The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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don’t use that inside the house do you?” says Viv, “the rooms are quite small, you know.”
I mumble something and take the ladder off my shoulder. Stupid berk!
“Well, ta ta,” says Viv cheerfully.
“Ta ta, Viv! Be seeing you. I’ll see you later.”
“O.K. Sid,” I say and the door closes behind me.
“In there,” says Viv smoothing down her skirt, and her hands don’t have a lot of work to do, I can tell you.
“In there?”
“That’s right.”
Something about the way she says it makes me feel there’s going to be a bloody great four-poster behind the door but maybe it’s my imagination. I push the door open and I’m in the kitchen. She notices my surprise.
“You want to fill your bucket, don’t you.”
“Oh yes, of course.”
She watches me do it and starts fanning herself with the Daily Mirror.
“Bloody humid, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t stand this kind of weather. Makes me feel sort of itchy all over.”
“How long have you been with Sid?”
“On the window cleaning? Only today, but I’ve known him for a long time. He’s married to my sister.”
I wonder if I should have said that but Viv doesn’t seem over-worried.
“So you’re all living with your Mum and Dad?”
“That’s right.”
All this time she’s talking her eyes are wandering over me and there’s a sort of amused expression on her face. You don’t feel that she’s interested in any of the answers she gets but that she’s just trying to unwind you with conversation.
“I don’t think you’ll get any more in there.”
I turn off the tap and empty some of the water out of the bucket so it manages to spill across the floor.
“Don’t worry,” she squeezes me just above the bicep. “You get on with the windows. I’ll clear this up. You’re a strong boy, aren’t you?” She fans herself with the paper so her tits wobble.
“It’s so muggy, I’m going to take a bath. See if that doesn’t do any good. The bathroom curtains are in the wash, so don’t take any liberties, will you?” She reaches down underneath the sink and I practically need another pair of hands to keep the ones I’ve got from grabbing her. Talk about a nice arse. It shouldn’t be allowed, it’s so nice. Once you see that, all other arses are just bums.
I grab my bucket and get outside breathing deep. I do the downstairs windows and am just getting the ladder up and my blood pressure down, when I hear a tapping above my head. It really is very sultry now and the sky looks as if it’s going to piss down with rain at any moment. I’ve seen enough flicks to know that when nature starts rearing it’s ugly head someone usually gets their end away and I hope the signs do not lie. I am round the side of the house and the window from which the tapping is coming is clearly the bathroom as there is a stream of drain-bound soapy water splashing over my boots. Perhaps she has locked herself in and needs help. The very thought has me whipping up the ladder like a clockwork monkey. Viv is pressed against the window which should be alright because the lower half is frosted glass. However, she is pressed so tight that the first thing I see is a nice bit of milky white tit with a flattened nipple in the middle of it. She moves back when she follows my eyes.
“You alright?” I say.
“I haven’t had any complaints.”
“No. I mean I thought you’d, oh, it doesn’t matter.”
“I wondered if you’d like a cup of tea?”
“Yes, that would be nice. I’ve just got the front to do and I’ll pop in.”
“Right, I’ll put the kettle on.”
The inside of the window is steamed up, and there’s a cracking niff of perfume bashing my hooter. She needn’t have bothered because I’d go for her if she had a spoonful of dripping behind the ears – or would I? I can hardly finish the windows for thinking about it and three times I drop my scrim in the same flower bed and have to rinse the bastard out. I’ll never have a better chance to score and yet that very fact is making my old man feel like it would have difficulty making a dent in a plate of cold soup. It’s like having an empty goal to shoot at and knowing you’re going to bang the ball eight yards over the bar. For a second, I even considered pissing off and leaving the whole thing for another time but I know I’ve got to go through with it – or try to.
Taking another of my deep breaths and feeling absolutely certain that my old man has dropped off and got lodged half way down one of my trouser legs, I rap on the back door and wait for Viv’s husband to open it.
“It’s open” she calls and when I go in she’s just taking the kettle off. She’s still wearing the slippers but on the rest of her is one of those big padded housecoats with frills around the hem. It is tied tightly around the waist but somehow manages to spring apart up top so I get another eyeful of her bristols.
“Do you like it?” she says, and for a moment I’m on the point of telling her I like both of them. Then I realise she means the housecoat.
“Very nice,” I gulp. “Er, it makes you look very sexy.”
“You don’t sound very convinced,” she says. “How do you like it, hot and strong like Sid?”
She has this habit of suddenly switching from one subject to another which throws me a bit.
“You mean the tea?”
“What else?”
“Anyway it comes, I’m not fussy.”
“Why don’t you sit down. You make me nervous standing there.”
I sit down and find myself playing with the sugar bowl and trying to think of something to say.
“I think we’re going to have a storm,” I manage eventually.
“Shouldn’t wonder,” she puts a cup of tea in front of me and sits down on the other side of the table.
“Do you smoke?”
“No thanks.”
She lights a fag and blows a puff of smoke at me as if from a peashooter. She’s got that amused, distant look on her face again.
“Cheer up.”
That’s always a disastrous thing to say to me because it’s like telling a bloke you can see his trousers are falling down.
“I’m very happy” I say and listen to the silence. If only I could be like Sid. He’d be chatting her up and dancing about so the whole thing would be like ‘Spring in Park Lane’. The same though obviously occurs to Viv because she rests her head in her hand and gazes at me sadly.
“You’re a quiet one compared to Sid,” she says.
“Still waters.”
“Pardon?”
“Still waters run deep.”
“Oh, I see. You’re a deep one, are you?”
“Well, I don’t know about that—”
She gets up and comes behind me resting her fingers lightly on my shoulders for a second.
“How deep do you go?”
“What do you—”
“—It doesn’t matter. Have another cup of tea.”