Confessions of a Plumber's Mate Page 13

  ‘Puts a kinkle in my winkle, you mean?’ I say.

  ‘Ye-es,’ says the nice lady doctor. ‘You could describe it like that. Do you often play around with the vernacular?’

  ‘Not since I was a kid,’ I say. ‘Dad used to say that it would stunt my growth.’

  Doctor Cynthia looks puzzled for a moment and then nods her head sympathetically. ‘I think I’ve got to the root of your problem. Taps rarely function except when they are set at right angles to the vertical. You regard your penis as being a tap and so you cannot adjust yourself to sexual intercourse unless you are standing up. Eg, vertical.’

  ‘What about the water?’ I say.

  ‘Forget about the water.’

  ‘But I can’t forget about the water. Every time I lie down – whooosh!’

  ‘Bed wetting?’

  ‘No! The feeling that I’m going to be swept away by a great flood. Nausea. Dizziness.’

  Doctor Cynthia remains silent for a few moments and I can sense her highly trained medical mind flicking through a lifetime of case histories. Finally, she speaks. ‘I think the answer is that we mustn’t rush things. We’ve slowly got to wean you from the vertical to the horizontal. We’ll tackle the water business as it arises. I’m certainly not going to wash my hands in it – I mean, of it.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ I say. ‘What exactly did you have in mind?’

  Doctor Cynthia takes a deep breath and looks purposeful. ‘Have you heard of surrogates?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘Very bracing. It’s in Yorkshire, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s Harrogate,’ says Cynthia through tight lips. ‘Basically, a surrogate is a substitute.’

  ‘Like in football,’ I say brightly.

  ‘Not quite like in football,’ says Superdoc. I can see that her smile is beginning to fray round the edges. ‘If you listen, I’ll tell you all about it.’

  ‘I’m all ears,’ I say.

  Doctor Cynthia Grimdyke folds her arms across her shapely knockers in businesslike fashion and begins to give me the gen. ‘A disturbingly large number of couples in this country fail to achieve full sexual satisfaction. The causes are many and diffuse. I believe that the advice available today does not go far enough in getting down to the root of the problem. Textbook answers just aren’t good enough. The only real guidance comes from practical involvement in the patient’s problems.’ I nod brightly like I know what she is talking about. ‘If we can provide a surrogate, or substitute partner, to help you clear your sexual blockages then we will be well on the way to straightening you out.’

  ‘You can get all that on the National Health?!’ I say. ‘Blimey! If I’d known that I’d have–er–um been much comforted in times of need.’

  ‘It’s an independent venture,’ says Doctor Cyn. ‘A matter purely between Judy and myself.’

  ‘Judy?’ I say.

  ‘That’s right. Our receptionist. The girl who showed you in here. She’s very interested in this kind of thing. She won’t mind me telling you that she had an unhappy marriage which she believes broke down because of unresolved sexual difficulties. She wants to put back into relationships what she herself failed to get out of them.’

  ‘That’s very admirable,’ I say. ‘You–er don’t get–er involved, then?’

  Doctor Cynthia shakes her finely sculptured nut from side to side. ‘Only in very special cases. We have some patients who have to be weaned away from group sexual activity.’

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ I tell her. ‘My trouble is worst when –’

  Doctor Cyn dries me up with another shake of her head. ‘No. I think it is best that I control this treatment from a position once removed. You will involve yourself with Judy, she will report back to me, and I will advise her on the procedures to be followed.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘I’ll place myself completely in your hands – or rather, in Judy’s hands – or rather –’

  ‘Say no more. If you go through that door, I will brief Miss Gould and she will join you shortly. Take off your clothes and relax. You’ll find some magazines in there.’

  ‘You haven’t got the March 1956 edition of Scottish Field, have you?’ I ask. ‘There was this article I was reading. I’d just got to the part where the doe was going to drop her calf. It’s amazing how they do it, isn’t it? I mean, it must be so parky in those glens –’

  ‘We don’t have any magazines like that,’ husks Doctor Grimdyke. ‘Our wild life is of a rather different nature.’

  She flares out her nostrils and opens a door in the wall – one of the best places for them, incidentally. I pass through and cop an eyeful of a plainly furnished room dominated by a low double bed and a high-backed armchair. The bed does not have any pillows or blankets on it, just a few casually draped sheets. Behind the armchair is an open window with a drawn venetian blind trembling in the slight breeze. The room is therefore far less brightly lit than Doctor Grimdyke’s surgery. More intimate, in fact.

  ‘Make yourself at home. There’s a bathroom through that door. The magazines are on the table.’

  The door closes behind me and I am left on my tod. It is a pity that Doctor Grimdyke is not going to participate in my treatment. I quite fancied her. Still, you can’t have everybody. I go over to the bathroom and take a gander at the magazines. Phew! I can see what Cynthia was getting at. They are like the stuff Dad used to hide in the hall stand – ‘hall stand all-stand’ I used to call it. You never saw so many erect hamptons – at least, I imagine you didn’t. I have no idea what you get up to in your spare time.

  I decide to return to the goodies later and go into the bathroom. There is a shower there so I strip off and turn myself into a lovely pink Timothy Lea with a few brisk rubs of the bath towel. There is also a blue towelling dressing-gown, presumably left behind by a midget as I discover when I slip it on.

  Back to the main room and I pick up The Spanker’s Handbook. It has an introduction by a military geezer whose face is vaguely familiar – no, not Field Marshal Montgomery – and a lot of interesting close-up shots. I don’t fancy the wallpaper much and I wouldn’t be seen dead in those socks – let alone doing what that bloke is doing – but I don’t suppose that everybody is as sensitive as I am. Anyway, it succeeds in being hornier than a reindeer round-up and I am glad that I have the scant protection offered by the dressing-gown. Percy is rearing up as if he wants to look at the pictures for himself.

  I have just started on ‘Big day at the Lollypop Factory’ – no sign of a lollypop, so far – when a soft click alerts me to the fact that the door to the corridor has been opened. As I adjust my dressing-gown, Judy comes in carrying a trestle and a plank.

  ‘Sorry to be so long,’ she says cheerfully. ‘I had a bit of trouble finding the right equipment. I think this should do the trick.’

  ‘What trick did you have in mind?’ I say, trying to see if she is concealing a saw behind her back.

  Judy laughs lightly and goes over to the window. ‘This seems a good place, doesn’t it?’ she says, putting down the trestle and resting the plank against it in an upright position. ‘I had to borrow this lot from the builders next door. You’ve no idea of the problems I had.’

  When she bends over, I get an inkling of what she is talking about. She is still wearing the white coat, but not a lot else. I bet that cheered them up a bit. It is not having a bad effect on Lea and friend, either. I move towards the window with something approaching rapidity.

  ‘Do you want to keep the magazine?’

  ‘What? Oh-yes–I mean, no.’ I chuck the magazine back on the pile.

  ‘You can hang on to it if you want to.’ I look down at the front of my dressing-gown. ‘I meant the magazine. A lot of our patients find them very stimulating. The Japs use them a great deal.’

  ‘You get a lot of Japs here, do you?’ I ask, thinking that they always look as if they are wearing National Health dentures.

  ‘No. I meant that they use them in Japan. Now –�
�� Judy adapts a creditable imitation of Doctor Grimdyke’s businesslike manner ‘– let’s get down to it – or rather, up to it – shall we?’

  ‘I’m still not quite certain what I’ve got to do,’ I say.

  ‘It’s terribly simple,’ says Judy. ‘Doctor Grimdyke thought of it. She’s awfully clever. What we’re going to do is have intercourse against this board when it’s in the vertical position and then slowly tilt it backwards until, without you really being aware of it, you’ll find that you’re performing quite normally in the horizontal. The secret is going to be in the way we move the board. Bit by bit.’

  ‘Sounds all right,’ I say. In fact, it sounds blooming marvellous but I don’t want to let on in case I appear like the crude, cock-happy custard I really am.

  ‘You are acclimatised to the vertical position?’

  ‘I think so,’ I say trying to cast my mind back. ‘I haven’t experienced any twinges that I can recall. Since I’ve had this dizziness problem it has cast a cloud over all aspects of my sex life.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see what we can do,’ says Judy, sympathetically. ‘I’ll lean against the board and you come here.’

  Trying not to break into a run, I position myself as close to the lady as percy will allow. If I am to get any nearer she will have to throw open her state apartment to the pubic. Her shoulders are pressed firmly against the upright board and her white coat falls open to reveal the graceful curve of a breast.

  ‘Do you feel all right?’ she says. ‘Yes, I can see that you do. Nothing shy about you, is there?’

  ‘I try to conquer my natural timidity,’ I say. ‘That’s what they used to call me, you know: “Timidity” Lea.’

  ‘Really? That is funny.’

  Despite her words, Judy seems more interested in getting to grips with my hampton. Her right hand slips inside my dressing-gown and closes greedily round my sex shooter. I brush my lips against her neck and send down a couple of digits to check out the natural resources. Just a touch tells me that the fruit is ripe for the plucking.

  ‘Kiss me!’

  I am glad she said that. I didn’t know whether you necked on the National Health. It would be a bit clinical, otherwise, wouldn’t it? Our minds must be working on the same lines because, just as I bend my knees, she stands on tiptoe. The result is that I am giving her grumble a rumble before you can say ‘three times a day after meals’.

  ‘Do you feel any ill effects?’ I keep percy on the move and consider the question. On the whole – or rather, in the hole – I feel fine.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ I say. ‘How about you?’

  Judy smiles sweetly. ‘It’s lovely, but I’m not the one with the problem. It’s your feelings that matter.’

  ‘But my feelings depend on your feelings. I’m not going to enjoy it as much in any position if you’re getting nothing out of it.’

  ‘That’s very sweet of you.’ Judy squeezes my biceps. ‘Are you ready to tilt the board a bit?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘I think we can do it without – yes, that’s it.’ Without us having to separate, Judy taps back with her shoulders and the plank scrapes forward a few inches. I press my body firmly against my luscious surrogate and feel no ill effects. ‘Still all right?’

  ‘Smashing!’ I say. ‘I could do this all day.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. If we go on making progress – who knows?’

  ‘Who knows, indeed?’ I say. I bang away enthusiastically and the board tilts back another few inches.

  ‘Careful,’ says Judy. ‘I felt it going then.’

  ‘You must have been mistaken,’ I say. ‘I’m being very careful.’

  ‘I meant the board,’ pants Judy. ‘It’s a bit unsteady against the trestle – OOOOOH! That’s just what the doctor ordered!’

  ‘Do you need any help?’ I turn my head to see that Doctor Grimdyke has appeared beside us. She is biting her lower lip and there is an expression of rapt attention on her face. It is difficult to concentrate with her hand doing that to my backside but I try and pull myself together.

  ‘We want to move the board a bit,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll try and help,’ says Doctor C. ‘If I rest my foot against it – how’s that?’

  ‘Not out,’ I say with a light laugh.

  ‘Great!’ breathes Judy.

  ‘Everything proceeding satisfactorily? No dizzy spells?’

  ‘No problems,’ I say, continuing to deal out stiff punishment with my giggle stick. ‘Still, we haven’t started to bend over backwards very far yet, have we?’

  ‘A pleasure to come,’ says the white hope of the NHS, plucking at the top of her Parker 51.

  ‘It certainly is,’ agrees Judy enthusiastically. ‘OOOOOOOHH!’

  Doctor Cyn begins to look harassed. ‘I think we may have to relieve this surrogate,’ she says through clenched teeth. ‘I will take personal control of this session.’

  I don’t think Judy has heard because her mouth has dropped open and her eyes are closed as if she is experiencing physical pain. ‘Judy!’ says Cynthia sharply. ‘Miss Gould! ! Pull yourself together!’

  I try and slacken my pelvic thrust but Judy pulls me closer to her and it is clear that she is going into orbit. ‘I’m sorry,’ I pant. ‘I think you’ll have to hang on a minute – don’t take your foot away from the board!’

  But Doctor Grimdyke does take her foot away from the board. My last memory of her is standing back and impatiently ripping open the front of her white coat. The second that the restraining pressure of her foot is withdrawn, the plank flips over the low trestle and I find myself sliding over Judy and towards the window. Before I have completely woken up to what is happening my bonce has collided with the venetian blinds and then passed through them. I have a terrifying vision of a busy street spread out below me, and then I am flying through the air to meet it! The plank has become a chute that has fed me out of the window.

  I steel myself for the concrete kiss of the pavement but what I hit turns out to be more like a striped trampoline. I bounce in the air, turn a somersault, and land on the awning of what turns out to be a greengrocer’s. I find this out when the awning splits and I drop six feet onto a display of peaches. A big bloke with a crinkly face and a bashed in hooter looks down at me in amazement.

  ‘’Ere!’ he says. ‘Whatya think you’re doing?!’

  A lot of women are screaming and running all over the place and I suppose you can’t blame them. The remains of the venetian blind does not do a lot to hide my predicament – apart from anything else. I feel amongst the squashed peaches between my legs and produce a card which says. ‘Please don’t squeeze the merchandise when making your selection.’ Very funny. I manage to raise myself on one elbow, and flash walnut features a brave smile.

  ‘These peaches are a bit soft, aren’t they, Henry?’ I say.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Right,’ says Sid. ‘Cock this one up and we’re all in the brace and bit.’

  ‘Yes, Sid,’ I say.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ says Sid. ‘Perk yourself up for God’s sake. You’re like a piece of old chewing-gum before rigor mortis sets in.’

  I have not told Sid about my problem. Going to him for sympathy would be like dunking your privates in a vat of sulphuric acid. Since my fortunate escape from the death of a thousand peach stones my sex life has not been anything to make editors of Sunday newspapers outbid each other for my life story. My love dive from a second storey window has – hardly surprisingly – done nothing to improve my attitude towards horizontal sex. In fact, I am not all that enthusiastic about performing vertically or even diagonally. I think that the best idea is to write me off as a sex object. The whole thing is vastly overrated. You are much better off with a pile of osiers and a good pattern book.

  ‘Can you see Crispin?’ says Sid. ‘Look enthusiastic when he shows up, for God’s sake. He knows you’re an idiot but show him that you’re an enthusiastic idiot.’
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br />   Sid and Crispin – or Crispin, I don’t know which – has got us this job as maintenance men at the Indoor Outdoor Exhibition. We have to make sure that everything is ‘ticking over’ to use Crispin’s phrase.

  ‘There’s enough stuff here, isn’t there?’ says Sid. ‘Look at all those caravans.’

  ‘I never fancied a caravan holiday,’ I say.

  ‘Who’s talking about holidays?’ says Sid. ‘We’re all going to be living in those soon. You won’t be able to afford anything else. Stash one down the end of the garden and let your house to the Arabs while they decide what to do with the country. It’s your best chance of making a few bob – either that or melting down Eric Morley’s hair for the oil.’

  ‘It’s the boats that fascinate me,’ I say. ‘Especially that electrically controlled job that runs on land or water. You must have a fantastic mind to design a thing like that.’

  ‘I didn’t design it,’ says Sid, modestly.

  ‘I know you didn’t!’ I snap. ‘I meant “You” in the widest sense. You couldn’t design a hole in the side of a doughnut.’

  Sid takes umbrage at this remark but I pay no attention to him. Swinging towards me wearing trendy matelot gear and a superior expression is Imogen Fletcher. Her eyes drift across my face without showing any signs of recognition but I am not the kind of geezer to let a little thing like that faze me.

  ‘Hi!’ I say, extending my right hand and revolving it like I am wiping an invisible window pane. ‘It’s me!’

  ‘Hello me,’ says Imogen. She peers at me closely and her expression lightens. ‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘You’re right. It is you. I didn’t recognise you without your glasses.’

  ‘I don’t wear glasses,’ I say.

  ‘Well you should do, darling. You know it’s bad for my eyes.’ Mrs Fletcher gives a light laugh and I sense that she is in frisky mood. I wish I could say the same for something else not a million miles away from the slit in my Y-fronts. There was a time when the presence of the fair Imogen in the same building would have been enough to get me drawing bleeding hearts on the walls of the karsi. Now it is all I can do to scrawl ‘Right’ in front of ‘Up The Gunners!’