Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

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СКАЧАТЬ Miss Ruperts has secured a controlling interest in it. To all intents and purposes she is the owner.’

      ‘And you did all that in a couple of hours?’

      ‘I know the right people.’

      ‘I’ll say you do.’

      ‘I think a glass of champagne would be in order,’ trills Miss Ruperts.

      ‘I’ll drink to that,’ says Carboy. ‘Now what on earth is all that noise about?’

      We bundle out into the foyer and there is a tall geezer wearing a grey chauffeur’s uniform and a very worried expression.

      ‘What’s the matter?’

      ‘Bloody young hooligan has driven off in Mr Rigby’s Rolls.’

      ‘Where’s Rigby?’

      ‘He’s inside it!’

      ‘Blimey!’

      We join the drunken crowd of Rottingfestrians laughing and cheering on the steps of the hotel and follow their eyes towards the pier.

      ‘What’s Lofty going to do with him?’ Oh, so that’s it. I thought the big fellow had got the needle with Rigby. Little did I know how much.

      ‘Good God. He’s driving onto the pier!’ He is too. For some reason they have opened the gates and I can see ant-like figures hopping out of the way as the black shape zooms behind the ghost train.

      ‘He’s going it, isn’t he?’

      ‘Slow down Lofty, you Charley!’

      ‘Oh, no!’ The Rolls is now ripping down the pier like it is a runway.

      ‘What’s he doing?’

      ‘He’s pissed.’

      ‘He’s mad.’

      ‘He won’t be able to stop.’

      The last speaker is right. As we watch, horrified, the Rolls bursts through the barrier like it is made of bread sticks and dives gracefully into the sea.

      ‘Oh, my God.’

      Some of the onlookers start running towards the pier but most of us remain rooted to the spot.

      ‘Look!’

      To my amazement a figure appears on the surface closely followed by another. There is a pause and then they both begin to swim slowly towards the pontoon at the end of the pier. A relieved cheer goes up.

      ‘Did he have his kit with him?’ says Fatso seriously.

      ‘Come on, let’s go and clap him in.’

      ‘Better hurry or we’ll be late for the kick off.’

      ‘Time for another beer?’

      ‘No. We’ll have one there.’ They pick up boots and bags and disappear in a straggling convoy.

      ‘Marvellous, isn’t it?’ says Sid.

      ‘Fantastic,’ says Carboy. ‘Come my dear, the champagne awaits.’

      They go in and Sid rests his hand on my shoulder.

      ‘Might as well have a glass of bubbly, I suppose.’

      ‘Yoo hoo.’

      We look up and there are Mrs Fatso and Judy and two other well-stacked birds leaning over the balcony of Sid’s room. They all appear to be wearing low-cut negligees and it looks like the production line of a small dumpling factory looming down on us.

      ‘Did you tell Petheridge to fall in for this lot?’ says Sid, rubbing his hands together.

      ‘Yeah, I told him I’d wake him up when the party started.’

      ‘Don’t bother. He’s been working a bit hard lately and I think we can handle this lot by ourselves.’

      THE END

       Confessions of a Travelling Salesman

      BY TIMOTHY LEA

      CONTENTS

       Title Page

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       CHAPTER ONE

      Phew! I will remember that afternoon with the wives of the Old Rottingfestrian Rugby Club if I live to be thirty-two. Talk about knackered! Sidney was coming apart at the seams like a dock-struck banana and I had about as much snap, crackle and pop as a piece of wet confetti. Those women were insatiable, or to put it in another way: that is just what they wanted you to do – put it in another way.

      Of course, it is all very understandable, isn’t it? I mean, if your old man went off every Saturday afternoon and ended up with fifteen other blokes all putting their arms round each other and pushing, you might feel the desire for a bit of a rough and tumble yourself.

      I have a theory that the birds who fancy rugby players go a bundle on all the muscles, but reckon they can put them to better use than chasing a squashed soccer ball round a muddy field. When they find that the chaps still prefer snuggling down with each other amongst the cowpats while they are expected to cut piles of corn beef sandwiches or refill the milk jugs, it is not surprising that they begin to think longingly of a couple of balls dropping lazily between their own uprights.

      This was certainly the case with the Old Rottingfestrian ladies whose speed into the loose mauls would have been the envy of their better halves. I have not seen such lack of inhibition since Aunty Flo filled her knickers with crisps and danced the hokey-cokey at the British Legion Ladies’ Night – the last she ever went to.

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