The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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her head up.
‘Come on, cheer up. I’m sorry, too. I know how you must feel. I came over a bit narky, that’s all.’ I take out my handkerchief–there’s posh for you–which by some miracle is fairly clean and start dabbing at the make-up smudges under her eyes.
‘You look as if you work in a coal mine.’ It is not the funniest joke ever made, but it raises a smile.
‘Stop crying, I can’t keep up with you.’
She is beginning to relax a bit now. Still quivering, but blinking fast to stop the flow of tears. Women in such a condition give off a very back-to-nature pong which turns me on like the Blackpool Illuminations. I can feel myself wilting. No, not wilting. That is completely the wrong word. I can feel my determination to push off disappearing faster than Ted Heath’s re-election prospects. The rest of me is coming on strong.
‘There, that’s better.’ Suddenly, I am doing all the talking.
‘Thank you.’
We sit in silence for a moment and then something not entirely unrelated to nooky-craving makes me kiss her gently on the lips. Oh, the taste of tears and the smell of booze. A very stirring combination.
‘Are you going to go?’
‘I’ll think about it’.
Slowly I slide my arm about her and draw her into the hollow of my shoulder. Our mouths get better acquainted and my greedy fingers plunder her bristols. She slips her hand inside my shirt and grabs hold of any spare flesh she can find. Luckily there is some, otherwise I would not be able to bend down and tie up my shoe laces. We continue like this for a few happy minutes and then my restless fingers are on the move again. Five stubby soldiers of fortune heading into the great known. Under cover of her skirt they set to with a will while Sadie responds to their advances with delighted moans. You have to work long hours in this job, but it does have its fringe benefits. Mrs B. sighs and sends down a pandy to check on my own movements.
‘Aren’t those pants a bit tight for you?’ she observes.
She is dead right and they are getting tighter every minute.
‘Let’s go next door. It’s more comfortable.’
We uncouple and, when I throw open the bedroom door, the bed is illuminated in a pool of light. Standing beside it, we help each other off with our clothes, smacking our lips at the thought of what is to come. Sadie wriggles against my chest and gently tugs down my pants while I unhook her bra.
‘Don’t put the light on,’ she murmurs. ‘I’m an old woman. I don’t want you to see my body.’
‘An older woman,’ I reassure her. ‘There’s a lot of difference.’
She falls back across the bed and I lie down beside her feeling the cool satin counterpane against my back. She is a very curvy lady.
‘Can we get inside the bed?’ she says. ‘Please. It’s cold.’
She is right. The central heating which makes a noise like a tank regiment advancing through wooded country has been turned off from just before the cold spell in May. One thing about the Cromby, they do a very nice bed. Eiderdowns, counterpanes, the lot. Very snug you feel with that on top of you. That and Mrs Beecham pressing in on you like an inspirational new hot water bottle design.
‘Oh, baby,’ she breathes. ‘Baby, baby, baby!’
I think I have mentioned before that some of my happiest moments have been spent in the company of those ladies who have taken advantage of the advancing years to gather a rich harvest of experience and Mrs B. is no exception. She also has a great deal of typical Yank enthusiasm. A high-spirited ‘get up and go’ approach which I have to prevent matching with a ‘get up and come’. I am also conscious that I am performing for England and to a lesser extent, Mr Beecham. Also that this is Mrs B.’s wedding night. Quite a weight of responsibility for young shoulders to bear but fortunately I find myself more than equal to the task.
‘Oh baby,’ she breathes. ‘I feel beautiful.’
‘You’re right, you’re right,’ I echo. We thunder on, forging Anglo-American relations with every hammer blow, until Mrs B. starts fizzing like a catherine wheel and we both break out into what seems like the end piece of a Fourth of July firework display.
It is while I am gulping in mouthfuls of air and listening to my heart thumping as if it is being played in stereo with the bass turned up that I become aware that someone is banging on the door of the apartment. Mrs Beecham has also heard, because her giant knockers loom above me as she sits up in bed.
‘Oh, F-f-fuxbridge.’
‘Don’t worry,’ says Mrs B., sliding out of bed and grabbing a robe. ‘I’ll see who it is.’
‘Tell them I nipped out to buy some aspirins,’ I call after her. I snuggle back in the sheets, pleasantly exhausted and look forward to Sadie’s return. It is very satisfying to turn someone on like that. Not bad on the strictly personal level, either. I hear Mrs B. drawling away to someone and then the door closing. Good. Then a male voice approaching. Bad! I am halfway under the sheets when the bedroom door is pushed open.
‘Henry,’ calls Mrs B. ‘Oh, Henry, I’ve got a surprise for you.’ Whoever she means, she can’t be kidding. Before I can do anything, a big guy with a crewcut is walking towards the bed with his hand outstretched. I examine it closely to see if there is a gun nestling in it. Luckily it is empty.
‘You could probably kill me for bursting in at a moment like this.’ He is right. ‘But I was passing through on my way back to the States and I bumped into one of Sadie’s buddies at the airport. You could have knocked me down with a feather.’ I would prefer to use a sledgehammer and do the job properly. ‘I put my flight back a few hours, hired a car and here I am. Couldn’t miss the opportunity to pay my respects to dear old Sadie and her new Mr Right. Put it there, pardner.’
‘Pleased to meet you. Ouch!’ I say as the Yank crushes my knuckles in his giant mitt.
‘I hear you’re some kind of noble?’
‘Um, well in a manner of speaking I–er,’ I Mumble trying to move my accent up three social classes. Sadie comes to the rescue swiftly.
‘Hiram! You just don’t ask questions like that over here. It’s bad enough pushing me out of the way and rushing into the bedroom on our wedding night.’
‘I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean no offence. It’s just that I feel I have some special rights as far as you’re concerned. After all, we were married.’
‘But only for five weeks, Hiram. It doesn’t give you the right to rush in here like it’s a press show.’
‘Don’t get mad at me, honey. And, you sir, please forgive me. I only wanted to say howdy do and bring you your present.’ He dives into his pocket and produces what looks like a handful of silver fire.
‘Hiram! It’s beautiful.’
‘I got it back from my fifth wife last week and I don’t really want it. I’d like you to have it. You were my favourite, Sadie. Too bad we married too young.’
‘But you were forty-two, Hiram.’
‘I was slow maturing. Anyhow, I’m glad you like it.’ He turns back to me. ‘Delighted to have made your acquaintance, sir. I hope I weather half as well as you. I was expecting you to be much older.’
‘I’m working at it.’
‘Very amusing, sir. Well, I must be off. I’m still living in the old place, Sadie. So when you’re both in New York you must look me up.’
‘That’s real nice of you, Hiram.’
‘Absolutely topping,’ I say, deciding he deserves a slice of genuine upper class lingo,
‘So long.’
‘