little surprise. Who are you sharing with?’
‘Nobody at the moment. I think the bloke is on holiday or evaporated.’
‘Oh.’ Her face lights up. ‘See you.’
She trips off down the corridor and I peel off my clobber, have a sluice down in the washbasin and climb on to the bed to listen to the plumbing. It is just like being back at home with the sloping rafters inches from my nose.
I must have drifted off because the next thing I am aware of is a burst of laughter in the corridor and the sound of whispering and giggling right outside my door. I open my eyes as the door knob turns and June and Audrey come in wearing long nightdresses with frills at neck and hem. Very nice too. What is an additional peeper-bonus is the playmate they have brought with them. A coloured girl I have been quietly eyeing since I crossed the threshold. She is wearing a black shortie nightdress and carrying a bottle of brown ale.
‘Have you got an opener?’ she says and all three of them burst into fits of giggles.
‘You had a good evening, did you?’ I say, waking up fast and slipping my hand under the sheets to adjust periscope.
‘We brought you a present,’ says the coloured chick.
‘Which one?’ I say, looking from one to the other of them. More giggles.
‘This is Carmen,’ says Audrey. ‘She said she’d like to meet you.’
‘I never did.’
‘You did.’
‘I never.’
I imagine that Carmen is blushing but it is difficult to tell.
‘Anyhow,’ I say gallantly to cover her embarrassment, ‘the brown ale is for me, is it?’
‘Yes. We thought you needed building up.’ More giggles. If the sheets were transparent, they might change their minds.
‘I’ll have to open it, won’t I? Look the other way, girls.’
I grab a handy towel and drape it around my shapely loins as I slide out of bed. I don’t have an opener but I reckon I can knock the top off on the edge of the table–that and a few other things.
‘Hold this penny, luv.’
Carmen leans forward and I get an eyeful of lovely dusky knocker. Colour problem? You must be joking! It would be no problem for me, I can tell you. I hook the bottle top over the edge of the coin and give it a hard bash with my fist. Hard enough, anyway, to drive it down on to my bare toe. I scream loudly and drop the towel whereupon it is the girls’ turn to scream loudly. I don’t know what they are making all the fuss about. They have probably seen better and they must have seen worse.
‘Press down on the coin this time. OK, luv?’
Carmen nods and her face is a study in concentration as the mighty Lea fist is raised again. This time I give it a right belt and the top flies off–no trouble. Unfortunately it has become resentful of the treatment dished out to it and promptly discharges its contents over Carmen’s shorty nightdress. The poor bird is soaked to her lovely skin and when the flimsy material sticks to her it becomes transparent. No wonder that in all the excitement my towel falls off again. Hey ho, some things were clearly meant to be, eh? I slip my arm around Carmen’s waist and raise one and a half inches of brown froth to my lips.
‘Cheers, girls, thanks a lot. That was a very nice gesture. Now, what can I do for you?’
A diabolically stupid question you may well say, but I am a great one for observing the niceties. A tidal wave of female flesh bears me back on to the bed which promptly collapses under the strain. I don’t know what these birds have been drinking but it sure beats the hell out of diluted yogurt. None of them are slow starters but this jungle bunny Carmen climbs over me like I am a commando training course closely followed by the other two in flying T formation. I am fighting for sexual survival as I try to work out what I should be doing to which. In the end I give up and have a stab at anything that is moving. And, dear readers, there is a lot moving. Luckily my experiences with Nat and Nan have taught me the basic rudiments–and I do mean rudeiments! If there was going to be an action replay you would need about fourteen cameras to capture all the detail. And the noise. Oh, my God, the noise! That must be what attracts Miss Primstone. I get my head up just in time to see her turning into a great black prune in the doorway.
‘Urgh!’ she says. ‘Urgh!’ The noise is rather like a dog growling through a bone it is worrying. ‘I am going to report this disgusting behaviour to the management.’
She is just like the two old bags on the train because she shows no sign of going away but stands there drinking in the monstrous depravity and loving every moment.
‘I’m going to get on top of him now,’ says Carmen. ‘Do you want to watch that?’
Only then does the door close and Carmen makes good her threat–or promise, depending on which way you look at it. It is all good, clean, healthy fun in the modern tradition but I don’t think that Miss Primstone has nipped off to tell her diary about it. As Carmen gently rises and falls across my hips I can imagine the tales that are now being borne along the corridors of power. Reinforcements will soon be on their way.
‘Girls, girls!’ I bleat pathetically. ‘Don’t you think we’d better stop? We’ll all get the sack.’
‘I’d like to see them try. We can do what we like in our spare time.’
‘ “Spare” is right,’ I wheeze. ‘Now, get off me before something terrible happens.’
But it is like King Canute telling the waves to put a sock in it. The girls come at me as if they are trying to find pieces to keep as souvenirs. I struggle gamely, of course, but ten hours in the Cromby kitchen takes a lot out of you. It is becoming more like careless rupture than rapture.
Just when I can take no more, and give even less, the door flies open, and there, wearing curlers and a nightdress that looks like a dust sheet borrowed from a grand piano, is Miss Ruperts. She is carrying a shooting stick and this she promptly applies to June’s shapely rear portions.
‘Out, hussies! Out!’ she barks. ‘Disgusting little animals. Back to your lair, Jezebel.’ With that remark, Carmen cops a sharp prod on the sit-me-down. Miss Ruperts is obviously a very rustic lady and she lashes out with her shooting stick like she is making hay with it. In no time at all the birds have grabbed their nighties and scuttled out into the corridor and I am left to bear the full brunt of Miss Ruperts’ wrath.
‘And what have you got to say for yourself, you mongrel?’ she scolds. The shooting stick is hovering dangerously near my Action Man Kit and for a moment I have a nasty feeling that Miss R. may be contemplating doing a park keeper with it.
‘I didn’t invite them,’ I whine. ‘I was trying to sleep.’
‘You’re Mr Noggett’s protégé, aren’t you?’ she says suddenly, peering down at me. ‘I wonder what he’ll have to say about this.’
‘I don’t know. I should think–’
‘Put your pyjamas on and we will find out.’
‘What! Hey, wait a minute.
