by Timothy Lea
‘Let’s get out of here,’ I say. I don’t wait for her to consult her horoscope but lead her towards my room. A glance through the door makes me change my mind. I had forgotten that I had been stripping down the gear change on my bike. There are bits and pieces all over the bed. I don’t want to sweep her on to it impulsively and find that I have wedged an axle nut up her khyber.
‘In here.’ I don’t like using Mum and Dad’s bedroom but passion makes you reckless, doesn’t it? My high-thigh equipment is itching for action and in situations like this it is inclined to programme my thought box.
‘It’s all right in here, is it?’ I see Pearl’s eyes nervously scanning the walls for signs of gorillas or worse.
‘You bet.’ I take her cheeks between my hands and home on to her mouth like a bird settling on its nest. My tongue starts painting a mural on the roof of her mouth and I rub my chest backwards and forwards across her bristols. She is wearing one of those stretch silk blouses with puff sleeves and I flick my digits across the strawberries that show through. ‘You’ve got a mole down there, haven’t you?’ I murmer. I am talking about her cleavage but she looks down at the floor as if imagining that the gorilla might have a friend. ‘Here,’ I say, sticking a finger down the front of her blouse.
‘Yes. I never had it when I was a kid.’ I don’t make any comment but push her back on to the bed and start moulding the front of her jeans. I do wish birds would give up wearing trousers. I feel unhealthy touching up somebody turned out like a bloke. Mum’s bed has an eiderdown on it and Pearl sinks into it so deep that you wouldn’t be able to see her from the other side of the room. Not that I am going to look, mind you. I like it too much where I am.
I unpop the front of her jeans and then carry on popping up to the top of her blouse. She must have shapely knockers because they don’t disappear when she is lying on her back. You know what some birds are like when in the Egyptian PT position — only their nipples mark the spots. I start fiddling for the catch on her bra but she shakes her head.
‘It doesn’t have one.’ Funny how birds clobber changes, isn’t it? I can remember when bra cups were like plastic beakers. Now they are as flimsy as Ted Heath’s re-election prospects. I expose a couple of gnawable nipples and set to with a will — and a willy as I am reminded by the eager force battering the front of my brushed denim. You might well think that the back of my zip was a xylophone and that my love portion was practising its scales. My lips spill a confetti of kisses down to Pearl’s tummy button and from this position I direct the assault on her jeans. Not that it is much of an assault. Pearl obligingly raises her shapely haunches and together we push the encumbering threads down to ankle level. She is wearing a pair of flowery panties and the white background sets off her light brown skin a treat.
‘What about you?’ Yes, what about me, indeed. With Pearl’s unneeded help I rip open my shirt and wriggle out of my jeans like there is a prize for doing it fast. Percy bounds forward eagerly and only the frail fragment of my navy blue, silk-effect athlete’s briefs keeps him in half-hearted check. Gently at first, as if tip-toeing across a minefield, Pearl brushes her fingers over my truncheon meat. ‘He’s keen, isn’t he?’ she says.
‘Keen?’ I say. ‘He’s a raving maniac!’
As I say this, her fingers take a steely grip on my hampton and she kisses me like she is trying to organise a tongue transplant. She may have been eighteen years out of the country but a lot of the old jungle magic still remains.
‘Put him to work.’ She arches her back and shows me her teeth — by opening her mouth, I hasten to add. She doesn’t fish them out of her back pocket.
I am not the man to deny a lady such a request and I swiftly scramble to my knees and tug down her nicks. Her own fingers are not idle. She flicks down the rim of my pants so that Percy peeps over the top like we are having a Punch and Judy show.
‘Peek a-boo!’ she says.
Percy does not say anything. With him, actions speak louder than words as I hope to show the Caribbean curve carnival. Keeping my fingers in reggae rhythm, I check that all parts are in good working order and enthusiastic about the imminent arrival of Mad Mick. As she looks up at me expectantly I discard my pants and position myself on the starting grid.
‘Go on.’ That counts as the chequered flag as far as I am concerned. With a screech of balls I roar up the straight and head for the first bend. The Grand Prick of Clapham is under way. I could give you all the sordid details but I know that you are a sensitive bunch and would probably skip to the end of the chapter. Suffice to say that this chick performs like a mechanical sludge sifter gone berserk. I have never known such a mover. The bedhead bashes against the wall and the light in the middle of the room starts swinging. What a pity that one of us has to catch a toe in the eiderdown. That’s right. Suddenly, the room is full of feathers. You have never seen anything like it. Talk about plucking a chicken. I feel more as if I am — what was that? I stop moving and my blood freezes. It sounded like the front door.
‘I’d never have bleeding gone if I’d known he wasn’t going to give us a lift back.’
‘Oh, stop your moaning!’
Mum and Dad are back! Eek! Immediately, panic replaces passion, and my nunga wilts like a blob of fat at the bottom of a hot frying pan. My feet hit the floor and I start pulling on my jeans. Bugger! They are not my jeans. Bleeding unisex! Bleeding sex!!
‘Get your clothes on!’ I hiss. ‘They’re coming!’
‘I should be so lucky,’ says the bird sulkily.
‘I don’t care about you. I’m going to bed.’ That is Mum coming up the stairs. Oh my gawd! Why did I ever get myself in this situation? I must stop her coming in to the bedroom.
I brush some of the feathers off my shirt and hobble to the door trying to wriggle my feet into my slip-ons. I fling the door open just as Mum’s hand is stretching out for the knob.
‘Timmy! What on —’ I close the door behind me and stand in front of it.
‘Did you have a nice time?’ I say. A feather that has become attached to my lips soars into the air as I speak.
Mum stares at it suspiciously for a second before ignoring my considerate question. ‘What were you doing in there?’ she says. ‘Why are you covered in feathers?’
She tries to go into the room but I continue to bar the way. Dad appears at the top of the stairs. He takes one look at me and stops dead. ‘Blimey!’
They both stare at me and panic lights flash before my eyes. What can I say?
‘Have you got someone in there?’ says Mum. Dad grits his teeth and takes a menacing step towards me.
‘You mustn’t go in!’ I squeak.
‘And why not, pray?’ snarls Dad.
‘She’s getting herself ready to meet you,’ I gulp.
‘Who is?’ Mum’s voice rises sharply and she steps forward beside Dad.
‘My fiancée,’ I say.
‘What!!?’ They say the word together and take a step backwards like I have produced a gun. It is a masterstroke. Now they look bewildered. Seconds before they looked like a lynching party.
‘Hi dere!’ Pearl comes out of the bedroom smoothing the ruckles out of the front of her blouse at skirt level.
Dad catches Mum just before she hits the floor.
CHAPTER TWO
One of the strangest things about my “engagement” to Pearl is that Mum never mentions it — apart from saying that she will drop dead if we ever walk up the aisle together. She doesn’t even say anything about the eiderdown. As a gambit — which is what I believe they call them in some circles — it is well worth remembering. The next time your mum or dad catch you on the job with someone, say that you’re going to marry them. They’ll be so horrified they won’t bother to castigate you — it’s OK, it doesn’t mean what it sounds like. Sometimes I think that parents experience the reverse of what I feel when I imagine them on the job. It turns them right off to think of their little boy or girl indulging in all those nasty goings-on.
/> Of course, the fact that Pearl has joined the brownies without having to buy a uniform slips down less than a treat but it isn’t the whole story. Sid hears about it from Rosie when she drops in to see Mum and he is full of interest as we drive to see Slumbernog — that is the daft name he has come up with for the company we haven’t even seen yet. He was going to call it Slumnog until I spelt it out to him.
‘You jammy old bastard,’ he says. ‘What was it like then? I hear they’re a bit special.’
‘Sidney, please!’ I reproach him. ‘Do you think I’m the kind who scatters the secrets of the nuptial couch?’
‘But you aren’t going to nupt her, are you?’ asks Sid. ‘I believe the ceremony is very embarrassing. You have to give her one while you’re signing the register.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ I say.
‘All your relations standing about watching you,’ muses Sid. ‘I wouldn’t fancy it.’
‘Well, don’t disturb yourself,’ I tell him. ‘It’s not going to happen.’
In fact, nobody need get their knickers in a twist because I haven’t seen Pearl since the night in question. I think she was a bit upset by some of the remarks Dad made. When he saw all the feathers in the bedroom he thought we had killed a chicken.
‘Coming round here with your voodoo love rites!’ he kept shouting. ‘We don’t want no jungle loving in this house!’ It was all very embarrassing.
‘How much further have we got to go?’ I say, deciding that the time has come to steer the conversation into less controversial waters.
‘Just along here by the river. Nice, isn’t it?’
I don’t answer immediately because I am not certain whether he is joking. It depends whether you call boarded up buildings and collapsing warehouses nice.
‘It seems to be coming down faster than a snail’s knickers,’ I say warily.
‘That’s good isn’t it?’ says my idiot brother in law cheerfully. ‘Rents will be low and we’ll be able to keep the overheads down.’ He starts whistling “Old Father Thames” and rubbing his hands together.
‘I should think the overheads will all be at floor level anyway,’ I say. Sid slams on the brakes and pulls into the kerb.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ I say.
Sid turns off the engine and bashes his nut on the windscreen because he hasn’t taken it out of gear first. He curses softly and faces me. ‘You’ve got to change your attitude. All this fas-fash-vas —’
‘Vasectomy?’ I prompt.
‘Facetiousness has got to stop. If you’re going out on the shop floor you’ve got to do so in the right attitude. Serious, alert, responsible —’
Hang on a minute,’ I say. ‘Shop floor? I thought you were taking over this place?’
‘And you thought you were going to end up with some cushy number sitting behind a big desk?’ Sid shakes his head. ‘Oh no, Timmo. It’s not going to be like that. That’s the besetting sun of British industry, that is. Management up there, workers down there. With me at the helm, it’s going to be different.’
‘You mean it’s going to be Sid up there, Timothy down there?’
Sid bashes his mitt on the dashboard. ‘There you go again. You can’t be serious, can you? What I’m saying is that we’ve got to integrate ourselves with the labour force. We’re all working to the same end. We’ve got to understand their problems, feel their grievances. And you can only do that by working alongside them.’
It has not escaped my attention that the “we” has changed to “you” at a very crucial moment. ‘Are you going to work on the shop floor, too, Sid?’
‘Up here,’ says Sid. ‘Up here.’ A fanciable bird is passing the car and for a moment I think he is saying “Up her!” Then I see that he is tapping his nut. ‘In my mind I will always be shoulder to shoulder with the workers. Their struggle will be my struggle, their sweat will be my sweat —’
‘Their money will be your money. Come off it, Sid. Who do you think you’re kidding? Why don’t you go on the shop floor and I’ll do what you’re going to do?’
‘Experience, Timmo. That’s all it is. I’ve been forced into a role. You remember the position I held at Funfrall Enterprises?’
‘It was on page forty-three of the Perfumed Garden, wasn’t it?’
‘Management, Timmo. That’s my forte. We’ve all got to do what we’re best suited for. I’m not condemning you to the shop floor. I just feel that you should have the opportunity to come to grips with industry at all its levels, to work your way up through the organisational structure. Think of the effect it would have if the two of us came into the company and went straight to the top? You would understand dissatisfaction running rife, wouldn’t you? This way, with you going in right at the bottom, there can be no complaints, can there? It’s democracy in action.’
‘Uum.’ I don’t say anything because I can’t really think of anything to say. I could dive out of the window but Sid has started the car again.
‘Just think of it,’ he raves. ‘The Queen’s Award to Industry.’ Sid is wearing his light blue, collarless, two piece, slim fit and I think that he has got a better chance of receiving ‘The Industry’s Award to Queens’. Still, I don’t say anything. Sid is always at his most sensitive when on the brink of a great enterprise — or cock-up as we in the business call them. I try to comfort myself with the thought that nothing is settled yet and that he may not go through with the deal but when I look in his gleaming eyes I have a nasty feeling that he is already choosing his office furniture.
‘Here we are. Universal International Bedding Company. Henceforth to be known as Slumnog.’
‘Slumbernog,’ I remind him. ‘Slums are broken down, disgusting places where no decent person would —’ My voice trails away as I look through the padlocked gates into the squalid courtyard littered with rubbish and beyond to the crumbling buildings. ‘I don’t know, Sid. Maybe it is quite a good name.’
‘It slips off the tongue a sight quicker than Slumbernog,’ says Sid. ‘Now, I wonder how we get in?’
‘There’s a sign on the gates,’ I say. ‘It says “For admittance call opposite”.’
We bend our eyes across the street and there is a broken down boozer called the Workers United.
‘Looks more like Manchester United,’ I say. ‘Blimey. They can’t mean that, can they?’
‘Better have a look,’ says Sid.
We park the car, decline the offer made by a couple of kids who want 50p to stop anybody removing the hub caps, fail to do business on the basis of them paying us 50p to avoid a clip round the earhole, and go into the pub. It looks like nobody has bothered to clean up since the Waco kid last hit town and has had no difficulty in resisting the temptation to tart itself up into the muzac and moquette bracket.
‘Can you tell us how to get into U.I.B. mate?’ says Sid to the ferret-faced geezer behind the bar.
‘You looking for work?’ says the bloke suspiciously.
At the word ‘work’, one of the old men who is playing dominoes in the far corner makes a high pitched squawking noise, clutches his throat and collapses across the table.
His partner stands up aghast. ‘It’s his heart,’ he cries. ‘Quick! Brandy.’ With remarkable speed for a man of advanced age he rushes across the room and snatches the bottle proferred by the alarmed barman. Tearing out the cork he proceeds to drink greedily.
What about him?’ says Sid, indicating the gulper’s stricken friend.
‘Give him half a chance and he’ll drink the lot,’ says the man. ‘Worst thing for him.’
‘Give us a glass,’ says Sid. He fills half a tumbler from the man’s bottle and then proceeds to knock it back. ‘That’s better. I can’t stand seeing people suffering. It makes me feel quite ill.’
‘He should never have mentioned that word,’ says the man nodding at the barman.
‘You mean work?’ says Sid.
‘Aaargh!’ Immediately, the old man’s head falls back amongst the dominoes and he
slowly slides under the table.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ The old man’s friend springs to his comrade’s side and proceeds to go through his pockets.
‘Has he got some pills?’ says Sid.
‘Of course he has. Though he doesn’t have much cause to use them, these days. What a damn stupid question. Ah, here we are.’ The man removes a bulging wallet and places it in the inside pocket of his jacket.’ That should relieve the pressure a bit.’ He takes another gulp of brandy and then, almost as an afterthought applies the bottle to his friend’s lips.
‘Are either of you anything to do with the factory?’ asks Sid.
‘I’m the gatekeeper and he’s my mate.’
‘What are you doing in here, then?’ I ask.
‘Keeping an eye on the gate, of course. Lovely view from here.’ We follow his eyes through the pub window and it has to be agreed that by looking over the frosted glass it is possible to see the gate.
‘You’re a bit old to still be on the books, aren’t you?’ says Sid.
‘Semi-retired, Fred and me,’ says the man. ‘But we like to do our bit for the old firm. I’ve been here man and idiot for nearly sixty years now.’
‘And it don’t seem a drop too much,’ croons his friend who has made such a determined assault on the brandy that there is now only a couple of inches left at the bottom of the bottle.
‘Can you let us in please,’ says Sid. ‘We have an appointment with Mr Rightberk at twelve.’
‘I can’t leave Fred,’ says the man. ‘Look, he’s finished that brandy and he still isn’t moving.’
‘Well, give us the key and we’ll let ourselves in.’
‘I couldn’t do that.’ The man sucks in his breath sharply. ‘Oh no. I couldn’t do that. Mr Umbrage wouldn’t be holding with that, oh dear me no.’
‘Who is Mr Umbrage?’ asks Sid patiently.
