Confessions of a Plumber's Mate Page 12

  ‘With your hand round the front,’ says Mrs Butler patiently. Just to make it easier for me, she grabs my German and places it firmly on top of her furburger. She might be taking a fingerprint. ‘Pussy loves being stroked,’ she says.

  Trying to make it obvious that this is the first time I have strode to the crease, I fumble around like a drunken toddler trying to open its money box in a pair of boxing gloves. As it turns out, this is not the best thing that I could have done. ‘I’ll make it easier for you, nature boy,’ says my new friend, taking a step backwards. ‘Clothes are so silly, aren’t they?’

  With these words, she reaches behind her and undoes the catch of her bra – at least, that is what I imagine she does. She may be tapping the Polish national anthem on the small of her back in morse code or seeing if she can work up enough momentum with her elbows to take to the air, but I don’t think so. The fact that her enormous bristols bound forward like released elk hounds and that her bra comes away in her hand supports my contention.

  ‘Do you like them?’ she says.

  There is nothing she can do about it if I say no, so I nod weakly and watch her toss the bra lightly over her shoulder. I have the feeling that this lady is a frustrated stripper and she is not slow to prove me right. Shaking her nut so that a fresh wave of perfume breaks over me, she takes her skirt zipper between finger and thumb and slowly jerks it floorwards. I bet she would never do that in front of her old man. She needs a complete stranger in order to get it out of her system. I would be very happy to get it into her system but I am still worried about that bed. I know that I would come over all funny if I measured her length on it. The zip won’t go any lower and she has unhooked her skirt. Fixing me with an eye like a welk pin, she begins to do a slow shimmy so that the skirt zig zags down her body and ends up in a puddle at her feet. I don’t know much about art but I know what I like. Give me a choice between this bird and Toulouse Lautrec and Shorty would have to find someone else to wash out his brushes.

  ‘You like it, don’t you?’ Mrs Butler is looking me straight in the Y-fronts and percy is making no effort to conceal his whereabouts.

  ‘Come here,’ I grunt.

  ‘No, you come here,’ says Mrs Butler, beckoning me to her all coy-like. ‘I’ve got a lovely present for you.’ She sits down on the edge of the bed and begins to tease down her tights. What is the matter with me? The moment the bed springs start to move, a wave of nausea sweeps over me – it is like turning on Stars On Sunday by mistake. Normally I would leave a trail of scorched pile behind me as I closed the distance between me and that bed but now I cower back against the wall trying not to think of Mrs Butler in the horizontal.

  ‘Come on, dear. There’s nothing wrong with you. Take those nasty old clothes off.’

  Almost in a dream, I unzip my jeans and flip down my Y-fronts – I used to worry about Y-fronts because I thought they over-heated your hampton. Then I thought about another place where your cream seam gets a lot more crowded and I stopped worrying.

  ‘That’s lovely, dear. What are you worrying about?’

  Mrs Butler hooks her fingers over the edge of her nicks and thrusts them down a couple of inviting inches. I notice the thin pink lines left by the elastic on her rich, creamy flesh and try and imagine that I am pinned to the wall by steel staples.

  ‘I can only do it when I’m standing,’ I gulp.

  ‘But you are standing, dear,’ says Mrs Butler encouragingly. ‘And very nicely, too.’

  ‘I meant, on my feet,’ I say. ‘Standing up.’

  ‘You’re a funny boy,’ says Mrs Butler, softly. ‘Funny but rather sweet. Not at all what I thought you were at first.’ An expression of some intensity arrives on her face. ‘Come here and I’ll turn you into a tiger.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I think, maybe –’

  ‘Come here!’ Mrs Butler pushes her panties over her knees and shakes them down to floor level. By the cringe, but she is a comely bit of crumpet! I like them when they are a bit over the top. She must be a regular treasurè house of memories and no mistake. Before I know what I am doing I have taken the first dangerous step towards the bed. Foolish Timothy! Mrs Butler lies back against the counterpane and grabs my Mad Mick like she is going to pull a pint with it.

  ‘You know what to do now, don’t you?’ she purrs.

  If only she hadn’t lain down. ‘I don’t think I can,’ I say. ‘You see, it’s all to do with my mother.’

  ‘Your mother?!’ Mrs Butler looks alarmed. I can imagine what is going through her mind.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It runs in the family. We’re all like it. My mother particularly. She’s never done it.’

  ‘But what about you?’ says Mrs Butler, propping herself up against one of the pillows.

  ‘I’ve never done it, either,’ I say.

  ‘I meant, how could you be conceived if your mother was a virgin?’

  ‘They used an artificial fertiliser,’ I say, amazed at how quickly my mind works in emergencies. ‘Please don’t ask me any more questions, I find it too painful.’

  Mrs Butler makes ‘tut, tut’ noises. ‘That’s terrible,’ she says. ‘It must have been a terrible strain on your father – I mean, your mother’s husband. Did he make the donation?’

  ‘I don’t think Dad’s ever made a donation,’ I say truthfully.

  Mrs Butler closes her eyes. ‘You’re right. It is too painful to talk about. But –’ she slides a hand up the back of my thigh ‘– you mustn’t fear being visited by the problems of your parents.’

  ‘They very seldom visit us,’ I say. ‘Both Mum’s lot are dead and there’s a bit of a mystery about my grandad –’

  ‘I didn’t mean your grandparents,’ says Mrs Butler in a voice trembling with emotion. ‘I was referring to your right to lead a normal, healthy sex life – well, not too normal. We don’t want to be thoroughly boring about it. Come and lie down beside me and I’ll show you what I mean.’ One of her hands grabs mine and the other returns to Rampant Reginald.

  ‘It’s very kind of you,’ I say. ‘But …’ How can I tell her the truth? I can’t after what I have already said. The very thought of lying on that bed makes my stomach heave.

  ‘Come here! You don’t know what you’re missing!’

  ‘Please –!’ Before you can say Roger Carpenter, the spilling cornucopia of curves yanks me on to the bed and starts to scramble on top of me. ‘No!’ I say. ‘No! You mustn’t!’ It is such a change to hear myself saying that.

  ‘Stop struggling!’ orders Mrs Butler. ‘You’ll love it once we get started.’

  But we never do get started. The moment my shoulders hit the counterpane, a black, swirling wave of nausea engulfs me. I close my eyes but it is even worse. If I don’t get off the bed I will throw up.

  ‘I’m going to be sick!’ I shout. Mrs Butler stops trying to pocket my sprocket and watches open-mouthed as I vault from the bed and snatch up my clothes. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s just that …’ I can’t think of anything to say. Mrs Butler bursts into a flood of frustrated tears and I mumble something and go out onto the landing to get dressed. My problem is now a serious one, there is no doubt about it.

  Fully-clothed, I go downstairs and stick my head round the kitchen door. Mrs Butler has not done a lot of clearing up. Maybe, I should – no, on second thoughts, I won’t. There are some days when it is a good idea to quit before you get too far behind. I collect my tools, wipe my hands on one of the curtains – all the tea towels are too dirty – and open the front door.

  Coming up the path towards me is a balding bloke of about forty, carrying an overnight bag and wearing a grey light-weight suit and a harassed expression. Mr Butler, as I live and breathe faster. What a stroke of luck that I decided to leave when I did. Behind me, Mrs B is still wailing her heart out and I see hubby’s already suspicious face becoming more thoughtful. I do hope he is not going to leap to any unfounded and unpleasant conclusions.

  ‘Morning!’ I say, cheer
fully clanking my bag at him – it is about four o’clock in the afternoon. ‘Plumber.’

  He is still looking after me as I imperceptibly lengthen my stride and glide speedily round the corner.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Doctor Parminter will see you now.’

  She is a nice-looking bird. Trim, well-groomed, refined – or maybe it is the white coat. I always feel a bit put down by receptionists. Anyway, what does it matter? She is a woman, and what good are they to me? Unless she likes it standing up, I might as well forget about it. I put down my copy of Scottish Field for September, 1953 – not that the date makes any difference. The contents are exactly the same one decade to the other except for the house prices – and follow the slim, wand-like body of Doctor Parminter’s receptionist through the door marked ‘Patients seen by appointment only. No smoking. Please do not tear articles from the magazines which are placed there for the enjoyment of otters’. I think it means ‘others’ not ‘otters’ but you never know. The way the country is going, the National Health Service may have been forced to amalgamate with The People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals.

  At first glance, it is difficult to make out Doctor Parminter because he is obscured by a dense haze of tobacco smoke. Then I see this figure with a stethoscope round its neck and specs on the end of its hooter scratching away at a pad. After a heavy bout of coughing, Doctor P taps the specs up to the bridge of his snoz and looks me up and down suspiciously.

  ‘You look strong as a horse,’ he says, accusingly. ‘Want a few days off work, do you? That’s not the way we’re going to get the country back on its feet, is it?’ Before I can answer, he starts coughing again. The way he is carrying on, I reckon he is going to snuff it before I have described my symptoms.

  ‘It’s not like that at all,’ I say, eventually. ‘I have a problem I want to discuss with you.’

  ‘You’re not on my panel, are you?’ No matter which way he looks at you, you get the feeling that he doesn’t like you. No wonder he was easier to see than the other six blokes.

  ‘Er – no,’ I say. ‘The truth is that what I want to talk to you about is a bit personal.’ That is why I have come to a new bloke, isn’t it? I don’t want my local quack grabbing an earful of my little problem. Now that we have Doctor Savumba it has become a matter of national pride. I bet he can get it up in any position, smooth Indian creep! Even Mum says what lovely eyes he has.

  ‘There are clinics that deal with that kind of thing, you know,’ says Doctor Parminter looking at me distastefully. ‘You don’t even need a letter from me. Still, now you’re here, I suppose I’d better take a look at you. Stand up and lower your trousers.’

  ‘It’s nothing like that!’ I have yelped out the words even before Doctor Parminter’s hands have closed round the rubber gloves.

  A look of fresh irritation rather than disappointment passes across Parminter’s face. ‘What is it, then?!’

  ‘Well,’ I say, looking round and lowering my voice. ‘It’s to do with my relations.’

  ‘There’s no need to whisper,’ snaps Parminter. ‘The surgery isn’t bugged by Barbara Castle. Not yet, anyway. Now, what’s all this about your relations? Are they on the panel?’ He reaches for a card index system.

  ‘Sexual relations,’ I say, feeling my cheeks burn.

  Parminter pushes the box away angrily. ‘What is it? Premature ejaculation? Right. Here’s what you do: wait a few minutes, have a glass of milk, and try again.’ I wish he would lower his voice. They must be able to hear him in Balham High Street.

  ‘It’s not that,’ I say. ‘It’s –’

  ‘Impotent? Can’t gain entrance in the first place?’

  ‘I’ve only tried the first place,’ I say. ‘I thought you weren’t –’

  ‘Two glasses of milk and some iron pills. Don’t wait for the pills to dissolve because they won’t. Try and think about something to take your mind off what you’re trying to do. A healthy outdoor sport that you enjoy. Mountain climbing, trekking, hiking, hacking –’ He collapses into another spasm of heavy coughing.

  ‘It’s not the physical side, so much,’ I say. ‘My problem is more in the mind. I can’t have relations when I am lying down. I come over dizzy.’

  ‘That’s your wife, I suppose?’ says Doctor P, reaching for a biro. ‘Dizzy, short for Desirée.’ He talks to himself as he writes. ‘Patient ashamed to admit that he experiences premature ejaculation with wife, Desirée. Rationalises failure by attributing it to fact that he practises sexual intercourse using missionary position.’ Parminter lays aside his pen, takes off his specs, and leans towards me. ‘How does your wife feel about this?’

  ‘I’m not married,’ I say.

  ‘Not married?!’ Parminter leaps to his feet as if stung by a hornet. ‘You swagger in here blathering about your sexual inadequacies and you’re not even married! You libertine! How dare you vent your impertinence on me?!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know you had to be married.’

  ‘You have to be married with me!’ snarls Parminter. ‘Get out of my surgery, you disgusting little animal!’ He rises unsteadily to his feet and then collapses in another fit of coughing. I open my mouth to say something and then decide against it. What is the use? It won’t get me anywhere. Parminter’s unsteady hand closes round one of the many jars of pills that litter his desk and he is shovelling half a dozen down his throat as I go out of the door. Stupid old twit! For two pins, I would report him to the BMA if I knew what it was.

  ‘Mr Lea?’ The bird in the white coat has appeared at my side. ‘I’m sorry about that. If I’d known the nature of your problem I’d never have let you see Doctor Parminter. He’s rather reactionary, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And bloody old-fashioned, as well,’ I say, still stung by the quack’s unhelpful attitude. ‘I don’t know how they dare put up conscription charges. I’ve never been a strain on the National Health Service and the one time I ask for a bit of assistance I get told to pi–push off.’

  ‘I know,’ says the bird soothingly. ‘It is a shame. Fortunately, all the doctors in the practice aren’t like Doctor Parminter. Some of the younger ones are far more liberated in their attitude to the treatment of sexual problems.’

  ‘That’s good news,’ I say. ‘Perhaps you can wheel me in front of one of them?’

  The bird guides me towards the waiting room. ‘You’ll have to wait a few minutes. If you’ll just sit down and read a magazine –’

  ‘I’ve read that one,’ I say. ‘It’s all about how the red squirrels are being duffed up by the grey squirrels. That, and how a nuclear power station was closed down until a robin had finished nesting in the boiler man’s bowler hat.’

  ‘Only a few moments,’ says the bird, with a warm smile. ‘You’ll be seeing Doctor Grimdyke.’

  I start reading about the sex life of the red deer and wonder what Doctor Grimdyke is going to be like. The name does not inspire confidence. Large, cold hands; smelly tweeds, whisky breath, a bedside manner like a regimental policeman in the Highland Light Infantry – I can see it all.

  A red light flashes, a buzzer sounds, and the lady in white is standing beside me again. ‘This way please.’ I follow the bird down a corridor and she smiles at me encouragingly.

  ‘You’ll find Doctor Grimdyke quite different to Doctor Parminter.’

  Never was a truer word spoken. Doctor Parminter was not a bird for one thing. When I go through the door, I think that I must be in another waiting room. It is so comfortable. Settees, floppy chairs, a shaggy carpet – all very light and airy. The slim, sophisticated bird sitting behind the low table, puts down her copy of Forum and rises as I come in. ‘Thank you, Judy,’ she says. ‘I’ll call you if I need you. Well, Mr Lea, let’s get down to first name terms and then you can tell me all about it. I’m Cynthia Grimdyke.’

  ‘Doctor Grimdyke?’ I say. ‘I wasn’t expecting a woman. Not, of course, that it makes any difference. I’m Timothy Lea.’

  �
��Sit down, Timothy.’ I sit on one of those canvas chairs that suddenly tilts backwards and swallows your bum, and struggle into an upright position. ‘That’s right. Now, fire away. Don’t hold anything back.’

  ‘Well,’ I say. ‘It’s very simple. I find that I’m no longer able to make love lying down. It’s especially difficult if there is water about.’

  ‘You mean, if it’s raining?’ says Doctor Cynthia.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s more the presence of water. Baths and taps and things like that.’

  It seems so stupid when I say it, but Cynthia looks really interested. ‘Fascinating,’ she says. ‘Quite, quite, fascinating. I’ve never come across anyone like you before.’ There is a long pause while she stares at me and I try and think of something to say. ‘You did say taps, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I say.

  ‘Have you ever thought about the shape of a tap?’

  ‘Not especially,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t they remind you of something?’

  ‘Well–er –’

  ‘A detumescent penis, for example?’

  ‘Sorry–I–er–I –’

  ‘Your penis is a bent tap. We’ve got to straighten it out. The water is immaterial.’

  She sits back triumphantly and I try to figure out what she is talking about. ‘I don’t quite get it,’ I say. ‘I’ve never thought about taps like that.’

  ‘Exactly’ Doctor Cynthia snaps her fingers. ‘That’s the trouble. You’ve set up a blockage. By not facing up to the truth about your tap fixation you’ve created a whole lot of problems for yourself. You came to see me just in time. I may be able to save you.’

  ‘That’s marvellous,’ I say. I mean it, too. If the doctor lady can straighten out my bent tap I will completely revise my opinion of the NHS.

  ‘What do you do for a living?’ asks Cynthia, swinging her legs sideways so that her thigh muscles curve temptingly.

  ‘Plumbing, mainly,’ I say. ‘I’m a sort of glorified plumber’s mate without a governor.’

  Doctor Cynthia slaps one of the aforementioned thighs enthusiastically. ‘Perfect!’ she says. ‘Don’t you see? It all fits. You’re like a man with hay fever working in a florist’s. Every time you see a tap it undermines the erectile potential of your penis.’