Confessions from the Shop Floor. Timothy Lea
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back of my zip was a xylophone and that my love portion was practising its scales. My lips spill a confetti of kisses down to Pearl’s tummy button and from this position I direct the assault on her jeans. Not that it is much of an assault. Pearl obligingly raises her shapely haunches and together we push the encumbering threads down to ankle level. She is wearing a pair of flowery panties and the white background sets off her light brown skin a treat.
‘What about you?’ Yes, what about me, indeed. With Pearl’s unneeded help I rip open my shirt and wriggle out of my jeans like there is a prize for doing it fast. Percy bounds forward eagerly and only the frail fragment of my navy blue, silk-effect athlete’s briefs keeps him in half-hearted check. Gently at first, as if tip-toeing across a minefield, Pearl brushes her fingers over my truncheon meat. ‘He’s keen, isn’t he?’ she says.
‘Keen?’ I say. ‘He’s a raving maniac!’
As I say this, her fingers take a steely grip on my hampton and she kisses me like she is trying to organise a tongue transplant. She may have been eighteen years out of the country but a lot of the old jungle magic still remains.
‘Put him to work.’ She arches her back and shows me her teeth — by opening her mouth, I hasten to add. She doesn’t fish them out of her back pocket.
I am not the man to deny a lady such a request and I swiftly scramble to my knees and tug down her nicks. Her own fingers are not idle. She flicks down the rim of my pants so that Percy peeps over the top like we are having a Punch and Judy show.
‘Peek a-boo!’ she says.
Percy does not say anything. With him, actions speak louder than words as I hope to show the Caribbean curve carnival. Keeping my fingers in reggae rhythm, I check that all parts are in good working order and enthusiastic about the imminent arrival of Mad Mick. As she looks up at me expectantly I discard my pants and position myself on the starting grid.
‘Go on.’ That counts as the chequered flag as far as I am concerned. With a screech of balls I roar up the straight and head for the first bend. The Grand Prick of Clapham is under way. I could give you all the sordid details but I know that you are a sensitive bunch and would probably skip to the end of the chapter. Suffice to say that this chick performs like a mechanical sludge sifter gone berserk. I have never known such a mover. The bedhead bashes against the wall and the light in the middle of the room starts swinging. What a pity that one of us has to catch a toe in the eiderdown. That’s right. Suddenly, the room is full of feathers. You have never seen anything like it. Talk about plucking a chicken. I feel more as if I am — what was that? I stop moving and my blood freezes. It sounded like the front door.
‘I’d never have bleeding gone if I’d known he wasn’t going to give us a lift back.’
‘Oh, stop your moaning!’
Mum and Dad are back! Eek! Immediately, panic replaces passion, and my nunga wilts like a blob of fat at the bottom of a hot frying pan. My feet hit the floor and I start pulling on my jeans. Bugger! They are not my jeans. Bleeding unisex! Bleeding sex!!
‘Get your clothes on!’ I hiss. ‘They’re coming!’
‘I should be so lucky,’ says the bird sulkily.
‘I don’t care about you. I’m going to bed.’ That is Mum coming up the stairs. Oh my gawd! Why did I ever get myself in this situation? I must stop her coming in to the bedroom.
I brush some of the feathers off my shirt and hobble to the door trying to wriggle my feet into my slip-ons. I fling the door open just as Mum’s hand is stretching out for the knob.
‘Timmy! What on —’ I close the door behind me and stand in front of it.
‘Did you have a nice time?’ I say. A feather that has become attached to my lips soars into the air as I speak.
Mum stares at it suspiciously for a second before ignoring my considerate question. ‘What were you doing in there?’ she says. ‘Why are you covered in feathers?’
She tries to go into the room but I continue to bar the way. Dad appears at the top of the stairs. He takes one look at me and stops dead. ‘Blimey!’
They both stare at me and panic lights flash before my eyes. What can I say?
‘Have you got someone in there?’ says Mum. Dad grits his teeth and takes a menacing step towards me.
‘You mustn’t go in!’ I squeak.
‘And why not, pray?’ snarls Dad.
‘She’s getting herself ready to meet you,’ I gulp.
‘Who is?’ Mum’s voice rises sharply and she steps forward beside Dad.
‘My fiancée,’ I say.
‘What!!?’ They say the word together and take a step backwards like I have produced a gun. It is a masterstroke. Now they look bewildered. Seconds before they looked like a lynching party.
‘Hi dere!’ Pearl comes out of the bedroom smoothing the ruckles out of the front of her blouse at skirt level.
Dad catches Mum just before she hits the floor.
One of the strangest things about my “engagement” to Pearl is that Mum never mentions it — apart from saying that she will drop dead if we ever walk up the aisle together. She doesn’t even say anything about the eiderdown. As a gambit — which is what I believe they call them in some circles — it is well worth remembering. The next time your mum or dad catch you on the job with someone, say that you’re going to marry them. They’ll be so horrified they won’t bother to castigate you — it’s OK, it doesn’t mean what it sounds like. Sometimes I think that parents experience the reverse of what I feel when I imagine them on the job. It turns them right off to think of their little boy or girl indulging in all those nasty goings-on.
Of course, the fact that Pearl has joined the brownies without having to buy a uniform slips down less than a treat but it isn’t the whole story. Sid hears about it from Rosie when she drops in to see Mum and he is full of interest as we drive to see Slumbernog — that is the daft name he has come up with for the company we haven’t even seen yet. He was going to call it Slumnog until I spelt it out to him.
‘You jammy old bastard,’ he says. ‘What was it like then? I hear they’re a bit special.’
‘Sidney, please!’ I reproach him. ‘Do you think I’m the kind who scatters the secrets of the nuptial couch?’
‘But you aren’t going to nupt her, are you?’ asks Sid. ‘I believe the ceremony is very embarrassing. You have to give her one while you’re signing the register.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ I say.
‘All your relations standing about watching you,’ muses Sid. ‘I wouldn’t fancy it.’
‘Well, don’t disturb yourself,’ I tell him. ‘It’s not going to happen.’
In fact, nobody need get their knickers in a twist because I haven’t seen Pearl since the night in question. I think she was a bit upset by some of the remarks Dad made. When he saw all the feathers in the bedroom he thought we had killed a chicken.
‘Coming round here with your voodoo love rites!’ he kept shouting. ‘We don’t want no jungle loving in this house!’ It was all very embarrassing.
‘How much further have we got to go?’ I say, deciding that the time has come to steer the conversation into less controversial waters.
‘Just along here by the river. Nice, isn’t it?’
I don’t answer immediately because I am not certain whether he is joking. It depends whether you call boarded up buildings and collapsing warehouses nice.
‘It