by Timothy Lea
‘Here we are,’ I say. ‘Where’s the car?’
‘Down the end. Just near where you picked me up.’ The bird grabs my arm. ‘Do you think he’s still there?’
‘Could be,’ I say. ‘He hasn’t got any other way of getting home, has he?’
‘Will you go and look?’
I was afraid the judy would say that. The bloke is probably sitting there waiting to bend an iron bar over my nut. ‘Is he likely to turn nasty?’
‘I don’t know. He’s usually very quiet. That was one of the things that so surprised me about the way he behaved.’
‘Of course, he might have taken the car and pushed off,’ I say, looking on the bright side.
‘I’ve got the key.’ My spirits drop again. Lady Smart Arse has to think of everything, doesn’t she? ‘It’s over there, the MG.’
I take a deep sigh and my life in my hands. ‘You hang on here. I’ll have a look round.’
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘It’s most awfully kind of you. I am sorry to be such a nuisance.’ She has a very ‘refained’ voice like one of those birds who buttonholes you on flag days. I bet they love her round at the drama club.
I climb out of the cab and turn up the collar of my jacket. I feel like a gypsy’s kiss but it is a pleasure I will have to postpone. I can’t see anybody through the window of the MG but I approach it with caution. My torch has packed up and when the moon goes behind the clouds it is darker than Mum’s toast. I press my nose up against the window and take a shufti inside. Not a sausage. Thank God for that. The frustrated hampton parker must have pushed off. Either that or he is lurking in the bushes. The thought makes me whip round sharpish. There is no one there but I suppose I must force myself to take a butchers. Blooming neurotic woman! Why didn’t she let the bloke get on with it? That way we would all have been better off. I take a quick look in the bushes – they smell like an elephant’s graveyard during an undertakers’ strike – and head back to the lorry.
I am just passing a small saloon when the door bursts open, nearly knocking me over. In my present highly nervous condition it is enough to make me leap ten feet in the air. When I land, an aggressive looking geezer is waiting for me.
‘How would you like a bashed in hooter?’ he says.
‘Why? Are you trying to give yours away?’ I ask him.
The bloke does not seem to find this remark funny. ‘Peeping Tom!’ he hisses. ‘I’ve a good mind to duff you up!’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say. ‘You couldn’t punch a hole in a rice pudding. I’d rather watch a Party Political Broadcast than you trying to get your end away. I hate to see people suffering.’ As can be imagined from my comments, the bloke is much smaller than me. Small but beautifully narked as you might put it.
‘I’ll report you to the police,’ he says.
‘Don’t be pathetic,’ I say. ‘Tell me, have you seen a bloke wandering about here?’
‘Only you,’ he says. ‘Lost your boyfriend, have you?’
Further unpleasantness follows, but by the time Shorty has returned to his beloved and I am making tracks for Enid, it is clear that ‘Mr Wham! Bam! Thank you Ma’am!’ is no longer in the neighbourhood.
‘It’s OK, there’s no one about,’ I say, sticking my head inside the cab.
‘Thank you so much.’ Madam has obviously spent the time I was away tarting herself up. She looks very nice. You would never know that she had been fumbled.
‘You’ll be all right now, will you?’
‘I’d be grateful if you’d stay till I’ve driven off. I’m sorry, but—’
‘OK, OK. Don’t apologise.’ I help her down and trudge back to the MG. She gets in and winds down the window.
‘Thank you so much. I’m sorry I—’
‘Don’t mention it.’ I step back and wait patiently.
The bird feels in the pocket of her jacket. Then in the other pocket. ‘Oh dear.’
‘You’ve lost the key, have you?’ For some reason, it does not come as a big surprise to me. I don’t think I am ever going to see the back of this one.
‘I could have sworn that I put it in my pocket.’
‘Maybe it fell out in my cab. Hang on a minute.’ Back to Enid. There is no sign of an ignition key.
‘Yoo hoo!’ The bird is waving something at me.
Back to the MG. ‘You found it, did you?’
‘On the floor. I’m sorry, you must think I’m quite mad.’
‘It’s just not your evening.’
‘Well, I’m off now. Thanks again.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
She leans forward to turn on the ignition and I notice that some of the buttons on her blouse have popped open again. Funny, that. I distinctly remember her doing them up on the way to the Fuzz. She has nice knockers, there is no doubt about it. She struggles with the key and wriggles the driving wheel. Nothing happens.
‘Oh dear.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I can’t turn the ignition. It’s got one of those anti-thief devices attached to the steering and it’s a bit stiff sometimes.’
‘Aren’t we all,’ I say. ‘Listen, you don’t think your mate’s done something to it, do you?’
‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘What am I—’
‘If you get out a minute, I’ll have a look at it.’
‘That is kind of you. I’m so—’
‘That’s all right.’ If she says she’s sorry again, I’ll nut her.
She slides an elegant pair of gams out of the motor and I detect the arousing note of the silk lining of her skirt rubbing against her thighs. I squeeze my way into the car and am slightly surprised to find her climbing in beside me.
‘It’s cold,’ she says.
I am not really concentrating but I can’t help noticing her staring at me very strangely. Her right hand goes down to the gear stick and at first I imagine that she is checking that it is in neutral. It is one of those short, stubby jobs – the gear stick, I mean. She runs her fingers up and down the shaft and then starts massaging the knob at the top. I don’t know what the sight would do for the Archbishop of Canterbury but it sends shivers through my action man kit, I don’t mind telling you. I put it down to the fact that she has been through a harrowing experience and joggle the steering wheel. Immediately, there is a ‘click’ and I can turn the key in the ignition. The engine roars into life and I rev my foot up and down on the accelerator.
At that moment the bird leans against me and drops her head on my chest. For a moment I think that she has fainted. Her hand stretches out to the dashboard and she switches off the ignition.
‘Fuck me!’
I don’t think I have ever been so surprised at anything anybody has said since the vicar spoke out against Jason having a crafty Jimmy Riddle behind the font at nephew Jerome’s christening.
‘What—?’ I say.
I don’t get the chance to say more than that because the bird launches herself onto my cakehole like it is the last bus home. Not only that. She yanks up her skirt and guides my hand to her snatch – in fact, she doesn’t so much guide it as chuck it. What is so amazing is that she doesn’t have any knicks on. And the language she is using. Her opening remark was the script for Listen with Mother compared to what is pouring out now.
Well, of course, there is only one thing to do, isn’t there? Tell her to pull herself together or you will have to slap her over the wrist with a bag of heavily powdered jelly babies. The trouble is that it doesn’t work out like that in practice, does it? The beast between the thighs takes over. Before you can say ‘Roger Carpenter with knobs on’ we are half out of the car and half in it, the heels of her boots are tapping like castanets in the small of my back, and I am totally immersed in what I am doing. The noise must be enough to waken a cabinet minister but I don’t think about that. You never do, do you? There is also a flash of light from the bushes which I put down to some peeping tom’s plastic mac going up in flames.
It must be a ba
g of coke to remember because when I am leaning against a tree, trying to get my breath back, I notice that we have shunted the car three feet sideways. It is a muddy evening but that is still not bad, is it?
Once I have tommed (Tom Thumb: come. – Ed.) I begin to wonder about how the lady is going to react to our spot of in and out. It occurs to me that she might suddenly start screaming ‘rape!’ or show other signs of over-excitement. There is certainly something a tiny bit odd about her. Fortunately, I don’t have to worry. She has hardly checked her mug in the driving mirror than she is starting up the engine.
‘It seems to be all right now,’ she says in her best “thank you James” voice. ‘I’m most grateful for your help.’
With these gracious words she switches on her lights and accelerates out of my life, spraying mud all over my jeans. If I did not have the damp knees and the feeling of personal loss around the Y-front area I might be excused for imagining that I had dreamt the whole thing.
Being a person who is deeply interested in the workings of the human mind, especially as they relate to birds and their attitude towards a bit of the other, I think long and earnestly about the motivation for the MG lady’s precipitous assault on my person. Eventually I reach the following conclusion. The bird was a stranger to extra-marital relationships but had decided that it was about time that she had a dabble. She had this bloke lined up but was ashamed of how she felt and the things she would like to have done to her. Maybe, the bloke was a friend of her old man and that made it all a bit close for comfort. Anyway, they get to the layby and start having a go at each other. The bird gets worked up, but at the same time she gets frightened – or, even better, she comes on so strong that the bloke gets frightened. Either way, she suddenly finds herself in a situation when everything has stopped and she wishes that it hadn’t. Then I come along.
It makes sense, doesn’t it? At least, it does until I am sitting in a caff a few weeks later. Near me is this big spotty herbert who is stirring the bottom out of his cup of tea and rabbiting on to his bored mate.
‘… on the way back from evening classes,’ I hear him saying. ‘Said she wanted to go to the police about it. She was really worked up.’
‘What did they do about it? Give her one, too?’
‘Naa! Do me a favour. I’m serious, aren’t I?’ The bloke drops his voice and leans forward towards his mate. I lean forward too. ‘We never got there. She suddenly changes her mind and says she’s worried about her old man and how he’s got a weak heart.’
‘That’s because he’s been giving her one, and all.’
‘Listen! Do you want to hear what happens or not? It’s all the same to me.’
‘Go on. I won’t believe it anyway.’
‘We get back to the layby and she suddenly grabs hold of my balls. “I’ve got to have you! I’ve got to have you!” She keeps saying it!’
The listener catches my eye and winks. ‘I know. It was bleeding Rita Hayworth, wasn’t it? I had her last week.’
‘Oh, piss off!’ says the bloke. ‘I don’t care what you think. It was bleeding fantastic. She was like an animal. She couldn’t get enough of it.’
‘No bird can get enough of it from you, that’s your problem,’ says the second bloke standing up. ‘Do you fancy another cuppa?’ He picks up his mate’s cup and walks past my table. ‘Did you ever hear such a load of rubbish?’ he says, nodding over his shoulder. ‘Poor sod lives in a dream world.’
‘That’s right,’ I say.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It is six weeks after we have been ‘in operation’ as he chooses to call it that Sid gets a good idea. I am so amazed that I don’t know what to do. However much I think about it, it still seems like a good idea. It is very disturbing. Eerie almost.
‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before,’ says Mastermind breezily. ‘It’s an obvious opportunity to extend the facilities that exist at our fingertips’ – he is inclined to express himself like that sometimes, poor berk. ‘The Noggett Home Removal Service will fit neatly into the logistical infrastructure of the parent company.’
‘Aren’t you going to need a furniture van?’ I ask.
‘In a word – yes,’ says Sid. ‘I have already acted in the matter.’
‘You sound more like you’ve acted in Downstairs Upstairs,’ I tell him. ‘Try and talk natural for gawd’s sake.’
Sid chooses to ignore my comment. ‘Furthermore, I have arranged our first commission. Peterborough.’
‘Where are we moving it to?’ I ask.
Sid smiles weakly. ‘You do enjoy your little joke, don’t you? We’re moving a family to Peterborough. I think if we can fit a few of these removal jobs in amongst our normal activities we’ll be on our way to making a few bob.’
‘It’s going to be hard work,’ I say.
‘What does that matter?’ says Sid. ‘Think of the satisfaction you’ll be getting. You’re your own boss.’
‘No, I’m not. You’re my own boss.’
Sid’s face clouds over. ‘I don’t like to hear you talk like that, Timmo,’ he says. ‘I don’t think of the relationship between us as being that of boss and employee. We’re partners in one of life’s great adventures. It’s a marriage of opportunities. We’re both working for us.’
‘Does that mean I’m going to get some money soon?’ I ask.
‘You have to spoil everything, don’t you?’ says Sid. ‘Mark my words, your grasping nature will be the undoing of you. Money is your God, isn’t it? Despite everything that is happening to this once great country of ours you still can’t see the warning lights. Why do you persist in these reckless demands?’
‘Because I haven’t been paid for six weeks!’ I shout.
‘Where do you think the money came from to buy the pantechnicon?’ asks Sid.
‘That’s what I’m complaining about!’ I say. ‘You fix yourself up with a Japanese movie camera and I—’
‘What are you on about?’ says Sid. ‘Don’t you know nothing? A pantechnicon is a furniture van. I’ve been ploughing back the profits, haven’t I? You forgo a bit now so you make much more later. It’s standard business practice.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I thought it was that home movie set you were taking all those pictures of your new car with.’ Sid rests his arm across my shoulders. ‘No, Timmo. Nothing like that. That’s a Nikon. I advise you to think very seriously about getting one. You can build up a treasure trove of memories.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Sid,’ I say, allowing a trace of sarcasm to creep into my voice. ‘Trouble is, I’m not going to have any memories at this rate.’
‘Faith,’ says Sid. ‘Faith! That’s what you lack. Frome wasn’t built in a day, you know. The rewards are always more satisfying when you’ve had to wait for them. You know what Winston Churchill said?’
‘He said a lot of things, Sid.’
‘Exactly, Timmo. And you never want to forget it.’
Sid is still rambling on when we pull up outside 17 Wandsworth Gardens, a large semi-detached house near the common.
‘I was hoping it would be a little one to start with,’ I say. ‘How are we going to do it?’
‘We’ll take all the big stuff out first,’ says Sid. ‘Then we’ll fit the other bits round it.’ He flicks out a comb and starts tarting up his barnet. ‘Watch how you go, here. Mrs Ripley is a bit special.’
‘You’ve come across her before, have you?’ I say.
I don’t mean anything by the remark but Sid swings round like I have slapped him in the kisser. ‘What have you heard?’ he says.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ I say. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist.’
‘Just watch it,’ says Sid. ‘This lady could do us a lot of good if she likes the way we work. A word from her could find its way into a lot of ears.’ He sticks his finger in his cakehole and wipes it along his eyebrows.
I am looking forward to my first brush with the good lady and when the front door opens I am not di
sappointed. She is small and richly knockered with long dark hair tumbling round her rocks and boulders. Her north and south is a particularly appealing feature because not only is it very handily situated beneath her hooter but it is shaped like a cupid’s bow lying on half a grapefruit. A veritable banquet for the snogger. While I let my mince pies run all over her like a couple of of adventurous mice she turns her smouldering orbs on Sid.
‘Sidney Noggett, as I live and breathe faster,’ she husks. ‘It’s been a long time.’
Sidney looks uncomfortable – since his trousers are always two sizes too small for him this is not surprising. ‘We’ve come,’ he says.
Mrs Ripley turns her eye on me. ‘How very flattering,’ she says.
‘Er – well, yes,’ says Sid. ‘This is my assistant, Timmy.’
‘Partner,’ I say firmly. I have had enough of the assistant routine.
‘Howdy, partner,’ says Mrs Ripley, stepping to one side. ‘Mosey into the mansion and start getting to grips with the problem.’
‘Everything to go?’ says Sid.
‘Everything except the double bed. You remember the double bed, Sidney?’
Sid gulps. ‘Yes, Mrs Ripley.’
‘Maureen, please. Surely we know each other well enough to be on first name terms?’
‘Maureen,’ says Sid like he is afraid the word might bite him.
‘That’s better. Would you like a cup of tea now or later?’
‘Later, thanks,’ says Sid. ‘We’ll break the back of it first.’ With these auspicious words he swings round and knocks down a large vase that is standing on the hall table. It smashes into about a hundred pieces.
If Mrs Ripley is heartbroken she conceals the fact brilliantly. ‘Oh look,’ she says, plunging into the wreckage. ‘Little Ben’s Dinky car. He will be pleased.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ grovels Sid. ‘You must let us know how much that cost and we’ll come to some sort of arrangement when we settle up.’
‘I think Charles paid about three hundred pounds for it,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry, I never really liked it and I think they’re only worth something as a pair.’
