Confessions of a Private Soldier. Timothy Lea
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don’t know whether you mean that, but you’ve no idea how nice it is to receive a compliment again. I’d almost forgotten what it was like.’
‘Surely your husband tells you you’re attractive?’
‘Yes, but it’s not the same coming from him, is it?’
Sorry about that fellows, but once you have signed up with a bird you are on a hiding to nothing. If you don’t tell her she is beautiful she will say that she might as well be dead because you never take any notice of her. Tell her that she is the most gorgeous bit of crumpet under the sun and she will say that your love is stifling her. There never is a right way with women.
‘What does your husband do?’ I ask as we trip through the foyer and discover that the lift is out of order. A toffee-nosed middle-aged woman is standing beside it and she looks at me as if she can read my mind and does not like some of the four-letter words she finds there.
‘He works in an advertising agency.’ The middle-aged hag looks even more disgusted.
‘That must be very interesting.’ We start walking up the stairs and Lady Shagnasty’s eyes follow us like a couple of bloodshot private detectives. I turn round, screw up my face and throw her a big, wet kiss which shows her most of the inside of my lips. She turns away hurriedly.
‘I don’t know about interesting. They certainly get their money’s worth out of him. I hardly see him. And when I do he’s too exhausted to do anything but flop down in front of the telly. He brings home work at weekends and he’s always cutting things out of the papers. It drives me mad. I’m right in the middle of something and then, suddenly, there’s a great big hole.’
‘I know the feeling,’ I say sympathetically. ‘My sister used to be like that. All the pop stars went, and the stuff on three pages behind.’
We have so much in common, Mrs Jones and I. We must have been doomed for each other.
‘Here we are.’ Mrs Jones stops outside the door of Flat Number 69 and blushes. I do not know whether this is because the digits suggest something to her naughty little mind or because there is a red rose resting between the two yellow-top milk bottles.
‘I have a very passionate milkman,’ she says. ‘He is always leaving me things.’ I wonder why? I think to myself. My experiences as a window cleaner showed me that there are quite a few passionate customers about as well. Mrs Jones could well fit into that category. She strikes me as being quite a self-possessed lady and is quick to prove the point,
‘One disadvantage of living in this place is the neighbours,’ she says. ‘They’re always trying to organise your life for you. Maintenance committees for the lawn, sub-committees to decide what colour the flats should be painted. Nobody is allowed to be an individual.’
‘I wouldn’t like that,’ I agree with her.
‘I live my own life. I have my own set of values and I don’t give a hang what anyone else thinks.’
‘Very understandable.’
‘I wouldn’t have got married under any other conditions. I told Brian: “I demand to retain my freedom.” If I want to take a lover, that’s my affair. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Er–yes. Yes thanks.’ For some strange reason a faint feeling of nervousness comes over me. Mrs Jones is obviously one of those strong, passionate outspoken ladies who are filling the pubs with nervous men looking over their shoulders every time the door opens.
‘Nobody in this place would understand that. They conform utterly. Did you see that old harridan by the lift?’
‘You mean the vacuum cleaner?’
‘No! The woman who was looking at us as if she reckoned we were going to be at it like knives the minute we got through the door.’ She gazes at me and I swallow hard. It is bloody stupid but when she talks like that I feel quite embarrassed. I prefer to make the running while the bird traces ‘Lea is fabulous’ on a window steamed up by her own heavy breathing.
‘Do you like milk and sugar?’
‘Yes please. Two spoonfuls.’
‘The telephone is over there.’
I say ta very much and look up the dialling code for Brighton.
‘You can have something stronger if you like.’ She says it like she reckons I need something stronger.
‘No thanks. Tea is fine.’
‘She’s typical.’
‘Typical?’
‘The woman by the lift.’
‘Oh yes.’ Mrs Jones has sat down beside me and I should be feeling as chuffed as a bog with two pails. Damn it all! I haven’t had a bit for three months. The bird is distinctly fanciable and hardly giving indications of having her legs bound together with Sellotape. What is the matter with me?
‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘Have you found the dialling code?’
‘Yes thanks.’ I dial the code and the first numbers that come into my head.
‘Good morning. Hang Chow Chinese Noodle Palace,’ says a voice that sounds as if it comes from somewhere a good deal further east than Wapping Broad Steps.
‘Hello, Sid. Is that you? Oh, no. It can’t be can it?’ Not unless Sid has got down by one of those speeded up films they show on the telly.
‘Hang Chow Chin–’ continues the voice patiently.
‘Tell Sid I’ve got his keys, will you. I’ll hang on to them until I see him. I think there’s a spare set in the top right-hand drawer of the desk.’
The voice at the other end of the line is beginning to get agitated.
‘OK. Yes, fine. All right. Yes, I will.’ Bye.’ I ring off hurriedly. Mrs Jones smiles at me.
‘So that’s your business attended to?’
‘Yes.’ I stand up.
‘Don’t you want your cup of tea?’
‘Oh, yes.’ I sit down again.
‘Relax.’ Mrs Jones pats my wrist as if I am about to go into the dentist’s surgery. That is exactly what it feels like, too. I try to think of something to say but nothing comes into my mind.
‘I think this is the best time,’ continues Mrs J. ‘I saw the way you looked at me in The Highwayman. You don’t have to be shy. If you want to make love to me, go right ahead.’ She stretches out her long legs and leans back against the sofa.
‘That’s the kettle, isn’t it?’ I say, listening to the whistle and the sound of my heart beating.
‘That’s right.’ Mrs J. shows no sign of moving and the noise is beginning to bore a hole through my lughole.
‘Shall I make the tea?’
‘Why not?’ Mrs J. gives me one of her irritating smiles. What is beginning to alarm me is that Percy is showing no signs of interest whatsoever. In his present situation he should be hurling himself against the side of my Y-fronts like a maddened beast. But not a sausage. Not even a chipolata.
‘Don’t worry.’ Mrs Jones stands up. ‘I don’t want to disturb the balance of the sexes. You sit there.’
She stalks towards the kitchen. I watch the see-saw motion of her big end and think dirty – really dirty. Still nothing happening in the action man department. This is serious. Maybe the clink has turned me into a latent homosexual – so late it has only just caught up with me? No, that is impossible. But there must be something wrong with me. Perhaps, after three months without it—no, that doesn’t seem likely either. There was a blooming great