‘He’s always been mad keen on rugby. He started going off me about the time I stopped ironing his bootlaces.’
‘Why did he marry you in the first place?’
‘Because the captain of the first team was going out with me. Basil is very competitive. He said he liked looking at me when I bent down to pour the teas.’
‘Oh, he noticed you, then?’
‘Yes, he said that when I leaned over my breasts looked like two rugby balls dropping over the bar of my dress.’
‘Very romantic.’
‘It was, by his standards.’
‘What did you see in him?’
‘Oh, physical things, I suppose. He wasn’t so fat then. Somehow I thought that all those healthy young men charging about were where I ought to be. About as clever as a moth hanging round a naked flame. Talking of naked, will you take your clothes off please?’
‘Gladly.’
‘Thank you. Basil doesn’t believe in sex before a game and he’s too tired afterwards, and he plays on Saturday and Sunday and trains every night of the week, so you can see that our marriage isn’t exactly a hymn to fornication.’ My friend gives a little shiver and squeezes my arm passionately. I can see that her problem is one I am well equipped to solve and continue to unbutton my shirt.
‘We rushed straight from the church to the Middlesex Sevens final at Twickenham. Basil described the selection of our wedding day as the biggest bog-up of his life. It’s not surprising I give the impression of being hard, is it?’
‘ “Hard” isn’t the word I would have used.’ I slip my hand inside her negligee and give one of her breasts an affectionate feel. Her whole body stiffens and she kisses me passionately on the mouth.
‘Relax,’ I say, when I come up for air, ‘you’re buckling my lips. Let’s do it again more gently.’ I kiss her softly and run my finger lightly over the soft swell of her tummy. Now down, and she shivers again as my fingers brush against her minge fringe. Somewhere, on some foreign field, Fatso is buckling down for a scrum. Panting, puffing, aching. Poor devil. My heart goes out to him. That is all I can spare at the moment.
‘O-o-o-h, that’s good,’ murmurs Mrs F. ‘You make me feel like a woman.’
‘You are a woman,’ I assure her. ‘We don’t have to organise a poll.’
‘Talking of poles–’ her cotton-picking fingers are trying to lead in a winner from my jockey briefs and my trousers have taken up their natural position around my ankles.
‘You don’t know how good this makes me feel.’ I am very happy for her. It is heartening to see her changing from the cool lady who deloused me with her eyes in the vestibule. She presses her body close to mine and starts nibbling my ear while her impatient fingers tug down my Marks and Spencers lingerie.
‘O-o-o-h.’
‘Hang on a moment.’ Super-optimist that I am, I have worn a pair of slip-on canvas shoes without socks so that the undressing bit can be effected tastefully and gracefully. These I ease off with the miniMum of effort and step nimbly out of my trews. I would be a wiz at the bare-foot grape-pressing lark.
The state of the parties is now, Lea naked, Mrs Fatso naked except for aforementioned sexy negligee. Like a master craftsman unwrapping a rare porcelain vase, I coax the black lace from her shoulders shedding a few delicate kisses along the length of her collar bone. I am contemplating a nibble-fest but Mrs F. has other ideas. She sinks towards the ground faster than a British space rocket and wriggles her naked legs like a frisky mare waiting for the ‘off’–or in her case, the ‘on’.
Some men might pause to hum the opening bars of Rule Britannia or comment on the rising price of butter, but not Timothy Lea. For a second, pregnant with a thousand anxieties and a million promises, I am poised at the entrance to her pleasure dome. Then, joyfully, inside it.
Oh, what fun we have in that drab room with the leaden sky outside. I catch a glimpse of sky sometimes. At the end of an hour I feel like a glove puppet that has been turned inside out so many times that its stitching has started to work loose.
We must have dozed off, because the next thing I recall is the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor. I glance at my watch and it is still far too early for Fatso to be back. Nevertheless, I am worried. The very fact that I am conscious of the noise makes me feel that my guardian angel (?) is trying to tell me something. Mrs F. reacts to me sitting up and it is just as well that she does. Suddenly, from right outside the door, we hear a gruff male voice.
‘Two-four-six did you say? Here we are.’ There is a knock on the door that coincides with the door knob turning.
I have to hand it to Mrs F. She is on her feet before you can say ‘drop ’em’ and gets to the door just as it starts opening.
‘Oh, I’m sorry madam. I’ve got your husband here. He had a bit of an accident playing rugby.’ The bloke has obviously caught a glimpse of Mrs F. in the altogether. He may hold back but hubby isn’t going to. Oh, my gawd!! I glance round the room desperately but there is only a chest of drawers with a cupboard built on top of it. Even the bed clears the ground by only a measly two inches. What a lousy way to build a hotel. Before I can chuck myself out of the window, Fatso blunders into the room and steps on me. He curses and continues on his way to the bed.
Strange behaviour, you might think, but you cannot see him. He is holding a large wad of cotton wool over one of his eyes and the other is closed in sympathy. He is crumpled, battered and bruised and the groaning noises he is making sound very genuine.
‘Dirty bastard put his fingers in my eye: Ur-r-rgh!’ He feels for the bed and collapses onto it face downwards.
I don’t wait to ask if I can make him a cup of Nescafe but grab my clothes and head for the door. Outside, a St John’s Ambulance man is standing dutifully with his hat in his hand. His face adopts what is best described as a surprised expression as I skip past him.
‘I’m the team mascot,’ I say comfortingly before I hare down the corridor.
The rest of the Old Rottingfestrians limp in from six o’clock until four the next morning. They have lost 48–3 and their spirits are lower than ‘God Bless America’ on the Chinese Hit Parade. Drunk and despondent they are even worse than sloshed and sociable and I watch warily as they indulge in what are known as ‘pre-dinner drinkees’. At least there is no sign of Fatso, and his lady wife favours me with a warm smile as she comes down to supper.
‘I think he’s going to live,’ she says, giving the inside of my thigh a discreet squeeze that can only be seen by Miss Primstone and half the people in the dining room. ‘He told me they got hammered. I said “Darling, I know just how you feel”.’
‘Ye-e-es,’ I say, looking around nervously. ‘Let me find you a table.’
‘Are you going to serve me?’ They must be able to see me blushing from the other end of the room. Not without difficulty, I get her seated with my little friend who was looking at the market. Her husband has still not come back to the hotel and by the end of the meal the two birds are shooting me the kind of glances that make me wonder what they have been saying to each other.
I decide not to ask them and am popping back to my room when Miss Ruperts waylays me. She is swaying slightly and I take the opportunity offered by helping her back to her office to remove the three beer bottle tops that have become lodged in her crocheted shawl.
‘I do want to talk to young Mr Sidney,’ she says huffily. ‘He has been very naughty lately. I am convinced he is trying to avoid me.’ She is dead right there. Sid is at last coming round to my way of thinking and