Confessions of a Window Cleaner (2 page)

“So that bird isn’t the only one?” I say slowly.

“God, no. It’s a bad week in which I don’t get half a dozen solid offers – and that’s new business, not my old customers.”

“How do you manage?”

“Well, you have to box a bit clever, don’t you? You can’t leave them without it for too long, otherwise they get all resentful. You have to spread it out a bit. Keep everybody happy. In fact,” he looks round at Silk Blouse, who is climbing into the Jag and showing thigh clean up to her arse, “the business is expanding, so fast I’ve got almost more than I can handle. Work and all.”

I lean forward hopefully, and the bastard pauses, leaving me dangling on his words. Silk Blouse gives him a discreet little wave as the Jag pulls away and Sid inclines his head. “I was thinking of asking you if you’d like to come in with me—”

“It’d be great, Sid,” I interrupt, thinking of Silk Blouse’s thighs and nearly creaming my jeans. “Great, I’d—”

“—cool it.” Sid’s voice sounds just like Paul Newman’s which is exactly what it is meant to sound like. Rosie, or some other bird, once told him that he looked like Paul Newman and the world has suffered for it ever since, “don’t get your knickers in a twist. I just said I was thinking about it, I’m not certain you’re up to the work.”

“There’s nothing to cleaning windows, is there,” I say. “and I’m not afraid of heights. Shouldn’t be any problem getting a ladder and a bucket – one of those polythene—”

“I wasn’t thinking about that side of it. Rosie said she reckoned you’d never had your end away.”

He runs his fingers round the edge of his glass. It’s one of those tall thin ones and made an apologetic whining noise. They don’t give Sid and me the thick chunky ones with the handles.

“That’s what Rosie said, is it?” I say, trying to give myself time to think.

“That’s what Rosie said.”

Of course, Rosie is right but I don’t thank her for opening her trap to Sid. Must be envy on her part. Before she met Sid she was known as the easiest lay in the neighbourhood. On Saturday night, after the pubs closed, there used to be a queue outside the front door. Talk about watching the quiet ones.

“How does she know?” I say.

“Said you told her.”

This is true too. I once had a confidential word with her because I was desperate to score and I reckoned she must have a mate who could oblige me. Fact was that all the other birds in the district hated her guts because the way she gave it away was ruining the market. Their blokes only had to get a sniff of our Rosie and that was that. In my present mood I have half a mind to tell Sid all about her but I think better of it.

“That was before I went inside.” I say.

“You had birds in there!?”

“Of course. I had this mate. We used to get out at nights and go round the local girls’ school. They’d hang their knickers out of the window so we knew which one to get in at. Very posh birds they were but they were crazy for it.”

Of course, it’s all a load of lies but I think it sounds quite good.

“Really,” says Sid. “Bentworth Grange wasn’t it? Must have changed a bit since I was there. In those days the screws would go spare if you as much as looked out of the window.”

“I didn’t know you were there, Sid,” I say – trying to appear interested.

“Yeah, we went to the same school. I’ll let you borrow my old boys tie some time. Now look, I’m still a bit sceptical about whether you’ve had your end away or not.”

Sid is very strong on long words and ‘Quotable Quips’ he gets from the Reader’s Digest. He used to spend so much time in Doctors’ waiting rooms trying to get a medical certificate that he is quite well read.

“I don’t want to go on about it, but I can’t afford to have someone with me who goes around disappointing people. You’ve got to know how to handle yourself.”

Make no mistake, I’m not a fairy or anything, and my equipment is alright. It’s just that something always seems to go wrong just when I am about to score. The bird passes out or a copper starts flashing his torch or I’m too pissed to do it. A lot of trouble is the birds themselves. Because I am inexperienced I end up with inexperienced girls and of the two of us I have the most to lose. Rosie doesn’t help because I feel embarrassed about her, and that puts me off my stride a bit, and of course, there wasn’t anything happening at Bentworth, apart from the danger of spraining your wrist or getting a bent screw up your backside. I say all this because a lot of people seem to believe that every working class lad has it regular from the age of eight and it just isn’t true. I wish to God it was.

“Don’t worry about me Sid,” I say, “I won’t let you down.”

“Um.” Sid looks at me and then past me to the plump old bird we can see just inside the boozer, sitting up at the bar and sipping what must be a port and lemon.

“Could you handle that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Chat her up, buy her a drink, take her home. She’s a pushover, that one. Always up here begging for it.”

“I don’t fancy her.” I say quickly. It’s the truth too. Talk about mutton dressed up as lamb. She’s bulging out all over the place like a badly tied parcel and they must be able to hear her laughing down at the Plough. It sounds like somebody cutting through giblets with a hacksaw.

“Don’t fancy her? You’re going to be no bloody good to me if you go on like that. Who do you think you are, Godfrey Winn?”

“If I was, I’d be calling her mother. She won’t see forty again if you give her a telescope.”

“You mean you won’t even say hallo to her? Look, go and chat her up a bit, that’s all. You don’t have to do anything. I just want to see how you handle yourself. I tell you she’s a bit of class compared to some of the scrubbers you’ll come across if I take you on.”

“Well I won’t be coming across them then.”

“Get over there and overpower her with some of your sophisticated banter,” sneers Sid, “and remember, I’ll be watching.”

“I won’t forget,” I say and I start towards the bar. I feel less enthusiastic than a bloke setting out to poke a bacon slicer, but it isn’t a boozer I go to a lot, so I can afford to make a bit of a Charlie of myself. Above all, I want to show Sid that I am a man of the world.

The old bag gives me a quick up and down as I go in and returns to her drink. She has terrible legs and wears patterned stockings so you’ll notice it. It is difficult to know where the pattern ends and her varicose veins begin. I stroll up to the bar and lean on it as casually as I can, discovering as I do so that I have chosen a large puddle of beer to put my elbow in.

“Learning to swim, dear?” says the old bag. I blush and hope that Sid has noticed how smoothly I have started a conversation.

“Lovely evening,” I say. The words are alright but unfortunately I am so tense that my voice cracks and the alsatian in the corner growls and pricks up its ears.

“What did you say, dear?”

“I said ‘it’s a nice evening’.”

“Very nice, dear.” She sounds a bit nervous. I can feel. I am sweating and I start licking my lips. The barman is in the saloon and I try to catch his eye.

“I don’t get up this way often.”

“Really dear? I thought I hadn’t seen you before.”

“Not on Thursdays, anyway.” Why did I say that? The old bag looks even more worried. “Thursday is early closing day,” I go on desperately, “I work in a bakery, you see, and we get the afternoon off.”

“Very nice, dear. I expect you look forward to it?”

The barman is coming towards me. Now for my big push.

“Can I buy you a fuck?” I say. She goes scarlet, the barman breaks into a run and the alsatian sits up.

“I mean a drink,” I shout, wishing I was dead.

“Make up your mind,” says Sid, who has miraculously appeared behind me. “You know, sometimes, I think he doesn’t know the difference,” he adds, flashing his pearlies at the old bag who is staring at me like I had eye teeth down to my navel.

“Is he with you?” she screeches. “You want to watch him, he’s round the twist. You heard what he said. He should be locked up.”

“In an asylum, Madam,” agrees Sid, “Anybody making a suggestion like that to you must be insane.”

“Hey, what do you mean,” says the old bag. “You trying to be funny or something? You’re no bleeding oil painting yourself.”

“That’s enough,” says the barman, “You two hop it.” He means Sid and me.

“Why should we?” says Sid. “We aren’t doing any harm. My friend merely asked the lady if she’d like a drink.”

“I heard what he asked the lady,” says the barman, “Now hop it before I call the police.”

“If you’re going to call anybody make it Hammer Films, mate,” says Sid. “They can’t start shooting till she turns up. ‘Daughter of the Vampires’, that’s what she’s in, and guess who’s playing mother!”

“Ooh, you little bastard!” The old bag swings her handbag, Sid ducks, and the barman catches it, smack in the kisser. You have to laugh. At least Sid and I do. The other two don’t seem to be finding it so funny. The barman shouts to the alsatian and before I can get really scared it has torn the old bag’s skirt off. By the time we get outside I am laughing so much I can hardly stand up.

“You did a bloody marvellous job in there,” says Sid all sarcastic. “My God, you came on strong. Nothing like getting to the point quick.”

“It’s no good with me if I don’t fancy a bird,” I say. “If my heart isn’t in it, nothing else is.”

“I don’t believe you could stick your old man in a fire bucket without someone shouting instructions through a megaphone,” says Sid. “What a bloody hopeless performance. That’s done it for me. You’d have both of us locked up on your first morning.”

“Come off it, Sid. You know it was an accident. I just got a bit flustered, that’s all.”

“Flustered?” says Sid. “Christ, I wonder you didn’t stick it in her hand and burst into tears.” I can see there isn’t much point in going on about it, so we walk across the common in silence. Dusk, as they say, is falling and I notice that Sid keeps taking a few strides and jumping as far as he can. I’ve never known him show any interest in athletics, apart from running away from hard work, so I ask him what he is doing.

“Trying to put the alsatian off the scent,” he says.

“You didn’t think of telling me, did you?”

“I was just going to mention it,” he says, managing to sound all hurt.

So I’m off across the common with a hop, skip and a jump and a right fairy I feel. Then Sid tells me to stop.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because I was taking the piss out of you, you stupid berk, and it isn’t funny any more.”

Sometimes I really dislike Sid.

We are near the boating pond by now and I can make out a few shadowy figures moving about in the darkness. Most of them are bent or on the game because the pond, after dark, is very much the place you wouldn’t arrange to meet the Archbishop of Canterbury. There are also a few anglers but their presence is a bit suspect, for the last fish must have coughed itself to death about ten years ago, and the surface is too thick with fagpackets and french letters that you’d need a half pound ledger to get through it. I reckon the anglers just want an excuse to get away from the old woman and have a bit on the side. I must confess, I’ve thought about it myself, but somehow I feel I need something more private for the first time.

“Look, Sid,” I say, my mind returning to the window cleaning, “couldn’t you just give me a trial? A couple of weeks maybe. I’m certain I could do the job. If I can’t, well, O.K. then.”

Sid is exploring the darkness and doesn’t seem to be listening to me. Eventually he sees what he’s looking for and, beckoning to me to follow him, makes towards the pond. By the water’s edge a fat old git is buttoning his oilskin trench coat and spitting words at a thin bird who is picking pieces of grass off her skirt. No prizes for guessing what they’ve been up to. The man bends down and reels in his line which, I notice, only has a weight on the end of it – no hooks. Presumably his technique is to whirl the weight round and round above his head and bash the fish over the bonce with it.

“Hallo, Lil” says Sid all cheerful like, “You busy?”

“With old kinky-coat” says the bird, “You must be joking. He exhausted himself screwing his rod together.”

The fat man says something ‘not nice’, as my mother would say, and collapsing his collapsible stool, hurries away.

“Lil,” says Sid, “I’d like you to meet my brother-in-law, Timmy. Timmy this is my aunty Lil.”

“Not so much of the aunty, ta.” says Lil. “Pleased to meet you Timmy. I don’t remember you at the wedding.”

“Timmy was detained elsewhere. He was giving her majesty pleasure.”

Sid’s aunty! What a turn up. She doesn’t seem old enough.

She’s not bad looking really. A bit tired and a bit skinny but not bad. Fancy her being on the game.

“She’s my mum’s youngest sister. Much younger.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I say. I have a nasty feeling that Sid has engineered our meeting with what the B.B.C. calls an ulterior motive in view. Sid immediately proves me right. Waiting no longer than the space of time it takes fatso to merge into the background he begins to speak.

“Lil,” he says, “with my friend Timmy, actions speak a bloody sight louder than words, or so he would have me believe. He’s not much of a chatterbox but he’s shit hot when it comes to the proof of the pudding. I’d like you to take him in hand or anything else you have to offer and give me your views.”

I start to say something but Sid shuts me up and sweeps Lil away into outer darkness. I hear them rabbiting away and then Lil nips back again all peaches and cream. Before I can say anything she’s kneading the front of my trousers like dough and steering me towards the wide open spaces.

“Hey, Sid—” I begin but there’s no stopping her.

“Don’t be frightened,” she murmurs, “Lil’s going to take care of you.”

The minute she opens her mouth with that quiet reassuring tone I can feel my old man disappearing like a pat of butter at the bottom of a hot frying pan. It’s about as sincere as Ted Heath singing the Red Flag. At the same time I realise that Sid is setting this up so he can see what I’m made of, and that after the last cock-up I can’t afford to blow it.