‘I wouldn’t like that,’ I agree with her.
‘I live my own life. I have my own set of values and I don’t give a hang what anyone else thinks.’
‘Very understandable.’
‘I wouldn’t have got married under any other conditions. I told Brian: “I demand to retain my freedom.” If I want to take a lover, that’s my affair. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Er–yes. Yes thanks.’ For some strange reason a faint feeling of nervousness comes over me. Mrs Jones is obviously one of those strong, passionate outspoken ladies who are filling the pubs with nervous men looking over their shoulders every time the door opens.
‘Nobody in this place would understand that. They conform utterly. Did you see that old harridan by the lift?’
‘You mean the vacuum cleaner?’
‘No! The woman who was looking at us as if she reckoned we were going to be at it like knives the minute we got through the door.’ She gazes at me and I swallow hard. It is bloody stupid but when she talks like that I feel quite embarrassed. I prefer to make the running while the bird traces ‘Lea is fabulous’ on a window steamed up by her own heavy breathing.
‘Do you like milk and sugar?’
‘Yes please. Two spoonfuls.’
‘The telephone is over there.’
I say ta very much and look up the dialling code for Brighton.
‘You can have something stronger if you like.’ She says it like she reckons I need something stronger.
‘No thanks. Tea is fine.’
‘She’s typical.’
‘Typical?’
‘The woman by the lift.’
‘Oh yes.’ Mrs Jones has sat down beside me and I should be feeling as chuffed as a bog with two pails. Damn it all! I haven’t had a bit for three months. The bird is distinctly fanciable and hardly giving indications of having her legs bound together with Sellotape. What is the matter with me?
‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘Have you found the dialling code?’
‘Yes thanks.’ I dial the code and the first numbers that come into my head.
‘Good morning. Hang Chow Chinese Noodle Palace,’ says a voice that sounds as if it comes from somewhere a good deal further east than Wapping Broad Steps.
‘Hello, Sid. Is that you? Oh, no. It can’t be can it?’ Not unless Sid has got down by one of those speeded up films they show on the telly.
‘Hang Chow Chin–’ continues the voice patiently.
‘Tell Sid I’ve got his keys, will you. I’ll hang on to them until I see him. I think there’s a spare set in the top right-hand drawer of the desk.’
The voice at the other end of the line is beginning to get agitated.
‘OK. Yes, fine. All right. Yes, I will.’ Bye.’ I ring off hurriedly. Mrs Jones smiles at me.
‘So that’s your business attended to?’
‘Yes.’ I stand up.
‘Don’t you want your cup of tea?’
‘Oh, yes.’ I sit down again.
‘Relax.’ Mrs Jones pats my wrist as if I am about to go into the dentist’s surgery. That is exactly what it feels like, too. I try to think of something to say but nothing comes into my mind.
‘I think this is the best time,’ continues Mrs J. ‘I saw the way you looked at me in The Highwayman. You don’t have to be shy. If you want to make love to me, go right ahead.’ She stretches out her long legs and leans back against the sofa.
‘That’s the kettle, isn’t it?’ I say, listening to the whistle and the sound of my heart beating.
‘That’s right.’ Mrs J. shows no sign of moving and the noise is beginning to bore a hole through my lughole.
‘Shall I make the tea?’
‘Why not?’ Mrs J. gives me one of her irritating smiles. What is beginning to alarm me is that Percy is showing no signs of interest whatsoever. In his present situation he should be hurling himself against the side of my Y-fronts like a maddened beast. But not a sausage. Not even a chipolata.
‘Don’t worry.’ Mrs Jones stands up. ‘I don’t want to disturb the balance of the sexes. You sit there.’
She stalks towards the kitchen. I watch the see-saw motion of her big end and think dirty – really dirty. Still nothing happening in the action man department. This is serious. Maybe the clink has turned me into a latent homosexual – so late it has only just caught up with me? No, that is impossible. But there must be something wrong with me. Perhaps, after three months without it—no, that doesn’t seem likely either. There was a blooming great population boom after the war, wasn’t there? I give Percy a worried nudge but he continues to show less enthusiasm than Arthur Rubinstein at a piano smashing contest.
‘Do you want a piece of home-made cake?’ Mrs J.’s voice comes from the kitchen.
‘Yes please.’ It occurs to me that it would be a good idea to subject Percy to a little first aid treatment. I can’t just sit here with him sulking under my brushed denims. I make genteel ‘I’m going for a piss’ noises and scarper to the toilet. It is strange but the whole of the lower part of my body seems anaesthetised. It is not until I try shock treatment and plunge my spam ram under the cold tap that I feel anything. This is because I have plunged it under the hot tap by mistake.
If there was a flicker of life in the poor sod, this puts the kibosh on it. In its present condition you could lay my dick on a plate of roes on toast and not be able to spot the stranger.
I tuck my equipment away and prepare to face Mrs Jones. I don’t like admitting it but in my heart of hearts I know that she is the reason why my get up and go has got up and gone. Suddenly, she seems so experienced and demanding. I need someone wilting and dependent. Some bird who reckons that I am fantastic and who can lay it on so thick that I want to make it true for her. Sitting on the sofa and picking up a lump of sugar with a pair of tongs, Mrs Jones doesn’t look as if she thinks I am fantastic. In fact she is looking disappointed. Disappointed? And I haven’t even touched her yet.
‘I think it better to be frank, don’t you?’ says Mrs J., indicating my chair.
‘Yes,’ I say, shaking my head. She gives me an old-fashioned look and I try nodding instead.
‘I need to be physically satisfied just like a man.’
‘Very understandable.’ I slop tea into the saucer and drop my spoon on the floor.
‘Most
