Confessions from the Shop Floor. Timothy Lea
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be white, and future prospects mighty bright. Thinking of you this happy Yuletide, Harry, Doris and family — not forgetting Cuddles’. We thought about them a lot, especially Cuddles. I wonder what he was — or she, maybe. It was funny how the infrequent visitors to the house all picked up the card and nodded like they had known Harry and Doris all their lives. I hope we get something from them next year.
‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘That’s amazing. You have to come at the one time when we’re out of everything. Isn’t there something else I can get you? We’ve got some cocoa.’
‘I like cocoa without milk even less than tea without milk,’ says my dusky dreamboat sulkily.
‘Anything good on the telly?’ I say. ‘I see you’ve got it going.’
‘Just an old movie,’ she says. ‘I don’t know where they dig them up from.’
‘It’s probably black and white anyway,’ I say, trying to cheer her up.
‘Ronald Coleman,’ she says. ‘I can’t see what anyone ever saw in him. That moustache.’
‘The bird’s all right,’ I say, sliding on to the settee again. ‘Her clothes look quite modern, don’t they?’ I advance my hand along the back of the settee and let my fingers brush against her shoulders. Neither of us is getting any younger and my brooding, passionate nature demands an outlet.
‘Uum.’ She doesn’t tell me to piss off so I move my sensuous lips to her shell-like lobes and blow gently. She flicks her head like a disturbed cat. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘How long have you been over here?’ I ask.
‘Eighteen years.’
‘Eighteen years!’ The scent of bougainvillea blossom is obviously long dead in this bird’s nostrils.
‘I came over when I was a baby.’ She stifles a yawn. ‘Have you got a record player or anything?’
‘It’s at the menders,’ I say. In fact we do have a gramophone but it looks like the picture on an old HMV sleeve and was ‘rescued’ by Dad. I can’t see Pearl’s sophisticated tastes responding to it. Especially the selection of old Maurice Chevalier records that came with it. ‘Lets make love,’ I say. I suppose I could have built up to it a bit more but there is not a lot of time to waste and I need to know where I stand. It is also a fact that birds can sometimes respond well to the frank, straightforward approach. After all, they all know what it’s about and they must get bored waiting for you to wring out the words.
‘You don’t waste a lot of time, do you?’ she says.
‘When you feel the way I do, there’s not a lot of point.’ I say. It doesn’t mean anything but I put a lot of sincerity into it.
‘Nobody could accuse you of trying to buy me, could they?’ she says.
‘I couldn’t do it,’ I say. ‘I’m no saint but I do have a few scruples.’
This is another effective ploy. Just as birds are always prepared to believe you when you say something nice about them, they are also prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt when you say something nasty about number one. This way, you come out as being honest, in need of help, and slightly exciting. You can appeal to a number of their cravings with one simple approach. Frank Sinatra was a master of this gambit as a study of some of his old movies on the telly will reveal: ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from me, kid. I’m poison to dames. I just foul them up, see? Stick with me and you’ll earn yourself a groin-full of groans.’ Of course, once he’d said that, knocked back a couple of fingers of Jack Daniels and flipped his snap-brimmed hat on to the back of his head they had to plane the birds off him in layers.
‘It’s not very romantic down here.’
Note the use of words carefully. She does not say ‘in’ here but ‘down’ here. This clearly indicates that the possibility of being ‘up’ somewhere has clearly entered her mind — as indeed it has entered mine. In her case I think she is thinking about ‘upstairs’.
‘Let me show you round,’ I say, very casual. ‘There’ll be a collection for the National Trust at the end of the tour. Please give generously.’ I run my fingers up her body as I get to the last bit and turn the telly off with a flourish. When she has helped me pick up the tea things we go out into the hall. I wish I was not so clumsy. Still, maybe she will put it down to my impetuosity.
‘Where’s the bathroom?’ she says.
‘Top of the stairs. Follow your nose.’ She looks at me a bit old fashioned. ‘I mean straight on.’ I suppose I could have chosen my words better.
I take the tray into the kitchen and then I think of something. ‘Watch out for the —’ There is a shrill scream from the bathroom — ‘gorilla in the bathroom,’ I finish lamely.
Dad keeps his gorilla skin in the bathroom because of the steam and it can give you a nasty turn if you’re not expecting it — which, let’s face it, very few people are.
‘Oh my God!’ says Pearl when I get to her side. ‘I saw it in the mirror. I thought it was coming to get me.’ The skin is hanging on the door and I can see what she means. Grab a gander at your mug and there it is leering over your shoulder.
‘It’s all right. I’m here,’ I say, taking her in my arms and pressing my cakehole against her barnet. Well done, Dad’s gorilla! This is just the little ice-breaker I needed. As I have said on many occasions it is vital to establish unforced bodily contact at the first opportunity.
‘It’s horrible!’ she shudders. I think she is referring to the gorilla but it may be the pressure of my giggle stick against her dilly pot that is causing anxiety. Percy is coming on strong as they say. Nothing feeds his base appetites more than the sight of a damsel in distress.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ I say. I don’t wait for her to consult her horoscope but lead her towards my room. A glance through the door makes me change my mind. I had forgotten that I had been stripping down the gear change on my bike. There are bits and pieces all over the bed. I don’t want to sweep her on to it impulsively and find that I have wedged an axle nut up her khyber.
‘In here.’ I don’t like using Mum and Dad’s bedroom but passion makes you reckless, doesn’t it? My high-thigh equipment is itching for action and in situations like this it is inclined to programme my thought box.
‘It’s all right in here, is it?’ I see Pearl’s eyes nervously scanning the walls for signs of gorillas or worse.
‘You bet.’ I take her cheeks between my hands and home on to her mouth like a bird settling on its nest. My tongue starts painting a mural on the roof of her mouth and I rub my chest backwards and forwards across her bristols. She is wearing one of those stretch silk blouses with puff sleeves and I flick my digits across the strawberries that show through. ‘You’ve got a mole down there, haven’t you?’ I murmer. I am talking about her cleavage but she looks down at the floor as if imagining that the gorilla might have a friend. ‘Here,’ I say, sticking a finger down the front of her blouse.
‘Yes. I never had it when I was a kid.’ I don’t make any comment but push her back on to the bed and start moulding the front of her jeans. I do wish birds would give up wearing trousers. I feel unhealthy touching up somebody turned out like a bloke. Mum’s bed has an eiderdown on it and Pearl sinks into it so deep that you wouldn’t be able to see her from the other side of the room. Not that I am going to look, mind you. I like it too much where I am.
I unpop the front of her jeans and then carry on popping up to the top of her blouse. She must have shapely knockers because they don’t disappear when she is lying on her back. You know what some birds are like when in the Egyptian PT position — only their nipples mark the spots. I start fiddling for the catch on her bra but she shakes her head.
‘It doesn’t have one.’ Funny how birds clobber changes, isn’t it? I can remember when bra cups were