by Timothy Lea
“There are Funfrall Hostesses, and you are, of course, free to make such arrangements with them out of working hours as you may mutually deem fitting.”
“Where did you learn to speak like that?” I ask, because this is a new dimension to the Sid I used to know.
“We use all the latest training techniques from the States,” says Sid smugly.
“I’ve just come back from a Method in Management course and we pay a lot of attention to organisation and forward planning.”
“How did you get taken on in the first place?”
“I knew somebody.”
I have a lot more questions, like how much bread I am going to get, but suddenly Sidney’s telephone lets out a non-stop high-pitched shriek and a red light on the top starts flashing angrily. Sidney snatches it up like it might explode at any second and the expression on his phizog combines elements of fear and panic.
“Yes, Sir Giles,” he yelps. “Yes, yes—I have—nearly finished —it’s right—” He tears open another drawer and starts throwing files on to the floor until he finds what he wants.
“I was just completing the figures—interview—yes—no—yes—alright. I’ll just look it up.” He presses a buzzer on his desk and his secretary shoots through the door like from a catapult. “Is the Miss Globe file up to date?” he screeches, slamming his mit over the mouthpiece. The girl shakes her head and I am glad to see that the red flush on her neck has subsided, leaving only a couple of toothmarks. “I haven’t had time—I—”
“Oh my God!”
Sidney applies his quivering lips to the mouthpiece again. “Hello, Sir Giles. I’m afraid it’s not here. I lent it to Jefferson to have a look at. Yes. Yes. I know—Yes, yes—I know—I know—Yes, I know, I know.”
“Why doesn’t he come right out with it and say he knows?” I remark to the girl, “I hate people who are always beating around the bush.”
“Bugger,” says Sidney, slamming down the telephone.
“Have you got the up-to-date entry figures? Thank God. Add ’em up quick will you, darling, otherwise I’m up the schittenstrasse mitout ein paddle.” He turns back to me. “Right, I’ve got to go now.”
“So I gather.”
“We’ll send you a form to fill in, but that’s just a formality. Consider yourself hired.”
“Thanks, Sid—”
“Don’t thank me. Just don’t drop me in it, that’s all. I’ve got enough problems at the moment.” All the time he is talking, he is walking me to the door and the next moment I find myself alone in the corridor wondering which way it is to the lift. Poor Sid. I have never known him like this before. Big business has certainly taken its toll of Clapham’s answer to Paul Newman. If this is what Sir Giles and Funfrall Enterprises do for you I am not sure whether it is worth the fringe benefits.
The thought is still playing on my mind three weeks later as I stand at King’s Cross Station weighing up the paperback covers. Honestly, I have never seen so much tit in my life. It is getting so if you see a cover with five naked birds plastered across it, you know it is a reprint of “Little Women”.
I am supposed to be catching the 15.30 to Nowheresville and, as at all such moments of decision, my feet are colder than a penguin’s chuff. What with Sid’s list of ‘dont’s’ and the memory of his face when he was talking to Mr. Big on the telephone I feel like jacking it all in and sliding off home for a cup of tea and a wad. Trouble is that leprosy would be more welcome there than me at the moment. Mum has made it clear that she will never forgive the matted hairs on her fireside rug and Dad keeps throwing out offensive remarks about the stain on the sofa and making a great show of examining every chair in the place before he sits on it. All in all, it is more than a person of my sensitive nature can stand.
Luckily the path of duty is made smoother for me by the sight of a right little darling sweeping past and pausing only to totally ignore me. Sid always reckoned that when a bird really fancied you she went out of her way to treat you like air and I think he had something. I have known chicks who would cross the road when they saw me coming. Anyway, this particular specimen is carrying a suitcase and she gives a lift to my Y-fronts by getting into my train. Pausing only to slam down 30p for an epic entitled “Terrible Hard Says Alice” which I remember Sidney raving about, I slope in after her and wander down the corridor casually glancing into the compartments until I find her. My luck is in, because she has discovered an empty compartment and is just struggling to get her case on to the rack as I appear. Nice curve to her calves there is too as she teeters with the case at shoulder height. Nearly doing myself a nasty injury in my haste, I gallop through the door and prepare to show her how strong and gentlemanly I am.
“Here, let me do that,” I yodel, snatching the case from her fumbling fingers, pausing only to destroy her with the fruits of about half a ton of Colgate and years of hard brushing (children, please note), I toss it lightly on to the rack and follow up with another flash of the gnashers. She has a nice smile too, and we stand there beaming at each other so it might make you feel sick. She is blonde and she has big blue eyes and mouth so generous it looks as if it might give away kisses to strangers. I wouldn’t mind receiving the rest of her as a free gift, either. Smashing tits, as Wordsworth would say, and all the better for nestling under one of those thick woolly sweaters which make you think of stroking animals – or what you thought of stroking in the first place. I wouldn’t complain to my M.P. about her legs, either. Speaking as I find, all in all and putting it bluntly, she is definitely a looker who could well have her way with me if she played her cards right.
“Oh, thank you so much.”
“No trouble.”
We have another little smile and I make sure to sit down in the opposite corner to her. I want to fill up the compartment and I don’t want to crowd her too much to begin with. After all, we have six hours alone together.
But I speak too soon. Just as I am beginning to feel the first little electric thrill of anticipation as she crosses her legs, and the train gives a sympathetic jerk forward, so the compartment door slides open and a strong contender for the Upper Class Twit of the Year award hoves into view. In fact, I do him an injustice. If I was betting money I would put the lot on his nose – all fourteen inches of it.
“Phew, oh I say,” he chortles, “damn close thing, eh what?” He crashes one of his great nobbly brown shoes onto my multi-patterned suedes without giving any sign that the encounter has caused him pain, bashes his pigskin case against my knees and slumps down opposite my bird. I can see that she is no more pleased to see him than I am and this makes his presence doubly choking.
He is wearing a sort of poor man’s Sherlock Holmes uniform with a check cloak and a non-flap Deerstalker that looks as if it ought to be covered in trout flies. In fact, any kind of fly could cover the whole blooming lot of him without feeling it was living above its station.
“Had the devil’s own job finding a cab,” he confided, as if we cared. “There must have been a garden party at Buck House, or something.”
There is nothing there for me so I exchange a commiserating glance with Big Eyes and look out across the corridor to where there is a large expanse of tunnel on which to project my thoughts.
Captain Chinless is obviously desperate for conversation because he slips into full bore.
“My own, fault, I suppose. Didn’t leave enough time, eh, wha-a-at?” He strings out the last word so that it sounds like someone gargling. “But demned if I was going to rush my lunch. Very bad for the indigestion, that’s what nanny used to say. Chew each mouthful sixty five times – or was it fifty five? No, I think it was sixty five – that’s the only sound way to digest it, wha-a-at?”
If he is going to keep on like this to Newcastle I’m going to swing for him and that is the honest truth.
“The family never missed a train when nanny was around. Nanny Pecksmith; that was her name. I can still see her as if it was yesterday. Remarkable woman. Tremendous disc
iplinarian. Hated television. Used to read Pilgrims Progress to us all the time and the next one, what was that called?”
“Carry on Pilgrims Progress?” I say.
“No, it wasn’t that.”
“Onward Pilgrims Progress?”
“No, no. That’s a hymn.”
“Oh, of course.”
Tragic isn’t it? The world’s most attractive male animal thwarted by this throwback from Berks peerage and I don’t mean Burke’s. The poor Lea-besotted bird in the corner must be heartbroken.
“Tea is now being served,” says the waiter in the pumice stone coloured white jacket.
“Oh, super. Just what the doctor ordered. Would you care to join me for a spot of tea?” says Sherlock Twit.
“I’d love to,” says my bird.
And the consequence is that they have disappeared up the corridor before I can say Fascist Hyena. It is diabolical, isn’t it? The titled twit hasn’t even asked me if I fancy a cup of tea. I try and immerse myself in my book but even the multiple talents of Christopher Wood fail to wrest my uneasy mind from the thought of Sherlock and Big Eyes grappling over the tea table. She is obviously the kind of chubbycheeked scrubber that hands it out to everybody and I did not move fast enough. The thought of losing out to Lord Shagnasty is more than I can stand.
I consider wandering down there after them but I can’t see where it is going to get me, apart from outside one of British Railways’ diabolically expensive excuses for the traditional vicar-ridden and clotty.
One hour I have waited before they stumble through the door and it is obvious that the tea has degenerated into a drop of the hard stuff. My tip for the Upper Class Twit of the Year stakes is registering symptoms of an attack of the galloping knee-trembles and Big-Eyes is totally giggly and droopy.
“Awfully funny,” says Shagnasty raking his eyes across my face is if he expects me to break into spontaneous applause. “Oh, yes, capital wheeze, eh wha-a-at?”
Only the lack of a primed twelve-bore materialising in my hands prevents me from turning his mug into scarlet wallpaper.
I sit there pretending to give my all to “Terrible Hard, Says Alice”, whilst my evil cock-orientated little mind seeks a means of reducing the human equation to a simple one plus one equals minus supertwit.
Fortunately, Fate chooses that moment to play into my hands. The train shoves on the anchors and I notice a flurry of activity in the corridor which denotes the fact that disembarkation is imminent.
Whilst my two companions flop out in their seats making fish-pouting noises to each other, I cast a casual eye over Shagnasty’s baggage. This clearly reveals that my rival is bound for Leeds. This is something of a surprise, but I have a better one in store. The sign on the platform describes a place well short of that fair city and is obscured by a trolley-load of mail bags as we grind to a halt. Quick as a flash I dart onto the platform and take up a position behind the mail bags. “Leeds,” I shout. “Change here for Leeds. We are the champions.” Whether my final utterance gives a gloss of truth to the rabbit I do not know, but my erstwhile rival is soon stumbling out of one door as I get in the other. I lean out of the window and can savour with genuine ecstasy the sight of his drunken mincepies colliding with the sign saying “Crewe” as the train begins to pull away. He reaches back as if trying to stay our progress and then is snatched from my sight. Now it is just me and the crumpet in seat number A7.
She looks up as I come through the door and our eyes meet like they are connected by dotted lines.
“Newcastle?”
“Soon,” I say. “Oh my God!” This latter phrase may seem a bit uncalled for but I can vouch for its effectiveness if delivered with sufficient passion. Basically, what it means is: “I find you so paralysingly beautiful that I am temporarily robbed of the power of speech.” Such utterances are usually very well received by the kind of bird who finds it difficult to string five words into a sentence.
“What do you mean?” she says.
“You’re beautiful, aren’t you?” Few women will deny this.
“Oh,” she squeaks. I snatch up her hand and squeeze it passionately.
“When I first saw you—oh, I don’t know, it seems ridiculous saying this because we’ve only just met but I—I felt this strange thing happening to me. Do you know what I mean?”
How can she, but she nods vigorously. That is good because with the breathless approach you have to come to the boil pretty quickly. It’s either there or a quick case of the
South London Magistrates Court.
“I felt as if I had been carrying a picture of someone in my mind without really ever being able to put a face to it. Then, when I saw you—”
I look meltingly into her big blue eyes and her head tilts forward. This last gesture is equivalent to putting your bonce into the mouth of a lion with hiccups and I am not slow to slam my pinkies against hers. As lips go they are softer than underdone liver and generate enough heat to forge spare parts for half the British motor industry. That they smell of whisky I can forgive, especially since Supertwit paid for it.
“Darling,” I murmur, coming up for air. I glide my hands around the back of her head and stroke her ears with my thumbs. This might be the means of operating her tongue because that object starts bashing the inside of my mouth like its trying to find a way out through the back of my head. The arm rest is in the way so I press that up and pull her back to lay along the seat. I am on my hands and knees.
“What about—?” she murmurs, but she need say no more. I am the soul of discretion at moments like this and I spring lightly to my feet and pull down the blinds on the windows giving on to the corridor. Outside the slag heaps and the lights of small spurned stations are kaleidoscoping into the night but I am here pressing the light-switch towards the position marked “dim” and effortlessly releasing the buckle of my belt. The very motion of the train churns the lust round my pelvis until it takes on the consistency of cream and my nerve-ends tingle. I return to my original position and press up the last of the arm rests so my friend can extend her luscious frame without impediment. Our lips return to the position we have practically copy-righted and I allow my fingers to steal down to the fertile pasture land of her thighs. For a second her hand drops protectively on mine but the pressure is so weak that I know it is no more than a hangover from what she learned in the Brownies and I continue to press forward towards my goal. The attainment of same is made more easy by the fact that Big-Eyes is not wearing tights. Fellow stocking-lovers will rejoice with me in a mellow saunter down memory lane as I describe the electric ecstasy of my fingers tip-toeing over the brink of her stocking tops to be met by an expanse of warm, soft thigh. Restraining the impulse to run amok I fondle the faithful suspender and then, responding to the impulsive arch of her eager body slip my fingers under the tight stretch of her knickers. This is a frustrating exercise because the British are nothing if not excellent knicker-makers and it is difficult for my eager fingers to perform up to the standard they can attain when permitted uninhibited access.
Drawing back with reluctance, I tug down the clinging nylon and reveal the fur muff below. Over the unprotesting knees and I lower my mouth to nibble along the thighs. Now it is up to fursville and as I trip her panties over her ankles, so I perform an acrobatic love dive which jerks her heels against my shoulder blades whilst she makes contented moaning noises.
Her needs seem well catered for but mine as yet are only putting a strain on the front of my brushed denim. Guide, philosopher and friend I may soon have to be, but at this moment, Number One is screaming for action and I am not the man to stand in his way. Without discontinuing my labour of love I ease my jeans down over my heels and hope that a status-conscious ticket collector will not choose this moment to improve his promotion prospects. With the departure of my lower garment it is now possible for me to pay Big-Eyes the ultimate compliment and seizing her around the waist, I draw her forward so that she topples gently onto the floor. Beneath us, all is
shudder, shake and quiver and my own body could play accompaniment without the aid of a musical instrument. Greedy sod that I am I now peel back her sweater so that I can see the glowing mounds of her breasts encased in heaving pink. Our mouths hold again and I slip my hands beneath her arched back to release the jack-in-the-box catch. My expectations are not disappointed. Her nipples are like dainty gherkins and when sucked pulsate like wire coils on a pin table machine.
With such a creature it is a problem to know where to go next but J.T. Superstar is now taking over my personality and, almost without being conscious of it, I find myself immersed in Big-Eyes right up to the dolly bags.
At this point I would like to try and step back from the narrative and say to you frankly – Ladies and Gentlemen, if you have never had it away on the floor of the 15.00 to Newcastle ring up British Railways tomorrow. You do not know what you have been a missing of. A B.R. Diesel churning it out at 80 m.p.h. beats any theme music put together by Mantovani, I can tell you.
During the next few hours, I learn that my new friend’s name is Janet and that she is training to be a gym mistress. This latter fact would come as no surprise to any of the flies on the carriage walls. She is a very athletic girl, there is no getting away from it, and after a couple of hours, I do want to get away from it. We have been having it away in every position except with me hanging from the communication cord by my big toe and that is only because I have been too terrified to mention it. Now she has me pinned in a corner and is rubbing her hands underneath my shirt and kissing the side of my neck in a manner that is clearly saying “get on with it”. I would like to oblige but my old man has about as much backbone as a boiled leek and I have to change the subject.
“I think we’re nearly there,” I say, intercepting her hands as they start tripping down to complain about the service. “At least, I am. You’re going to Newcastle, aren’t you?”
To my relief she sighs and reaches out for her knickers.
“No, no. I’m off on holiday.”
“Holiday?”
