elbows. Her eyes are blazing and she is looking directly towards the wardrobe. What is the stupid bitch going to do?
“Do you want to meet my husband?”
Her eyebrows raise in a question mark but they don’t get as far as my stomach which practically jumps out of my mouth. The Weasel whips round as if his head is attached by a twisted elastic band, and his eyes widen in what I assume is the first indication of insane rage. The bitch obviously wants to see me torn limb from limb. I shrink back into the wardrobe and that must upset its balance because the whole thing starts to tremble and I lose my footing and have to stumble out with my hampton still at the present arms. I put my fists up because I reckon I’m going to have to fight for my life against a justifiably enraged husband but ‘The Weasel’s’ behaviour is a revelation. He leaps off the bed just like you’d expect him to do, and the expression on his face certainly suggests a kind of madness, but instead of hurling himself at me he bursts past and bundles down the stairs as if Old Nick is after him.
At first I’m dead relieved but then I get a bit worried. Perhaps the shock has driven him out of his mind. I hear the front door slam and crossing to the door, see that his clothes are still strewn all down the stairs. The poor berk must be running through the streets of Clapham in the altogether. I am genuinely disturbed but behind me Brenda is pissing herself.
“Oh my God,” she screeches. “What a bloody laugh.”
“Shutup, you crude bitch.” I say. “Are you some kind of nutter, or something?”
But she goes on laughing fit to burst and I find my clobber and start pulling on my jeans. I mean, sympathy is all very well, but with everybody going round the twist you’ve got to look after number one. Maybe he has a friend round the corner with a shot gun.
“You must be sick,” I say, managing to catch my foreskin in my zip which makes her laugh all the more. Really, I could belt her, the way I feel.
“His face, when I asked him if he’d like to meet my husband. Oh my God. I thought I was going to die.” And yours, when you came out of the wardrobe. If you—”
“What do you mean?” I say, but, of course, the moment she says that I twig.
“You mean—”
“Oh no!” Now she can hardly form the words. “Haven’t you got it yet? That wasn’t my husband.”
“Then why the hell did you make me get in the cupboard?” I scream.
“I didn’t make you do anything. I mentioned it and you were in there before I could stop you. You must have had a guilty conscience. Come on—”
She stretches out her hand and tries to ruffle my hair. “Where’s your sense of humour? Can’t you take a little joke? I’m sorry, but I’d forgotten he said he was coming round. Ouch!!”
I don’t approve of belting women but there has to be an exception to every rule, and with Brenda I really think I was justified. What her old man thought when he did come home I don’t know, but with that shiner he must have thought she did more than walk into a cupboard.
With birds like that around it was a relief to be able to turn to Elizabeth. I had taken her to the flicks a couple of times and on the second occasion I actually got her into the back row and kissed her. How about that?
The first time I had to be content with holding her hand during the big feature and her burying her head in my shoulder during the nasty bits. It was a different world I can tell you, and when I went out with Elizabeth I felt as if I was entering an order of monks who had taken the vow of ‘keep your hands off it.’ I was so used to grabbing any part of a bird I took a fancy to that it took me a bit of time to adapt to her standards. And, by God, they were strict. On the way home after our little kissing session in the cinema – kissing, I hasten to make it clear, not necking – she is obviously dead worried that she has gone too far and shies away every time I try and put my arm round her. “I give you an inch and you want to take a mile,” she bleats.
This is typical and with some birds I wouldn’t bother, but, as I have explained, in a funny way, I rather like it. It amuses me to think that I’m having this wild scene with all those dollies and yet this little virgin won’t let me lay a finger on her, She is also a very good-looking bird and I think every bloke needs a steady to tide him over the ups and downs. This thought is particularly sharp in my mind at the moment because Sandy has a big thing going with some Spade – you can take that any way you like – and doesn’t really want to know me. As you can imagine, this is causing me all kinds of little hang-ups.
So for all those reasons I’m quite happy sitting there in the darkness, watching Elizabeth gaze hypnotised at the screen whilst the Dairy Vanilla Walnut Whip Sundae Special drips off the end of her spoon on to the floor.
“That was really nice,” she says to me at the end of one epic load of old rubbish when I have broken all records by actually massaging one of her tits for thirteen seconds before being pulled off. She is not referring to my pathetic advances but to the film.
“Not bad,” I say. “I wish he’d say a bit more, though. I get fed up with this strong, silent stuff.”
“Well, he was meant to be an Inca prince. Perhaps they didn’t speak much. Anyway, I think he’s smashing. My Mum likes him too.”
“When am I going to meet your Mum?”
It’s a fact that I’ve been out with her about six times now and I’ve never been inside the house. Maybe she’s ashamed of it – or maybe it’s me.
“Well, you won’t meet her tonight.”
This is no surprise so I start resigning myself to a wimpy and a quick tussle in the porch, with her rabbiting on about the neighbours.
“They’ve gone to stay with my aunt in Broadstairs for the weekend.”
“What, your Mum and Dad?”
“Yes.”
Now normally you’d expect her to follow that by saying “Don’t get any ideas about coming in and making a beast of yourself.” but she doesn’t. And when she doesn’t the blood starts circulating even faster through my ever-hopeful veins. Perhaps this is my big opportunity. Play it cool and I could be in like Flynn.
So I drop the subject and take her off for a cup of coffee and some more chat about Charlton Heston and how good he was in “The Big Country” and all that kind of thing. She is less talkative than usual and I feel that there may be something on her mind. I wonder what it is.
It starts pissing with rain on the way home and I don’t have Sid’s van so we are getting pretty wet. This is fine by me because I can’t see how she can refuse to let me in, just to dry off, at least.
She pauses with her hand on the gate and I know that this is the moment of truth as they say.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she says.
“Anything to get out of this rain. Yeah, thanks a lot.”
We go up the path and she fumbles with the front door key and looks nervously over her shoulder as if she expects to see the neighbours drawing up a petition to the local watch committee.
“Here, let me do that,” I insert
