The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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a row of what must once have been fishermen’s cottages and has a fading ‘Bed and Breakfast’ sign in the parlour window.
‘You’ll be all right there,” says the driver with meaning as he watches me struggle out with my case. “She’ll look after you.”
I pay him and advance towards the front door, which opens as I reach out for the knocker. When I see what I presume to be Mrs. Bendon, I can understand what the driver was getting at. She must be knocking forty and she has a nice pair of knockers to do it with. Her hair has been freshly permed, possibly for my benefit, and she pats it genteelly as she extends a hand.
“Mr. Lea? I thought so. Do come in. Can you manage? Good. Don’t bother about that. I’ll pick it up later. It is cramped in here, isn’t it? Put your case down there. I’ve got the kettle on. Would you like a cup of tea—or coffee, perhaps? Are you sure? It doesn’t make any difference to me. Really it doesn’t. Give me time and I’ll find out all your little likes and dislikes. Did you have a good journey? It’s a drag from London, isn’t it? That change at Norwich and all those stops afterwards. Of course, Norwich is quite a pleasant city. I go and shop there sometimes. Not like London, though. I was born and bred in London, you know. Within the sound of Bow Bells, though I bet you can’t tell it from my accent. Still, I mustn’t ramble on like this. You must be dying for that cup of tea—or was it coffee? It really doesn’t matter, you know. It’s no trouble. You just say what you’d like. I’ll soon get to know all your little likes and dislikes.”
I can’t get a word in, so I take a cup of tea and sit in the front room, listening to her rabbiting on while I look at the horse brasses and the frilly lampshades and the lace headrests and the painting of three horses running into the rising sun, and her legs. Mostly it’s her legs, which are not at all bad for a woman of her age and have a delicious little swelling rising from her thigh which suggest that she is wearing suspenders. Suspenders! The very thought of it sends new life surging through my jockey briefs. Her complexion is good and though she is a trifle on the plump side it suits her. Her teeth are a bit crooked but this must mean that they are her own and I rate that. I’ve never fancied birds who start dismantling themselves at bedtime. The one big disadvantage I can see at the moment is her non-stop rabbiting, which could well get on my nerves over the next few months, or weeks, or days, or hours.
“… so I married him,” she goes on. “There I was with the world at my feet. A pretty girl—though I say it myself—with a good many beaux to my string, and I marry a penniless fisherman after I’ve known him a week. Foolish, romantic chit of a girl that I was.”
I nod understandingly.
“Not that I had anything to complain about—Ted was a wonderfully kind man. He didn’t say much but you always knew he meant well. Never denied me anything that we could afford. But he wasn’t a thinker. We never talked about things. Do you know what I mean?”
I know all right. The poor bastard couldn’t have got a word in edgeways even if he knew any.
“I’d fallen in love with a dream, you see. When he came in on the boat all bronzed and handsome he used to look like some Viking god. He’d leap over the side and thrust the boat up the beach,” Mrs. Bendon bristles at the thought of it, “and his waders would be slapping together, and the fish dancing and the crabs scuttling.” She licks her lips quickly. “I was so proud of him, I wanted to turn to people and say ‘He’s mine.’” Mrs. Bendon’s voice sinks down below the ecstatic level. “But when we were at home he’d just sit staring at the television or go to bed. I never saw him even look at a newspaper. He was a different man. Of course he wasn’t really. He was the same man but it was just the way I looked at him. Do you know what I mean?”
I nod gamely. Of course I do. She wanted a mixture of Oliver Reed and David Dimbleby. Don’t they all?
“Still, that’s enough of me, going on like this. You’ve only been here half an hour and I’m telling you my life story. Must be very boring for you. You’re probably dying to see your room and get unpacked. Would you like a bath after your journey? The trains these days are so dirty, aren’t they? I don’t think anybody ever cleans them. You’d think those diesel things would be cleaner than the old steam ones, but they aren’t.”
My bedroom is at the back of the house and looking obliquely left over a series of tiny back gardens. I can see a chunk of sea between the gap thoughtfully bequeathed by two boarding houses. In the middle of it nestles a small boat and I think of Mr. Bendon. Mrs. B. has not yet told me what happened to him and it’s a bit early to ask. Maybe he was drowned or maybe he couldn’t stand the sound of her voice any more and kept his boat pointed out to sea.
It is cold so I close the window and switch on the electric fire thoughtfully provided. Five minutes later I realise that nothing has happened and notice a small meter which exchanges warmth for 5p pieces. Mrs. B. is not Nelson Rockefeller in drag. I unpack, wash from the rose-patterned china jug and bowl set—idly wondering whether I’m supposed to throw the dirty water out of the window—and lay down on the bed. I’ve almost dozed off when there is a light tap on the door and Mrs. B. tells me that supper will be ready in half an hour and that I can watch the television if I want to.
Her cooking is not bad and certainly better than Mum’s. Mum has trouble reheating a packet of fish and chips.
“That was very nice,” I say, scooping up my last mouthful of fruit salad—the real stuff out of a tin, not Mum’s bits of cut up orange and apple.
“Thank you, dear. I’m glad you liked it. It’s nice to have someone to cook for again. Once the season is over there’s not much doing here and the locals aren’t over-friendly. I’ve lived here twenty years and they still think of me as being an outsider. Of course, there are a lot of new people moving in. Retired couples, most of them, and there is an awful lot of new building—weekend bungalows, that kind of thing. But it’s not easy to make new friends when you’re a single woman of my age. I’m not a newcomer and I’m not really a resident either. People seem to be at bit suspicious. If you’re not married it’s difficult to fit in, you know.”
I get my nod working again.
“Tell you what,” I say. “Why don’t I help you with the washing up and then take you out for a drink? There must be a nice little pub near here.”
“That’s very kind of you, dear, but what will the neighbours say? Going out with the lodger on his first night. Tongues will be wagging.”
“They don’t have to know, do they?”
“There’s not much that goes on around here they don’t know about. All right, just a quick one. I haven’t been out in the evening for weeks and I think I deserve a little tipple. We’ll take my car.”
“I didn’t know you had a car.”
“Oh, it’s very old. One of the first A40s ever made. I keep it in a garage round the corner. I hope it will start. There isn’t anywhere very nice to drink around here and I’d like to get away from the neighbours.”
By the time we get out it is dark as the inside of a nigger’s nostril and the wind is playing havoc with Mrs. B.’s carefully-tarted-up hair. There is a bit of movement behind the neighbouring curtains and I can believe what she says about them not missing much. You can almost hear the tongues tuning up.
Getting the car out is a bit of a pantomime because there is no light in the lock-up garage and I have to fumble about with controls that might belong to an electric organ for all I can see. Mrs. B. flaps and fusses and when the bloody engine eventually fires into life you would think I’d built it from toothpicks the way she goes on.
“Ooh, what talent,” she squeals. “You won’t mind if I ask you to fix a few things at home, will you?”
“Pleasure,” I say. “Now, which way do we go?”
We tootle inland for about six miles and this gives me time to get acquainted with the perfume she is wearing. It’s the kind that comes at you like the North Korea Army and I think she laces it with chloroform because