canvas. I have a servicing agreement with the lady who lives here.’

  I look up a bit sharp at that but Arthur is quick to soothe my suspicious mind. ‘Don’t start jumping to any conclusions,’ he says, ‘I refer to the maintenance of her HomeClean products. Drop by about now and you can be certain of a spot of lunch.’

  ‘How do you know you’re going to get a salad?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, you see,’ says Arthur pressing the front door bell, ‘she’s a vegetarian and a naturist. You don’t have anything against nudity do you?’

  Before I can answer the door opens and there is a pleasant faced woman of about fifty beaming out at us. She is wearing a pair of spectacles. My description ends there because that is all she is wearing.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs. Bennett,’ sings out Arthur. ‘Keeping well? I’ve brought Mr. Leak with me. He’s learning the ropes.’

  ‘I hope he knows his onions,’ Mrs. Bennett shakes with laughter at her little joke. And I mean shake. Her breasts would have difficulty fitting into a couple of pudding basins and when they start moving it is like the beginning of an avalanche. If she turned round quickly she could have your head off. I try not to look at them as Arthur pushes me through the door but they are one of the largest things in the house.

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ says Arthur. ‘I say that every time I come.’

  ‘I try and keep it looking presentable,’ says Mrs. B. ‘Come on through. I want you to have a look at my toaster.’

  We follow her down the corridor and I am not surprised to find that she has cane bottom chairs in the kitchen. From behind her big end looks like a relief map of North Wales.

  ‘Would Mr. Leak care for some salad,’ she asks.

  ‘Lea,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, alright,’ she says, ‘you can call me Mary. You’ve got an unusual name haven’t you? Lee Leak.’

  I decide not to pursue the matter and say that I would very much like some salad. Whilst we are becoming better acquainted Arthur gets the back off the toaster.

  ‘Ah hah!’ he says, emptying out about half a pound of charcoal. ‘We’ve been a naughty Mrs. Bennett, haven’t we? We haven�
�t cleaned out our toaster, have we?’

  Mrs. B. protests that nobody ever told her she had to clean the thing and they both waggle their fingers at each other. I don’t know what it is but really I have no desire at all to taste Mrs. Bennett’s salad. I suppose it must have something to do with the nudity bit. Eating when you’re starkers seems disgusting somehow. A cup of coffee before and a fag afterwards, now that is alright, but Mrs. B. leaning forward and getting salad dressing all over her titties, that is enough to put you off a bit of the other for life. Especially when there are little bits of diced carrot mixed with it as well. By the time we have had our herb tea and I have rejected a natural yoghourt I am well pleased to be in the street again.

  ‘How many more like that have you got?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s the only naturist. Pity her daughter wasn’t there. She’s a lovely girl.’

  ‘Takes after mum does she?’

  ‘Oh yes. Both of them prance about starkers all the time. It gets so you hardly notice them after a while.’ Arthur rubs his hands together evilly and sucks air through his teeth.

  ‘I can imagine,’ I say.

  The afternoon follows the pattern of the morning – if you can consider it to have been sufficiently embroidered to make a pattern. We have a long cup of tea with a back street dealer who shows us his holiday snaps and eventually hands back a vacuum cleaner because the plastic casing is cracked. I don’t blame him for that but the skinflint does not buy anything to justify the forty-five minutes we spend with him. I am narked about that but Arthur is nothing if not philosophical.

  ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey,’ he says. ‘Treat ’em right and they’ll buy in the end. I’ve got to repair that bloke’s confidence. Do that and we’ll get a big order out of him. I’m sure of it.’

  Our next call is in fact the biggest order of the day: two twin tubs and two vacuum cleaners. Arthur is delighted but it still does not seem a lot to me.

  ‘When I was at Knuttley Hall I had the impression you turned over hundreds of machines a day,’ I tell him. ‘You aren’t doing a fraction of that.’

  ‘It’s a bit quiet at the moment,’ says Arthur reflectively. ‘The weather’s against it, isn’t it?’

  ‘But I thought washing machine sales went up in the winter?’

  ‘Not when it’s cold. You don’t want to go out and buy one when it’s cold.’

  ‘Come on, Arthur! We might as well have stayed in bed for all the good we’ve done today.’

  ‘I probably would have done if I hadn’t been lumbered with you. No offence, mind.’

  ‘None taken, Arthur. But tell me, how do head office get the idea it’s all go, go, go out here?’

  ‘Well, one does have to protect oneself a bit, obviously. I am inclined to put in a few orders for products I know are not available. By the time they do come on the market again the order has to be reconfirmed and no one is surprised when the dealer has bought something else.’

  ‘But doesn’t anyone ever come out here?’

  ‘Oh yes. But then I take them round to my mates. They listen starry-eyed while I go through my chat, bung in a few fantastic orders and then I tear them all up when the brass goes back to head office. Works like a dream. Of course I’m telling you all this in confidence. Don’t let me find out that you’re a head office nark or I’ll swing for you.’ Arthur is showing the first trace of dynamism I have noticed all day.

  ‘And that works, does it?’

  ‘Well, it has so far. Of course, you can never be certain. Sometimes they have a big change of policy and sack everybody. Then, a few months later, they get a new bloke in and he takes everyone on again. It’s blooming stupid, really it is. You have to have a sense of humour to be able to stick it.’

  ‘Still there are a few fringe benefits, aren’t there?’ I smirk.

  ‘What do you—oh, you mean the likes of Mrs. Bennett. That appealed to you, did it?’

  ‘That kind of thing,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Mrs. Bennett is a bit on the mature side for me.’

  ‘You’d have fancied her daughter more, like I said.’

  ‘Very probably.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Arthur thoughtfully, ‘you do meet one or two funny people.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I used to be a window cleaner.’

  ‘Oh, well. You’d know all about it then.’ I nod. ‘Like Mrs. Vickers and her daughter,’ he continues as if thinking out loud. ‘I often wonder about them.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Arthur looks me up and down like a boxing trainer weighing up a new prospect. ‘You know how a woman fusses about you sometimes and you can see that she’s taken a bit of care with herself – a bit more than usual. She’s all of a dither and talking just for the sake of it, when she’s really got something else on her mind?’

  ‘I know the signs well,’ I say trying to inject a slightly world-weary tone into my voice. ‘She fancies you.’

  ‘Well, I must say, I have thought that. I’ve been with the company twenty-two years and in that time I’ve seen a bit of life if you know what I mean.’ I get my nod working again. ‘A man’s only human, isn’t he? That’s what nature made us for.’

  ‘What’s the daughter like?’ I say.

  ‘Jealous,’ says Arthur. ‘When I get round there she won’t leave her mother alone. Always making remarks and that kind of thing. I think she resents her mother having any kind of life of her own.’

  ‘Can’t you get round there when the daughter is away?’

  ‘I’ve tried that but I haven’t been lucky yet. I don’t know what the girl does but she always seems to be there. She’s a good looking girl too. They both are.’ Arthur looks at me as if he is waiting for me to say something.

  ‘Maybe I could chat the daughter up while you—er, talked to the mum?’

  ‘It’s an idea, isn’t it?’ Arthur brightens immediately. ‘We couldn’t come to any harm, could we?’

  ‘What’s her husband do?’ I ask nervously.

  ‘Oh, there isn’t one. She’s a widow. Couldn’t be better in that respect.’

  ‘Right, what are we waiting for?’

  Not bad is it? Four o’clock on my first day and I am lined up for a bit of nooky already. Regular readers will not be surprised to learn that after my disturbing experience, or rather lack of it, with Mabel, I am not exactly disturbed by the prospect of getting within nibbling distance of a real live bird.

  We hop into Arthur’s motor and I am hugging myself with excitement by the time he gives a smart rat, tat, tat, on the knocker of a neat little semi in Pinner. Arthur has spent five minutes in the public lav. licking himself into shape and is huffing on his cupped hands to see if his breath pongs when the door opens.

  The bird standing beside it is about eighteen and wearing a floppy halter neck sweater so it is difficult to see what her top half really looks like. If it matches the bottom half nobody is going to ask for their money back. She has bedroom eyes which are large enough to take a couple of four posters and her mouth is warm and sensuous. She smiles when she sees us and shouts over her shoulder.

  ‘Mum! It’s your boyfriend.’

  ‘You’re a cheeky young lady, aren’t you?’ says Arthur blushing. ‘This is Mr. Leak.’

  ‘Lea,’ I say.

  ‘Lea, who has been coming round with me lately.’

  ‘Why? Have you both been unconscious?’

  ‘What? Oh! I see what you mean. Very good.’ He looks at me to support his chuckle but I do not oblige. Better to play hard to get with this self-possessed little piece, I think to myself. Nevertheless, I suppose I have to do what I can to help Arthur.

  ‘We’re calling to see if any of your HomeClean products have one of the lucky numbers that would entitle you to a free holiday in Majorca,’ I say pleasantly. This is a standard HomeClean wheeze for getting into people’s homes and casing their electric appliances. While you are checking the numbers on the products you are quick to point out that they are all on their last
legs, but, being the kind of sweet generous guy you are, you are prepared to give their owners a very advantageous trade-in price should they buy the latest HomeClean model. You are certain that they will agree, etc., etc. This can be quite an effective way of boosting your sales figures if you have made all your dealer calls and the pubs have not opened.

  If Miss Vickers is excited she hides the fact well. ‘They’ve come to look at the vacuum cleaner again,’ she says dismissively. I notice that a funny look comes into her eyes when she gazes upon Arthur and I find it difficult to guess what is going through her mind.

  ‘Ask the gentlemen in, Cheryl!’ The voice bustling down the hall towards us belongs to a larger version of Miss Vickers but one that is none the less appealing, especially to a man who has not tasted human flesh for over three weeks. She is untying an apron and smoothing her skirt as she comes and I can see what Arthur was getting at. There is a very pronounced smell of perfume in the air and Cheryl sniffs disdainfully and obviously.

  ‘Oh, mother,’ she says wearily and turns away shaking her head. Mrs. Vickers’ blush matches Arthur’s.

  ‘Young people,’ she says. ‘They’re a problem these days, aren’t they? Never seem to know what they want. When Cheryl was at school she was full of ideas about what she was going to do. Art school, hairdressing, things like that. Now she just moons about here all day getting under my feet. It’s worse than having a man around the place. Not that that’s something I’ve had to put up with a lot lately.’ She looks hungrily from Arthur to me and back again.

  ‘It must be very trying sometimes,’ says Arthur as Cheryl disappears upstairs, her back end ticking away like the mechanism on an expensive Swiss watch. Mrs. V. sighs after her and turns back to us.

  ‘I’m glad to see you today,’ she says. ‘Of course, I’m glad to see you on any day, Mr. Seaton,’ she squeezes his arm, ‘but just at the moment everything seems to be going wrong.

  It’s difficult when you’re just two women in the house. Cheryl is just as helpless as I am with fuses and things.’ I nod understandingly.