Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

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СКАЧАТЬ door key, but I don’t, and she says she has a job for me. As I look at her, I notice that what I first thought was a flower pattern on her hat is in fact bird droppings but I imagine she has just been unlucky and follow her into the semi-circular drive of this bloody great house. There’s newspapers and rubbish strewn everywhere and though I’ve been past the place before, I never thought anybody lived there. By the look of the windows, they can’t do, unless they’ve got bleeding good eyesight because they don’t look as if they’ve been cleaned since they were put in.

      “It’s gonna cost you a few bob to clean that lot,” I say, because frankly I don’t fancy the job.

      “Only the downstairs windows,” she says. “We’re all downstairs.”

      That strikes me as being a bit funny because I can’t imagine a lot of people living there. Maybe they are the survivors of a Victorian hippie commune who can’t stand heights. Anyway, we haggle a bit and I agree to do the downstairs windows for a couple of quid. I’m following her up the front steps when I take a butchers through one of the bay windows. I can hardly see anything they’re so dirty, but there seems to be a lot of movement at floor level which puzzles me. I start to take a closer look but the old bird – “My name is Mrs. Chorlwood” – sends me round the back sharpish. “I’ll open the back door for you,” she says. “I don’t want you frightening them.”

      Them? What has she got in there? I move round the house very careful-like, and something knocks against one of the windows from the inside which gives me a start, but I can’t see anything. The garden must have been very nice once, but now it’s all overgrown and there are weeds pushing through the concrete in the bottom of the dried up ornamental pond. I’m surprised they haven’t torn the whole place down and built a block of flats there.

      When I get round the back, Mrs. Chorlwood is waiting for me and that’s not all. There’s a pile of empty catfood tins large enough to have fed half Brixton. They pong a bit, too, but that’s nothing to what I find in the kitchen. A large saucepan is bubbling away on a filthy greasy stove and the stink attacks you. There are tins of cat food and packets of birdseed everywhere and a slice of horsemeat from something that must have been running before the war – the Boer war. The sink is blocked up and you can’t see the pattern on the lino for all the muck that has been trodden into it.

      Mrs. Chorlwood picks up a carving knife and for a moment I’m getting ready to bash her over the head if she tries anything.

      “Din dins time,” she says with a sigh. “It’s hard work cooking when you have a family my size. Now, don’t open any of the windows whatever you do, we don’t want anyone getting out.”

      By this time I’ve got a good idea what I’ve let myself in for, but I don’t know half of it. Mrs. Chorlwood opens the kitchen door and the pong hits me like a kick in the stomach. Cats. Gawd strewth it’s diabolical! The hall and stairs are crawling with bloody cats which make a great rush for us the moment they see Mrs. C. You can’t put your foot down without standing on one of their turds and the carpets are soggy with piss.

      “Naughty, naughty,” says Mrs. C. “Oh, you naughty Jezebel. Not time for din dins yet. Now come on, Pansy, don’t scratch, dear.” She presses forward and I see that the place isn’t only full of cats. Up above, there’s a flutter of wings and we’re being dive-bombed by a flock of bloody pigeons. The picture rails are thick with droppings, the walls are spattered and there’s even a nest behind one of the light brackets.

      “They get very excited about lunch time,” says Mrs. C. Too bloody right they do. One of the cats has practically got my boot off and I have to restrain myself from giving it a boot up the backside.

      “I think she’s taken to you,” says Mrs. C. “Sabrina is usually rather reserved at first.”

      “Don’t you ever let them out?” I say, giving Sabrina a sly jab when Mrs. C. isn’t looking.

      “Out!?” says the old bag looking at me as if I’m bonkers. “Into a world like this? Nobody loves animals any more. Look what they do to each other. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let these innocent creatures fall into the hands of the vivisectionists.” I wouldn’t fancy the vivisectionists’ chances if they got their hands on the likes of Sabrina but it’s an opinion I keep to myself.

      “Don’t they fight?” I say. “I mean, surely the cats must be after the birds the whole time.”

      “This is no microcosm of the world,” says Mrs. C. seriously. “It is an oasis, a sanctuary where wild creatures can live in peace with each other. They all have enough to eat so there is no need for the law of the jungle.”

      “What’s that one eating, then?” I say.

      I am pointing to a monstrous moggy with a pile of feathers sticking out of its mouth.

      “Oh, you wicked Rufus,” says Mrs. C. flying at him. “You wicked, wicked cat. How many times has mummy told you not to do that?” Rufus draws away arching his back and showing his teeth without dropping a feather. Honest, I wouldn’t fancy my chances against him on a dark night.

      “They must be hungry,” says Mrs. C. “Really it’s a shame you have to see them when Rufus is playing up. Normally they’re as good as gold.”

      She opens a door and we’re in one of the rooms at the front of the house. It’s large but dark because the windows are so caked with bird shit they appear opaque. The carpet must have been worth a few bob in its time but now you’d be better off selling the bird shit on it for manure. In the middle of the room is a telly and two pigeons are perched on the indoor aerial above it. Mrs. C. switches on the set and as the announcer comes up one of the birds disgraces itself all over him. I rather like that, but Mrs. C. doesn’t seem to notice.

      “They like the television on,” she says. “Keeps them company when I’m not here. Well, there you are, this is one of the rooms I want you to do. Remember, keep those windows closed.”

      “Excuse me asking,” I say, “but why do you want the windows cleaned?”

      “So the little chaps can see what’s happening outside. It is getting a trifle dim in here.” She says it as if it is stupid of me not to have noticed it for myself.

      “I’m going to get the animals their lunch now. Would you like something?”

      “No. No thanks. I’ve just eaten.” I nearly shout it at her. The thought of eating anything out of that kitchen practically makes me spew my ring up on the spot.

      “Very well. I’ll just bring you a cup of tea.”

      I tell her not to bother but she’s already gone. That leaves me nothing to do but get on with the job. I tell you, I’ve never known anything like it in my life. The pong must be scarring the inside of my nostrils and every time I get a window clean, some bloody bird comes and shits all over it. After a while I let them get on with it. I just want to get out. It takes me all of ‘Watch with Mother’ to clean six panes of glass.

      Suddenly there’s the sound of Mrs. C. rattling some tins and the room clears faster than Glasgow on a flag day. Then she comes in with my mug of tea. At least, I suppose it’s a mug. There’s what looks like bird seed floating on top of it and I don’t know quite what it’s been standing in – I can guess though. Poor old Mrs. C. She really is a case. Her hands are raw and scratched and there’s muck all over her clothes which she either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care about. I pretend to drink the tea and when she goes out I pour it into one of the СКАЧАТЬ