The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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tights weren’t quite long enough in the leg – she had very long legs did Dorothy. This didn’t matter too much because the tights got torn anyway. We were in a bit of a hurry getting them off.
Mrs. Armstrong was more of a puzzle. Everytime I went through the back door I’d start thinking I must have dreamed it the last time. Mrs. A. smelling like the ground floor of Debenham and Freebodys and looking over my shoulder as if she had double vision. But it was always the same. I’d be squeezin’ out my chamois and the old trolley would go rambling past. “I thought you might like some tea”: “Thank you very much.” Into the sitting room and a load of chat about her bloody stepdaughters or how the country was going to the dogs. Then, just when I was looking at my watch and mumbling that I had to be getting along she’d suddenly press her hands together and say something like “Would you like to go upstairs, or would you rather stay here?” Once I said “I’d rather stay here,” and she had me in front of the fire with me watching her head reflected in the side of the tea pot as it bobbed up and down.
If this part of my life represented a bit of variety, things at home hardly changed at all. Dad was off work which was as normal as Thursday – he had trouble with his back which Sid said boiled down to an inability to get it off the bed: Mum was still counting how many Ngoblas went in and out next door and Rosie grew more like an export reject zeppelin every day. As for Sid, the dark shadows under his eyes might have been caused by reading the London Telephone Directory by candlelight, but I doubted it.
All in all, it was a strange time for me to get involved with a bird, but I did. I think maybe it was a reaction to Sandy. I really fancied her but I knew it would never come to anything so I looked around for a substitute to whom I could say all the things I felt but could never seriously express. I think also that I was influenced by all the bints I was making on the job. They could well have put me off the whole idea of marriage but instead, I felt a great desire to prove that there was some bird, somewhere, who could just love me and stay like that. Basically, you see, I was a hypocrite and a puritan and all the things Sandy used to call me. What I did was quite different from what I was prepared to permit my bird to do. Fascinating isn’t it? No? – oh well, you’re probably right.
I met Elizabeth down at the Palais, which, I read somewhere, is where 99.9 percent of British Men meet their future wives. You’d think that armed with a statistic like that no poor bastard would ever go near the place, but I’m one of those berks who get born every minute and takes a 6¾” hat size to prove it.
I used to go with a mate of mine called George who was the perfect side kick because he was good looking and a good dancer but so stupid he couldn’t arrange the words “do fuck you?” into a common phrase or saying, if you put them on a blackboard for him. I used to let him whip them round the floor a few times and then, when they were bored out of their minds with telling him what they did, I’d move in with a bit of chat and – hey presto! their drawers were practically in my jacket pocket.
But Elizabeth – there’s a solid, reliable name for you, nothing flighty about Elizabeth – she was different. When I came bouncing up she looked at me as if I was a run in a new pair of tights. I was really impressed by that, you can’t beat the old cold shoulder for making an impression.
“Fancy you working there,” George is saying.
“My sister works in the haberdashery department. I don’t suppose you know her?”
“I don’t think so,” says the bird. “I haven’t been there long enough to meet many people yet.”
“Her name is Wanda,” goes on George, “tall girl, fair hair. She plays the piano very well.”
“You can’t miss her,” I say, “Just look out for a tall, fair haired girl pushing a piano.” I give her my understanding George-is-a-prat-but-now-I-am-here-everything-is-going-to-be-alright smile. The girl glances at me as if I’d dropped out of the woodwork and turns back to George.
“I don’t think I’ve met her,” she says, “now I really must go and find my friend, she’ll be wondering what’s happened to me. Thanks for the drink.”
She starts to stand up but I’m leaning over the back of her chair so it’s difficult.
“Come on George,” I say, “surely you’re going to introduce me to your friend.”
“Elizabeth – Timmy Lea” says George wearily. “Elizabeth works in the beauty department at Haddons.”
“She must be their best advertisement.” I say.
“Yuk,” says Elizabeth and I fall in love with her on the spot. She scrapes back her chair nods to George and is gone.
“Bitch,” he says, “she had a large gin and tonic off me.”
“You’re a bloody fool then, aren’t you.”
“We can’t all be freeloaders like you.”
“That’s not very nice, I was going to buy you a light ale but now I’ve thought better of it.”
I wander off into the balcony and look down through the coloured light onto the dance floor. Ricci Volare – Alfred Boggis to his Mum and Dad – is conducting his Music Men as if he had a fire cracker stuffed up his arse, and about forty birds are dancing with each other whilst a crowd of blokes hang about like they’re waiting for the Labour Exchange to open. For a moment I can’t see Elizabeth and then I spot her sitting at one of the tables with her friend. This bird has specs and has obviously been selected to make Elizabeth look like a million dollars which she does. She, Elizabeth, I mean, is tallish with a good slim figure, small but shapely breasts and a nose with a slight tilt in it. From the balcony I can’t see what colour her eyes are but I remember them as being on the large side like her mouth. When I describe her she doesn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary but at the time I really fancied her. She looks a bit like Sandy, maybe that’s it.
I consider asking her to dance but only poufdahs go around asking birds to dance at the Palais and anyway it’s too soon after she’s given me the evil eye. Also, I can’t dance. Not this rubbish anyway. A slow grapple to waltz time is about my mark. So I go back to George and we sink a few beers till I’m feeling quite merry. Then there’s a sudden rush towards the floor and I realise it’s the last dance. I have to move fast and I get to Elizabeth just before a large bloke with enough grease on his hair to lay up the Queen Mary.
“Would you care to dance?” I say oozing civility.
“What about my friend?” she says.
I’m on the point of telling her I can’t dance with both of them when grease-bonce grabs goggles and we’re away.
“Have you got to go far?” I say.
“Stockwell.”
“Can I give you a lift?”
“Have you got a car?”
“No, but I’m bloody strong. You could hop on my back.”
She allows herself to smile at that.
“But I don’t know you from Adam.”
“It’s easy to tell the difference, I’ve got more clothes on.”
“Very funny. You’re quite a comedian aren’t you?”
“I have my moments.”
“Well, don’t think you’re going to have one of them with me. If I let you take me home ’Reen comes too.”
That’s bad news. Both for me and ’Reen because I’ve borrowed Sid’s van and there aren’t any seats in the back. Just a couple of buckets which may come in handy if ’Reen gets taken short on the way home but aren’t very comfortable for sitting in.
It is with this thought in mind that I decide to keep the specification of my vehicle a temporary secret but luckily grease-bonce and goggles conceive an instant fascination for each other and after the two birds have rabbitted for about ten minutes I learn that Elizabeth