Confessions of an Ice Cream Man. Timothy Lea
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was the tiny footprints gave it away, wasn’t it?’ I say. ‘Taste-wise it was like everything else Mum dishes up.’
The bird comes down the steps of the van and she has a movement that would make a Swiss watch envious. She wafts along like she is dancing to a tune nobody else can hear. ‘I wonder if they do a recipe leaflet?’ I say.
‘No harm in asking,’ says Sid. He gets up and squares his enormous shoulders and I can see that Clapham’s answer to Paul Newman is about to strike again.
‘Be gentle with her,’ I say.
‘Piss off!’ says my brother-in-law. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and moves purposefully towards the Alfa. The bird has just closed the door as he approaches and he spreads his arms wide against the coachwork and bends down so that his head is nearly inside the car. It does not stay there long because there is a whirring noise and the automatic window nearly gives Sid a cleft palate. He starts back and then stops dead. I never fancied Sid’s cowpoke tie – two bits of string threaded through a brass bull’s head and decorated with metal spurs on the ends – and this instrument of sartorial torture nearly proves to be his undoing. The metal spurs get snagged inside the window and when the bird drives off Sid is forced to run along beside the car or indent for a smaller collar size. The bird does not immediately cotton on to what is happening and thinking that Sid is giving chase she accelerates. This is definitely not good news for Sid’s windpipe and it is a good job that the string snaps before his neck does. When I get to his side his adam’s apple is squatting on the brass bull like it is a golf tee. I don’t know if blue is his favourite colour but only the bloodshot eyes break the monotony of his bloated ultra-marine mug – it is like the flesh tints on a cheap colour tele. If I had a knife I could cut the string away but on the other hand there would be the danger of slitting his throat which I know he would not like. Decisions, decisions: I always wanted to find out what I would be like in an emergency and now I know – useless. ‘EEEurgh!!’ Sid plucks the string from his throat and lies writhing in the grass. For a moment I think he is going to be Uncle Dick but then he sits up and grabs me by the trouser leg. ‘Uuugh!’ he says.
‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘Take a few deep breaths, you’ll feel much better.’
A crowd is collecting and I am suddenly aware that the girl who was driving the car is amongst them. She looks worried – and very, very beautiful. Looking into her dark passionate eyes quite cheers me up after the distress of Sid’s predicament.
I think Sid likes her too because he immediately grabs hold of her leg and clings to it. ‘What ’appened?’ says the bird sounding appropriately worried.
‘You nearly killed my brother-in-law,’ I say sternly. ‘Snatched away in his prime he would have been.’ Sid nods vigorously and presses his face closer to the bird’s thigh. He looks like a tabby cat with suppertime approaching. I think he is overdoing it a bit but I can’t say anything.
‘It was an accidente,’ says a swarthy bloke who has emerged from the ice cream van. ‘Is nobody hurta.’
‘Nobody hurt?’ I say. ‘Are you a doctor, mate? Do you think he’s usually that colour? Why don’t you push off and shove your nuts in your cassata?’
A murmur of agreement tells me that the world cup preliminaries are still much in the mind of many of the onlookers and Beppo backs off and relapses into grumbling Italian.
‘How are you doing, Sid?’ I ask tenderly. ‘Is there anything you want you’re not already making a grab at?’ Sid withdraws his hand from the Alfa lady’s trousers and makes a hoarse, croaking noise. ‘I think he wants to go to the South London Hospital,’ I say.
‘But that’s a women’s hospital,’ says one of the onlookers.
‘He knows what’s good for him,’ I say.
‘Use my car,’ says the luscious eyetie bint. ‘I am zo zorry about all zis. I do not mean to ’urt ’im.’
‘That’s all right,’ I say. ‘The damages for this kind of thing never go above a couple of hundred thousand quid on average. Mind you, he’ll probably never sing again so it could be a bit more in this case.’
‘Sing?’ says the bird.
‘They called him the Clapham Caruso,’ I say. ‘He had the world at his feet. Now – who knows? – a summer season at Hayling Island if he’s lucky.’
‘You think he’ll sue?’ says the bird.
‘He’ll be forced to,’ I tell her. ‘Just for the sake of the wife and kiddies. That’s their violin lessons up the spout. Yehudi Menuhin will be casting around for a few bob.’ I can see that I have kindled nervousness in the bird’s eyes and I turn my attention to Sid. ‘Let go of the lady’s leg,’ I say in as kindly a tone as I can manage. ‘She’s going to help take you to hospital.’
‘I will never sing again,’ croaks Sid as we help him scramble to his feet. ‘“My old man, said follow the band –” See? It’s not there any more.’
‘Maybe with time and lots of money,’ I say comfortingly. I must say, there is something very sexy about being driven in a fast car by a handsome bird and I really enjoy the journey to St Bukes – Sid makes a noise as we go past the South London but we don’t stop. The way she shoves the stubby gear lever into position with scarlet-tipped fingers. The lunging aggression of her breasts thrusting against the soft angora. The restrained power of her gracefully muscled legs as they step on the pedals. It quite takes my mind off Sid’s gasps and groans. I wonder if the red mark round his neck will ever go? It looks a bit like one of those poncey necklaces you see worn by geezers with gold earrings and intense stares. It does nothing for him.
‘You’re one of the Frascatis, are you?’ I ask, remembering the sign on the front of the ice cream van.
‘Si – I mean, yes,’ says the bird. ‘I am Valentina. Pietro is my uncle.’
‘I’m Timothy Lea,’ I say. ‘This unfortunate creature here labours under the name of Sidney Noggett.’ Sid groans and tries to knee me in the balls.
‘I wish we ’ad met under ’appier auspices,’ says Valentina.’ ‘Ow is the Signor Noggetto?’
‘Multo dicey,’ I say. ‘I think he is in urgent need of medical attention.’
I soon wish I had not spoken because Valentina puts one of her lovely feet down and the landscape turns into a blur before we pull up outside St Bukes with a jerk – well, two jerks if you include Sid. I am disturbed to see that the old maestro is not looking as purple and ghastly as he did a few minutes ago and I consider throttling him back into a medically interesting colour. Probably not a good idea.
‘You had better give me your address and telephone number,’ I say to Valentina. ‘Just in case the repercussions of your inadvertent but ill-considered action are even more serious than I anticipate them being.’
‘I will come in with you,’ says the lovely creature. ‘You get out while I find somewhere to park.’
Half an hour later she is with us refusing a lukewarm cup of tea and a crumbling wad. The out-patients smells of disinfectant and babies and the benches have been polished shiny by countless millions of bums two hours late for their appointments.
‘Good job I’m a bleeding emergency,’ croaks Sid. ‘Some of those poor sods are going to die of old age before anyone gets round to them.’
‘Mr Chow? Mr Banwagi? Mr Ndefru?’ Nobody moves and the nurse goes away again.
‘They must have nipped out to get their free specs and dentures,’ says Sid. ‘You noticed that, did you? Not one of them was English.’
‘Ssh,’ I say. ‘Don’t be rude. Think of Valentina.’ I don’t think she has heard Sid because she smiles and goes on reading her edition of the September 1955 Exchange and Mart. Sometimes I wonder where they get the reading