Confessions from a Health Farm. Timothy Lea
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bint before and the experience sends a nervous tremour through my action man kit. Of course, it is too much to hope for that a spot of in and out might be on the cards but the thought alone is enough to send a warm glow skipping the length of my love portion. You only have to sound all your aitches to make me score heavily on the humble meter.
‘Of course, it’s not easy for a woman.’ Lady Baulkit’s voice trembles and she looks deep into my mind – about six inches deep. ‘The responsibility of the house and servants. Henry is away most of the time.’ She stretches out a hand and touches my wrist. ‘A woman has needs.’
‘Too true,’ I gulp. ‘Well, I – er suppose we’d better go upstairs.’ I mean, of course, to help with moving her things. I hope she does not misunderstand me. I step towards the door.
‘Don’t go that way. We’ll take a short cut.’ Lady B glides to the fireplace and grabs one of the carved cherubs by his John Thomas. Ouch! – it makes me wince to see her do it. A flick of the wrist and – blimey! A panel beside the fireplace slides open and I can see a flight of stairs.
‘In the old days, this is what you had to do to get into the priest’s hole,’ says her ladyship.
‘Really,’ I say. It is not a subject I feel keen to pursue. I believe that they had a lot of funny habits in those days.
‘There’s a network of secret passages connecting most of the rooms in the house,’ says Lady B. ‘Charles II used to stay here a lot with his lady friends.’
‘Very nice, too,’ I say. ‘Do we need a torch?’
‘Just take my hand.’ Lady B grabs my mitt before you can say ‘Kismet’.
‘Blimey! It’s dark, isn’t it? Are these stairs safe?’ The panel has slid shut behind us and my guide laughs lightly.
‘That depends who you’re with,’ she says.
I don’t want to jump to any hasty conclusions but a number of things that she has said and done suggest that she may be a bit on the fruity side – like a ton and a half of sultanas, for instance.
Now that we are in what you might call an enclosed space, her perfume begins to run riot through my conk and the sound of her silk dress swishing in the darkness awakens what my old headmaster used to call unhealthy thoughts.
‘It’s rather fascinating,’ breathes Lady B. ‘There’s a number of peepholes along here. You can keep an eye on the staff if you have a mind to.’ She pauses so that I nearly bump into her and pulls something aside so that a crack of light appears. ‘Look,’ she says after a pause. ‘Cook is rolling out the pastry.’
I apply my eye to the crack and – blimey! Cook is indeed rolling out the pastry – with the help of Roughage. He has made a remarkable recovery and is performing with no little agility for a man of advanced years. Another dollop of dough drops onto the floor and he kicks it savagely under the table. I must make a point of steering clear of the flap jacks – especially the ones with a seam.
‘The staff seem to get on well with each other,’ I say, deciding that some comment is probably expected of me.
‘Yes. I’m surprised that cook still has it in her.’
‘She doesn’t any more,’ I say, removing my eye from the crack. Short but sweet is probably the best that can be said for Roughage’s doughnut filler.
‘You have to be so careful with your menials, these days,’ murmurs Lady B. ‘Rub them up the wrong way and you’ve got a nasty problem on your hands.’
I feel myself blush scarlet in the darkness. I know we live in emancipated times but I never like to hear a woman talking like that. It’s not nice, is it?
‘This is the Seymour Room along here,’ she says. ‘One of the largest four posters in the country.’ She applies one of her mince pies to another peephole and gives a sharp exclamation of disgust. ‘Well, really! They might have taken the counterpane off first.’
I try to get a shufti but she shrugs me aside and flicks open another peephole. ‘Twin-viewing,’ she says. ‘It’s no fun going to a show by yourself, is it?’
I grunt my thanks and we settle down to take an independent view of the proceedings. My first glance explains to me why they call it the Seymour Room. I have not seen more in a long time. This bird is lying on the bed absolutely starkers and there is some bloke zooming over her contours like a Flymo Lawnmower. I can’t see his face, and I don’t reckon she can, the way he is heading. It is definitely for mature adults and I feel Lady B stiffen in the darkness. She is not the only thing. Percy gets the message that good times are rolling and starts trying to clamber over the front of my Y-fronts like he is on a Royal Marine Commando assault course.
‘Who are they?’ breathes Lady B. ‘It’s bad enough when the house is open to the public without complete strangers –’ She stops just as Sidney comes up for air.
‘You recognise him, do you?’ I say.
‘The one with the cold hands! What’s he doing here?’
‘He’s practising giving the kiss of life to a bird who has got a coal scuttle wedged over her nut,’ I say.
‘Don’t be facetious! I mean, why is he here at all?’
‘He’s siting Miss Zonker’s equipment,’ I say. ‘You must know all about Inches Limited and Beauty Manor. Your husband is one of the directors.’
‘He never tells me anything,’ she says. ‘Our marriage is a marriage in name alone. I’m expected to vacate my home so that perfect strangers can fornicate in it while he cavorts in town. I ask you: is that fair?’
‘Not bad,’ I say, concentrating on what I can see through the keyhole.
‘I’ve mouthed a few imprecations in my time, I can tell you.’ She doesn’t mind what she says, does she? I reckoned she might be a nunga nibbler when I first saw her. You can tell, you know. It’s something about the way her eyes shine.
‘Smashing,’ I say. Now Wanda has got on top of Sid and is pinning him down with her arms while she bashes out the theme of Ravel’s Bolero on his magic poundabout. It is not exactly the bedrock of children’s television but it is absorbing viewing.
Lady B obviously agrees with me. ‘You can imagine how I feel watching that,’ she says. I don’t have to imagine for long because her hand steals out and draws one of mine to her. She seems to be trembling.
‘You feel very nice,’ I say.
A fine haze of dust is now falling from the top of the four poster bed and the whole structure is vibrating like a tin shit-house in a hurricane. A grand stand finish is clearly on the cards and one of the pictures on the wall at the end of the room crashes to the floor.
Lady B. groans. ‘That’s a Van Dyck.’
‘He’s very versatile, isn’t he?’ I say. ‘Though I didn’t think much of his English accent in Mary Poppins.’
Further discussion on matters artistic is denied us because the canopy over the four poster bed collapses in a great cloud of dust and rat shit.
I am not sorry that the sight of Sid on the job has been banished from my eyes because it was getting a bit heavy. Once he turns purple and his eyes glaze over I would rather watch a good horror movie. It is like those Swedish films when they start all that thrashing and moaning. It quite puts me off my cornflakes.
‘My God. That’s priceless!’ yelps Lady B.
‘It is a bit funny, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Especially with his legs sticking out of the end.’
‘I meant – oh! It’s too awful!’ Her voice is almost a shriek and it is a good job that Sid and Wanda are in a somewhat muffled condition. It would be most unfortunate if their concentration was shattered.
‘Supposing we can’t