Confessions of a Private Soldier. Timothy Lea

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СКАЧАТЬ we may have lost him,’ I say, trying to sound really broken up about it.

      ‘Do you want me to take you back to The Highwayman in case he’s gone back there?’

      ‘Er–yes.’ I should sound more enthusiastic but I am not eager to say goodbye to the lady so soon. ‘Sure it’s not taking you out of your way too much?’

      ‘Oh, no. If he’s not there you can come back to the flat and phone Brighton.’

      ‘Brighton?’

      ‘You said that was where he was going. Have you got the number?’

      ‘Oh, yes.’ I pull myself together. If it means getting into the bird’s flat, of course I have the number.

      ‘I suppose I can trust you, can I?’

      Whenever a bird says that you can reckon that you are in like Flynn. What she is really saying is: ‘Please make it perfectly clear that I can’t trust you so that I know I’m not wasting my time with some goody-goody creep.’

      ‘Worried about the ash-trays, are you?’ I say, giving her the chance to spell it out.

      ‘Not only that. You read some very disconcerting things in the papers. A girl isn’t safe these days.’

      Not if she wears no bra and a nylon blouse through which you could read the small print on a hire purchase agreement. Talk about man-made fibres, more like man-mad, if you ask me. And her perfume doesn’t exactly act as a repellent either.

      ‘You’re safe with me,’ I leer, delivering the famous Lea slow burn with a couple of ounces of nostril quiver chucked in at no extra charge.

      ‘What’s your name?’

      ‘Timothy Lea. What’s yours?’

      ‘Elspeth Jones. But my friends call me Elly.’

      ‘Very unusual name, Elspeth.’

      ‘I hate it. My mother got it out of a romantic novel she was reading when I was born.’

      ‘My Mum was like that with Timothy. She reckoned it was very genteel – I used to get the mickey taken out of me something dreadful at school.’

      ‘Children can be very unkind, can’t they?’ says Mrs Jones, sympathetically. All the omens bode well for a nooky fest, the more so when The Highwayman hoves in sight without Sidney’s ugly mug decorating the front of it There is no reason why he should be there but with Sidney you never know. He can turn up with all the unwelcome inevitability of brewer’s droop on your wedding night.

      ‘His car isn’t here,’ I say, trying to sound disappointed. ‘Oh, dear.’

      ‘What a shame.’ Mrs Jones is a good actress too. ‘Well, you can use my phone if you want to.’

      ‘If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.’ We look into each other’s eyes for a couple of naughty moments and I can feel Percy stirring like a hibernating rock python that has just felt the first shaft of spring sunshine fall across its resting place after a long hard winter. Putting it another way, I reckon I am going to be up her faster than a rat up a drain pipe.

      ‘It’s not far.’ Mrs Jones puts her foot down and the edges of my seat nearly touch in front of me. I wonder if she always drives like this. Probably suffering from an attack of Lea-lust. Who can blame her? My confinement in the clink must have ushered in a period of strain for quite a few birds.

      The Jones pad is very much what I might have expected. Fill it with water and you would have the world’s largest aquarium. I have nothing against glass but my fondness for it does not extend much beyond windows. I do not want the whole world gawping at me every time I scratch my action man kit.

      ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ I say, looking at the spot where her legs meet. Mrs Jones pulls her skirt in the direction of her knees and noses her vehicle on to its slab of concrete.

      ‘I think it’s going to go up,’ she says. I assume she is talking about the value of the flat, but she might just be a mind reader.

      ‘How many girls do you share this with?’ It is obvious that she is married but all birds are flattered if you think they are just out of blue serge knickers.

      ‘I’m an old married woman,’ she says. ‘Three years.’

      ‘Three years? Good heavens, you hardly look past the age of consent.’

      I have no idea what this is – probably about ten nowadays – but Mrs J. gets my drift.

      ‘I don’t know whether you mean that, but you’ve no idea how nice it is to receive a compliment again. I’d almost forgotten what it was like.’

      ‘Surely your husband tells you you’re attractive?’

      ‘Yes, but it’s not the same coming from him, is it?’

      Sorry about that fellows, but once you have signed up with a bird you are on a hiding to nothing. If you don’t tell her she is beautiful she will say that she might as well be dead because you never take any notice of her. Tell her that she is the most gorgeous bit of crumpet under the sun and she will say that your love is stifling her. There never is a right way with women.

      ‘What does your husband do?’ I ask as we trip through the foyer and discover that the lift is out of order. A toffee-nosed middle-aged woman is standing beside it and she looks at me as if she can read my mind and does not like some of the four-letter words she finds there.

      ‘He works in an advertising agency.’ The middle-aged hag looks even more disgusted.

      ‘That must be very interesting.’ We start walking up the stairs and Lady Shagnasty’s eyes follow us like a couple of bloodshot private detectives. I turn round, screw up my face and throw her a big, wet kiss which shows her most of the inside of my lips. She turns away hurriedly.

      ‘I don’t know about interesting. They certainly get their money’s worth out of him. I hardly see him. And when I do he’s too exhausted to do anything but flop down in front of the telly. He brings home work at weekends and he’s always cutting things out of the papers. It drives me mad. I’m right in the middle of something and then, suddenly, there’s a great big hole.’

      ‘I know the feeling,’ I say sympathetically. ‘My sister used to be like that. All the pop stars went, and the stuff on three pages behind.’

      We have so much in common, Mrs Jones and I. We must have been doomed for each other.

      ‘Here we are.’ Mrs Jones stops outside the door of Flat Number 69 and blushes. I do not know whether this is because the digits suggest something to her naughty little mind or because there is a red rose resting between the two yellow-top milk bottles.

      ‘I have a very passionate milkman,’ she says. ‘He is always leaving me things.’ I wonder why? I think to myself. My experiences as a window cleaner showed me that there are quite a few passionate customers about as well. Mrs Jones could well fit into that category. She strikes me as being quite a self-possessed lady and is quick to prove the point,

      ‘One disadvantage СКАЧАТЬ