by Timothy Lea
The best thing to do is to stick to the job in hand. I shake my head to clear the last whiff of niff out of my hooter and start tracing my way along the pipe after it leaves the S-bend. It comes out of the kitchen fitting and runs parallel to the wall for six feet before disappearing through it. Just before the final bend is a nut which clearly holds two pieces of pipe together and it occurs to me that if I disconnect the pipe here and rod it back to the S-bend I may be able to clear any gunge that has built up in the horizontal stretch. Fascinating, isn’t it? No? Oh well, you obviously don’t have a mechanical bent. People used to feel like that about Leonardo da Vinci.
I get my adjustable spanner – my new adjustable spanner – and start to try and loosen the nut. By the cringe, but it is tough! I pull out all the clamps that hold the pipe to the wall before I begin to shift it. Finally, as the plaster rains down like the first warnings of an avalanche, it shears clean off and the severed pipe gobs up a fast widening pool of disgusting black liquid. Bollocks! Just what I didn’t need. Now I will have to find one of those machines that puts a thread on piping. Still, I mustn’t get discouraged. I will finish the job and come back to the pipe later.
I find another tea towel and do some more mopping up. Ugh! This black stuff doesn’t half niff. The contrast with Mrs Butler’s love pong is enough to make a Rangoon refuse collector heave up all over his loin cloth. A glance at the tea towel suggests that its useful days are over so I bury it in the waste bin under a layer of potato peelings. What the eye doesn’t see … I am now ready for the rodding. The only problem is that I don’t have any rods. Fortunately, the initiative of a Lea is second only to that of Napoleon Bonny-parts and my eagle eye is swift to seize upon the possibilities offered by one of the brass curtain rails above the sink. That will do a treat. It is a pity that I leave a few potato peelings and a spot of gunge on the curtains as I take them down but you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. Still, I had better try and clean myself up a bit. I turn on the tap and hold my hands under it before I realise that the waste pipe is still disconnected at the S-bend. Silly Timothy! The water splashes off my boots and starts to dilute the remains of the black muck that is smeared all over the kitchen floor. Honestly! It turns you right off, doesn’t it? For no fault of your own everything suddenly starts to foul itself up. Still, this is where the real calibre of a bloke shows itself. Time for a spot of true British phlegm and mucus. The old bulldog spirit that for centuries has – oh, knickers! I have got muck all over the cuffs of my new crocus-pattern, slim-fit, French styled, poplin shirt. I knew I should never have worn it for work.
I carefully put the curtains somewhere where it is only rank bad luck that allows them to drop into the pool of gunge and pick up the curtain rod. From the thickness of the muck that has leaked out of the pipe it seems quite likely that this is the reason for the blockage. A few deft strokes of the rod and I will have more than earned the embarrassingly large fee which Sid charges for what he calls ‘Lightning’ jobs. The slight difficulty that I have concerns the problem of finding enough room to manoeuvre the rod before shoving it up the pipe. In the end, I have to bend the pipe away from the wall which leads to a further fall of plaster and a fresh pool of gunge. With some little difficulty, I manoeuvre the curtain rod so that it is wavering above the refrigerator and – oh dear, just my luck! It has to flick an electric mixer on to the floor, doesn’t it? I never knew they had so many attachments – I suppose they are attachments? It certainly is a pity about the eggs. Difficult to know how many there were now that so many yolks are broken.
‘Oh!’ If I was suddenly struck deaf, my hooter would tell me that Mrs Butler was standing behind me. ‘Having trouble, are we?’
‘Nothing serious,’ I say. ‘It’s going very smoothly on the whole. I’ll have this lot cleared up in a jiffy.’
Mrs Butler stands in the doorway, her foot hovering above the ground while she tries to find a clean piece of lino to put it on. ‘I was going to suggest a cup of tea,’ she says, looking at the kettle as if across a minefield.
‘I’ll pop the kettle on,’ I say. ‘By the time it’s boiled I’ll have the problem sorted out.’
Mrs Butler looks as if she is not totally convinced and delivers herself of a deep sigh. ‘I hope you’re right,’ she says.
‘Have trust in Home Enhancers,’ I say. ‘We won’t let you down.’
‘Y-e-e-s.’ She hovers for a minute and then pushes off. Now for it! Grandstand finish. I plug in the electric kettle and ram the rod up the pipe a few times. You would not think that a little lead pipe could carry so much muck. It’s fantastic, it really is. I have definitely located the root of the problem. Just to be on the safe side, I put a plastic bowl under the end of the pipe and turn on the tap. Quite a lot of the water that bounces back off the refrigerator goes into it. It is a pity about the rest of the water, but at least it shows how well I have unblocked the pipe. Sid would be proud of me if he was here. Now I had better connect the two pieces of pipe. I don’t have time to find the machine that puts the thread on pipes so I will have to use my initiative again. I know! If I cut the finger off one of the washing up gloves and snip off the end, that will make the perfect link – look out Einstein, here I come! Of course, it won’t do a lot for the washing up gloves but you can’t worry about a few snipers when there is a war to be won. I have seen enough movies on the telly to know all about that. I find a ball of string in one of the drawers – amazing how dirty your hands can get when you do a job like this – and lash the rubber tube to the two ends of pipe. My word! If only this dear old country of ours could show as much initiative, we would not be in the mess we are now.
Now, for the moment of truth. I refit the S-bend, turn the tap and – bravo! The escaping water leapfrogs the join, no trouble. I trim the pieces of string that hold the rubber link and stand back waiting for the Queen’s Award To Industry. Well done, Lea. Britain salutes you.
Some might be prepared to rest on their laurels but not me. The job will not be completed to my satisfaction until I have cleaned up. The mark of a real craftsman is that he leaves a place exactly as he finds it. CRACK! There is an unpleasant shattering noise and cracks run across one of the window panes. The steam from the electric kettle has been playing directly on to it. Knickers! Just when I was getting on top of everything, too. I wonder if it has done any permanent damage to the glass. I extend a finger to give a gentle prod and – CRASH! Half the pane shatters on the concrete outside the window. I suppose I had better do something about that. I will get on to it the minute I have put the curtains back.
Of course, what I had not reckoned on was that the inside of the brass curtain rail would become filled with gunge. I give the outside a quick swoosh under the tap but it is not until I am standing in the sink that I notice the black stuff pouring out and running down the wall – well, not all down the wall. Quite a lot of it is absorbed by the curtains. Maybe I should have put them on after I got the rail up. It is so bloody complicated, isn’t it? And how they got covered in potato peelings I will never know. Perhaps I had better clean up the floor and come back to the curtains later. The main thing is – keep your pecker up or Nil Desperate Dandum as the poet put it.
In practice, this turns out to be a lot more difficult than I had anticipated. You would never cocoa how bleeding useless the vacuum cleaner is. It doesn’t pick up a single broken egg – just scrambles them into the slime. Honestly, sometimes I wonder what hope there is for the country. You seem to be doing it all by yourself, don’t you? All this stuff about dust, fluff and grit and the snivelling machine can’t even pick up a teeny, weeny yolk. It looks as if I will have to do the whole job with a dustpan and brush. Wake up, England! You’re living on borrowed time.
‘Oh!’ The daintily enunciated exclamation springs from the glistening lips of Mrs Butler who has slid up behind me niffing as if she has shot a whole flask of love pong down the front of her bodice. ‘What are you doing?!’
It is a stupid question
because it must be obvious what I am doing. ‘Just tidying up,’ I say. ‘It won’t take a jiffy. The kettle’s boiled.’
‘But the room’s a shambles! Look at the curtains – and the window! You’ve broken the window!’
‘That wasn’t me,’ I say. ‘That was the kettle. They can be very dangerous if they don’t have a shut-off device. Maybe I could fit –’
‘No!’ Mrs Butler almost shrieks the word before she regains control. ‘I don’t think you need do anything else.’ Her eye travels along the waste pipe and stops when it comes to the join.
‘I’ve fixed it,’ I say allowing a note of modest pride to enter my voice.
‘Is that safe?’ says Mrs Butler incredulously.
‘Perfectly,’ I say. ‘Watch.’ I turn the tap sharply to the right and we both stare expectantly at the slim rubber tube. Maybe, our combined attention is too much for it. The link shivers, then swells up like a balloon. The end furthest away from the sink becomes unattached and a stream of water sprays all over the kitchen accompanied by a very, very rude noise.
‘Turn the tap off!’ screeches Mrs Butler.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Have you got any stronger string? I think the tube is all right.’
Mrs B picks up one of her washing up gloves and counts the fingers. ‘Is this what you used?’ she says.
‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘You can deduct the cost of a new pair from our bill.’
‘Bill?’ Mrs Butler gazes slowly round her kitchen. I must say, it is looking a bit the worse for wear.
‘Don’t worry about this lot,’ I say. ‘I’ll soon have it under control. Maybe, if I used a bit of flex –’
‘I think you’ve done enough for one day,’ says Mrs Butler firmly. ‘Why don’t you go and wash your hands? I’ll tidy up in here.’
‘I couldn’t let you do that,’ I say. ‘That’s my job. Once I get stuck into something, I’m a little demon.’
‘Ye-es.’ Mrs Butler looks at me with renewed interest and sucks in her breath. ‘There must be something you’re good at. Like a young, untamed stallion.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I say. What is she on about? I don’t even like horses. That picture Aunt Edna has above the gas fire turns me right off. Six foot white manes blowing in the wind and nostrils like ice cream cornets. No thank you! I would rather have that eastern-looking bird by Tetchy-cough.
‘Crude, clumsy strength,’ continues Mrs B, breathing heavily. I hope she is all right. She is looking at the vacuum cleaner in a very funny way and running her hand up and down the curved handle. Maybe it would be a good idea if I left her alone for a few minutes.
‘I’ll pop into the bathroom,’ I say. ‘I could do with a–a–wash my hands.’ She is still looking at me in a very funny way as I go out. Perhaps she has taken umbrage about the mess. It is difficult to tell with women, sometimes.
The bathroom is very refined with lots of little plastic shepherdesses holding soap and bunches of artificial flowers. I wouldn’t reckon that it would be exactly the thing that Burt Reynolds would choose but it is very nice in its way. My hands are dirty up to the elbow so I peel off my shirt and jacket and strip to the waist, just like an American movie star who is about to clean his teeth. I have a tart up and wipe myself dry on one of the thick white bath towels – well, it starts off being white. It is amazing how towels attract dirt, isn’t it? There is a shelf beside the mirror and on it a bottle of men’s cologne called ‘GRRRH!’ Bloody stupid name, of course, but I can never resist having a quick slosh under the armpits. If you don’t like the niff it can’t be worse than what is there already. I have just removed the curiously shaped stopper when Mrs Butler comes through the door – no question of knocking or anything like that.
‘No!’ she says.
I feel myself blushing as I replace the bottle. ‘I was just looking at it,’ I say defensively.
‘That’s Frank’s,’ she says, her features contracting into an expression of distaste.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t –’
‘I don’t want you to smell like him. I want you to be you!’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I am.’
To my surprise, Mrs Butler puts her arms round me and presses her face to my bare chest. ‘Man!’ she husks. ‘Dirty, earthy man!’
Oh dear! It is clear that my earlier fears were more than justified. The lady is clearly seeking to find my bodkin in the centre of her pin cushion. Normally, I would be more than willing to oblige but the memory of recent disasters is too much with me. ‘What does your husband do?’ I ask, eager to remind her of her responsibilities.
‘Not very much,’ says Mrs B.
I wish I hadn’t opened my mouth. I can see why Mrs Butler is carrying on the way she is.
‘Come upstairs.’ Mrs Butler lets out a passionate sigh and her lips tremble against my chest like butterfly’s wings. I look down at the ripe swelling of her breasts and imagine them sinking bedward beneath me – immediately I feel sick.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I can’t.’
‘You can’t?’ Mrs Butler’s voice travels upwards at an angle of eighty-five degrees. ‘You mean, you’ve never …’ Her voice trails away in what I hope is disbelief.
‘I promised my mother,’ I say. ‘Not before I’m married.’
‘But that’s ridiculous!’ says my employer. ‘It’s 1975, you know.’
‘Is it?’ I say, looking at my watch. ‘Blimey, I’d better be going. I’ve –’
Mrs Butler has no difficulty in arresting my puny attempt at escape. ‘It’s not right,’ she says. ‘A big, strong boy like you. In fact, it’s unhealthy. Don’t you have wet dreams?’
‘Not just dreams,’ I say, trying to shut out the picture of thousands of gallons of water washing over me. ‘I’m very confused.’
‘It shows in your work,’ muses Mrs Butler. ‘I think I have an obligation to try and straighten you out.’ Her fingers move down to the front of my jeans and percy is her first success in the straightening out programme. If we can do it standing up, I may be all right. Best to get out of the bathroom though. The presence of all that water is not good for me. I should never have got involved in the plumbing side in the first place. Once again, I allowed my natural flare to be manipulated. It is like when Sid wanted me to be a lorry driver. I should have put my foot down immediately rather than on the accelerator pedal.
‘It’s a nice place you have here,’ I say, looking round the bathroom.
‘It’s a nice place you have here,’ murmurs my new friend, giving percy a friendly squeeze. My, but she is forward, Especially at the front. Evel Knievel would be pushed to jump the gap between her knockers. Talk about Death Valley. If your parachute didn’t open you would be a goner.
‘Ah hem,’ I say. ‘I think I’d better put my shirt on.’
‘Don’t.’ Mrs Butler lays a restraining hand on my wrist. ‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it. Your body has been forged by honest labour. Display it like a standard.’
‘You mean, the Evening Standard?’ I say. ‘It would be better if I had a few tattoos, wouldn’t it?’
Mrs Butler takes my hand and leads me towards the door. ‘Come, my noble savage,’ she breathes. ‘I will introduce you to the beautiful mysteries of the bedchamber.’
Panic invades me again. ‘Couldn’t we do it in the passage?’ I say. ‘We don’t want to mess everything up, do we?’
Mrs Butler shakes her head and pats my wrist. ‘You poor boy,’ she says. ‘What strange impressions you must have formed about the sexual act.’
‘Wouldn’t it be nice, standing up?’ I ask.
‘It would be nicer lying down in a lovely, snuggy beddy byes,’ says Mrs B, throwing open the door of what turns out to be a large pink bedroom. She draws me inside and runs her hand over the bulging front of my jeans. ‘I know that he would like to come and lie down with me.’
‘He probably would,’ I say. ‘But he’s not the only part of me to be considered.’
‘Don’t be so silly,’ says Mrs B, unpopping her blouse buttons. ‘Take your clothes off and swallow your scruples.’
‘I’m not double-jointed,’ I say, backing against the wall. ‘I couldn’t even suck my big toe when I was a kid.’
Mrs Butler treats herself to another large breath and expels it in the form of a sigh. ‘It’s funny how you can be so mistaken about people,’ she says. ‘I thought you were some shambling, incoherent brute. A man whose rough, horny hands would despoil any woman they came into contact with. A savage, hairy beast wallowing in the deepest pits of depravity.’
‘You’re probably thinking of my partner, Sidney Noggett,’ I say. ‘He can get a bit worked up sometimes. There was a terrible scene round at the dry cleaners when –’
‘Kiss me!’ Before I can tell the good lady about how Sid refused to leave the shop until they found the button off his blazer, she has chucked herself at my cakehole and is planing the back of my gut against the embossed wallpaper. She has shed her blouse and the fabric of her stretch bra lunges forward appealingly. Uhm. I think I may be able to cope with this lot. Trying to imagine that I am doing it for the first time, I slide my hand up the back of Mrs Butler’s skirt. There are a few ruckles of flesh at the top of her thighs and then lovely, smooth fife. She must be wearing some very silky knicks.
Mrs B removes her north and south from mine and rests it against my cheek. ‘Naughty boy,’ she purrs. ‘Is it the first time you’ve touched a lady?’ I nod and wait for the thunderbolt to strike me down. Fortunately, nothing happens. ‘It’s better round the front,’ advises my new friend.
‘I am round the front,’ I say.
