Confessions from a Luxury Liner

‘I believe Gloria’s husband is afloat?’ I say, revealing that easy gift for conversation that makes it so amazing that I am one of the few people in the country who has never appeared on the Michael Parkinson Show.

Natalie looks puzzled. ‘A what?’ she says. ‘He’s English.’

I think hard and realise that there has been a misunderstanding. ‘No,’ I say with a light laugh. ‘I mean, he is a seafaring man, a jolly jack tar, “fifteen men on a dead man’s chest” and all that kind of thing.’ I lean forward and give her my Robert Newton. ‘ “Them as dies ’ll be the lucky ones. Aaaargh, Jim boy. Aaaargh!” ’ Natalie draws back and looks around nervously. Maybe I should have gone a bit easy on the eyeball rolling. Still, you see worse on children’s television. Much worse.

It is not something that I particularly care to be seen doing in public but it occurs to me that in the present situation there is probably no way out. ‘Do you fancy a—?’ I say, jerking my head towards the dance floor.

Natalie closes her eyes momentarily as if racked by a sharp pang of toothache. ‘All right,’ she says.

Like I have said before, my dancing is lousy but I don’t think I can come to too much harm because the floor is crowded with snogging couples and they are playing the ‘Tennisknee Waltz’ or some such tune calculated to act as an emetic if you do not have the strength to shove your fingers down your throat. All I will have to do is change my weight from one foot to the other and hope that she does not leave her plates lying about where harm can come to them. It might even be the start of something beautiful. I push her deep into the scrum of bodies so that none of the herberts standing around the side of the floor can see me making a berk of myself and wait for the loudest of the boum, boum, boums before gliding my left foot forward with an easy flowing motion that catches her just above the instep.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘The floor’s a bit fast tonight, isn’t it?’

‘Are you barmy?’ she says. ‘Surely you can do a waltz?’

‘I think it’s you,’ I say. ‘You’ve got me all excited. That’s a lovely perfume you’re wearing. What is it? I’d like to get some for my Mum.’ Natalie does not look as flattered as I would like her to be and I am swift to try and set her mind at ease. ‘For her birthday,’ I say. ‘She’d like to smell like you, I know she would. I always get her perfume – sorry, was that your leg again?’

‘No, it belonged to the man behind me,’ she says. ‘Can’t you keep in time with the rhythm? One, two, three. One, two - ouch!’

‘Sorry!’ I say. I stop and pull her very close to me so that I don’t have to see the look of suffering on her face. ‘Let’s start again. Right foot forward.’ I notice one of the bouncers who was near the Orchestra Bar peering at me like he recognises me, and burrow into the centre of the floor as he beckons to one of his mates.

‘What was that supposed to be?’ says Natalie.

‘That was the Lea shuffle,’ I say. ‘It’s very handy when you’re being crowded.’

‘You’ve ruined my shoes,’ she says. ‘It’s the first time I’ve worn them, too.’

‘They’re lovely,’ I say. ‘I like that snakeskin pattern.’

‘That’s not snakeskin,’ she says. ‘That’s where you’ve been standing all over them with your rubber soles!’

Before I can make further headway, there is a roll on the drums and Greasebonce, the MC, grabs the mike and leaps to the edge of the stage like he has plans to shove it up somebody’s jacksy. ‘Yes, folks. It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for!’ he trills. ‘Let’s have you all on the floor. It’s time for our Elimination Spot Waltz!’

I have a picture of couples circling round the floor trying to eliminate each other’s spots until the duo that has accumulated the biggest pile of blackheads is declared the winner and given a giant jar of Germolene. It is not the kind of thought you want to dwell on.

‘We don’t want to do this, do we?’ I say.

‘Oh yes we do!’ Natalie grips me tightly. ‘The couple last week won a colour TV set.’

‘They’re giving them away as paperweights at the moment,’ I say.

Natalie does not reply. An expression of grin-and-bear-it determination has settled on her face.

‘Carry on dancing, boys and girls.’ I think Natalie fancies Greasebonce. There is a repulsive glint of desire in her over-made up eyes as she gazes upon his plum-coloured, braid-trimmed jacket and the yellow ruffles piled up on his chest like the overspill from a cracked boiled egg.

I grit my teeth and concentrate hard. One, two, three - ouch! One, two, three - ouch! I am not too worried because we will soon be eliminated. I have never won anything in my life. Boum-ting! The cymbals dash and my hampton gives a nervous twitch – it always does when somebody bashes a couple of cymbals together. Greasebonce leaps from the stage and makes his way to the middle of the floor.

‘Everybody behind me—’ he pauses so that all the stupid birds can go, ‘Oooh!’ – ‘off the floor please.’

‘That’s us, isn’t it?’ I say.

‘No!’ Natalie clings to me with an intensity that I would be happy to experience in different circumstances. ‘Carry on dancing!’

Now that half the people have left the floor it is much more difficult to hide and I begin to feel a right Charlie as the crowds build up to clock my diabolical style. Everybody else circles round us like Indians attacking a wagon train and Sid is there, rising and falling as if dancing on a switch-back. Gloria has her head turned over her left shoulder as if he has bad breath – knowing Sid, he probably has.

Boum-ting! Surely, this time I will be delivered.

‘The first ten gentlemen to bring me a pair of lady’s tights or stockings!’

‘Ooh!’ Natalie whips up her skirts and starts undoing one of her stockings. She has a nice pair of legs, I must say. It is quite sexy, really, because all around me, birds are flashing their goodies. Sid is taking it very seriously because his bird is lying on her back and he is peeling her tights off in one continuous pull. ‘Come on!’ Natalie clearly thinks that I should be lending a hand so I start fiddling with one of her suspenders. I make a lousy job of it because I want to make blooming certain that we do not get in the first ten. Also, because I quite enjoy the feeling of her soft, silky flesh beneath my fingers and the thought that I am touching her up in front of hundreds of people. ‘Oh, give it here!’ She brushes my fingers away and pulls her stocking down to knee level as Greasebonce announces that he has his ten couples and that they have all been eliminated. Most of the blokes just picked their partners up and carried them over to him, so the striptease was unnecessary.

I am now getting desperate. The floor seems as wide as Horse Guards’ Parade and I hear a burst of laughter as I try and do a turn and sock some bloke on the hooter with my elbow.

‘You’re dancing the wrong way!’ hisses Natalie.

‘I know I am,’ I say. ‘I’ve never been properly taught.’

‘I mean, you’re dancing the wrong way round the floor,’ she says. ‘That’s why you keep bumping into people.’ Amazing, isn’t it? I never realised it was like the dodgems. I do another turn and kick her so hard in the shin that she is dancing an Irish jig when there comes another bash on the cymbals.

‘Ooh we are having fun, aren’t we?’ says Greasebonce. ‘What are we having?’

‘Fun!!’ shout the idiots lining the floor.

‘That’s right,’ says Greasebonce. ‘Now, how many couples on the floor are married?’ Half a dozen hands go up. ‘You’re out! You’ve got your prize already. Carry on dancing.’

‘Why are you just standing there?’ says Natalie.

‘Everybody is looking at me,’ I say. ‘I’m making a fool of myself. Let’s get off.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ she says. ‘We could win a prize. I’ll lead. You follow me.’

I do not think that I have ever felt a bigger berk in my life than in the few minutes that I stumble round that floor. Natalie is trying to do the whole ‘Come Dancing’ bit and I am more flushed than the toilet in a prune tasters’ commune. I wish the floor would open and swallow me up. Why won’t the music stop? Why—? Boum-ting!

‘Oh! It’s exciting, isn’t it! What shall we do now?’ Greasebonce pretends not to hear when one of the band tells him. ‘Right! Who’s got a birthday in November?’

‘I have,’ I say.

‘Ssh!’ says Natalie. ‘He’ll have us off.’

‘Me, me!’ I shout. I am practically jumping up and down.

‘Anybody else?’ There is a long pause and then another geezer sticks his mitt in the air.

‘Right! We’ve got our finalists. Everybody else off the floor, please.’

‘Oh my gawd!’ I close my eyes.

‘Smashing! You are clever.’ When I open them again, Natalie is looking at me with something approaching admiration.

‘It’s nothing,’ I say. ‘I get involved in a lot of road accidents as well.’

To my horror, I see that Greasebonce is approaching us with a couple of balloons in his mitt. ‘Right!’ he chortles. ‘One of these on each of your heels. The first couple to burst both the other couple’s balloons is the winner.’

‘I can’t stand it!’ I whimper.

‘Don’t be like that,’ says Natalie. ‘You’ve been stamping on my feet all evening. Surely a couple of balloons won’t give you any trouble?’

‘Couldn’t they just shoot me?’ I say.

‘Finalists at opposite ends of the ballroom, please.’

‘Good luck, Natalie!’ Gloria is grinning like an oval xylophone and next to her I see Sid bury his face in his hands and start shaking his head. I feel like a prisoner dragging an iron ball as I trudge down to the band rostrum. If it was near one of the exit doors I would make a break for it.

‘When you’re ready, maestro.’ Greasebonce turns to Ted Bennett – him of ‘Ted Bennett and the Bennettmen’ – and Ted stops picking his nose with his baton and wipes it under his armpit – his baton, not his hooter. Everybody is cheering and shouting and I wish I could feel the adrenalin running through my blood – come to that, I wish I could feel my blood running through anything. ‘Ready, steady, dance!’

‘Right,’ says Natalie, very firm and determined. ‘Keep cool. Left foot back. One, two, three. One, two, BANG!

I have only stood on my own balloon, haven’t I? A roar of laughter goes up and something inside me snaps. A Lea can only take so much. If these herberts want to take the piss then I will give them something they can really get their teeth into. Fed up with trying to dance, I grab Natalie and charge towards the other couple who are gliding towards us like they are on roller skates. I see the bloke’s eyes widen in terror but it is too late for him to take defensive action. He is locked into a complicated spin turn and at my mercy. I am not quite certain what I intend to do with the lovely creature in my arms but, as so often happens with me, fate takes the decision. I get my feet wrapped round the balloon string and pitch forward so that I throw Natalie on the floor. There are two bangs almost simultaneously and a roar from the crowd. When I prize my hooter off the boards it is to find that both the opposition balloons have been burst and that ours is still intact. The other couple are hopping mad and Greasebonce is clearly undecided what to do. Fortunately, Sid makes an opportune appearance.

‘Great dancing, Timmy,’ he says. ‘That last stem Christie was really something. You’ll soon be on to parallels.’

‘Dancing!’ says the beaten finalist in a voice that sounds as if someone has opened an umbrella down his throat. ‘He can’t dance a step! He threw his partner at us.’

‘That’s his ballet training,’ says Sid. ‘You reveal your ignorance when you talk like that. The Russians have been after him for years.’

‘Rubbish!’ says the bloke.

‘Careful, Dame Margot!’ says Sid. ‘If you don’t learn to be a good loser my boot will be doing a double reverse spin turn up your khyber!’

‘That’s nice!’ says the bloke. ‘That’s very nice.’

‘I was afraid you’d think so,’ says Sid. ‘Tell me, are those white streaks in your hair natural or do you keep pigeons?’

‘I don’t know quite what to do,’ says Greasebonce.

‘I’d declare him the winner,’ says Sid, pointing at me. ‘It would be nasty if violence broke out and the hall was wrecked. I happened to be here the last time there was a spot of bother and I remember how unpleasant it was. It took months to get the place operational again – and, talking about operations, I’m trying to remember how many stitches the MC had—’

‘The winners, ladies and gentlemen! Let’s give them a big hand.’ Greasebonce snatches up my mitt like he is scared it might blow away and raises it aloft with Natalie’s. There is a roar from the crowd and a louder roar from the bloke we were dancing against. Sid has just stood on his instep.

‘Here, blow your nose on this,’ says my brother-in-law, wrenching the silk rose from his partner’s dress so that her knockers bounce out like they have been rung up on a till.

‘Ooh, how wonderful!’ squeals Natalie. She clings to my arm and only breaks away long enough to hug Gloria. Sid catches my eye and winks. ‘Nice going, Timmo,’ he says. ‘We’ll be in like Flynn after this lot.’

‘But when are we going to talk to them about getting on a boat?’ I say.

‘There’s plenty of time for that,’ says Sid. ‘The night is young. Go and collect your prize.’

Natalie is thrilled out of her teeny mind because she cops a wicker basket full of picnic stuff and I am not exactly choked to receive a blooming great bottle of champagne. We even get our photograph taken by a bloke from the Sentinel. It is practically film-star treatment by SW12 standards.

‘Ooh, I can’t wait to get it home and look at it properly,’ coos Natalie, hugging her basket. ‘The knives have got bone handles.’

‘Fabulous,’ breathes Sid. ‘We’ll be able to christen the beakers with Timmy’s champagne.’

‘Oh yeah,’ says Natalie, looking at Gloria.

‘Yes,’ says Gloria. They look at each other like their minds are keeping pace with Sid’s and I have the feeling that we may be on the verge of a nooky feast. Certainly both birds seem to be much more attuned to my magnetism since I revealed my terpsichorean talent (it’s all right, you can’t get arrested for it).

‘Is it all right if we go to your place?’ says Gloria.

‘Yes,’ says Natalie. ‘I’ve got enough Nescafé.’

‘Nescafé?’ says Sid. ‘You just give us the goblets.’

‘I beg your pardon!’ says Natalie, coming on like Mary Whitehouse finding that someone has dropped the bog paper down the Karsi.

‘I said, give us the goblets,’ says Sid. ‘Honestly, girls, you do jump to conclusions.’

‘You live alone, do you?’ I say as I snuggle down with Natalie in the back of Sid’s Rover.

‘I do when my husband is away,’ says the lovely creature.

‘Is he at sea, as well?’ I ask.

‘Completely,’ she says.

‘You must get very lonely,’ I say, giving her arm a squeeze and nuzzling her barnet – it is like a pan scourer with all that lacquer on it.

‘I do,’ she says. ‘Especially at nights. It’s not sex.’

‘No, of course not,’ I say hurriedly – I mean, I would never think of that, would I?

‘It’s the companionship. Somebody to talk over the events of the day with.’

‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘I know just how you feel.’

This is not strictly true but I am working on it. I run my hand up Natalie’s arm, lightly dust my digits over her bristols – almost accidentally, like I did not know they were there – and then descend for a warm, friendly squeeze of the hand. She smiles up at me and I kiss her on the end of the nose. Tender stuff, I am certain you will agree and not far removed from the love interest in a Walt Disney movie. Still, there are more ways of skinning a cat than by leaving a dead mouse at the bottom of your spin drier, and a lot of storms start with a small ripple running across the surface of still water – watch the old movies on the telly if you don’t believe me.

‘You’re different to what I thought you were,’ says Natalie. ‘Underneath, you’re shy, aren’t you?’

It is always favourite to agree with this kind of statement because it allows the bird to plot her own downfall. They all have this fantasy about introducing a shy, inexperienced boy to the delights of sex – even if they have never found them themselves – and you can discover yourself immersed in a lot of grumble and grunt if you let them have their way.

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ I say awkwardly.

‘Wouldn’t say what?’ says Sid getting into the car and reaching across to open the door for Gloria – I don’t know what he was doing to her in the doorway but it looked as if he was trying to sit her on the doorknob.

‘He’s trying to tell me he knows what it’s all about,’ says Natalie.

‘Don’t believe him,’ says Sid. ‘He’s a babe in arms where you-know-what is concerned. Keeps asking me embarrassing questions about where babies come from. He tries to talk big but it’s all a front.’

‘I thought so!’ Natalie sounds pleased with herself and grabs hold of my arm. ‘There, there, Timmy. Don’t be frightened. Aunty Natalie isn’t going to eat you.’

‘If you’d have told me that earlier, I wouldn’t have come,’ I say.

‘All talk,’ says Sid. ‘Coarse but harmless.’ He winks at me and shoves the car into gear.

117 Marsh View Gardens is not a lot different to 119 and not totally dissimilar to 115. I don’t take a lot of notice because it is late when we get there and there is more activity from the neighbouring houses. An old biddy pops out of 115 and says that some men have been looking for Natalie and the curtains of 119 are stirring as if fanned by a strong breeze.

‘Nosy old bitch,’ says Natalie, though I don’t know who she is talking about.

‘They’re terrible round me, as well,’ says Gloria. ‘The tongues never stop.’

‘What a lovely thought,’ says Sid rubbing his hands together.

‘You are awful, Sid!’ says Gloria delivering a playful push. ‘I’m not surprised your first wife left you.’

‘What’s that?’ I say.

Sid looks uncomfortable. ‘Gladys,’ he says. ‘You remember Gladys?’ There is a note of pleading in his voice

‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘I didn’t think you could bear to mention her.’

‘I can’t usually,’ says Sid. ‘But you know what it’s like. Sometimes the past opens up like a book.’

‘I’ll get the glasses,’ says Natalie. It is clear that Sid’s words have touched her.

‘That’s right,’ says Gloria. ‘Don’t let’s get morbid.’

‘It’s a lovely picnic basket,’ says Sid. ‘You did well there, Timmo. How are you doing with that bottle?’

I don’t have to answer him because the cork shatters the Toby jug on the mantelpiece and the champagne soaks the china ducks like they have flown into a heavy rain storm.

‘You’re a suave bugger, aren’t you?’ says Sid. ‘Noel Coward must have snuffed it without a care in the world when he knew you were following on behind.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Natalie. ‘I never liked that jug anyway.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I—’

‘Don’t worry about it!’ Natalie ruffles my hair and pushes me into an armchair. ‘I’m in too good a mood to worry about that.’ She takes the bottle from my hand and starts filling the glasses. Sid gives me the thumbs-up sign behind her back.

‘Shall I put a record on?’ says Gloria.

‘That old cow next door will start thumping on the wall,’ says Natalie. ‘Still, I don’t care. It’s Saturday night, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right,’ says Sid. ‘Let yourself go. Let it all hang out.’ He unbuttons his shirt down to the beginnings of his paunch and runs his hand up the back of Gloria’s leg underneath her skirt.

‘Stop it! You’ll give him ideas.’

‘Natalie knows how to handle him,’ says Sid. ‘Come here!’ He hauls Gloria on to his lap and starts double parking his lips.

‘Don’t you want a drink?’ says Natalie. Sid continues trying to rearrange Gloria’s cakehole, so she comes over to me and perches on the edge of the armchair. ‘You’d like a bit, wouldn’t you?’

‘Definitely,’ I say. I take the glass and stare at her knockers over the top of it. She must have loosened something while I wasn’t looking. She is wearing a black bra and I can just see the lacy bit at the edge.

‘What are you looking at?’ she says.

‘Nothing,’ I say.

‘Nothing! That’s not very nice.’ Natalie looks down at her bristols with a hurt expression on her face.

‘On the contrary,’ I say. ‘That’s very nice.’

‘Oh,’ she says, her voice perking up. ‘You’re a bit forward, aren’t you?’

‘Some of me is,’ I say glancing down to where Percy is beginning to play Snakes and Ladders up the inside of my Y-fronts. From the feel of him, he has just thrown a double.

‘Cheeky boy.’ Natalie takes a sip of her champagne and ruffles the hair at the back of my neck. I turn my head and kiss the inside of her arm. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it?’

She is talking about the champagne and I nod. ‘We earned it, didn’t we? I’m sorry I dumped you on your fife. It’s all right, is it?’ I don’t wait for an answer but pull Natalie closer to me and start massaging her sit feature. Sid and Gloria have now disappeared behind the settee and I don’t think they are looking for a missing caster.

‘It’s getting better,’ says Natalie. She tilts back my chin with her forefinger and settles on my north and south like she is frightened that she might bruise my lips. Very gentle, it is. I squeeze her tighter and pull her on to my lap, parking my champagne glass beside the armchair. From now on I am going to need two hands. Natalie dips her fingers in her glass and pushes them inside my shirt so that they lie cold and damp against my chest. I shiver because I know that I am expected to and feed a couple of inches of brewer’s bung into her cakehole. This has all the makings of a cosy evening before they discovered television and I begin to feel more kindly disposed towards Sid and his quest for nautical information. They way things are going I am going to get my two pounds thirty pence back with interest. Natalie prises her lips off mine long enough to take a swig of champagne and then thoughtfully pours the rest of the glass over my trousers.

‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘I’ll have to take them off, won’t I?’

‘You can hang them on top of his,’ says Natalie. ‘My dress is a bit damp, too.’

Sid’s clobber is building up on the back of the settee like the vicar’s wife’s counter at a jumble sale and I strip down to my Y-fronts before you can say Roger Carpenter.

‘You’re losing your inhibitions, I see,’ says Natalie, stepping out of her dress and looking round for somewhere to put it – there is hardly a spare surface left.

‘I was thinking of keeping them on,’ I say. OK it’s a daft mumble but it gives her a natural opening to put her wicked fingers to work in the ferret fondling department.

‘No chance,’ she husks, pushing me back against the settee and pursing her lips. ‘Let’s see what you’re made of.’

‘Sugar and spice, and all things nice,’ I say.

‘That’s little girls,’ she says. ‘You’re a puppy dog’s tail.’ She leans forward to chew my lower lip and the tips of her boobs brush my chest. It is a very sexy feeling and that is what I am soon getting at crutch level as Natalie’s banana peelers get to work.

‘That’s not a puppy dog’s tail,’ she says.

‘I just traded it in for a pink mamba,’ I tell her. I slip my hand into her panties and she tightens her grip on my prod rod as I set my pinkies typing ‘Now is the time for all good men to come’ on the inside of her jive hive. A few more hits or misses and it is clear that we are both ready for the main feature. What she is doing to my underpants clearly threatens the tensility of the material and with clothes the price they are these days, no man can afford to destitute himself in the cause of love. I prise my sit feature off the settee long enough to whip my Y-fronts down to my knees and allow Natalie to conduct them on the rest of their journey to the floor. I am now lying naked on the settee with a hard like the Eddystone lighthouse flashing a warning to low flying aircraft and Natalie is straining forward as she reaches behind her for her bra strap: It is a pretty sight – well, she is – and only capped by that magic moment when she skips out of her knicks and attempts to snuff out my doughnut duffer. One knee on either side of my thighs and she grabs my hard handful and tickles her fuzz with its glowing tip.