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She holds my glance and as our eyes fuse across the top of the empty Kit-E-Kat tins, I think that this could be the start of something very beautiful.
‘Over there,’ she says and with that suppleness of movement that so characterises the Leas, I step backwards, trip over something and sit down emptying half a ton of fish-heads into my lap. It is not done in a way that would make Cary Grant envious and I sense that a magic moment has escaped for ever.
‘She looked a brazen bit, that one,’ sniffs Fran as we go on our way. ‘I didn’t think there’d be any of her type here.’
‘That’s Mrs. Sinden,’ says the Governor, whose name is Brownjob – diabolically bad luck, isn’t it? – ‘She’s married to one of the - er guardians.’
‘You mean warders?’ says Fran.
Brownjob winces. ‘We call them guardians, here, Warren. Our whole aim is to build a bridge between our community and the outside world. We want to avoid the creation of a convict mentality that cannot make its way in normal society. We eschew words like “prison”, “warder” and “cell”. You have a “room” in a “house” and are looked after by “guardians” who are there to help you. As much as possible we try to create an environment in which the house can be run by “the guests” – or yourselves. We have committees who operate in different areas and are composed of guests with a leavening of guardians to act as mediators should there be a divergence of opinions.’
I don’t understand everything he is rabbiting about but I can understand why the rozzers thought that Penhurst was a doddle. What a carve up! Brownjob spouting all that balls whilst Legend and his lads are making two hundred thousand quid flogging spinach. There must be a fantastic amount of it to earn that kind of money. Or maybe they do other things as well? They must do, if Legend reckons that they are going to expand as fast as he indicated.
To my relief, Brownjob explains that we will have individual rooms and adds, apologetically, that they will be locked at ten o’clock each night. I am dead relieved to hear it because I do not fancy Mrs. Warren’s little boy trying to massage my temples every evening. Without protection I might be tempted to respond with half a brick. We also learn that we are being allocated to a job and that I am being sent to help in the Prison laundry.
‘The irony will not be lost on you,’ chortles Brownjob as I stare at him stonily to prove it is.
Meals are self-service and eaten in a large airy cafeteria and I am amazed at how good the nosh is. I wish mum could come here to pick up a few lessons. Just to think of her cooking makes me see the label on a tube of Rennies.
Warren follows me around like I have him on a piece of string and I can see the two of us getting a few old-fashioned glances from the rest of the inmates.
‘Hello, sailor,’ says Legend every time he sees one of us and I am most distressed that he reckons me to be one half of a set of poofters.
The thought is much on my mind then next morning when I find myself despatched to collect dirty laundry from the ‘guardians’ quarters. It has now been a matter of weeks since percy last found gainful employment and to say that I am feeling frustrated is rather like describing Yul Brynner’s hairline as receding. Even Fran Warren is beginning to look like Shirley Temple and if I don’t do something fast I could be in more trouble than an octopus with smelly armpits.
I give a sharp rat-tat-tat on Mrs. Sinden’s door and look forward to the sight of a one-hundred-per-cent-red-blooded woman. In such cases it is usually my fortune to find her old man at home with flu, or half a dozen kids struggling on the doormat but this time the delectable crumpet factory flings open the door, to all intents and purposes, on her tod.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘You’ve come to empty the dustbins, have you?’
I don’t say anything because I am concentrating on her cleavage which looks deeper than a fisherman’s wader. No obstacle obstructs my peepers because her frilly housecoat sweeps across her bristols at nipple height.
‘Er, no,’ I gulp. ‘It’s your laundry I’m after.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she says. ‘I’d forgotten it was Wednesday. You’d better come in while I sort some out. Do you fancy a cup of tea?’
‘That would be very nice, if you can spare the time,’ I say.
‘No trouble at all. Come in.’
I am across the threshold before you can say ‘Bring back the Cat’ or ‘Pussy Galore’ as Ian Fleming has it.
‘I’m not certain I should let you in,’ she says archly as I settle myself down before a packet of Wonder Wheaties, ‘the cereal that put men on the moon’.
‘You mean because I’m a – a guest?’ I say. ‘I feel such a berk using that word.’
‘Because of what you’re here for,’ says Mrs. S. waggling her fingers at me roguishly. ‘I know, you know. My hubby told me all about it.’
It is indeed amazing how quickly details of my ‘crime’ seem to have spread round the camp and I have been aware of a good deal of ‘nudge, nudge, wink, wink’ dogging my petal footsteps ever since I left Brownjob’s office. This, coupled to the attention of the dreary Fran has made me feel about as inconspicuous as Sammy Davis Junior at a Klu Klux Klan rally.
‘Oh. That,’ I say studying the small print on the back of the Wheaties packet: ‘build your own spacecraft. Unbelievable offer. No experience necessary. All you need is a screwdriver. Hours of good, clean fun for all the family’.
‘Yes, that,’ she says eagerly. ‘You’re a naughty boy, aren’t you? I’d never have thought it to look at you.’
‘Still waters run deep,’ I say giving her the old smoulder.
‘I don’t think I want to let you see my smalls.’
‘Depends whether you’re in them or not, doesn’t it?’
‘Cheeky!’
In her case the word ‘smalls’ is blooming ridiculous. I look at her cleavage and go weak at the knees. How much is a man supposed not to take?
‘I’d better empty the laundry basket,’ she says. ‘Make yourself at home.’
She swings out of the room and I gulp down my tea and wonder what to do next. It is always a bit tricky, this. Follow her upstairs and I could be accused of rushing things. Sit where I am and she probably reckons I don’t fancy it. What would you do? Jot down your answer on the back of a five quid note and – no, don’t bother. There isn’t time. I know! I leap to my feet and trot to the bottom of the stairs.
‘Can I use the toilet?’ I holler.
Not the most romantic invitation to a nooky carnival, but it does sound more convincing than asking if she would like to see my stag beetle.
‘First on the right at the top of the stairs,’ she shouts. ‘I’ve got something to show you when you come down.’
I am getting so excited in the khasi that I have to be very careful not to spoil the décor. What has Mrs. Sinden got to show me that I have not nearly clotted my sporran on already? I pull the chain and race downstairs reckoning that if I get to the bottom before it reaches its crescendo a spot of in and out with Mrs. S. is a certainty. I used to do the same when I was a kid only then my end was slightly different – slightly smaller, too.
‘What do you think of this?’ says Mrs. S. coyly as I slink into the kitchen.
I tear my eyes away from her boobs and focus on the photograph she has handed me. By the cringe! It is none other than her lovely self in a state of undress I can only describe as stark naked. It is not a very good photograph but there is no mistaking our girl’s best features.
‘Very nice,’ I say. ‘A bit over-exposed, but – er very nice. When did you have this done?’
‘About two months ago. I had a whole lot done. That was the best one. Though the smile’s a bit unnatural, isn’t it?’
I reckon my smile would be a bit unnatural if I was a tart standing naked with a loaf of French bread between my legs, but I don’t say anything.
‘I sent them up to “Bedside Winkie”, but they didn’t publish them,’ continues Mrs. S. ‘I got a very strange letter from a man who said he wanted to retouch my originals.’
‘I know just how he felt,’ I husk. ‘Who took them?’
Mrs. S. blushes and fiddles with her hair. ‘One of my husband’s friends. He got a photograph in the “Royston Crow” once.’
‘Not one of these?’
‘Oh no. It was of a couple of pumpkins.’
Not so blooming different, I think to myself.
‘What does your husband think of them?’ I ask.
‘He hasn’t seen them. He’s a bit old-fashioned. I wouldn’t want him to be upset.’
Thoughtful, isn’t she? I do like that in a woman – amongst other things. It occurs to me that Mrs. S. is referring herself to me in a professional capacity, obviously reckoning that a man in my line of business must be able to recognise a couple, or three, of good things when he sees them. I am not slow to act upon this thought.
‘You’ve certainly got tremendous potential,’ I say, seriously. ‘I just wonder if it has been properly exploited.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mrs. S. cranes forward eagerly and it is like peeping over the edge of the Grand Canyon to gaze down between her tits.
‘Well, of course, I’ve had a bit of experience of this kind of thing and –’
‘ “A bit!”’
I smile modestly. ‘I’d say his equipment wasn’t up to scratch.’
‘There was nothing wrong with his equipment,’ says Mrs. S. firmly. ‘I’ll vouch for that.’
‘Must have been the lighting, then. He was flashing, was he?’
‘Just to start with.’
‘U-m-m-m. What a pity we’re not in my studio at the moment. I could show you what I meant. Maybe when I get out.’
Mrs. S. leans forward again and I have to avert my eyes.
‘Oh yes. That would be marvellous. I’d be ever so grateful.’
‘You’re very keen, aren’t you?’
‘Well, you get fed up with doing the same thing all your life, don’t you? Being a warder’s – I mean – guardian’s wife isn’t much to write home about. I long for a change sometimes. And I’ve always reckoned I’m as good as those girls you see in the papers.’
‘Better.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Very. Of course, I can’t be absolutely certain when you’ve got that thing on.’ I smother a non-existent yawn to show that my interest is on the level.
‘Would you – would you be prepared to give me your professional opinion?’
I pretend to give the matter serious thought.
‘I don’t know if I should, really,’ I say eventually. ‘I mean, your husband probably wouldn’t like it.’
‘He won’t know. He’s picking up a new intake from town.’
Boy, oh boy! When Percy hears that, he is jumping up and down the front of my jeans like a restless bull mastiff being told it is walkies time.
‘We’d better go upstairs,’ I say, a shade too hurriedly. ‘The light’s not so good down here.’
She leads the way and I can hardly keep my hand on the bannister.
‘I’m afraid the bedroom is a bit of a mess,’ she says. ‘You’ll have to forgive me.’
‘I won’t look,’ I say skittishly.
‘Of course, I know I’ve put on a bit of weight since those photos were taken. I can get that off again if you think I’ve got the potential.’
You’ve got the potential all right, darling, I think to myself. Lots and lots of it.
‘Shall I do some poses?’ says Mrs. S. eagerly.
Why not? In fact, what a good idea.
‘Yes, you do your stuff and I’ll see if I can make any suggestions.’
Mrs. S. takes a deep breath – and with those knockers the breaths have to be deep, believe me, and wriggles out of one sleeve of her housecoat. A tasty titty pops into view and she cocks her head to one side. I darn nearly head my cock to her side, but manage to restrain myself. With difficulty.
‘How’s that?’
‘Very good, but a little more posed, if you know what I mean. Try and flex your – yes! That’s it. Smashing.’
‘Shall I do another one?’
‘Please.’
This time both bristols gallop out into the open and a spontaneous burst of applause would not be out of order. This girl has certainly got what it takes and I can’t wait to take it. She arches backwards and her robe flops on to the floor. There is not much else flopping, I can tell you.
‘How’s this?’ she gasps.
‘Unbelievable. Now, careful. Don’t break anything. Let me – that’s it. Now, a bit more. Fantastic! Back a bit more. Hey, wait a minute. I know what. Get on the bed. Yes. Good. Oh, that’s great!’
‘Yes it is,’ she squeaks. ‘But should you be doing it?’
‘Tones up the flesh a treat,’ I mumble idiotically from the gorge between her breasts. ‘My goodness me, but you’re gollumptuous. I can’t see what “Bedtime Wankie” were on about.’
‘Bedside Winkie,’ she corrects me. ‘Oh. Do you really think I’ve got a chance?’
‘Chance?’ I tell her, kicking my jeans over my heels. ‘I think you’re a blooming certainty.’
CHAPTER TWO
When I leave Mrs. Sinden’s, a large weight is off my mind and the rest of me is feeling much lighter, as well. What a performer that lady is! I feel as if I have been through a suction cleaner a couple of times. Talk about being taken out of yourself. I have to skate round the rest of the lodgings to pick up all the laundry before lunch and the strain of my morning obviously shows.
‘Ooh, you’re looking completely drained,’ says Petal resting his hand on my forearm. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Don’t do that,’ I tell him. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I’m allergic to being touched.’
‘Ooh, you are sensitive. I can see you had a bad morning. I had a lovely time in the library. They’re ever so nice there. One of the boys, well he’s called Jeremy and he’s my favourite. He said that his whole life-style had been changed since he worked there. His basics have been broadened out of all recognition.’
This comes as no surprise to me and I only hope he will be able to cope with Mr. Warren. Maybe they will be able to strike up a deep and meaningful relationship that will relieve the pressure on my toecap.
Before I can comment further on the subject I hear the crunch of motor car against gravel and look out of the window to see a Rolls pulling up outside the front door. To my amazement, four groovy chicks pile out of it, all fun furs and thigh-length boots, giggling and looking up at the windows.
‘Who the hell are they?’ I say to myself as much as to anyone else.
‘They’re wives, ain’t they?’ says the inmate Legend addressed as Grass, matter-of-factly.
‘Wives!?’
‘Yeah. Every Wednesday your wife can visit you for the afternoon.’
‘Ooh, there’s no getting away from them,’ says Fran distastefully.
‘Supposing you don’t have a wife, then?’ I ask.
‘Well, you’ve had it, haven’t you? Old shit-face is dead against immorality.’
‘But I’ve got feelings. Just the same as any married bloke.’
‘If you had ’em strong enough, you’d get married. That’s what the Governor thinks, anyhow.’
I return my eyes to the crumpet, thinking how unfair it all is. At least, it is good to know that there is some advantage in being married – if you ever got stuck in the nick. Looking at those birds it is difficult to believe that they are spliced. They seem so blooming cheerful compared to most of the wives I know. Maybe this is another result of their old men being in the chokey. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that sort of rubbish. They are certainly receiving a lot of attention from the windows and when they disappear inside it is to a sound like someone testing a leaking set of bagpipes. I have hardly got used to their absence when a charabanc arrives, and then another. They are all jam-packed with real sporty looking birds and I feel like I must be one of the few unmarried blokes in the prison. Me, and Fran, of course.
‘Ooh, they’re like ravening beasts, aren’t they?’ says Fran. ‘I think it’s disgusting, myself. Like Honeymoon Holiday Camps. All of them arriving down here for only one thing. I’d have too much pride myself. It must take all the romance out of it.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, thinking how blooming lucky it is that I had my little session with Mrs. Sinden in the a.m. Without that I could be contemplating knotting myself. You may think it strange that I am wandering about casing the frippet but this is what the place is like. Nobody has asked me to pick any oakum yet – which is just as well as I wouldn’t know which shade to choose – and the only time they lock the door of your cell – oops sorry – room, is when you are bloody grateful because it is time to start worrying about Fran Warren. At this rate, boredom is going to be my chief enemy unless I can pick up Mrs. Sinden’s washing article by article.
I am contemplating this course of action as a serious possibility when another coach-load of bird-life rolls up. I don’t know how many blokes there are in the nick but at this rate a lot of them must be moslems. I look down and allow my mince pies to fondle the curvy limbs as the bints trip down the steps of the bus. Blimey! There is a face from the past I recognise. Daisy Deacon. One of sister Rosie’s friends from my old Scragg Lane days. She was a raver, was Daisy. I remember her well. Rosie was no angel but Daisy left her standing. I can recall Dad having to lock the door of the potting shed because she was always in there breaking his flower pots. Not intentionally, mind. They just got in the way when she had about three fellahs with her. I might have guessed she’d end up marrying a villain. I wonder – Blimey! Mark II!! There is Rosie large as life and twice as tastelessly dressed. What is she doing here? I did not know it was an ordinary visiting day as well. I wonder how she found out where I was? Good old Rosie. I always knew she had a soft spot for me. She does not say too much, but when the chips are down she’s in there – one way or another. Not like dad. Dad’s attitude really got up my bracket to eyebrow height. Dropping me in the S-H-you-know-what like that.
I abandon thoughts of my evil old man and head for the front entrance where scenes of touching reconciliation are being enacted. Not so much touching as downright groping in some cases.
‘Oh, my little lovie-dovie, you’re looking marvellous,’ says one lecherous old sod folding himself round a chick who looks about half his age.
‘Hang on a moment,’ she says coldly. ‘Are you ninety-nine?’
What a funny question, I think to myself. Surely she knows that by now. What does it matter as long as he’s still got some lead in his pencil. He can’t have been love’s young dream when she first met him.
‘I’m sixty-six,’ he says.
‘Well, I’m ninety-nine,’ she says. ‘You’ve got the wrong girl.’
The poor bloke looks flabbergasted as well he might. What is she on about? And then I see it! The bird is showing him a lottery ticket which he has read upside down. Could it be that there is hanky panky afoot? My shrewd nature tells me that the answer to that question is a wacking great YES! In that case is it possible that my sister Rosie could be offering herself for the gratification of the lewd and base instincts of the inmates – in some cases, no doubt, almost equal to her own? Again, previous experience suggests a fat ‘yes’ to be the answer to that question. What a carry on! Meanwhile, back at the old homestead, Sidney is probably packing his bucket and spade ready for the Sardinian adventure and imagining the first Cuba Libre of the holiday. The base ingratitude of it all brings tears to your eyes, doesn’t it? Not to mine, it doesn’t! After what Sidney has lumbered me with I would be prepared to hum ‘In a Monastery Garden’ while Rosie walked naked through an Italian prisoner of war camp. If she wants to come to a sticky end by charabanc – good luck to her. What I want to know is: where’s mine?
I am about to address this question to Arthur Legend who is disappearing down the corridor with two birds, when Brownjob suddenly appears beside me and tugs at my sleeve.
‘Have you ever thought about it?’ he says.
I feel like telling him he must be joking but you have to humour the poor old sod, don’t you?
‘You mean, dirty thoughts and all that?’ I ask him.
Brownjob closes his eyes and winces. ‘I meant the sacred state of marriage. I know only too well that your thoughts have erred in the other respect. When you see those fortunate men united with the ones they love does it not make you think there is a piece missing from your life?’
I can only nod my head in agreement. ‘Yes sir,’ I say humbly.
‘I took special care to examine your record, Lea, and I found, just as I expected, that you had never rested your finger on the nuptial knot.’
That’s all you know, you stupid old berk, I think to myself. There is not a part of the female body I have not had a go at in my time. Since I got those books out of Battersea Public Library I have become an artist at finding parts of the body birds never knew they had. I would have done even better if some thieving bugger had not torn all the diagrams out of the back.
‘Lea,’ continues Brownjob seriously. ‘Lea, I think that your descent into depravity may have been caused by the lack of a steadying home influence. Faced with the joys and responsibility of a wife and family you could be a new man. Imagine the satisfaction of returning home after a day’s honest toil to find your loved one warming your slippers in front of a roaring fire.’
‘We live in a smokeless zone.’
Brownjob shakes his head sadly. ‘Lea. That response is so typical of your predicament. You are so inhibited, self-orientated and retarded that you cannot be outward going in your feelings for other people. You protect yourself from involvement behind a stockade of insignificant minutia.’
‘You’re probably right, sir,’ I say. I mean, it is difficult to disagree when you can’t understand a word the bloke is saying, isn’t it? What disturbs me most about his words is that the stupid old basket realises I am not married. It is therefore going to be difficult for me to get issued with a ‘wife’. Why can’t he mind his own bleeding business? Does every bloke inside for making pornographic films have to put up with this invasion of his privacy? I would write to my M.P. about it if I did not know that he was on a fact-finding trip to the Bahamas: studying how Nassau handles its traffic problem or something like that. They don’t spare themselves, these blokes, you know. ‘I’m only saying this for your own good, Lea,’ burbles Brownjob. ‘And because I’m a trifle worried about your relationship with Warren.’
‘Now, wait a minute –’ I yelp.
‘I know, I know. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I know that the early days in – in an establishment like this can be lonely ones.’
‘You don’t think I’m a –’
‘It’s not at all unusual if that is any comfort to you, and could, I think, explain your decision to make films which insult and degrade womankind.’
The worst thing about all this is that I am beginning to think he may have a point. Perhaps I do hate women. Maybe I am not making love to them, but attacking them. And I did give Fran – I mean, Warren – half my Milky Bar yesterday. Oh, my gawd! ‘Settle down with a wife and children. That’s my advice to you. Bring some stability into your life.’
‘Yes sir. But it’s a bit difficult at the moment.’
‘I know, Lea, I know.’ Brownjob gives me a fatherly pat on the shoulder.
‘All you can do at the moment is derive what comfort you can from observing the love of others.’
A cell door we are passing closes quickly but not before I get a glimpse of what he means. Blimey! They don’t waste any time, some of them.
‘Think about my words, Lea,’ says Brownjob, stopping to dismiss me. ‘If you want psychiatric help it can be arranged.’
‘On the National Health?’
‘On the National Health, Lea.’
Sounds too good to miss, doesn’t it? If it’s free I’m all for it. Dad has got three pairs of false gnashers, two hearing aids and six pairs of specs back at Scraggs Lane. He reckons the Tories are going to take them back and believes in having a few spares up his sleeve.
Brownjob pads off and I go back to my room and try not to feel sorry for myself. Again, thank God I had my little session with Mrs. Sinden, otherwise I might start chewing one of the chair legs. I have just settled down with a stirring epic entitled ‘Soccer Thug’ by one Frank Clegg, when there is a sharp rat-tat-tat on my door. Never one to misinterpret the significance of such things, I bid the knocker enter expecting to see Warren’s two-tone bonce sidling round the corner primed for another chat on togetherness. In the light of my address from the Governor, I am ready to tell him to push off and start peeling his nuts with a spoke shave but it is not Warren. It is Arthur Ian Legend, Penhurst’s other governor.