poofters.
The thought is much on my mind then next morning when I find myself despatched to collect dirty laundry from the ‘guardians’ quarters. It has now been a matter of weeks since percy last found gainful employment and to say that I am feeling frustrated is rather like describing Yul Brynner’s hairline as receding. Even Fran Warren is beginning to look like Shirley Temple and if I don’t do something fast I could be in more trouble than an octopus with smelly armpits.
I give a sharp rat-tat-tat on Mrs. Sinden’s door and look forward to the sight of a one-hundred-per-cent-red-blooded woman. In such cases it is usually my fortune to find her old man at home with flu, or half a dozen kids struggling on the doormat but this time the delectable crumpet factory flings open the door, to all intents and purposes, on her tod.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘You’ve come to empty the dustbins, have you?’
I don’t say anything because I am concentrating on her cleavage which looks deeper than a fisherman’s wader. No obstacle obstructs my peepers because her frilly housecoat sweeps across her bristols at nipple height.
‘Er, no,’ I gulp. ‘It’s your laundry I’m after.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she says. ‘I’d forgotten it was Wednesday. You’d better come in while I sort some out. Do you fancy a cup of tea?’
‘That would be very nice, if you can spare the time,’ I say.
‘No trouble at all. Come in.’
I am across the threshold before you can say ‘Bring back the Cat’ or ‘Pussy Galore’ as Ian Fleming has it.
‘I’m not certain I should let you in,’ she says archly as I settle myself down before a packet of Wonder Wheaties, ‘the cereal that put men on the moon’.
‘You mean because I’m a – a guest?’ I say. ‘I feel such a berk using that word.’
‘Because of what you’re here for,’ says Mrs. S. waggling her fingers at me roguishly. ‘I know, you know. My hubby told me all about it.’
It is indeed amazing how quickly details of my ‘crime’ seem to have spread round the camp and I have been aware of a good deal of ‘nudge, nudge, wink, wink’ dogging my petal footsteps ever since I left Brownjob’s office. This, coupled to the attention of the dreary Fran has made me feel about as inconspicuous as Sammy Davis Junior at a Klu Klux Klan rally.
‘Oh. That,’ I say studying the small print on the back of the Wheaties packet: ‘build your own spacecraft. Unbelievable offer. No experience necessary. All you need is a screwdriver. Hours of good, clean fun for all the family’.
‘Yes, that,’ she says eagerly. ‘You’re a naughty boy, aren’t you? I’d never have thought it to look at you.’
‘Still waters run deep,’ I say giving her the old smoulder.
‘I don’t think I want to let you see my smalls.’
‘Depends whether you’re in them or not, doesn’t it?’
‘Cheeky!’
In her case the word ‘smalls’ is blooming ridiculous. I look at her cleavage and go weak at the knees. How much is a man supposed not to take?
‘I’d better empty the laundry basket,’ she says. ‘Make yourself at home.’
She swings out of the room and I gulp down my tea and wonder what to do next. It is always a bit tricky, this. Follow her upstairs and I could be accused of rushing things. Sit where I am and she probably reckons I don’t fancy it. What would you do? Jot down your answer on the back of a five quid note and – no, don’t bother. There isn’t time. I know! I leap to my feet and trot to the bottom of the stairs.
‘Can I use the toilet?’ I holler.
Not the most romantic invitation to a nooky carnival, but it does sound more convincing than asking if she would like to see my stag beetle.
‘First on the right at the top of the stairs,’ she shouts. ‘I’ve got something to show you when you come down.’
I am getting so excited in the khasi that I have to be very careful not to spoil the décor. What has Mrs. Sinden got to show me that I have not nearly clotted my sporran on already? I pull the chain and race downstairs reckoning that if I get to the bottom before it reaches its crescendo a spot of in and out with Mrs. S. is a certainty. I used to do the same when I was a kid only then my end was slightly different – slightly smaller, too.
‘What do you think of this?’ says Mrs. S. coyly as I slink into the kitchen.
I tear my eyes away from her boobs and focus on the photograph she has handed me. By the cringe! It is none other than her lovely self in a state of undress I can only describe as stark naked. It is not a very good photograph but there is no mistaking our girl’s best features.
‘Very nice,’ I say. ‘A bit over-exposed, but – er very nice. When did you have this done?’
‘About two months ago. I had a whole lot done. That was the best one. Though the smile’s a bit unnatural, isn’t it?’
I reckon my smile would be a bit unnatural if I was a tart standing naked with a loaf of French bread between my legs, but I don’t say anything.
‘I sent them up to “Bedside Winkie”, but they didn’t publish them,’ continues Mrs. S. ‘I got a very strange letter from a man who said he wanted to retouch my originals.’
‘I know just how he felt,’ I husk. ‘Who took them?’
Mrs. S. blushes and fiddles with her hair. ‘One of my husband’s friends. He got a photograph in the “Royston Crow” once.’
‘Not one of these?’
‘Oh no. It was of a couple of pumpkins.’
Not so blooming different, I think to myself.
‘What does your husband think of them?’ I ask.
‘He hasn’t seen them. He’s a bit old-fashioned. I wouldn’t want him to be upset.’
Thoughtful, isn’t she? I do like that in a woman – amongst other things. It occurs to me that Mrs. S. is referring herself to me in a professional capacity, obviously reckoning that a man in my line of business must be able to recognise a couple, or three, of good things when he sees them. I am not slow to act upon this thought.
‘You’ve certainly got tremendous potential,’ I say, seriously. ‘I just wonder if it has been properly exploited.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mrs. S. cranes forward eagerly and it is like peeping over the edge of the Grand Canyon to gaze down between her tits.
‘Well, of course, I’ve had a bit of experience of this kind of thing and –’
‘ “A bit!”’
I smile modestly. ‘I’d say his equipment wasn’t up to scratch.’
‘There
