The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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hour or two. By that time everyone is well pissed and telling anyone they can force into a corner, exactly what they think about immigration, feeding tropical fish, Charlie Cooke or you name it. Dad is rabbiting on to Elizabeth about how young people today have it dead cushy, and good luck to them, but when he was a boy etc., etc. Mum is getting sentimental as she always does on a few stouts and telling Rosie, who’s heard it a hundred times, what a wonderful person Aunty Glad was. “Why they took her away I’ll never know,” she says, looking towards the ceiling so you’ll get the message that it’s not the rozzers she’s talking about, “she never had a bad word for anybody.”
In fact Aunty Glad was a foul mouthed old slag whose breath smelt and whose husband has taken on a new lease of life since she snuffed it, but that’s another story. Sid is talking to one of his mates and making eyes at Gloria, the barmaid, over his shoulder. I reckon he’s been there, otherwise he wouldn’t be so secretive about it.
With all this gaiety and excitement going on I’m beginning to feel a bit frisky myself, and looking round to see that Elizabeth is still well occupied, I cast about for a bit of mischief. It’s a good feeling, with a few beers under your belt: relaxed, smooth tongued, the cares of the world a million miles away. Unfortunately, there is nobody nearby to benefit from my good nature, but then I remember the Mary Whitehouse of the saloon bar, next door. I slide out without being noticed and am relieved to find that Mrs. Evans, as I now recall her, is perched elegantly on a bar stool without any sign of George in attendance.
I sway towards her hoping that my stagger will be interpreted as a rolling gait, but from the look of those about me I think it is unlikely.
“Forgive me for coming up and talking to you like this,” I say, “but I wanted to tell you how grateful I was that you took issue about those dirty glasses. It’s something I can’t abide myself.”
Her widening eyes betray initial distrust not to mention alarm, but when I have finished speaking, her face softens into the expression adapted by royalty when receiving bouquets from small children.
“You’ve no idea what a relief it is to find someone who feels as I do,” she says, “you’d be amazed how many people think I’m some kind of eccentric. Even my own husband,” she adds as the unfortunate bastard joins us. “George! You haven’t finished dressing yourself.”
There’s a piece of shirt sticking out of his fly, which has me guessing for a moment.
“Sorry, my dear.”
George fiddles with himself and gives me a searching look that suggests he can see through me like the front door of Woolworths.
“George, this young man was telling me that he approves of my action in sending back that dirty glass.”
“Really, my dear. Very praiseworthy. Tell me Mr.—”
“Lea, Timothy Lea.”
“—Tell me, Mr. Lea, what do you do for a living?”
“I clean windows.”
“That must obviously account for your keen interest in matters hygienic.”
“I don’t know about that. It may have something to do with it.”
Why doesn’t the stupid old git bugger off. Mrs. Evan’s face has now shed a lot of its sterness and she is gazing at me like I’m some kind of long lost son. She also has very nice tits and I want to tell her about them.
“You must get an unenviable opportunity to see how appallingly lax some peoples standards are,” she says.
“Oh, very much so. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I see.”
Mrs. Evans shakes her head. “Awful, don’t you think so George?”
“I was just thinking it might be a good opportunity to see whether this place’s standards have been maintained in the last few minutes. Same again, my dear? And what about you Mr. Lea?”
So I have a scotch, and the pub is beginning to swim in front of my eyes as I try and keep up with Mrs. Evans searching questions. I’m prepared to say anything as long as I can form the words, and when Mr. Evans disappears again I go blundering while I’ve still got the chance.
“Why don’t I come and clean your windows?” I say as if I’ve just thought of it. “I could give them a Dettol rinse. It’s a speciality of mine, though you’d be amazed how few people ask for it.”
“I wouldn’t. Not at all. Yes, why don’t you, 42 Malplaquet Drive.”
I know it, it’s all walnut trees and concrete paths.
“What day would suit you?”
“Let me see. I play bridge on Wednesdays. Thursday? No, Friday? Yes, Friday. I’ll be there in the afternoon. Come round about half past two. Is that alright?”
“That’s fine.” I say. I know I should leave it there but I’m drunk and I’m a fool. “You have beautiful breasts,” I say.
George is coming over to us so she can’t say anything, but she blushes scarlet and digs her finger nails into the back of my hand so deep that I have blood blisters in the morning.
They start shouting last orders then, so I excuse myself and go back to the Public Bar. As is always the case on such occasions no one has missed me and they are still gabbling away to each other like it’s a public speaking contest. Only Elizabeth notices me and she has Sid looming over her so she’s probably looking around hopefully for anyone.
“Don’t forget,” Sid is saying when I come up to them, “I’m going to be angry if you do.” I half wonder what they’ve been on about but I don’t really give it much thought – not then anyway.
“What do you think of him?” I say to her on the way home.
“Think of who?”
“Sid of course.”
“Oh, he’s alright. Quite nice really. He’s a bit crude but he makes you laugh.”
“What were you talking about?”
“Oh, nothing special. You, quite a bit.” She laughs, “Not that you aren’t special of course.”
There’s a very handy doorway just there and I push her into it and have my hands up her skirt faster than the verger trying to replace a fallen bell clapper, but they’re not there for long.
“Not here!” she says, pushing me away from her, “You’ll have to wait till the weekend.”
But I don’t have to wait till the weekend. I look at the blisters on the back of my hand and I grit my teeth and wait for Friday afternoon. If it wasn’t for the scratch marks I’d have a nasty feeling that I’d dreamed it all, and as if it’s a bit difficult to revive my Saturday night certainty that something was on. I keep thinking that she was probably pissed too, and quite likely to run a mile, or call the police, if I show up at the house. More chance of the former, because a lot of birds talk themselves into all kinds of situations when they’re stoned and get the screaming abdabs the next morning when they realise what they might have let themselves in for.
Anyway, I’m an optimist and I’ve got nothing to lose, so on Friday I put on a clean pair of Jungle Briefs, douse Percy with after shave lotion and I’m off to find my fortune.
Number 42 is very like number 40 and not entirely dissimilar to number 38.
There’s a lot of white paint about, venetian blinds, a boat trailer and highly polished carriage lamps. The whole place looks like they’re expecting a visit from Ideal Home not the window cleaner.
I press the front door bell and listen to the chimes echo through the house. Eventually there’s the sound of someone coming and I see a ripple of movement through the frosted glass. A pause by the door, which is presumably so I can be examined through the spy hole, and then it opens.
“Oh,” says Mrs. Evans,