Confessions of a Plumber's Mate Read online

  ‘How are your ceramics?’ continues Mrs Fletcher.

  For a moment I wonder if she is a mind reader. Then it occurs to me that she must have got me mixed up with somebody else. ‘I haven’t got any,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Mrs F snaps her fingers in annoyance. ‘You’re not Shade Balfour, are you?’

  Before I can answer, Sid greases in at full crawl. ‘Good morning, Imogen,’ he purrs. ‘Looking for a boat, are we?’

  ‘Funnily enough, I am,’ says Mrs F loftily. ‘I think it would be rather fun for getting away from it all. The beaches are crowded with such ghastly people, aren’t they? At the first wisp of candy floss it could be up anchor and away.’ She looks at Sid and me like we are the first people she would be trying to get away from. I reckon that Crispin must have been making a few disturbing reports about our working relationship. Wives are always the first ones to take umbrage.

  Sid is so thick that he does not sense the coolness underlining Imogen’s manner. ‘Oh yes,’ he says all posh-like. ‘You can have a slap-up time slopping around on a sloop, can’t you? Rosie’s having a look at the moment. You might well bump into her. She’s with my in-laws.’

  I am quick to notice the expression of mingled fear and horror that flashes across Imogen’s face at the mention of Mum and Dad. Obviously, memories of Sid’s dinner party have been slow to die. ‘I’ll keep my eyes open for them,’ says Imogen sounding as if she means it. ‘Well, I’d better be moving on. There’s so much to see.’

  She drifts off and Sid and I continue to gaze at the marina. Yes, they have built this enormous indoor lake with boats moored all round it. It looks just like a real life harbour as I imagine it. There is even a painted backdrop made to look like Prospero or some other Cornish fishing village.

  ‘It’s a lovely craft, that SK498, isn’t it?’ says Sid. ‘A miracle of British craftsmanship. Fifty knots in water and a hundred and twenty on the M1 when the cops aren’t watching. It just shows that when we set our minds to it, we can beat the world.’

  ‘It’s the radar that gets me,’ I say. ‘How you can put it on to automatic so that it veers away from any other vessel that strays into its path. What a boon in congested waterways or when it’s foggy.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Sid. ‘And the birds are a bit of all right, aren’t they?’

  Normally, the birds would have been the first things I would have commented on. There are two of them, one blonde, one redhead. The SK498 cruises round the marina and they lie on the roof of the cabin structure wearing bikinis and big smiles. The knockers on them make you think of four steam puddings lying in a hammock.

  ‘Look,’ says Sid. ‘They’re waving to us. I wonder what they want?’

  ‘They’re just waving, Sid,’ I say dispiritedly. ‘That’s what they’re paid to do.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s come over you,’ says Sid. ‘Where’s your Viking spirit? This is the land of Frobisher, Drake, Raleigh and Richard Todd, you know.’

  ‘It’s also Earls Court on a wet Monday,’ I say. ‘The gutters still full of sleeping Australians, the –’

  ‘All right, all right,’ says Sid. ‘That’s enough of that. Look! They’re coming over.’

  Sid is right. The SK498 with the blonde bird at the tiller is steering straight for us. ‘Ahoy there, landlubbers,’ sings out the redheaded bint. ‘Are you paying maintenance or giving it?’

  The witty creature is clearly referring to the word ‘Maintenance’ emblazoned across Sid’s and my chest.

  ‘I don’t think we’d be able to do much with that,’ says Sid with praiseworthy caution. ‘You’d better get on to the designer, hadn’t you?’

  ‘No need to bother him,’ says the blonde bint. ‘It’s terribly trivial. Anyway, he’s at the Ritz with a trade delegation. We haven’t seen him for three days. Come on! Be a couple of sports. A quick trip round the bay won’t do you any harm.’

  I look at Sid questioningly but he has already flung his leg over the bulwark – it’s all right, he suffers no permanent damage. We have just clambered into the cockpit when Crispin Fletcher hoves into view. Immediately he sees us, a worried expression invades his face.

  ‘Not gallivanting, I hope?’ he says sternly. ‘You remember what I said, Sidney!’

  ‘Definitely,’ says Sid, practically touching his forelock in his desire to please. ‘Absolutely. Oh yes. We’re just going to sort out these two young ladies.’

  It would not be so bad if the two birds did not start giggling. ‘What?!’ says Fletcher, anxiety mingling with menace. I have never seen him so dominant before. I suppose that working with Sid makes anyone feel dominant.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ hisses Sid to one of the birds.

  ‘We can’t make the bottle opener work,’ says the redhead.

  ‘We’re going to fix the bot-bot-bottom of the boat.’ The last four words come out in an ugly rush as Sid struggles to find an alternative to the less than reassuring truth. Fletcher is still looking unhappy as we skim out to the middle of the marina.

  ‘Why didn’t you say “Aye, aye, skipper” or something?’ says Sid. ‘Remember how important this is to us. Without Crispin we’d be finished. It wouldn’t be worth carrying on.’

  ‘I’m not a crawler, like you,’ I say contemptuously. ‘I’m not prepared to grovel to anyone – oh, let me take that.’ I swiftly remove the tray of glasses that the blonde is carrying out of the cabin.

  ‘Better not have drinkies on deck, Felicity,’ says the redhead. ‘Some old fuddy duddy will complain.’

  ‘Righto, Nancy,’ says the blonde. ‘Into the jolly old cabin we go. You chaps will join us for a spot of grog, won’t you?’

  ‘A drink?’ says Sid cautiously. ‘Well, that would be very nice. Just a small one while we’re on the job.’ The two birds look at each other and I wonder what has come over Sid. He is always a bit inclined to be like me – uneasy in the presence of posh tarts, and Nancy and Felicity are clearly very establishment. Personally, if a bird has big tits, I find it easy to think of her as being common like me. Large knockers and refinement never go hand in hand as far as I am concerned.

  Nancy carries the tray back into the cabin and we follow her. All the time, the boat is weaving round the pool under its own steam. If it comes near anything else, it veers off at an angle. It is amazing really.

  ‘Where’s this–er bottle opener?’ says Sid.

  ‘Right here on the bulkhead,’ says Nancy.

  ‘The wall,’ says Felicity, helpfully.

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Sid, stepping away from a ventilation grill. ‘I was looking for something bigger. Now, what’s the trouble? It looks straightforward enough to me. You just put the bottle in the slot, twist, and – hey presto!’

  ‘Oh!’ says Felicity, brushing her tawny hair from her lightly freckled cheek. ‘It’s easy, isn’t it? We hadn’t been doing it like that.’

  ‘It’s all a question of how you put it in,’ says Sid. Once again, the birds look at each other and start giggling. ‘You are awful!’ says Nancy.

  ‘Are you trying to get us arrested?’ I hiss.

  ‘Shut up!’ says Sid, blushing scarlet.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s only Southern Courage,’ says Felicity holding up what looks like a whisky bottle. ‘It’s the drink of the Deep South.’

  ‘You mean Penge?’ says Sid.

  ‘The deep south of America!’ I inform him. Honestly, Sid is about as sophisticated as a farting contest. I pick up the bottle and read the label: ‘Southern Courage is a mellow blend of eleven different spirits, one for each state in the Confederacy. The drink that lost the South the American Civil War’.

  ‘Do you remember the Yank who left that?’ says Nancy, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Could I ever forget?’ says Felicity.

  ‘Sounds potent,’ says Sid.

  ‘Oh, he was!’ Both girls shriek with laughter and take playful swipes at Sid, who covers his face with his hands.

  ‘I was talking about t
he drink!’ he whines.

  ‘Look,’ I say, glad to be able to change the subject. ‘There are Mum and Dad and Rosie.’

  ‘And the Fletchers,’ says Sid. ‘Oh, I hope your Dad doesn’t say anything out of place.’

  ‘You can talk!’ I say.

  ‘Don’t wave!’ says Sid. ‘We don’t want them to see us with –’ he lowers his voice ‘– these birds. You know what Rosie’s like. She’s broken the world record for jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ I say. ‘They’ve already seen us – hey! Watch it, Mum! Did you see that? She nearly fell in.’

  The Leas and Fletchers are exchanging a few words that neither of them need on the foredeck of a smart white yacht moored by the side of the marina. A geezer in yachting cap and blazer is hovering hopefully with an order book. I notice that as Mum nearly falls in, Dad is swift to grab Imogen Fletcher by the knockers. Another tremor and he will probably give her artificial respiration.

  ‘Does your Dad swim?’ says Sid wistfully. ‘I wish I had a few man-eating sharks handy.’

  ‘Down the hatch, chaps. Thanks most awfully for the assistance.’ Felicity shoves a couple of tumblers into our mitts and I notice that the Southern Courage bottle is now half empty. ‘It must be wonderful to be mechanically minded.’

  ‘It’s just a knacker,’ says Sid. ‘I mean, a knack!’

  ‘He’s incorrigible, isn’t he?’ says Nancy. ‘What are we going to do with him?’ She turns to me. ‘Are you naughty, too?’

  A few minutes before I would have had no trouble answering her, but now I am not so sure. That Southern Courage stuff is a lot stronger than diluted Tizer – not much different in taste but a lot stronger. My head seems to be going round in the opposite direction to the boat. ‘I’m pretty naughty,’ I say. ‘You’re pretty in any condition.’ Notice how the old verbal magic has come back in a flash. I haven’t felt like saying anything nice to a bird for days.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Nancy. ‘That is nice. How refreshing to find that the spirit of romance is not dead.’

  ‘I reckon that this stuff must be the spirit of romance,’ says Sid, nodding at his glass. ‘I feel fruitier than a two-ton banana.’

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ I say. ‘I feel quite frisky myself.’

  ‘It’s rude to whisper,’ says Felicity. ‘Let’s all share it.’

  ‘What a good idea!’ says Sid, knocking back the rest of his drink. ‘Come here, darling and I’ll show you an old knee shanty I learned when I was in the Sea Scouts.’

  ‘A sea shanty, not a knee shanty,’ I say.

  ‘Listen, mate,’ says Sid, an ugly note creeping into his voice. ‘You stick to your sea shantys and I’ll stick to my knee shantys!’

  ‘And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye!’ trills Felicity. ‘I say, how ripping it all is!’ With these words, she bounds into Sid’s arms and her bikini top hits the floor seconds later. It could not happen at a worse moment because I see Rosie peering through a porthole as we sweep past the yacht. I only catch a glimpse of her but the expression on her mug suggests that she has copped a full gander at her old man fluffing up Felicity’s tititties. There is a bunk on either side of the cabin and Sid and his chick flop on to one of them like we are playing ‘Feet Off Ground’.

  I turn to see how Nancy is taking all this and find her topless and practically bottomless. ‘Worse things happen at sea,’ she breathes, stepping out of her bikini panties.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s the boat or the booze,’ I say. ‘But I feel all –’ I stumble back against the empty bunk and Nancy drops to her knees and starts pulling my shoes off.

  ‘I know,’ she murmurs. ‘I felt like that before we finished the first bottle.’

  ‘How many have you –?’

  ‘Three,’ she says, biting the inside of my thigh through my jeans. ‘Come on, I’m crazy for it!’

  A desire so delicately expressed is calculated to win a response from a heart of stone and in less time than it takes to roll a new rubber down the handle of your cricket bat, I am nuder than a peeled grape. Nancy is pegged out beneath me and the narrow bunk makes a prison for our heaving flanks.

  ‘Kiss me! Harder!’ shouts my impressionable friend and I suddenly realise what Nelson’s last words must have been. I suddenly realise something else, as well. The boat seems to be going very fast. I glance out of a port hole and see a blurr of movement as we flash past one of the yachts. It is bobbing up and down at its mooring like a cork.

  ‘Sid –!’ I cry – but there is no Sid. I glance back and see that the stupid berk is fondling Felicity at the top of the companionway – amongst other places. Everybody must be able to see them. ‘Sid!’ I scream. ‘What are you doing?! Let go of those controls!’

  Sid must have blundered against some mechanism that programmes the speed of the boat because we are going round the marina at about eighty miles an hour. The wash from our wake is breaking over some of the smaller boats and – oh my gawd! That is Mum hanging over the side of that yacht. And what is Dad doing to that woman he has just pulled from the water?! Thank goodness the boat suddenly changes direction and all I can see is Crispin Fletcher and Rosie diving below the surface to get out of our way. ‘Stop screaming with maniacal laughter and do something, Sid!’ I shout. ‘No! Not that!’

  You would not think it was possible at the speed we are going. And standing up, too.

  ‘Stop flapping, darling!’ chides the chick beneath my thighs. ‘It’s only a bit of fun. Whheeeeeeeeeeeee!’ She clamps her hands over my back bumpers like Tower Bridge coming down fast and rocks me backwards and forwards against her body.

  ‘Pull another lever, Sid!’ I shout. ‘You’ve got to slow us down!’

  ‘Up the workers!’ yells Sid. He takes a last swig from the Southern Courage bottle and throws it over his shoulder. There is a scream of pain from a male voice. It may be my imagination but it sounds suspiciously like Crispin Fletcher.

  ‘You have to put it on manual if you want to control it,’ pants Nancy. ‘Come on, darling. Our rhythm is faltering.’

  ‘Put it on manual!’ I shout. I would do it myself but you have less chance of getting away from Nancy than you do of cancelling a subscription to the Reader’s Digest. Not that I am all that keen to get away from Nancy. She is a very beautiful girl and it is a long time since – suddenly. I wake up to what I am doing. I am actually having it off with a bird and suffering no ill effects. And I am doing it horizontally and on – ‘Sid!’ I shout. ‘Sid, I –’

  ‘All right, all right! Belt up, will you?!’ Sid reaches behind Felicity and presses something. Felicity screams so he presses something else. Immediately, the boat surges towards the back drop of the Cornish fishing harbour.

  ‘I’m cured! I’m cured!’ I blather. ‘Oh Nancy! You don’t know what this means to me.’

  ‘It is lovely,’ agrees my new friend, obviously not understanding the true nature of my ecstasy. ‘Go on! I’m coming.’

  There is an enormous thump – for which I am only partly responsible – and the boat runs smoothly again.

  ‘It’s wonderful, Sid!’ I shout. ‘Wonderful. And what’s more, I’m doing it on water.’

  ‘Not any more, you’re not!’ I raise my head and look back to see what looks like an enormous sheet of paper with a hole in the middle of it. It is disappearing fast. ‘What the –’ BANG! Two enormous iron exit doors crash open and we roar out into the street.

  ‘Oh!’ says Felicity sounding really worried. ‘We weren’t supposed to demonstrate it on the road until the Motor Show.’

  Sid dives for the steering wheel and we pass a double decker bus on the inside travelling at about eighty. It is unfortunate that the bus is travelling in the opposite direction to us.

  ‘If we want to be home for tea,’ I say, ‘you’d better head for Battersea Bridge. The traffic builds up something terrible at this time of the day.’

  ‘Groovy!’ says Nancy. ‘I think there’s another bottle of Southern C
ourage in that locker.’

  Also available in the CONFESSIONS series:

  Confessions of a Window Cleaner

  It always took longer to clean the inside of the windows …

  Timothy Lea is asked to be a window cleaner by his brother-in-law Sid, and he helps to satisfy all of his customers … in whatever way is necessary.

  Viv preferred a man with experience.

  Dorothy was a little careless with her underclothes.

  Mrs Armstrong provided tea and cake beforehand.

  Brenda consumed marshmallows afterwards.

  Overwhelmed by the hospitality of his customers, Tim found it increasingly difficult to keep his mind on the job. Soon he longed for the peace and quiet of a steady relationship with his girl friend Elizabeth.

  But even the quiet and virginal Elizabeth was full of surprises …

  Confessions from a Holiday Camp

  Sun, sea, sand … oh, and plenty of sex!

  When you’re a Holiday Host at Melody Bay Holiday Camp you’re expected to provide most of the entertainment in whatever fashion the happy campers demand. And some of the demands are distinctly above and beyond the usual call of duty. Not that Timothy was unwilling to oblige what with Janet, June, Elise and the rest of them shattering their fingernails on the door of his chalet.

  And then of course there were Nan and Nat, the Camp owner’s nieces, pursuing their own ideas of female liberation through the shuddering chalets …

  Confessions of a Milkman

  Fresh, creamy and delicious – the milkman who always asked whether they wanted it delivered in front or round back …

  ‘It’s terrible what you milkmen do to get business,’ she says, squirting another load of foaming suds into the bath. ‘You stop at nothing, do you?’