It’s girls and laughs galore from the moment Timmy enrols on the HomeClean Salesman’s Training Course … right through to joining brother-in-law Sidney in selling the Noggett ‘Nuggett’ – the incredible Japanese multi-purpose cleaner.

Door to door selling with a team of hand-picked Japanese lovelies can’t be bad – or can it?

Readers of Timmy’s previous amorous adventures will know the answer to that one!

CONFESSIONS OF A TRAVELLING SALESMAN
Timothy Lea

CONTENTS

Title Page

Introduction

Chapter One

In which Timmy is enrolled for the HomeClean Salesman’s training course and shares an interesting experience on a vibrating bed with a friendly physiotherapist

Chapter Two

In which Timmy goes to Knuttley Hall to learn all about selling and becomes involved in a drinking contest, the prize being Mabel, the very able and available barmaid

Chapter Three

In which Timmy goes out on the road with the experienced Arthur Seaton, meets a lady naturist and helps Cheryl Vickers and her mother solve their mutual problems

Chapter Four

In which Timmy gets on the right side of a co-operative female demonstrator and parts company with HomeClean after a lady goes to unusual lengths to repair an injury she has done him

Chapter Five

In which Sidney introduces Timmy to a remarkable Japanese product and Mr. Ishowi and his two man-hungry nieces, Apple Blossom and Pearl Diver, girls who take Timmy to their hearts and Sidney to the cleaners

Chapter Six

In which Timmy finds that the Noggett Nugget leaves a lot to be desired and is entertained by the Daughters of the Cherry Blossom. A party which ends in unseemly violence

Chapter Seven

In which Timmy and Sidney go North on a sales tour and into digs with the amorous Mrs. Runcorn and her daughter Rita, and embark on a disastrous first day’s selling

Chapter Eight

In which Timmy strikes up a very close acquaintance with Mrs. and Miss Runcorn while Sidney suffers. Also, in which salesman Timmy is surprised on the job and has to hang on for dear life

Chapter Nine

In which things go from bad to worse. Sidney tries to sell out and Mr. Ishowi and the Daughters of the Cherry Blossom reveal themselves in their true colours

Also Available in the Confessions Ebook Series

Copyright

About the Publisher

INTRODUCTION

How did it all start?

When I was young and in want of cash (which was all the time) I used to trudge round to the local labour exchange during holidays from school and university to sign on for any job that was going – mason’s mate, loader for Speedy Prompt Delivery, part-time postman, etc.

During our tea and fag breaks (‘Have a go and have a blow’ was the motto) my fellow workers would regale me with stories of the Second World War: ‘Very clean people, the Germans’, or of throwing Irishmen through pub windows (men who had apparently crossed the Irish sea in hard times and were prepared to work for less than the locals). This was interesting, but what really stuck in my mind were the recurring stories of the ‘mate’ or the ‘brother-in-law’. The stories about these men (rarely about the speaker himself) were about being seduced, to put it genteelly, whilst on the job by (it always seemed to be) ‘a posh bird’:

‘Oeu-euh. Would you care for a cup of tea?’

‘And he was up her like a rat up a drainpipe’

These stories were prolific. Even one of the – to my eyes – singularly uncharismatic workers had apparently been invited to indulge in carnal capers after a glass of lemonade one hot summer afternoon near Guildford.

Of course, these stories could all have been make-believe or urban myth, but I couldn’t help thinking, with all this repetition, surely there must be something in them?

When writing the series, it seemed unrealistic and undemocratic that Timmy’s naive charms should only appeal to upper class women, so I quickly widened his demographic and put him in situations where any attractive member of the fairer sex might cross his path.

The books were always fun to write and never more so than when they involved Timmy’s family: his Mum, his Dad (prone to nicking weird objects from the lost property office where he worked), his sister Rosie and, perhaps most importantly, his conniving, would be entrepreneur, brother-in-law Sidney Noggett. Sidney was Timmy’s eminence greasy, a disciple of Thatcherism before it had been invented.

Whatever the truth concerning Timothy Lea’s origins, twenty-seven ‘Confessions’ books and four movies suggest that an awful lot of people share my fascination with the character and his adventures. I am grateful to each and every one of them.

Christopher Wood aka Timothy Lea

CHAPTER ONE

Phew! I will remember that afternoon with the wives of the Old Rottingfestrian Rugby Club if I live to be thirty-two. Talk about knackered! Sidney was coming apart at the seams like a dock-struck banana and I had about as much snap, crackle and pop as a piece of wet confetti. Those women were insatiable, or to put it in another way: that is just what they wanted you to do – put it in another way.

Of course, it is all very understandable, isn’t it? I mean, if your old man went off every Saturday afternoon and ended up with fifteen other blokes all putting their arms round each other and pushing, you might feel the desire for a bit of a rough and tumble yourself.

I have a theory that the birds who fancy rugby players go a bundle on all the muscles, but reckon they can put them to better use than chasing a squashed soccer ball round a muddy field. When they find that the chaps still prefer snuggling down with each other amongst the cowpats while they are expected to cut piles of corn beef sandwiches or refill the milk jugs, it is not surprising that they begin to think longingly of a couple of balls dropping lazily between their own uprights.

This was certainly the case with the Old Rottingfestrian ladies whose speed into the loose mauls would have been the envy of their better halves. I have not seen such lack of inhibition since Aunty Flo filled her knickers with crisps and danced the hokey-cokey at the British Legion Ladies’ Night – the last she ever went to.

When we creep away from this scene of sexual carnage, I can see that Sidney is not only exhausted but well-choked.

‘Not to worry, Sid,’ I say cheerfully, ‘it was a lousy chandelier, anyway.’

‘That’s not the point,’ he grunts. ‘Someone might have done themselves a serious injury.’

‘You stood more chance of injury yourself when that bird started thumbing through her “Perfumed Garden” for new ideas. I told you that position was for pregnant hunchbacks.’

‘Probably why you see so few of them about. Blimey – I thought I had bits of that chandelier wedged in my backbone.’

‘At least you discovered it was plastic, Sid.’ Sid looks at me a bit narky. ‘I mean the chandelier, Sid.’

For those of you who have not had the pleasure before, I had better say that my name is Timothy Lea and that Sidney Noggett is my brother-in-law and part-owner of the Cromby Hotel, or Super Cromby as it will be known when the banging stops. Details can be found in a smashing book (‘once I put it down I could not pick it up again’ – Harold Wilson), available from all top class bookstalls and entitled ‘Confessions from a Hotel’. And, talking of books and bookstalls, don’t you think it is time you dug into your pocket and bought this one? The man by the cash register is beginning to look at you a bit old-fashioned like. It gets better, honest it does.

Anyway, back to the plot: Sidney is part owner because Miss (‘call me Queen of the Boozers’) Ruperts came into the mazuma that bought the property company that owned the sites on either side of the Cromby – still with me? Good! She is advised by one Doctor Walter Carboy, whose main medical experience seems to have been in the area of curing wallet fatness. I have a constant fear that they might get spliced and really put the screws on Sidney but he reckons that Doctor ‘Conman’ Carboy already has a few wives scattered about and only needs one more for the police to start hollering ‘Bingo!’.

Despite not getting lumbered with Miss Ruperts’ hand and regions adjacent, Carboy still has considerable influence over the old soak and has voted himself onto the Board of the Company which is to run the Super Cromby. The only thing he has not been able to change is Miss Ruperts’ intention of restricting the clientele to geriatrics. These are not, as you might think, German fast bowlers but old people.

Now, I have nothing against old people, my old mum and dad being a bit that way inclined, but they do slow things up a bit. Also, as Sidney has pointed out in the past, they need special attention, and the more specialists there are about, the less likely Sid and I are to be two of them. In addition, people with qualifications and experience come expensive. All in all, Sid and I stand to lose out all over the shop once the Cromby becomes a glorified old people’s home and I know that the matter is beginning to prey on Sid’s mind. I know because he keeps rabbiting on about it.

‘Timmo,’ he says, ‘I don’t fancy this geriatric lark.’

‘I’m with you, Sid. I mean, I fancy a mature bird but this is ridiculous.’

‘I wasn’t just thinking about the fringe benefits, Timmo. In fact I wasn’t just thinking about being kept awake at night by the squeak of bathchairs. It’s this whole hotel business that’s getting me down.’

‘I know how you feel Sid. It’s so static isn’t it?’

‘Exactly, Timmo. And what’s more, I get fed up with being in the same place the whole time. You know what I mean, don’t you? When you’ve done a bit of window cleaning, driving instructing, and been whipped round the Med a couple of times, you get used to a change of scene.’

Sid is dead right there. In the hotel business the only novelty about the job is the faces of the birds you wake up on. You can reckon on half your female customers trying to get you into bed as surely as night follows day. Of course, I am not complaining about this. I fancy a bit of the other as much as the next man – oops, sorry vicar! – and I know that a lot of the reason for Sid being so narky is that wifey – my sister Rosie – has decided to come down and make the Cromby her permanent abode. This is cramping Sid’s style with the ladies a little more than somewhat. Rosie is great with another infant Noggett and reckons that the Hoverton ozone is just what she and her travelling companion need. Hoverton is the name of the oil slick with buildings that taxes the last ounce of inspiration from the British Travel Association’s copy-writers. And I am not kidding about the oil. Last year most of our customers were pilchards waiting to move into bigger tins.

But back to my conversation with Sidney.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he says. This is disturbing news because every time Sid thinks it costs me money or causes me pain – sometimes both.

‘Really, Sid?’ I say, trying to sound wary but enthusiastic, very difficult it is, too.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Let’s face it. This place is going to run itself from now on. With Carboy and five hundred senior citizens queuing up for the best deckchairs, there’s nothing here for us.’

‘What was there here for me in the old days?’ I ask. Well, one likes to know, doesn’t one?

‘Nothing settled,’ says Sid cautiously. ‘But I did say that if we expanded I would see you all right.’

‘But we’re not going to expand?’

‘Not in the hotel business, no. I don’t mind being nice to people occasionally, but all the time, that’s different. They get on your nerves, don’t they? Our, I mean, my stake in this place is protected whether I stay here or not, so I reckon that I can afford to expand my interest into other fields.’

‘Such as, Sid?’

‘Well, like I said, Timmo. I’ve been thinking.’

‘You did say that, Sidney.’

‘And it occurred to me that all the training I had when I was with Funfrall was about flogging things. It suits my particular temperament too. I mean, I like people enough to be able to sell them something, but when they come back and say it doesn’t work I’ve gone off them enough to be able to tell them to beat it.’

‘You’re very lucky, Sid. What are you going to sell?’

‘I haven’t decided yet. I want to give the matter some very serious consideration. We don’t want to go out there with just any old rubbish.’

‘We?’

‘You want to come in with me, don’t you?’ Sid’s voice does a nice job at the amazed betrayal level. ‘This could be it, mate. This could be the big one.’

‘I’ve heard you say that before, Sid. If you got me a job as a shark trainer you’d be telling me how marvellous it was.’

A little green pound sign lights up behind Sidney’s eyes.

‘Hey, wait a minute. That’s not bad, Timmo. All these dolphinariums springing up all over the place. If we smeared you with some kind of repellent –’

‘Forget it, Sid. You’re not getting me playing “Please Sir” with a tankful of sharks.’

‘I’d take care of all the insurance.’

‘Forget it! Come on, Sid, do you have a proposition or don’t you?’

‘Of course I do. Have a bit of faith. What I suggest is this. I’ll stay here and look for the right product – I’ve put out a few feelers already – and you can go out and get your sales training.’

‘“Sales training”? What am I going to do then? Oh, wait a minute, don’t tell me, I know. I’m going to be bloody sales rep., aren’t I? And you’re going to sit back here on your arse bawling me out because I havn’t sold enough of the stuff’.

The expression on Sid’s face suggests that he has been caused physical pain. ‘Don’t say that word.’

‘What? “Arse”?’

‘“Sales rep.”! You call anyone a rep. and they’ll chuck in their cards immediately. You have to give the job stature. The very least you can be is an Area Manager.’

‘That sounds quite important.’

‘That’s exactly what it’s meant to sound. It’s like packets of detergent. The smallest one is always called “Jumbo size”. But that’s enough from me. You’ll be learning all about that when you do your training.’

‘Do I have to be trained, Sid. Can’t I pick it up as I go along? Surely you could train me?’

‘I could, Timmo, and very good it would be though I say so myself, but I want to be able to concentrate on finding the right product. Something that fills a housewife’s needs.’

‘We’ll be selling to women, will we, Sid?’

‘I think that’s what we’re best at, Timmo.’

‘And where am I going to get this training?’

‘Very important question, Timmo. Luckily, I anticipated your enthusiasm for this new career opportunity and I wrote off to a number of our larger companies who run training schemes for salesmen.’

‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Sid. But, I thought I was going to work for you.’

‘You are, Timmo. Once you have completed your training, and I have found the right product, you will resign and join MagiNog.’

‘MagiNog? Blimey! It sounds a bit underhand, Sid. I mean, taking all their training and then pissing off to join you.’

‘It’s a fact of business life, Timmo. It could happen to anyone. One day, when we’re a household word, it will be happening to us.’

‘I don’t see MagiNog as a household word somehow, Sid.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Timmo. You concentrate on spelling your name right on the application forms.’

I must say you have to give Sid full marks for effort. In the next few days a sackful of envelopes arrive with my humble name picked out by electric typewriter, and I plough through sheets of application forms. Previous jobs, exam results, army service, hobbies, interests.

‘Put down everything you’ve done,’ says Sid cheerfully. ‘It’s all evidence of your experience at meeting people. That’s very important in selling.’

Another couple of weeks go by and I get three letters from different firms asking me to report for an interview. Sidney is well chuffed because one of these comes from HomeClean Products who he reckons can sell vaginal deodorants to skunks.

I view my forthcoming change of career with mixed feelings. The Cromby is beginning to fill up with cantankerous old fogies but at the same time, there are a few additions to the staff who definitely justify more than a quick spot of eyeball bashing. One in particular is Miss Alma Stokely, our new physiotherapist, or, as Sid scornfully puts it, a masseuse with ‘O’ levels. Sid is a bit narky because he reckons that Alma owes her position to a special relationship with Doctor Carboy. I don’t know about special – any kind of relationship with Alma would suit me down to the ground – or any other handy flat surface. She is one of the cool, lady-like ones you catch shooting crafty glances at the front of your jeans. She wears tight cashmere sweaters and fiddles with her felt pen when she is talking to you. I reckon she is trying to fight an irresistible desire to rip my y-fronts off, but then I feel that about a lot of women – and have the scratches on my wrists to prove it.

The day before my interview in London I look through the door of her office and there is this bleeding great couch taking up half the room. It is in three separate pieces, and I am puzzling put how it works when the lovely Alma glides up behind me.

‘I see you’re gazing at my new toy,’ she purrs.

‘Er, yes, Miss Stokely,’ I mumble, because the twinset and pearls types always bring out the peasant in me. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s a vibrator,’ she says. ‘They use them a lot in the German clinics.’ That’s news to me but I don’t say anything. ‘Excellent for winkling out the wrinkles on your dorsals.’ Well, it takes all sorts, doesn’t it?

‘How does it work?’

She presses a button in the side of the thing and all three surfaces start shuddering and shaking in different directions.

‘To gain maximum benefit you should take a hot bath and lie on it in the nude.’

The way some of the moving parts are nearly smacking against each other makes me think that if you did not watch your angle of dangle you could have a nasty accident.

‘Would you like to try it?’ Miss Stokely’s eyes are leaning on my crutch again. ‘It’s safer if you lie on something.’ She looks me straight in the mince pies and lowers her eyelids fractionally and for the life of me I don’t think she is referring to a thick bath towel.

Unfortunately I never have the chance to find out because I hear the sound of a couple of large red hands being rubbed together and Carboy stalks into the room.

‘Well, if it isn’t Timothy Lea,’ he says. ‘And if it isn’t, so much the better. No good looking longingly at that, Lea. You’ll have to wait a few years before you’re eligible for a spot of Egyptian P.T. on that little number.’ This just shows how wrong he can be but I don’t know that ’til later.

I have been looking forward to getting back to the smoke for my HomeClean interview and it is a bit of a disappointment to find that I have to report to one of those places which is so far out on the tube that you can never remember having heard of the station before. Down Railway Cuttings and through the industrial estate and I am face to face with a man in a peaked cap who looks as if he showed people round concentration camps while they were still in operation. When I tell him why I am there his lip curls contemptuously and he is on the point of directing me to the Sales Office when a large lorry pulls up outside the gate house.

‘Got another load of SM 42’s, mate,’ sings out the driver, ‘where do you want ’em?’ The bloke on the gate shoots me a worried glance and I imagine that this must be the code number of some new product. Very exciting, isn’t it? Oh well, maybe you should have bought an Alistair McLean?

I pad round to the reception at Home Sales, and the bird there is peeling faster than the walls. She must have been on a walking tour of the Sahara Desert and left her suntan cream at home. It is surprising at a place called HomeClean that the reception area should look like a rest home for spiders; not a bit like the flash interior of Funfrall Enterprises. Still, when you think what a load of conmen they were, maybe this is a good thing.

‘We’re running rather behind schedule,’ says the receptionist coldly. ‘If you take a seat over there I’ll call you when Mr. Snooks is free.’ I am not very happy about Mr. Snooks and when I eventually see him my fears are justified. He has very thick rimless glasses, a green bow tie and a haircut that would make a gooseberry feel like screaming Lord Sutch.

‘Sit down quickly,’ he says. At least, that is what I think he says. I leap into a chair before it occurs to me that he might have said ‘Quigley’. Snooks is obviously surprised by the speed at which I have moved, especially as it has succeeded in knocking his vase of artificial flowers all over his blotter. This would not be so bad except that the vase has real water in it.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I thought you said “Quickly”.’

‘Said what quickly?’

‘Said that I was to sit down quickly.’

Snooks looks at me blankly. ‘I said “sit down, Quigley”.’

‘Yes, I realise that now. Sorry about your blotter. Can I do anything? I’ve got a hankie here.’ Snooks looks at me warily.

‘No, no. It doesn’t matter. Sit down Quig – just sit down. Now tell me, what first –’

I feel I have to put the poor bastard right.

‘The name is Lea,’ I say, ‘not Quigley, Lea.’ Snooks looks as if he could kill me.

‘Why didn’t you say that in the first place?’

‘Because I thought you said “quickly”. You see, if my name was Quigley I wouldn’t have thought you said “quickly”. Being Lea it is easier to confuse –’ Do you ever get that feeling that nothing you can do or say is going to make a person think of you as being less than a complete berk even though you are totally in the right? A glance into Snooks’ mush tells me that I am in that situation now. My voice fades away and I try a nervous smile. Snooks does not seem to like that either.

‘As I was trying to say,’ he continues, ‘looking at your record I see that you have done a number of jobs, none of them directly associated with selling. What is it that has suddenly made you decide to become a salesman?’ I am ready for that one.

‘All my jobs have brought me into contact with people, and —’ I try one of those little smiles that Snooks does not seem to like – ‘I’ve found that when it is necessary to persuade them to do something, I have been quite good at it.’ Snooks looks at me as if he reckons I could not persuade him to pour a bucket of water over himself if he was on fire.

‘Getting on with people is a very important part of the job,’ he says, mopping his blotter, ‘but there is more to it than that. You have to inspire confidence with your appearance,’ he winces at the length of my hair, ‘know your products backwards, and to enthuse your customers with their performance.’ I nod as if every word he has said is already engraved on my heart. ‘What makes you want to join HomeClean?’

‘Because of your reputation,’ I grovel. ‘I know that you are an organisation which prides itself on the strength of its selling operation and I wanted to join the best.’

‘And our products,’ Snooks sucks in a mouthful of air. ‘The finest on the market – a complete range of domestic appliances, made to the highest specifications by British Craftsmen.’

‘All made in Britain, are they?’ I say, because I remember that Mum’s HomeClean toaster had ‘Made in Italy’ on the side of it. They must like their toast well done over there because I never saw a bit come out of it that was not like thin charcoal.

Snooks clears his throat. ‘Virtually all,’ he says. ‘We do import one or two items from the Continent and our Commonwealth affiliates.’

‘Hong Kong?’ I say, brightly. Snooks winces.

‘Australia,’ he says. ‘Haven’t you heard of the Kangiwash?’ I nod deceitfully. ‘Our record of new product development is second to none,’ he continues, proudly. ‘Our new vacuum cleaner is sweeping all before it.’ He pauses for me to enjoy the joke.

‘Oh, yes,’ I say eagerly. ‘And then there are your SM 42’s.’ I reckon that repeating this bit of information I picked up at the gate is going to show what a switched on bloke I am but Snooks’ face registers horror.

‘SM 42’s?’

I nod brightly.

‘You know about the SM 42’s?’ There is a hint of fear in his voice.

I am just about to tell him how I know when a thought stops me. My interview so far has not been one of the all time greats and Snooks seems to get an attack of the vapours every time I mention the words SM 42. Maybe I can turn these simple letters and numerals to my advantage.

‘I know,’ I say, leaning forward and fixing him with a steely eye. ‘And I very much want to join your training scheme.’

Snooks thumbs through the papers on his desk nervously,

‘Acceptance for the scheme is no guarantee of employment,’ he says. ‘You have to satisfy our instructors at Knuttley Hall and spend a period in the field during which you will be on parole.’

‘I am confident I can come up to the standard you require,’ I say with dignity. I search for his eyes again but they are not available.

‘You will be hearing from us in due course,’ he says. ‘Your past record certainly suggests that you have many of the qualities we are looking for. Tell me,’ he tries to appear casual, ‘how did you come to hear about the—er SM 42’s?’ He drops his voice when he says ‘SM 42’ as if he fears the room may be bugged.

‘I’d rather not reveal the source of my information at this stage,’ I say, rising to my feet with a languid grace which succeeds in jarring his flowers on to the blotter again. ‘Let’s just say it was from someone not too far away from here,’ I raise an eyebrow knowingly and Snooks practically ruptures himself getting the door open.

‘I think we will be able to find a place for you,’ he says conspiratorially, barely stopping himself from squeezing my arm. ‘In fact, I’m certain we will.’

It is therefore in a mood approaching the chuffed that I return to Hoverton because I reckon that my simple Lea cunning has ensured a place in the HomeClean Training Scheme. My spirits begin to droop a little when I find that not only Rosie and Jason, but Mum and Dad have descended upon the Cromby. Being the kind of stupid old bleeder that he is, Dad does not feel at home with the rest of the senior citizens clogging up the joint, but regards them almost as I do.

‘What are all these old geezers doing here?’ he says, when I meet him hunched up over a pint of light ale in the hotel bar. ‘It makes me all depressed looking at their miserable faces. Where’s all the young crackling then? The birds with no bras and mini skirts?’

‘Dad, please!’ I can’t bear him when he goes on like that. It’s disgusting, isn’t it? Give him a few beers and he behaves exactly like me. ‘It’s all part of the new policy, dad,’ I tell him. ‘Sidney’s trying to cater more for old people.’ Dad laughs scornfully.

‘Your precious Sidney never catered for anybody except himself. Think of the years he used to sponge off us –’

‘Yes, yes, dad,’ I say hurriedly, because I have been down this road many times before. ‘Mum alright? Still doing the Yoga?’

‘No, thank Gawd. She tried standing on her head in bed one day and shoved her toe up an empty light socket. Blimey! You should have heard her. She bounced off all four walls before she touched the floor again.’

‘Very nasty, dad. So she doesn’t have any hobbies at the moment?’

‘Only bleeding moaning, as usual. I even bought her a bloody washing machine and she’s binding about that!’

‘Straight up, dad.’

‘Straight up, son. Ninety-seven quid the bleeding thing cost me and first time out it jams with all my smalls inside it. Do you know, Timmy, I’m having to wear some of your mother’s undergarments at the moment. Good job she’s the shape she is. I rang up the shop and I said “Do you know, all my pants and vests are stuck in your bleeding machine. What are you going to do about it? It’s Thursday and I want a change”.’

‘And what did they do, dad?’

‘Bugger all, Timmy. They said they’d had a number of complaints about this model and were referring them back to the makers. Blooming nice, isn’t it? I’m having to ponce about in your mother’s smalls while the bloody Wonder Washer is sitting there loaded to the gills. I look pretty closely before I cross the road I can tell you. Get run over in this lot and –’

But I have tuned out dad’s voice. ‘Wonder Washer’. The name is not unknown to me. A big advertising campaign has been running featuring the machine and a bunch of birds dressed up in see-through nighties. They feed the Wonder Washer clothes in the middle of a Greek Temple. It all seemed a bit barmy to me but maybe women like it.

‘Who made it, dad?’

‘Load of shysters called HomeClean Products. Blimey, but I wouldn’t half mind getting my hands on them. I’ve tried ringing them up but nobody answers the ’phone.’

‘Do you know what the number is, dad?’

‘Of course I do, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to ring them, would I? Don’t be stupid, Timmy.’

‘I mean the number of the machine, dad?’

‘Oh, that. FU 2, I should think. No, that’s one thing I haven’t looked for.’

But it doesn’t take me long to find out what the number is. I go through a pile of magazines in the lounge and there, underneath a headline saying “The Greeks did not have a word for washing so gentle, so fast”, is a picture of the Wonder Washer with two birds kneeling in front of it holding out clothes as if offering gifts. In very small lettering underneath the illustration it says SM 42 HB. I do not have to overtax my tiny mind to realise that HB stands for ‘House Beautiful’, the name of the magazine, and SM 42 is the number of the ill-fated washing machine, source of discomfort to both Snooks and my mum and dad. This information, it occurs to me, may well serve to grease my passage through the HomeClean Training Scheme should I be selected for it. (I ought to have phrased that better, but you know what I mean.)

Sure enough, a letter telling me to report to Knuttley Hall arrives a couple of days later and Sid tells me to forget about the rest of the interviews.

‘Frankly, Timmo,’ he says with a note of grudging admiration creeping into his voice, ‘I’m surprised you landed that one. They’re normally very fussy about who they take.’

I have not told Sid about the Wonder Washer, so I accept his cack-handed compliment without comment.

One person who does express interest in my impending departure is the lovely Miss Stokely. She comes up to me after supper on the evening before my departure and touches my forearm lightly.

‘I’m sorry to hear you’re leaving us,’ she says, tugging down her jumper so that her breasts swell forward in a more than friendly fashion. ‘We haven’t had much to do with each other, have we?’

‘No,’ I say, noticing how my voice becomes posher when I am talking to her. ‘I haven’t been in need of your services, have I? It’s a pity, because I would like to have had a go with your—er vibrator.’ Miss Stokely notices my discomfiture.

‘It is a name that causes some people embarrassment. I suppose one tends to think of it in another context?’ She stares into my face and I feel myself blushing. I really am a berk sometimes. ‘Oh, dear,’ she says. ‘I hope I haven’t shocked you?’

I don’t think she hopes anything of the sort. In fact I think she is trying to come the old soldier so she can establish some kind of female mastery over me. Some birds are like that. They try and reverse the roles so that they are doing all the masculine stuff – nudge, nudge, wink, wink – that kind of thing, while you are expected to fill in the gaps in the conversation. This is all very well until they suddenly holler ‘O.K. buster, you’re on’, and wait for the action. Some of them have had to wait a long time. I am an old fashioned boy at heart, and I like to feel that I am calling the shots.

‘I’m pretty unshockable, Miss Stokely,’ I say in a voice borrowed from an old Humphrey Bogart movie. ‘I turn pink every year about this time.’

‘I did promise you a go, didn’t I?’ purrs Miss S. ‘Do you want to take me up on it before you disappear? You’ll feel marvellously relaxed.’

‘I have to do it in the nude, don’t I?’

‘That’s the best way, but you can wear a dressing gown if you like. You must have a hot bath first. That’s the only stipulation.’

I am not sure I fancy a stipulation, but I decide not to let on about it.

‘I’ll come down to your—er, office, then.’

‘Yes. Give me half an hour, will you? I’ve got a bit of paper work to tie up.’

So I whip upstairs, have a bath and try and wash the boot polish stains off the cuff of my white towelling dressing gown. I make a lousy job of it but it does not matter because I hit on the bright idea of turning the whole thing inside out. I mean, raised seams are very fashionable these days, aren’t they?

‘Why have you got your dressing gown on inside out?’ says Miss Stokely when I present myself, pink and expectant, at her office.

‘Oh, so I have,’ I say, ‘how stupid of me. I snatched it off the peg without looking.’

It does not escape my notice that Miss Stokely herself is sporting a towelling robe not unlike those worn by judo experts. Maybe she plans to loosen me up with a few throws.

‘Are you going to have a go?’ I ask her.

‘I might well give myself ten minutes before turning in,’ she says. ‘It’s deliciously enervating. Now, if you’re ready, hop up on the couch and I’ll start you off.’

Considering that the bed is in three parts it is surprising how comfortable it is and I lie on my back trying to stop my dressing gown from falling open and look at Alma Stokely’s breasts nestling inside her robe. A very sexy lady, that, and she has me at her mercy.

‘All right? Are you ready? Now, relax completely.’ She presses a button and ripples start running through my body. I feel as if I am going down a bumpy roller coaster track without a carriage, or floating on wooden waves.

‘Relax!’ My hand is still protectively holding the front of my robe and Alma removes it. ‘Let it dangle,’ she orders, referring to my hand.

‘But –’ I can feel my dressing gown slipping open to reveal my action man kit.

‘It doesn’t matter. Relax.’

But I cannot relax. Something about the motion of the vibrator and Miss Stokely’s shapely presence is making Percy anything but relaxed. I send down a hand to tidy up but it is intercepted by Miss Stokely.

‘You’re finding it difficult, aren’t you?’ she says.

‘Yes,’ I gulp. ‘You’d better stop the thing. I don’t seem to be in the mood.’

Miss Stokely releases my hand but her fingers do not move towards the button. Instead I am conscious of them closing gently round the root of my problem.

‘Don’t worry,’ she murmurs. ‘This is by no means an unusual occurrence. It happens even with very old men.’ Gently, and in time with the movement of the bed she runs her fingers up and down my model lighthouse from its base to the flashing globe at the top. After a few moments of this treatment I feel like a Roman candle just before the blue touch paper burns away. My state of mind obviously communicates itself to Miss Stokely.

‘It doesn’t seem to be doing any good, does it?’ she says coyly.

‘It depends what you mean by good,’ I say. Her lips are lurking temptingly above mine and it occurs to me that this is the time for actions to take over from words. I slide my fingers gently inside her gown and feel the weight of her breasts in my hand like a grapefruit on a piece of elastic. She makes a contented noise which I smother with my friendly mouth and I slip my arm round her waist and pull her onto the bed. Luckily (intentionally?) it is big enough for two and we lie side by side pulling apart each other’s clothing like kids unwrapping Christmas presents.

‘Are you getting used to the rhythm now?’ she breathes.

‘I think so,’ I gasp, and it is a fact that the rotating up and down motion is becoming almost pleasant.

‘Let your body respond,’ she murmurs, ‘that’s the way to get the best out of it.’ Regular readers will have little difficulty in imagining the first response that suggests itself to my fevered body and I am on my hands and knees before you can say ‘Circus Boy’. It is rather like kneeling on a moving rocking horse but in my present mood I would be able to harness myself to Alma Stokely’s pulsating body on top of a tank landing craft in a force nine gale. With a mutual squeak of gratitude we find ourselves joined together by more than a common belief in the future of the British Empire and bounce about like a couple of pebbles on a conveyor belt.

‘Rhythm, rhythm!’ squeaks Alma, binding me close to her with protective hands and, as I grit my teeth and think of England, I do begin to find some repetitive motion in the movement of the thing.

Once Alma has detected that I am firmly in the saddle, I notice that her hand slips down to the switch beside the couch and suddenly the rocking motion becomes more pronounced.

‘Relax,’ she murmurs, ‘this thing will do all the work.’

She is not kidding. In fact the vibrator is doing rather more work than I want it to. I am all for labour saving gadgets but you can have too much of a good thing. As I feel a dangerous surge of lust threatening to tidal wave through my loins, I drop my hand and feel for the switch. If I can slow the machine down I will be able to restrain my natural impulse.

But, alas! In my eagerness I only succeed in turning the switch the wrong way and the bed suddenly becomes a bucking bronco. While I cling on for dear life (i.e. mine), the bed responds by trying to touch its toes and emits a high-pitched whining noise.

‘Stop it! Stop it!’ I howl, and I am not referring to anything that Miss Stokely is dishing out.

‘I can’t,’ pants Miss Stokely. ‘It must be jammed. U-r-r-r-gh!’

I brush aside her fumbling fingers and wrench at the control savagely. So savagely that it comes away in my hand. The strength of a Lea in an emergency is as the strength of ten.

‘Oh my Gawd!’ The bed is now throwing a fit and the noise is enough to wake the dead. If not the dead, some of those approaching that condition. As I fight to prevent myself from being hurled to the floor, I am aware that a host of senior citizens are hunched in the doorway drinking in the spectacle.

Ker–plung!!! Suddenly there is a noise like a spring snapping free of its mooring and the next thing I know I am lying under Miss Stokely’s swivel chair at the other end of the room. I raise my head as Miss Stokely’s pink body subsides with the wreckage of the bed. There is a long drawn out whirring noise which ends in a desperate, dying wheeze.

I think it comes from the bed.

CHAPTER TWO

I am not sorry to leave the Super Cromby, the atmosphere being a trifle icy after my little session with Alma. Doctor Carboy, particularly, is very narky but though he says it is because of the damage to his equipment, I know it is really because he is not overchuffed about me having it away with his bit of crackling. Sid, too, is tight-lipped for the same reason. Ever since Rosie moved in to cramp his style, he has been very dog in the mangerish about my excursions into nookyland.

Another source of irritation has been provided by one of the old geezers who was watching us on the job. He has had a stroke – excitement I suppose – and Carboy is trying to blame me for that. All in all, I reckon I am well out of the blooming place.

Knuttley Hall is very impressive. All lawns, gravel and ivy, and it is difficult to think of it in connection with HomeClean Products. Difficult that is if you fail to see the bleeding great hoarding by the gates: ‘HomeClean Products, home on the range!’

I report to a ferret-faced bloke behind a desk in the hall who calls me ‘Mr. Lea’ and looks me up and down as if measuring me for a coffin. He directs me to my room and informs me that HomeClean’s Chief Training Officer will be addressing us before the evening meal at seven o’clock. This gentleman is about fifty years old and looks as if the last person he loved was his mother many years before. His voice is totally expressionless and he drones on for half an hour about ‘Finest Company in the world … wonderful export record … first rate products … unparalleled opportunities for advancement … hard work … satisfaction … hard work …’ I try and pay attention but after about ten minutes it is all I can do to keep my eyes open. I try and keep awake by concentrating on my fellow trainees. Most of them are about my age and a few of the keener ones take notes. On the whole they seem to favour the short back and sides and earnest expression and I am certain they have a great future behind them.

One thing that is disturbing me is the lack of birds in the place. We have been told that we will not be let out for three weeks and that we will only be allowed in the bar on Saturday nights. Dish out a see-through haircut and I might as well be in a monastery.

After supper, which is of the brown windsor, fish fingers, peas and mashed potato variety – e.g. first-rate compared with anything my mum ever dishes up, we are divided into syndicates and start learning about the HomeClean product range. I have been expecting a spot of early shut eye on the first night, so evening classes do little to raise my spirits above knee-level.

The bloke who takes us is called Brian Belfry and has one of the worst-fitting sets of false gnashers I have ever seen bouncing round his cake-hole. He also starts off every sentence by saying ‘I am certain you will agree …’ so that I become bleeding determined not to agree with him on principle. In the days that follow I learn that this is a ‘key selling phrase’. The idea is to get the customer nodding along with you right from the off. Regardless of what the product is, you wag your head up and down and say that you are certain that the customer will agree that its clean, simple lines and clasically elegant styling, combined with its tastefully chosen colour scheme, will blend harmoniously with any kitchen setting. While the customer, who is too good mannered to suggest that you must be joking, digests this, you bash on to explain that the product has forty-seven unique features and has undergone one hundred and twenty-three different tests before leaving the factory. By this time the customer should be on his hands and knees begging to be allowed to buy one, but if there is any sign of wavering, now is the moment to remind him that your product is the only one on the market with multiflibinite gunge nurglers. You point out casually that products not possessed of m.g.n. have been known to fall apart after three weeks or explode with distressing loss of life and limb. If the poor sap has still not signed on the dotted line, you remind him of the unique HomeClean easy payments plan (no other manufacturer charges such high interest rates), HomeClean’s unique after-sales service plan (most other manufacturers don’t make you pay for both spare parts and labour during the guarantee period), or HomeClean’s unique trade-in terms (most manufacturers will offer you more than two pounds for your old washer when you buy a spanking new one costing well over a hundred quid).

The most important thing to remember is that you must close the sale with a positive proposition, e.g. ‘If you do not buy this product I will beat you to death with it.’ If the customer is bigger than you, then less dynamic, but equally effective methods are available. ‘Well, Mr. Prospect, I am certain that you will agree that this wonderful, life-enriching product is remarkable value at only ninety-nine pounds, ninety-nine new pence, and if you sign here I will have one rushed to you as soon as the strike in our Baluchistan factory is over.’ Or, even better, give the poor sucker an option. ‘Right, Mr. Prospect. Would you rather pay for this wonderful product in cash or with our easy deferred payments plan?’ In this way the poor mut has blurted out one of the alternatives before he realises that he hated the sight of the product in the first place.

This business of prospect participation is taken very seriously by our instructor, genial Brian Belfry, whose easy smile conceals a streak of ruthlessness which makes Attila the Hun seem like an eleventh century Beverly Nicholls. He stresses that the prospect should be encouraged to contribute to the dialogue so that he does not feel he is being pressurised into making a purchase. The kind of contributory phrases a salesman likes to hear are – ‘Yes’, ‘of course’, ‘naturally’, ‘I’ll take six, please’, and so on. Hence the ‘I am certain you will agree’ bit. In this way the prospect is nodding all the way to the guillotine.

But supposing a prospect raises an objection? Hear him out. The shrewd salesman can always turn an objection into a product advantage: ‘Yes, I know, Mr. Snotty. The Scrubamatic does not have castors like other washing machines, but that’s what we call our Stability Factor or S.F. for short. Independent tests at the Cumbach Research Laboratories – I have the figures back at the office if you would like to see them – have proved conclusively that there is a danger of unmoored machines running wild and destroying kitchens, and even whole housing estates – I expect you remember the Neasden disaster of ‘69? Now, I’m not saying a word against our competitors’ products, many of them are absolutely first rate machines, but if I had kiddies in the house’ – etc., etc.

It’s a doddle, isn’t it? Note the subtle reference to competitive products. ‘Never knock a competitor’ is one of HomeClean’s ‘Golden Precepts’, but what it really means is, never do so too openly. In the hands of the skilled salesman no competitor is safe. ‘Of course, Madam, the Hotchkiss Wash Wizard is a marvellous product, there’s no getting away from it. But there are one or two little things that I personally am a trifle wary about – but that’s probably just me being over-fussy, I suppose. I mean, I know it’s supposed to be an advantage that you can’t open the door once the wash cycle has started, but I think that if I ever looked up and saw my little pekinese …’

All this bullshit is lovingly chronicled in the ‘HomeClean Salesman’s Manual’, which we are told not to lose sight of on pain of death. At HomeClean everything except the number of sheets of toilet paper to use is written down somewhere.

As I have said before, I find that most of the chat sends me off to sleep faster than if I was a customer, and the bits of the course I like best are when we have to practise selling to each other. Most of our contact will be with electrical dealers, so two of us stump out in front of the rest of the class and with Belfry dashing down disconcerting notes on his pad, one of us plays the dealer and the other the HomeClean salesman.

H.C.S. ‘Good morning, Mr. Dealer.’

D. ‘Good morning. Please sit down.’

H.C.S. ‘Thank you, Mr. Dealer. I hope I find you and your family well. Children are a mixed blessing, aren’t they, but where would we be without them?’

D. ‘Yes.’

H.C.S. ‘Well, I mustn’t take up too much of your valuable time. But – (leans forward aggressively) – I have some very exciting news which I thought you would like to hear.’

D. ‘Yes?’

H.C.S. ‘Yes! You remember the outstanding success we shared with the HL427341/3362?’

D. ‘The HomeClean Flatspin?’

H.C.S. ‘Precisely! I am proud to announce an advance on even that great product, the HL427341/3363, the HomeClean Flatspin De Luxe! By a major marvel of British Craftsmanship and cheap Chinese labour, we have been able to raise the spin speed by a revolutionary seven point three nine per cent, whilst maintaining a price which gives you an even better margin than you had on the HL427341/3362.’

D. (Deciding to give his part more scope) ‘But I only sold one of those.’

H.C.S ‘Exactly! That, if I may say so, Mr. Dealer, was because you did not have an adequate display of the product. People were not aware that it was in the shop. Now, if you take advantage of our schedule G3 terms by buying a dozen of this remarkable new advance in spin-drying technology, and we move these colour television sets out of your window.’

D. ‘But colour television sets are selling fantastically well at the moment.’

H.C.S ‘Exactly! So why not develop two best-selling lines? You can’t afford not to be in on the ground floor of the drying boom you know. The Company is putting a tremendous amount of money behind this product. Full page advertisements in Exchange and Mart, colourful point of sale material –’

D. (Convinced that he is not getting the most out of his part) ‘Yes, but is it really going to sell? This increase in spin speed, seven per cent – it doesn’t seem a lot to me.’

H.C.S. ‘It’s equivalent to what two elephants can squeeze out of a wet bath towel after Britain’s strongest man has had a go. “The Jumbo Extra” – that’s what we call it in our advertising.’

D. ‘Well, I don’t know.’

H.C.S. (Closing fast) ‘Come, come, Mr. Dealer. It’s a first rate produce backed by first rate advertising. Let me put you down for a dozen and I’ll tell you what I’ll do. With every three I’ll give you two tickets for our “Dealer of the Month, free weekend at Skegness” Draw. Can’t be bad, can it? Nice Weekend at Skeggers. Now, do you want them delivered direct or routed through your wholesaler?’

D. (Seeing it is nearly time for the coffee break) ‘Direct please.’

H.C.S. (Also noticing the clock) ‘Excellent! Now, let me give you a hand to move those television sets out of the window.’

Sounds no trouble at all, does it? But remember, this is only play acting. In real life it can be rather different.

Being cooped up in Knuttley Hall all week is enough to drive anyone round the twist and by the time Saturday night comes and we are allowed to the bar, I am beginning to wonder if Sid’s idea is any better than most of the others I have got lumbered with. One reason that makes the bar so attractive is that it encloses the only bird in the place under sixty. On Monday when I glimpsed her through the open door she looked passable, on Tuesday she was quite a nice bit of stuff, on Wednesday she was a definite looker, on Thursday I couldn’t understand why the M.G.M. talent scouts were not camped outside the front door, and on Friday – well, on Friday night I had a very disturbing dream about her.

What I also learn about this bird is that she is as game as a three-month-old pheasant. She has a flat on the premises and apparently all you have to do is hang around ’til the bar closes, help her put up the shutters and you are in like Flynn. She loves it!

Comes Saturday night and I pour about half a gallon of after-shave lotion all over myself and slip on the trendiest gear I reckon I can get away with at HomeClean. Most of the other blokes on the course would have difficulty getting their ends away on a whore-house outing and the only competition I can see comes from a bunch of publishers’ sales managers who are using Knuttley Hall for some kind of training course. They look as if they have a few bob but I cannot see them causing me any trouble. Not very with it, most of them, and a bit on the old side. I can see them all settled down in front of the telly by ‘Match of the Day’ time.

One poor old sod I really feel sorry for. He is the ‘Flying Officer Kite’ type with a droopy moustache and a faded double breasted blazer flapping over his paunch. He looks about as trendy as an old English sheepdog. There he is, tucked in close to the till with a double scotch in his hand and he has not got a hope in hell of getting near Mabel. Yes, that is the lady’s name – Mabel, and apparently very able with it. I gaze at her full, ripe breasts and begin to go weak at the knees. Just shows what five days without the company of a woman can do for you. And to think that when they carried me out of Alma Stokely’s office I never wanted to see one again.

Mabel has her hair swept back and little golden wisps of curl frolic round her lug holes. I am becoming almost dewy eyed as I gaze at her. I imagine kissing her beauty spot and then settling on those warm, inviting lips –

‘Steady on, mate!’ The man beside me at the bar springs aside as I unconsciously rub my leg against his in time with my thoughts.

‘I’m sorry. I thought it was a bar stool.’

‘Oh yes. Well, you want to watch out.’ He nods his head at me as if issuing a warning against producing any more evidence that I am a raving pouf. I really must get a grip on myself before I do something stupid.

I move to the other end of the bar and order a scotch. This I decide, after the third one, is not a good idea because I drink them too fast. So I switch to pints of bitter, but this is an even worse idea because I keep having to go to the toilet and I reckon that this must lower my virility rating in Mabel’s eyes. Eventually I decide to have something I don’t like because I won’t drink it so fast and switch to brandy and ginger.

By nine o’clock I realise I will have to watch myself because I am showing faint signs of becoming pissed – stubbing fags out in the crisps, that kind of thing. There are five of us at the bar including Ragged Tash and it occurs to me that all of them, with the obvious exception of R.T., have the same aim as myself. They are nursing their drinks and giving Mabel the whole eye-bashing treatment every time they order a new one. Only poor old R.T. calls Mabel m’dear’ and knocks back the scotch like they are giving it away.

I play it cool with all the suave, man of the world, Jenny say quoits, that has made me the toast of Mecca ballrooms from Hammersmith to Purley. Nothing obvious, I just drag my mince pies across hers occasionally and nonchalantly run my finger round the rim of my glass as I fiddle with the beer mats. It is all copy book stuff.

At about half past ten one of my rivals begins to turn green and hurries from the room not to return. That only leaves two serious contenders for Mabel’s hand and more private parts, A dark, thick-set, curly haired bloke called Gregson, and a real grease ball, smart alec, stuck with the monicker of Mountjoy.

Mountjoy obviously fancies his chances in the booze stakes and decides that it is time to put the pressure on.

‘I think these gentlemen could do with a nightcap,’ he says, winking at Mabel. ‘Give them a double of whatever they’re drinking.’

He must have a few bob because we are all on spirits. R.T.’s glass flashes out ahead of the field and I think what a lucky old sod he is to cash in on our private rivalry. I have no intention of buying another round but Gregson has reinforcements standing by before I have finished my first double and I can see that he and Mountjoy are clearly gunning for each other. Maybe there is a chance for me here.

‘I can see you lads haven’t had a drink for a week,’ says Mabel.

‘That’s not all we haven’t had,’ leers Mountjoy. He tries to put his hand on top of hers but she avoids it and calls him a ‘cheeky monkey’. Nevertheless, the way she rolls her eyes towards the ceiling and gives a little tit-bouncing shudder, convinces me that I am on to a winner, or will be when these poor mugs have finished drinking themselves to death. One thing I have never cracked on about is my ability to hold my ale, but it is considered pretty highly in Clapham circles I can tell you.

I finish my first double and note with satisfaction that Mountjoy and Gregson are well through their second. Ragged Tash has finished both his and is ordering another round. Honestly, I don’t know where he puts it. He has not left the bar the whole evening. Probably scared of falling over if he stands up.

To my disgust Gregson leans across the bar and starts whispering something to Mabel. I crane forward and, in my eagerness, knock over a soda syphon. I snatch at it and succeed in directing a healthy squirt onto Gregson’s lap. Mabel laughs and Gregson squares up to me.

‘You did that on purpose!’ he snarls.

My reply has to be handled very carefully because although I do not want agro with Gregson, I would prefer Mabel to think that my little slip was a cunning ploy to seize her undivided attention, rather than the action of a clumsy, half-pissed berk.

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I say. ‘My hand must have slipped.’ I give Mabel a knowing grin and she adds to Gregson’s discomfiture by giggling and throwing him a dishcloth.

‘Must have thought you needed a fire extinguisher,’ she chortles. ‘Here, cop hold of this, you’d better rub it yourself. We don’t want any talk.’ She rolls her eyes again and I darn near dive over the counter. What a little darling!

Gregson limps off to change his trousers and that leaves smoothie-chops Mountjoy and me – well, there is poor old R.T. but he doesn’t count. He sits there politely and listens to Mountjoy rabbiting on about the extras on his Ford Capri and how he won’t want to swap it for a company car. Smug little bleeder!

It is past eleven now and the few people sitting at tables around the bar are beginning to drift off to bed. As anticipated, the room has cleared considerably since ‘Match of the Day’ started. A few blokes drift in for a nightcap but then it is just beautiful, ravishing, adorable, exciting, captivating Mabel and the three of us. Gregson does not reappear. I imagine he must have passed out on the bed once his trousers hit ankle level.

I am not feeling so great myself but I reckon I can see off Mountjoy. He has been swilling the stuff down and I can spot the signs of galloping intoxication. His eyes are glassy and he is waving his arms about and dropping ash everywhere. Mabel is trying to appear interested in his boring drivel but I can see that it is an effort. Why don’t they both piss off and leave her to collect first prize?

‘What do you drive?’ Mountjoy is talking to me.

‘I don’t have a car. I find it easier to take taxis in London.’ I give Mabel a nonchalant smile and she trys to stifle a yawn.

‘What about you?’

‘Who, me?’ R.T. seems to be thinking about something else. ‘A car? I’ve got a clapped out old Bentley, actually. Rather fond of them, you know.’

‘Oh.’ Mountjoy is obviously disappointed.

‘Ooh,’ says Mabel, perking up for the first time in ten minutes. ‘They’re lovely, aren’t they? Ever so comfortable. Have you got it here?’

R.T. nods absent-mindedly.

‘Yes. It’s in the garage.’

‘I must go and have a look at it. I love old cars.’

Poor old grandpa. What an opportunity, eh? Now if it had been me I would have been round there showing her the back seat before you could say ‘Epsom salts’. But the stupid old sod just helps himself to Gregson’s last double and knocks it back in one swig. An X-ray of his liver would have to be preserved in alcohol.

‘Well, better be turning in, I suppose,’ he says. ‘Got a hard day tomorrow. Just time for one for the road. Same again for everybody, Mabel.’ I start to put my hand over my glass, but take it away hurriedly when I see Mountjoy’s contemptuous grin. Stupid prick! After the amount he has put away he would not be able to make a dent in a custard pudding. What is he trying to prove? And, most important: how the hell am I going to get rid of him? He looks as if he is going to stay at the bar till he drops.

And then, magically, Mabel decides to take a hand – it is not what I would have offered her but I am not complaining. As she fills Mountjoy’s glass I distinctly see her add a dash of something from another bottle. She notices me watching and gives me a big wink. ‘Time for bye byes,’ she whispers, nodding towards Smart Alec. I wink back because it is obvious that she has decided to remove the one obstacle to the fruition of our mutual desires. Now a night of wild, passionate lovemaking beckons with open arms – not so much beckons as shouts ‘Come and get it!’

I watch with interest as Mountjoy takes a swig at his drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand – he is so uncouth is Mountjoy. Sure enough he immediately shakes his head and nearly swallows his Adam’s apple.

‘Pheew!!’ he gasps. ‘What did you put in that?’

‘It’s what you’ve been drinking all evening, dear,’ says Mabel innocently.

‘Maybe you need a cup of coffee,’ I say provocatively. The reaction to that remark is exactly the one I had hoped for.

‘I could drink you under the table,’ sneers Mountjoy, and he seizes his glass and Bogarts it down the back of his throat. Mabel nods appreciatively and turns to me holding out a 5p piece.

‘I could do with some music, dear,’ she says. ‘Go and put on something soft and smoochie.’ She certainly spells it out, doesn’t she? I nip over to the jukebox and when I get back Mountjoy is sprawled across the bar with his head on his hands, snoring loudly.

‘No stamina,’ says R.T., looking down at him as if he is a panting retriever. ‘Ah, well. Cheerio!’ He raises his glass and I am forced to take another swig at my brandy and ginger. Christ! But that drink never seems to disappear. It is amazing how they don’t when you have had enough, isn’t it?

Mabel is clearing up behind the bar and it is clearly only a matter of time before R.T. pushes off and leaves the field to me. I watch Mabel bend over to tuck away some empties and practically cream my jeans. The line of her panties shows through her skirt and I can see the shadow of her black bra through her white nylon blouse. It is wicked! Wicked!!

I take another hefty swig to steady my nerves and suddenly feel a strange deadening sensation spreading through my limbs. Not the dreaded brewer’s droop! Not now! After all I have been through, all the ackers I have laid out!

Mabel reaches up to start pulling down the shutters and I rise to my feet to help her and get a better view of her Bristols. At least I try to rise to my feet For some strange reason I only succeed in sliding off my stool and sitting on the floor. This is ridiculous! I claw at the edge of the bar and my legs buckle again.

‘Come on, old chap, give me your arm. That’s right. There we are!’ R.T. is pulling me to my feet and before me I can see the last shutter coming down.

‘I don’t know what –’ I begin, but R.T. is swift to soothe.

‘Had a drop too much I expect, old boy. It happens to all of us. Give me a hand, will you Mabel?’

For a moment my spirits rise as every boy’s do-it-yourself action woman kit snuggles under my arm pit, but in my heart of hearts I know I am doomed. I must be pissed out of my mind. The tragedy of it! The complete and utter waste! Leaving Mountjoy still snoring on the bar, R.T. and Mabel guide my faltering footsteps down the corridor that leads to my room. With every step, I pray that I will begin to wake up, but I only get sleepier. By the time they steer me through the door I am practically out on my feet. I collapse on the bed and my eyelids slam shut like the cover of a night deposit box. The silence that follows unnerves me so I open them again. Standing in the doorway are Ragged Tash and Mabel. They are embracing. Not so much embracing as darn near eating each other.

‘Come on,’ I hear Mabel panting, ‘I can’t wait much longer.’ She dives onto his mouth again.

‘Alright, old girl,’ says R.T., giving one of her breasts a tweak, ‘anything you say.’

The door closes on my sobs.

CHAPTER THREE

The next morning I wake up with a mouth like the inside of a yak’s carpet slippers and it occurs to me before the first ray of sunshine has penetrated my peepers that I have been well and truly nobbled. Mabel not only spiked Mountjoy’s drink but mine as well. The evil baggage only sent me over to the jukebox so she could do the dirty on me while my back was turned. The distress this realisation causes me is only matched by my awareness of the full implications. Mabel presumably fancied the stupid old publishing git to yours truly. What a carve up! She must be round the twist. I have heard of women preferring an older man, but this is ridiculous. Even ‘Homage to Brylcreem’ would have been better than that.

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