by Timothy Lea
Harry shakes his head carefully. ‘Couldn’t let you do that. It wouldn’t be right. It’s not on to let your mates do the work while you skive.’
‘But that’s what I was doing yesterday,’ I say.
Harry looks thoughtfully at Lenny. ‘Yes, I suppose you were, really.’
Lenny nods. ‘That’s right, Harry.’
There is a long pause while Lenny and Harry return to looking into space. Finally, Harry speaks. ‘We couldn’t do that, though, could we, Lenny?’
Lenny picks up his teacup as if having forgotten that it is empty and then puts it down again. ‘No, Harry.’
I am on the point of opening an artery in order to make amends when Umbrage appears at my elbow. ‘Have a nice time with your capitalist friends, did you, Nark? I hope you remembered what I said? No betrayal of your fellow workers.’
‘The subject hardly arose,’ I say.
‘Good. Today I want you on Deliveries. Never had any trouble with your Newingtons, have you?’
‘Newingtons?’
‘Newington Butts: guts. You’ve never worn a support?’
‘No!’ I say, not over-thrilled by the thought that anyone could imagine my tempting torso entombed in the kind of article you see when studying the cover of ‘The Kiss of The Whip’ in the windows of more selective chemist shops.
‘Because if you do yourself a mischief and you haven’t made a clean breast of your fundaments then the union can’t do anything for you.’
‘I’m in good shape,’ I insist.
‘It doesn’t matter about the shape. They could win beauty contests and still drop a couple of inches.’
‘I’m not worried about my physical condition,’ I say, choosing my words carefully.
‘Right. Get over to Deliveries when you’ve finished your tea. You’ll probably find that twat Twitterton over there. Don’t stand any nonsense from him. He may be Rightberk’s nephew but he doesn’t amount to a ball of spit.’
What about us?’ says Lenny. Are we expected to toil alone?’
‘Of course not,’ says Umbrage. ‘You wait patiently for a replacement and don’t do anything rash.’
When I get to Deliveries I find a big bloke smoking a fag end watching two little blokes staggering under the weight of an enormous bed they are trying to push into the back of a furniture van.
‘Timothy Lea,’ I say. Mr Umbrage told me to come here.’
The big bloke nods his head without looking at me. ‘Jack,’ he says. ‘Hang on a minute. We’re just loading up.’
Eager to counteract any impression that I am not prepared to pull my weight, I step forward briskly and help the two hard-pressed geezers who are attempting to manipulate the bed into the van.
‘HOLD IT!!’ The bloke with the fag shouts so loud that the two geezers let go of the bed. It wavers for a moment and then topples over the edge of the loading bay. There is a crash and the noise of splintering wood.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ says Jack.
‘I was only trying to help,’ I say.
‘Help? Do you want to bring the whole place to a standstill? What do you think would have happened if Umby had seen you do that?’ I hang my head in shame. ‘Out. The whole lot out. You’re taking the bread out of those blokes’ mouths.’
‘But I was told I was on delivering,’ I say. ‘Mr Umbrage especially inquired after my fundaments.’
‘Delivering, yes. Loading, no. They’re two different things, son. Totally different skills involved.’
I look down at the remains of the shattered bed. ‘I suppose it would be a stupid question if I asked whether I should pick up the pieces?’
Jack closes his eyes and nods gently. ‘Very stupid, Tim. That’s the job of the Maintenance Department — or maybe the Cleansing Division. I’m not quite certain. It’s gone to arbitration.’
‘Either way it would be suicide for us to attempt to move that bed?’ I say, allowing a trace of sarcasm to creep into my voice.
‘You might as well whip a knife into your guts a couple of times or — if you’re in a real hurry — try the toad-in-the-hole in the canteen.’
‘So what do we do?’ I say.
‘Draw another bed out of stock,’ says Jack. ‘The way Moe and Zack are working at the moment it should take us up to dinner time, nicely.’
I am beginning to think that it is pointless coming to work without a good book, when Twitterton bustles upon the scene. ‘What’s happening here?’ he says. ‘Why aren’t you — Oh!’ He has copped an eyeful of the bed.
‘Little accident,’ says Jack. ‘They don’t hold up very well, do they? You wouldn’t have to get very fruity on that before you were in trouble, would you?’
Twitterton blushes. ‘I’m not interested in that,’ he snaps.
‘I had wondered,’ says Jack.
‘The breakage rate amongst our products is quite remarkable,’ says Twitterton. ‘I’ve been doing a study of it which I intend to submit to unc — I mean, Mr Rightberk.’
I prick up my ears. Is this the ‘Built-in Obsolescence’ that Sid was talking about?
‘Very distressing,’ says Jack. ‘Well, if it’s all right with you, squire, me and my mate will be getting along to the canteen for a well-earned cuppa. There won’t be anything happening here for a few hours.’
‘Stay where you are,’ says Twitterton coldly. ‘A propos of my last remark, I have a job for you. A customer has complained about a bed that was delivered last week and I want you to recover it.’
‘You need the upholstery department,’ says Jack.
‘You know what I mean!’ hisses Twitterton. ‘Bring it back here —’
‘But I’m signed up to take out a bed. I’ll need completely new documentation to bring one back.’
‘48, Woodbridge Gardens,’ says Twitterton in a determined voice. ‘Mrs Collier.’
‘Mrs Collier?’ Jack perks up immediately. ‘Oh, yeah. Well, you’ve got to look into complaints, haven’t you? I mean, the firm’s reputation is at stake, isn’t it? We can’t have Lumbersnog getting a bad name. Hop in, Tim.’
He is pulling out of the factory gates before Twitterton knows what nearly hit him. I am about to ask Jack what made him change his mind but I don’t have to bother.
‘Funny business, this bed delivering,’ he says. ‘You wouldn’t cocoa some of the things that go on. Women can react in a very strange way when they’ve helped you struggle round a bend in the stairs with a nine by five. It sort of breaks the ice if you know what I mean.’
‘I used to clean windows,’ I say.
‘Well, you do know what I mean. This Mrs Collier. Phew! I practically had to demonstrate the model before I’d got the legs on it.’
‘Has she got a friend?’ I ask.
‘Any number, I should think. Not many who don’t lift the seat, though.’
‘She has what you might call an excitable nature, has she?’ I say.
‘Like a barrel full of electric eels. Get out of it, you stupid prat!’ The last remark is addressed to the driver of a Jaguar he is overtaking. It seems clear to me that Jack is eager to re-establish contact.
48, Woodbridge Gardens nestles in the heart of a square of large terraced houses in Islington. They are all painted in different poufdah colours so that you can tell that they either belong to spades or toffs.
‘Here we are,’ says Jack, jamming on the anchors. ‘Look at them curtains. Show me a set of tastefully draped net curtains and I’ll show you a woman thirsty for adventure.’
I had never thought about it before, but, upon reflection, there does seem to be some truth in what he is saying. It is often the very house-proud ones who are the worst — or best, depending upon your way of looking at it. I read somewhere that many women sublimate their sexual desires in housework. If I knew what sublimate’ meant I would be in a better position to comment, but if it means what I think it means, then I agree.
Jack gives a jaunty rat-a-tat-tat on the door and takes a deep breath.
Here we go. Eyes down for the count up. It is quite like old times staring at the polished knocker and wondering what is going to be revealed behind it. The eternal lottery of the bloke who makes a living flogging his wares from door to door. The thrill of the open road. For two pins and a packet of peppermints I would burst into song about it.
‘You’ve come — or is that just my sensation-hungry mind leaping ahead of itself again?’
The bird who is addressing us must only be able to see her navel by looking in a mirror and her knockers lunge forward temptingly like they are trying to jostle their way to the front of a balcony. She has blue eyes, a turned up nose and a mass of golden curls flecked with white which she fidgets with while she is talking. Although it is eleven thirty, she is wearing a frilly housecoat and a pair of fluffy carpet slippers. There is no sign of anything under the housecoat that wasn’t attached to her when she was born.
‘I’ve just got out of the bath,’ she says, looking straight at me as if answering a question.
‘I believe you’ve had a bit of trouble with the bed,’ says Jack, staring down the front of the housecoat like Mrs Collier’s knockers are hypnotising him.
‘That’s something of an understatement,’ says the lady. ‘Come upstairs.’
Jack and I lock shoulders in the door and start brushing our feet on the front door mat like we want to get rid of the ‘WELCOME’ sign.
‘One of our newer models, wasn’t it, modom?’ says Jack. ‘The Kumfisnuggle Nodoff? We haven’t had any other complaints.’
‘Perhaps nobody has survived their first encounter with it,’ says Mrs Collier. ‘It’s not supposed to jack-knife every time you get into it, is it?’
‘Blimey!’ says Jack. ‘Perhaps one of the screws has worked loose. That’s really a job for our repair service but I don’t mind having a look at it for you.’
‘I think we may need the repair service as well, says Mrs Collier. ‘But come upstairs, darlings. The more the merrier.’
With these encouraging words she swings on her heel and her housecoat swirls in the air to reveal a tempting area of daintily curved back bumper. She must have been sun bathing because you can see the white bit where her panties have been warding off the ultra violet. Once again Jack and I nearly do each other serious injury in the rush for the stairs, and the bannisters quiver.
‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ says Jack. He is looking at her arse when he savs it but Mrs Collier chooses to interpret the remark as referring to the furnishings.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘It’s recovered pretty well from your last visit. I suppose I should be grateful that it wasn’t a grand piano you were delivering.’ As she speaks she fingers a long furrow in the wallpaper and Jack winces.
‘I think we should have winched it up and taken it through the bedroom window,’ he says. ‘Did that cherub’s head stick on all right?’
‘Excellent,’ says Mrs C. ‘The only trouble was that you put it on the wrong way round. He should never have been looking in to his quiver while he was firing the bow.’
She flings open a door and I find myself looking at Jack’s back followed by the interior of a lavishly furnished bedroom. Against one of the walls rests the imposing bulk of the Kumfisnuggle Nodoff.
‘Looks all right,’ says Jack sounding surprised.
‘Don’t go away,’ says Mrs Collier. ‘I want to show you something.’ Whilst we stand our ground bravely, she crosses to the bed and performs a graceful backwards flop with arms outstretched. Her gown falls open and we collect a quick flash of fuzz. At the same time, the bedhead falls off.
‘That’s not right,’ says Jack, firmly and positively. He turns to me for confirmation and I nod vigorously.
‘Oh good,’ says Mrs Collier sweetly. ‘It was becoming very disturbing. My husband is not the most passionate and persistent of men and when that thing came down like a guillotine as he was getting into bed, it quite put him off his stroke.’
‘I can imagine,’ says Jack. ‘You’d better go and get the dismantling tool, Tim.’
‘You mean the screwdriver?’ I say.
‘Before your friend goes I’d like to show you both something else,’ says Mrs C. She leans back on the bed so that her shoulders are pressed firmly against the counterpane and draws up her legs. The housecoat falls open again and we get the chance to have a gander at her beautifully formed pins — amongst other things. I hear Jack draw in his breath sharply.
‘Now, watch this wobble.’ So saying, the lovely lady begins to rock backwards and forwards until her housecoat falls open completely and her bristols ripple up and down against her chest like a couple of freshly risen Yorkshire puddings.
‘It’s incredible.’ Jack closes his minces for a second as if testing that they are still on the job.
Do you see the legs?’ says Mrs Collier. She is beginning to puff a bit.
‘They’re beautiful,’ says Jack. His hands are straying to the buckle of his belt and the expression on his face reminds me of the portrait of Sir Richard De Slurp that presides over the room named after him at the A.C.D.C. Club — like a frog about to come.
‘I meant the bed’s legs,’ grins Mrs Collier. ‘They don’t fit the sockets properly.’
‘That’s terrible,’ says Jack. ‘What’s it like when you have two people on it?’
‘Or three?’ I say hurriedly. I mean, the sight of Mrs Collier threshing around like that is very affecting if you are of a suggestible nature and I don’t want to find myself having to —
‘Go and get the bloody screwdriver,’ snarls Jack. He is stepping out of his overalls which suggests that he intends to give the bed a thorough testing.
‘But Jack! Don’t you think I’d better —’
‘Hop it!!’ Jack is a big bloke and this does not only apply to what you see when he is dressed up to deliver beds. I see Mrs C. eyeing his space probe longingly. ‘I think it needs something with a bigger thread,’ she says.
‘We’ll see what we can do,’ says Jack. He turns on me viciously.
‘Go and get me an adjustable spanner. If it’s not in the van it will be back at the works — or anywhere.’
I can see that there is not much point in arguing with him so I take a last longing look at the curvaceous Mrs C. and head for the stairs. I bet Jack never shared his toys when he was a kid. I have just got to the bottom of the stairs when there is a tremendous crashing noise and a crack runs along the ceiling of the Collier’s lounge. Some pieces of plaster fall into the lamp bowl and the air fills with dust. It sounds as if Jack has found a fault in the legs. I pause for a moment and then a steady thump, thump tells me that my workmate is continuing to probe for faults. After-sales servicing is obviously a strong feature of the Slumbernog promotional effort.
It takes me ten minutes to find an adjustable spanner and when I go back into the house, the hall is full of plaster dust and the lamp bowl is swinging from side to side. I hop up the stairs two at a time wondering if it is time for Timothy to do some testing.
No such luck! The bedroom door is locked and when I look through the keyhole I can only see the soles of Mrs Collier’s feet wavering over Jack’s shoulders and his big white arse banging up and down like a steam hammer. The room is in a shambles, the bed is now flat on the floor without any legs and folded double. They really have given it a right going over.
‘I’ve got the spanner,’ I shout — there is so much noise going on that you have to shout.
I don’t hear exactly what Jack says but I think it is something like ‘Shove it in a parcel!’ It seems a very funny thing to do in the circumstances but when I ask him again, to be on the safe side, he does not say anything. It is hardly surprising really, because he is so deeply involved in what he is doing that he must find any interruption distracting.
Five minutes pass and I have got almost used to the noise when there is a rising crescendo of shrieks and gasps orchestrated by thumps and grunts and capped by a long drawn-out shuddering moan. It occurs to me t
hat orgasm may have been achieved. A few more seconds and the door opens.
‘Have you got that bloody spanner?’
‘Why? Do you want to tighten up your nuts?’
The bedraggled Jack is not in the mood to acknowledge my attempt at humour. ‘We’ll have to pass it through the window,’ he says.
For a moment, I wonder what he is talking about and then I realise that he must be referring to the bed. ‘You’ve got to the bottom of it, have you?’ I say.
Jack looks at me suspiciously. ‘Were you watching through the keyhole?’ he says. ‘That’s not a very nice thing to do, you know.’
‘Not rushing off, are you, boys?’ says Mrs C. slowly drawing her housecoat across her pink titties. ‘Won’t you stop for a cup of tea or something?’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t say —’
‘No,’ says Jack. ‘We’d better get this back to the works. It could be a big job.’ He is not kidding. There are springs sticking out of the bed and the striped bit you lie on is all skew-wiff. However, I have enough experience of human nature to know that Jack’s desire to scarper is not prompted by a praiseworthy desire to sort out a customer’s problem. It is sour grapes. He has shot his lot yet he does not want me dangling my dongler in the same nooky hole.
‘Are you sure you’ve covered everything?’ I say. Mrs Collier smiles. She has a lovely smile, that woman.
‘Everything,’ says Jack, striding to the window. ‘Look. See that sloping roof down there? We’ll ease the bed on to the window sill and when you’ve gone down below I’ll push it on to the roof. You stop it dropping off until I get down to help, then you lift it into the van.’
‘It’s quite steep, that roof,’ I say.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll hold it steady until you’re in position.’
I try not to watch the way Mrs Collier is massaging Jack’s belly with her hands. She obviously can’t get enough of it, this woman. At the present rate of progress it does not look as if I can get any of it.
‘OK? Come on, then. Give us a hand.’
‘I could rustle you up some cocoa in a jiffy,’ says Mrs C.
‘One, two, three, UP!’ says Jack.
