The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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days later when I had gnawed through the buffalo hide thongs–‘Ahem,’ the bird in the green trouser suit has succeeded in attracting my attention. ‘What were you thinking about?’
‘Nothing,’ I gulp. ‘I was just thinking.’
‘It makes a refreshing change, even if it was about nothing. What are you doing this afternoon?’
‘I’m serving afternoon teas.’
‘I’d like you to serve me as well.’ The lady has not batted an eyelid–not that I would probably be able to tell if she had. I mean, do you know how to bat an eyelid?
‘Come again?’ I Mumble.
‘I hope so,’ she says briskly. ‘Come to my room at three. Two-four-six.’
‘Aren’t you going to the game?’
‘This is the game, darling.’
‘I mean the rugger match.’
‘Darling, we all go on tour for different reasons. For some people it’s rugby. Now me; I don’t like team games. I don’t like mildewed jock straps, butterscotch socks, stud mud in the bathroom basin, vomit on the door mat or courgettes that talk like cucumbers. Do you understand me?’
‘No.’
‘Two-four-six at three. We can discuss it further.’ She starts to willow away down the corridor as Fatso staggers in through the door with his arms full of one-gallon beer cans.
‘Where the hell did you put the car keys?’ he calls out to her. ‘I’ve had to walk half a mile with this lot.’
‘I expect it did you the world of good, darling,’ she beams. ‘Why don’t you try hopping upstairs on alternate feet? I’ll time you.’
‘Bitch.’
‘Thank you.’ She draws herself up and makes with the withering glance. ‘Have a good game this afternoon, and don’t forget to put your jock strap on the right way round. I’d hate your brain to get cold.’ She stalks off while I take in the glorious news that this must be Fatso’s old lady. Wild horses are going to be required to drag me away from room two-four-six.
Around lunch time the booze intake begins to drop a little and it becomes easier to spot those who are actually playing that afternoon. They can be seen sipping brandies rather than pints and ordering salads instead of meat and fourteen veg. Quite what difference this late change of diet is supposed to make I don’t know. It must all be in the mind or whatever these blokes have instead. Half a dozen of them start rugby-passing empty beer cans round the foyer and Sandra gets a nasty belt in the bristols before they can be persuaded to stop.
It is while I am suggesting to Fatso and his friends that mouth to mouth resuscitation is not necessary that Doctor Carboy arrives. He is small, dapper, toothbrush-moustached and sports an unlit cigarette in a long gold cigarette holder.
‘Step aside, gentlemen,’ he says, putting a bulging attaché case on the reception counter. ‘I am a professional man. What seems to be the trouble, my dear?’
Sandra tells him in no uncertain fashion and Dr C. shakes his head sadly. ‘Infectious high spirits cause serious complaints. Tell me, does this hurt?’
‘Hey, wait a minute!’
‘It’s alright, my dear. I’m a doctor. Doctor Walter Carboy. No, I don’t think there is anything there to worry about. Quite a lot to disturb, but nothing to worry about. In your case I’ll waive my fee.’ He waves his hand towards the door. ‘Goodbye fee. Now, let’s talk turkey–or Turkish–I don’t mind. I would like the best room you have available and a bottle of Glen Grant sent up immediately. It doesn’t matter about glasses, just send up the bottle. I joke, of course, madam,’ he smiles into Miss Primstone’s bemused face. ‘And if you can do anything to turn off the noise next door and buy yourself a hairnet, I would be grateful. I need peace. Perfect peace.’
‘What about the rest of your luggage, sir?’
‘It’s following me from Southampton. Some of the most faithful luggage in the world. I’ve been trying to shake it off for years. And now gentlemen, enough of this idle badinage. Good luck with the spheroid and even better luck with the haemorrhoids, as my old coach used to say. Last one to my room is a cissy.’ And so saying he leaps towards the stairs like Rudolf Nureyev.
The Rottingfestrians are left speechless and it takes a few seconds before Miss Primstone shoves the keys of the Plaza Suite into Martin’s hands and tells him to catch up with Carboy fast.
‘One of the old school,’ she says. ‘We have not seen his like for a long time.’ She is right there.
About two o’clock the hotel surrenders itself to blissful quiet as the Rottingfestrians pull out for their rugby match. They are full of booze and big talk about how they are going to crush the ‘swede-bashers’ as they call the local side. Most of the wives and sweethearts troop along dutifully but there is no sign of green-pants, and the winsome chick who asked me about local events trips down the stairs ten minutes after the others have pulled out.
‘Hurry up or you’ll miss the match,’ I tell her.
‘I’m not going. I thought I told you. I can’t stand the game. I’m taking a look at the lifeboat station and the fish market. You don’t fancy being my guide, do you?’
‘I’d love to,’ I say, meaning it, ‘but I’m on duty this afternoon. Maybe tomorrow?’
‘Maybe.’ She gives me a cute little wave and dances away down the steps. I think she quite fancies me, that one. It is diabolical isn’t it? They are either all over you or nowhere to be seen.
Somehow the minutes tick by to three o’clock and my mind is not on the outcome of the clash between Hoverton RUFC. and ORs.
Doctor Carboy rings down and asks if his baggage has arrived. We tell him ‘no’ and he delivers half a dozen wisecracks and a request for a tailor, a shirtmaker and another bottle of Glen Grant to be sent up to his room. This is unheard of and Sid practically purrs with delight when we tell him.
‘It’s happening,’ he squeaks. ‘At last it’s happening. Just when I had almost given up hope. I said if we stuck it out long enough the class customers would start showing up.’
‘No you didn’t, Sid. Only this morning you were saying we should sell out to–’
‘Quiet, you viper,’ hisses Sid. ‘Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.’
‘But I do understand, Sid. You seem to think that one swallower makes a summer.’
‘Belt up with those awful jokes and get the booze in. He’s paying for it, isn’t he?’
‘I hope so, Sid.’
Ten minutes later simple Sid has disappeared, rubbing his hands together at the thought of the riches to come, and I am rubbing my hands nervously outside room number two-four-six, also thinking hopefully of the riches to come. I stretch out my arm but the door opens before I make contact with it.
‘Come in.’
‘Blimey!’
Mrs Fatso is wearing a black nylon negligee which is downright negligent in its coverage of her erogenous zones (I got the word from one of the sex books I borrowed from Battersea Public Library. Everything you always wanted to know about sex but got smacked in the kisser for asking. Something like that, anyway).
‘Come in,’ she says, ‘it’s draughty with the door open.’
‘It would be draughty in the Sahara Desert with that thing on.’
‘You like it, do you?’
‘Fantastic.’
‘I found my husband polishing the studs of his rugger boots with it.’
‘I don’t believe