Confessions of a Film Extra

By Timothy Lea

Contents

Title Page

Publisher’s Notes

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Also available in the CONFESSIONS series

About the Author

Also by Timothy Lea & Rosie Dixon

Copyright

About the Publisher

Publisher’s Note

The Confessions series of novels were written in the 1970s and some of the content may not be as politically correct as we might expect of material written today. We have, however, published these ebook editions without any changes to preserve the integrity of the original books. These are word for word how they first appeared.

Chapter One

I do not fancy burning down the warehouse with Sidney, so when the train pulls in at Euston, I slide off home to spend a few days with Mum and Dad. Sidney takes it badly of course, but I am quite Adam Faith about it and will not be Budgied. I mean, I have been through it all too many times before. Whenever there is knavery to be done and Sid says ‘we’ he really means me. And with my luck the matches would be damp and I would try striking one on a copper’s leg while Sid was keeping watch from the nearest boozer with his back to the window.

For those unfortunate enough to have found their local bookshops sold out of Confessions of a Travelling Salesman, I had better point out that my evil brother-in-law Sidney Noggett, needed to burn down a warehouse full of unusable empire-made, multi-purpose cleaners because it was his only means of recovering the money he had laid out in a disastrous deal with a very unworthy Japanese gentleman by the name of Mr Ishowi.

Scraggs Lane, Clapham is the ancestral home of the Leas, although my Mum always points out to people that we live at the Wandsworth Common end of it. She thinks it sounds more refined. A much nicer class of person gets mugged on Wandsworth Common.

When I get to the end of the road it is looking even scruffier than usual, because they are pulling down one side of the street and a lot of people have taken the opportunity of dumping their rubbish along the pavement. It looks like a holiday camp for bluebottles. I am surprised that the slipstream from the ball and chain has not knocked down our house. Sidney always said that it was only kept upright by the woodworm joining together and holding hands.

Still, like the poet says, be it ever so tumbledown, there is no place like home, and I cannot help feeling sad as I watch the lousy old place falling apart. All these highrise flats springing up like fast-growing mushrooms from a cowpat. Only the boozers left like fish heads to remind you of the rest of the body that has been gobbled up. Go in some of those pubs and they have to have the lights on all the time because there are so many blooming great buildings leaning on them, shutting out the light.

It is about five o’clock when I get home and I am not altogether surprised when Dad opens the front door to me. He puts in time at the Lost Property Office and brings a lot of his work home with him. So much so that he is sometimes asked to take it back again. He is also convinced that atomic tests and fluoride in the water supply are sapping his natural juices and for that reason he is dead cautious about going to work unless he feels one hundred per cent. One hundred per cent what, I have never been able to discover. Suffice to say that there are usually one or two days a week when he is ‘resting up for the big push’ as he puts it. Why the Lost Property Office have not got the big push in first I will never know.

Dad’s face when he sees me undergoes remarkably little change except that his mouth drops by one sixteenth of an inch.

‘Oh,’ he says, ‘it’s you. What disaster brings you home?’

‘Your charm school closed down for the holidays, has it, Dad?’

‘Don’t give me none of your lip. I know you don’t come round here unless you want something.’ Marvellous, isn’t it? I have only just appeared on the doorstep and he is within an ace of going into his ‘you use this place like a hotel’ routine.

‘I wanted to see you and Mum,’ I say patiently. ‘This is my home, Dad.’

‘Only when things are getting too hot for you somewhere else.’

Trouble with the old bleeder is that he is usually right.

‘Oh, Dad,’ I say reproachfully, ‘Dad.’ I let my voice tail away like I am too choked and hurt for words, and give a little misunderstood shake of the head. Believe me, Oscars have been won for far worse performances.

‘Well, come in if you’re coming,’ says Dad, singularly unmoved. ‘Don’t hang about there like a great Jessy.’

I cross the threshold and am greeted by the odour of boiled cabbage and rising damp that always spells out home – or, more appropriately, smells out home. The hall looks the same except for a large barometer hanging between the moose head and the tin hat and gas mask. Dad was an air-raid warden during the last war and does not like people to forget the fact. He and Mum live in the past, poor old sods. It was only recently that they took the strips of sticky paper off the kitchen windows.

I tap the barometer and the glass and both hands fall off.

‘Oh, bleeding marvellous,’ hollers Dad. ‘You haven’t been in the house two minutes and you’ve smashed a priceless work of art.’

‘Come off it, Dad. I only tapped it!’

‘Well, don’t tap it! It’s not there to be tapped.’

‘Everybody taps barometers, Dad. It’s like touching things when they’ve got a “wet paint” sign on them.’

‘That’s not the point. That had been there for two weeks without anything happening to it.’

‘I can believe that. The needle was jammed at set-fair. That’s why I tapped it.’

‘You leave things alone that don’t belong to you. You just leave things –’

Where this typically turgid argument would have led us, I will never know because Mum suddenly pops out of the front room all of a twitter.

‘He’s on,’ she says. ‘Come on! He’s on.’ She sees me and waves her hand. ‘Oh, hello Timmy dear. You’re just in time. Come on.’ And she doubles back into the room. I am a spot choked because I always reckon on Mum coming across with some of the human warmth that Dad so obviously lacks. His milk of human kindness has to be reconstituted with draught bitter.

‘What’s up, Dad?’ I ask. ‘Has Mum got a crush on the bloke introducing Blue Peter?’

‘No, it’s Jason. I thought you knew.’

‘Jason? Jason who?’

‘Jason Noggett! Didn’t you know that your nephew was appearing with Miss Mealie?’

‘I didn’t even know Miss Mealie was appearing. What’s it all about, Dad?’

Dad waves his hands in exasperation. ‘Come and watch. Your mother will tell you.’

But Mother is clearly not going to tell anybody anything, except to belt up. She is perched on the edge of her seat and bombarding her cakehole with Maltesers.

‘Mum –’

‘Sssh!’

‘What –?’

‘Sssh! Do be quiet!!’

Cut to the quick by this lack of parental interest, I adjust my peepers to the tellyvision set and listen to the disgusting tinkle, tinkle of ‘Baa Baa Blacksheep’ being picked out on a xylophone. As the sound fades, so a pretty female face fills the screen and a set of perfect gnashers split into a welcoming smile.

‘Hello boys and girls,’ says a voice of such cloying sweetness that I expect to see syrup leaking out of the volume control, ‘are you ready for the music?’ She pauses and nods, and to my disgust I find myself nodding back. ‘That’s good, because when it stops I’ll be back here to introduce my little friends on Kiddichat. The programme where our panel of mini-viewers answer questions from you children at home. So, from me, Miss Mealie, it’s: enjoy the music and see you in a minute.’ She gives a sickening wave and fades out to make way for a bird in a ballet costume who does a little dance to the Dambusters’ March, or some such popular melody. I wait hopefully for her to catch her toe in a crack between the floorboards, but it is not one of my lucky afternoons.

‘Jason is on this lot?’ I ask.

‘Sssh,’ says Mum.

‘Have you got a pin Mum, my leg just fell off?’

‘Ssh!!’

When Miss Mealie reappears, Mum nearly topples off her chair, she is leaning forward so far. ‘There he is,’ she squeals. ‘There he is!’

I look over Miss Mealie’s shoulder and it is indeed possible to recognise Sidney’s first-born with his fingers stuck up his bracket in characteristic fashion. He is sitting at a table with three other kids.

‘Our little Jason, a telly star,’ breathes Mum as if something with a halo round its bonce has started tapping on the window.

‘What is it, Mum, a nose-picking contest?’

‘That’s enough from you,’ snaps Mum and I have not heard her voice so sharp since she caught Dad snogging with Ada Figgins in the Gents at The Highwayman on New Year’s Eve. There can’t be many blokes who have seen the new year in with a lavatory brush shoved down the front of their trousers.

‘Why do they make them wear those stupid shirts?’ I say conversationally. I would have done better to keep my trap shut.

‘I sat up till three o’clock in the morning crocheting that,’ sniffs Mum. ‘Rosie said that the producer thought it was “absolutely super”.’

‘I’m sorry Mum, I –

‘How many times have you been on telly, then, clevershanks?’ says Mum accusingly.

‘He nearly made Police Five a couple of times, though,’ sneers Dad.

It is disgusting isn’t it? Rounding on their own flesh and blood because my mug has never had six hundred and twenty-five lines running through it. The way some people go on about the telly you would think it was some kind of new religion. Certainly not the old one because the only time you see Dad move fast is to turn off the Epilogue. It is as if being exposed to a back to front collar for longer than five seconds was going to kill him.

I should tell them both to get stuffed but I am too fascinated by the prospect of seeing what the infant Jason gets up to.

‘Did you like the dance, Benedict?’ says Miss Mealie engagingly.

Benedict must have been doing something else at the time because he gazes vacantly into the camera as if concentrating on a spot in the middle of it.

‘How about you, Imogen? Imogen!’ The name has to be repeated because Imogen seems totally engrossed in twisting the arm of the small boy next to her. He bursts into tears.

‘Chinese burn,’ says Imogen proudly.

‘Come on, Eric,’ pipes Miss Mealie. ‘You wouldn’t want the fairy to see you cry, would you? Fairies only like brave boys.’

‘They’re keeping the camera off him,’ hisses Ma, incensed. ‘I don’t know what they’ve got against the child. It’s always the same.’

‘Probably waiting ’til he gets his finger out of his conk,’ I say. Mum is so worked up she does not pay any attention to me.

‘He’s the life and soul of the whole programme,’ she chokes. ‘Everybody only watches to see him. There! Look at that.’

Jason has now succeeded in getting both his fingers stuck up his snoz and the camera quickly whips back to Miss Mealie.

‘Is that all he does?’ I say innocently.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snarls Mum. ‘It’s not surprising, is it? Nobody talking to the child. Ooh! I wish I could get my hands on that woman. She’s not as innocent as she looks, you know. Rosie’s heard a few things about her. Oh, yes. I don’t know why she has the little chap on the programme if she’s only going to humiliate him.’

I tune out Mum’s drone and stare at Miss Mealie with fresh interest. She looks the kind of bird who is so simperingly awful that you want to shout ‘knickers!’ into her lughole, but maybe I am doing her an injustice. Perhaps she is a bit of a raver on the quiet.

Eric stops crying when Miss M., quickly shoves a sweet in his miserable little cakehole and at last the camera settles on Noggett junior. The child star has now got his digits out of his hooter and Mum coos with ecstasy.

‘Oh, isn’t he lovely?’

I turn away and look at Dad who winces and shakes his head. I have a feeling that he finds the whole spectacle as nauseating as I do.

‘So, now I can see that Jason is ready to answer our first question. You liked the dancing didn’t you, Jason?’

Jason nods enthusiastically, and you can tell that he is a real chip off the old block. Another crawler.

‘Yeth, Mith Mealie,’ he lisps.

‘Very well, Jason. Here is a question from Sandra Page, aged eight, of Mellow Meads, Wessex Way, South Dene. That does sound a nice place, doesn’t it, Jason? Would you like to live there?’

Jason casts his eyes down and speaks in a thin, reedy treble. ‘I want to stay at home with my Mummy.’

What a pro! I bet that has them crying into their crackers down at the day nursery. Mum nearly bursts a gusset.

‘What a nice thought,’ says Miss Mealie, switching on full beam. ‘Now, let’s have that question. Sandra wants to know what time all the boys and girls on the panel go to bed. When do you go to bed, Jason?’

‘When The Sand Man comes.’

‘And when does he come?’

‘When Dadda goes away. Then Mummy says “You go to bed now, Jason, because Mummy and The Sand Man want–’

‘Yes, well that does sound nice, doesn’t it?’ says Miss Mealie hurriedly.

‘– to be alone together,’ says Jason doggedly. ‘And then sometimes uncle –’

‘Imogen!’ shrieks Miss Mealie, ‘what time do you go to bed?’

‘Depends what’s on the telly,’ says the pretty little mite, starting to chew a pencil she has been jabbing Eric with. ‘If there is a film, I stay up until “bye, bye, light” time.’

‘ “Bye, bye light” time?’

‘When the light runs away through the little hole in the middle of the telly, we say: “bye, bye, light”.’

‘How sweet,’ beams Miss M. ‘You are grown up, aren’t you? “Sand Men” and “bye, bye, lights”–’

‘And uncles,’ pipes up little Jason.

‘He’s a caution, isn’t he,’ says Mum. ‘I don’t know where he gets these things from, I really don’t.’

I was thinking the same about Rosie but I don’t let on. Ever since she went to the Isla de Amori and started reading those women’s lib articles, she has been a different woman. The time was when she thought the sun shone through the slit in Sidney’s Y-fronts. Now he is lucky if she can find the strength to chuck his smalls into the washing machine. I had not realised that her living in the Cromby Motel could create many of the problems that have been afflicting Sidney and myself. I must have a discreet word with her about it. Sidney does have a position to keep up and it is not only the one you find on page fifty-two of Everything you ever wanted to know about sex, but felt such a fool for asking.

I get my chance to speak to Rosie sooner than I had expected, because she rolls up with the infant Noggett an hour later. By taxi, no less, and accompanied by a thin, long-haired git wearing a beard and a shiny leather jacket with coloured panels. He looks a right berk.

‘Oh, mother,’ trills Rosie, all posh-like. ‘This is Dominic Ralph – he produces the show.’

‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ says Mum, and she actually curtseys to the creep. Either that or her knicks have worked up.

‘Sooper,’ says Dominic, taking one of Mum’s hands with both of his – he probably needs two to lift it – ‘absolutely soopah. You’ve got a very talented little grandson here. Is this the proud father?’

He beams at me and I am quick to look disgusted. Likewise Mum and Rosie.

‘Oh, no,’ says Rosie with a light laugh. ‘This is my brother.’

‘Timmy,’ I say. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘How do you do.’ Dominic nods and his hair flops over his forehead.

‘Dominic’s going to take me out for a bite to discuss the new series,’ says Rosie, avoiding my eyes. ‘I wonder if you’d mind putting Jason to bed, Mum. I won’t be back late.’

‘There’s some football on telly tonight, Jason,’ I say eagerly. ‘Would you like to watch it with Uncle Timmy?’ I mean, if you can’t lick them, join them. That’s my motto.

‘No,’ says the ungrateful little bleeder, without looking at me. ‘Have you got any thweeties, grandma?’

‘Yes, dear. When you’ve had your supper.’

‘Don’t want any supper! I want thweeties!’ Jason’s fat little lip – it would be a darn sight fatter if I had my way – starts quivering and he turns on his mother. ‘You promised!’

‘Yes, all right dear.’ Rosie looks at Mum. ‘He is a bit over-tired tonight, Mum. Maybe if you did give him a few sweets and put him to bed.’

‘Remember to clean those little toothie-pegs first,’ I beam. ‘We don’t want nasty old Giant Decay rotting them away and causing little Jason excruciating agony, do we?’

‘Are you trying to terrify the child?’ says Rosie angrily. ‘A few sweets aren’t going to hurt him.’

‘Uncle Timmy was only thinking of little Jason’s welfare,’ I say.

Dominic looks at me thoughtfully. ‘Uncle Timmy,’ he says.

‘What?’ Rosie’s expression is like that of a cat seeing another moggy approaching its food bowl.

‘He’s got a kind face. It might be rather nice. Round off the show.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mum looks from face to face inquiringly.

‘Have you ever had any acting experience?’ asks Dominic.

‘No. Well, I mean, I’ve done a lot of work like acting. I’ve been a Holiday Host in a holiday camp and a salesman.’

‘Soopah, soopah.’ Dominic extends a hand and pats me on the wrist. It occurs to me that Sidney may have nothing to worry about tonight. I reckon the last bird Dominic fancied was probably his Mum.

‘You’ve never done any acting in your life!’ quibbles Rosie.

‘I’ve done as much as Conk Digits here,’ I say. ‘Just because I haven’t been to Rada doesn’t mean I haven’t got talent.’

‘Pop along and see me,’ says Dominic, transferring the pressure to my upper arms. ‘No promises, but it might be interesting.’

‘Are you going to put him on the telly?’ says Mum, catching up with the action at last. ‘Oh Timmy, I always knew you had it in you.’

A couple of days later I am sitting at the back of the Studio Five Control Room, waiting for Miss Mealie and the rest of them to come out of Make-up.

“You’ll get the feel of the show up here, ducky,’ breezes Dominic Ralph. ‘Just let it flow all over you and I’ll introduce you to a few people afterwards. That chair comfy enough for you? Goodo! Ah, Melly my darling. How is our lovely girlikin today?’

‘Pissed off!’ snarls Miss Mealie, grinding out a lipstick covered snout in the centre of a half eaten sandwich. ‘If you think I’m going to hang about while those vicious little vermin have their tacky curls lacquered, you’ve got another think coming. Who’s the star of this show?’

‘You are of course, darling. There’s never one shadow of doubt about it.’

‘And while we’re about it, we could do with some new kids. I don’t anticipate that we’d get anything better but at least we’d have a change of mother. Those greedy, grasping, status-seeking harridans are beginning to drive me insane.’ Miss M. produces a small container and swallows a couple of pills. She shudders. ‘Christ! But these things taste disgusting. Just getting them past my gums makes me want to throw up.’

‘Melly,’ says Dominic hurriedly. ‘I’d like you to meet Timothy Lea. His nephew is on the programme.’

‘Oh dear,’ says Miss M., gushingly, ‘me and my big mouth. Please don’t take offence. I don’t mean a word I say. I’m just a bit overwrought at the moment. Let me guess which one is yours. Imogen perhaps? No! Of course not, not with that colouring. Jason? Yes, it must be Jason. He’s so good-looking.’

I know she is bullshitting but I cannot help blushing. That upper-class voice does not help either. I am a pushover for a posh bint.

‘Yes, it’s Jason,’ I say. ‘Rosie Noggett is my sister.’

‘Yes. Very pretty blonde girl. She wasn’t one of the ones I was referring to, of course.’

‘Funny. It sounded just like her,’ I say.

‘Oh, you naughty boy,’ Miss M. waggles a finger at me. ‘You mustn’t try to make me feel any worse than I do. Ah, here they come.’

Rosie and the rest of the Mums and brats crowd into the control room and Miss M. starts behaving like Miss Mealie. She is a very good-looking brunette with a few more lines than you see on the telly. I read her as being about twenty-eight, five foot six and a half and 36c cup.

‘Miss Mealie and panel into the studio please,’ says Dominic. ‘Please don’t play with those switches, boys. And, Imogen dear, that’s not a very good place to put your chewing gum, is it? Give it to Mummy, there’s a good girl. And Mummies, could we have absolute quiet during this show, please? We’re always interested in your comments but we’d like them when we’re off the air.’

‘Look into the camera and don’t stutter, Benedict,’ hisses one mother. ‘Remember there’s that series coming up.’

‘Don’t kiss me, Rupert,’ says another, ‘you’ll smudge your make-up.’

When you see the expression of grim determination on these women’s mugs you can understand what Miss Mealie is getting at. They look like Olympic swimming coaches.

‘Good luck, Jason,’ I say. ‘Don’t forget your sweets.’

‘Shut up, you!’ snaps the little monster, snatching them from my hand. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

Little do you know, I think. A couple of weeks and you could be one of the youngest has-beens in the business. I can see myself telling him the bad news: ‘Sorry about this, Jason, but you’ll have to make way for a younger child. The public wants youth, you know.’

‘But Uncle Timmy!’

‘No buts, Jason. You’re finished. Pack your dolly mixtures and get out!’

I watch the little basket gobble down another handful of sweets as he takes his place on the set, and try to shut out the canvas chair with his name on the back of it. A couple of hours in this place and you can feel all washed up at the age of twenty-two.

‘On set everybody, please,’ repeats Dominic. ‘We’re on the air in two minutes.’

‘Can I have his autograph when he learns to write?’ I say as I sit down next to Rosie.

‘Shut up, jealous!’ she barks.

Dominic starts speaking soothing words into a microphone that connects with the set and a shapely bint by his side starts giving a countdown. In front of us are a row of tellyvision screens and a bloke on Dominic’s right commands a bank of switches which control the pictures on each screen. I can see Jason’s self-satisfied little mug staring at me in horrible close-up. At least he seems to be able to leave his hooter alone this week.

‘You blocked up his nostrils, did you?’ I say to Rosie.

‘Shut up!’

‘Have you got my pills, darling?’ Miss Mealie’s voice comes through to the control box. ‘I left them on the desk.’

‘Don’t seem to be here, darling.’ A slight edge creeps into Dominic’s voice. ‘Twenty-five seconds to go. Let’s have a good show now everybody. Good luck.’

‘Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen–’ The Production Assistant’s voice drones on, sounding professionally bored.

I look back to the monitor with Jason’s mug on it and watch the little swine slotting another peppermint into his cakehole. Hey, wait a minute! Those are not sweets! With a sense of impending horror I recognise Miss Mealie’s pills. The ones she said tasted so horrible. They could probably kill Jason. And in front of millions of viewers too!

‘Those pills!’ I shout.

‘Ssh!’

‘Jason is eating Miss Mealie’s pills!’

‘Good afternoon, boys and girls. And Mummies and Daddies too –’ Miss Mealie’s honeyed tones fill the silent control room.

‘Are they dangerous?’

We all peer at the monitor screen with Jason in it.

‘He’s looking a bit green.’

‘– sick.’

‘– blinking.’

‘– awful.’

‘– stomach pump.’

‘We’ll have to take him off when the song comes up.’

‘But every moment is precious. You can’t leave him there!’

‘It’s a matter of seconds –’

‘No!’

‘There’s the other kiddies to be considered too. If you take him off, just like that, it’s going to disturb them,’ sniffs one of the other Mums.

‘You’d rather he dropped dead, I suppose!’ Rosie is moving towards the door.

‘Ladies, please!’

‘You leave that door alone!’

‘He doesn’t look so bad now.’

‘Get out of my way, you slagheap!!’

‘Ooh, that’s nice, isn’t it? I can see where your little boy gets his manners from.’

‘– and now children, here’s a lovely song that you all know very well.’

‘– fingers up his nose.’

‘Ladies please!!’

‘– perming a little kiddy’s hair.’

‘– looks more natural than yours!’

‘Baggage!’

‘Slut!!’

And, so help me, all the Mums start bashing the living daylights out of each other. Dominic and his assistants are spreadeagled protectively over their switches while Rose is trying to get into the studio with the rest of the mothers holding her back. Rising above this unseemly din can be heard the strains of ‘Dance to your Daddy, My Little Laddie’ sung by a very fat gentleman with a paunch so large that it looks as if he would have great difficulty getting into a position from which to achieve parenthood.

As always in situations like this I do not know what to do. To break into the studio seems like running stark naked into the audience chamber of the Vatican shouting ‘The Pope’s a Jew!’ and the sight of birds indulging in a punch-up freezes me to the marrow. The shenanigans in the control room are not going unnoticed by our studio panel and I am reassured about the state of Jason’s health when I see his face split into a wide grin at the sight of Rosie swiping another Mum around the kisser with her handbag. Only Miss Mealie is looking disturbed and I can see that Ralph must be able to contact her because she suddenly leaps up and tries to snatch the pills from Jason’s hands. Jason is not the kind of lad to take this treatment lying down and from what I can see on the central monitor screen, part two of the programme opens with the interesting sight of Miss Mealie and one of her little charges wrestling across the desk.

‘Dey my sweeties! My sweeties!’ screeches the treacherous little Jason. ‘My Uncle Timmy gave them to me.’

‘You swine!’ Rosie rounds on me immediately. ‘You’d stop at nothing to get on that programme, wouldn’t you?’

‘Now, Rosie, don’t be ridiculous –’

‘Poison your own nephew!’

‘Rosie. It was an accident. I thought they were the kid’s sweets. They haven’t done him any harm. Look!’

Miss Mealie has succeeded in wresting the pills from Jason and is quick to shove a couple past her own sensuous lips. No doubt she needs them. ‘Um, delicious!’ she pipes. ‘Would you like one of mine?’

Before Jason can think about it she pushes a packet of gob-stoppers along the desk and little Greedy Guts is on them like a flash. He is obviously the same stickler for principle as his Dad.

‘There, that’s all right then, isn’t it?’ I say, relieved. Miss Mealie clearly thinks so too.

‘Right, now here’s a question from Pauline Rogers of Twenty-four Crowmart Lane, Dagenham. She wants to know what the panel’s Daddies do when they come home in the evening. Who would like to answer that one? Jason?’

But Jason is not expressing a willingness to answer any questions. He now is looking very thoughtful and Miss Mealie has to probe. ‘I expect you’re glad to see Daddy when he comes home in the evenings. What do you do?’ She leans forward expectantly and Jason clears his throat and vomits all over the desk.

Chapter Two

‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ says Miss Mealie.

‘I think it made the whole programme very relevant,’ says Dominic soothingly. ‘It was terribly “now”. That’s what tellyvision is all about.’

We are in the saloon bar of the pub opposite the studio having what Dominic calls an ‘unwinding drinkypoo’ and I am wondering if one is going to be enough to get out all the twists.

‘Does your sister often behave like that?’ asks Miss Mealie.

‘You mean like when she threw me through the glass window?’

‘I was thinking of when she tried to strangle you with the microphone lead.’

‘She took evening classes in karate. That’s where she got the technique, she always had the temper.’

‘Remarkable. I sometimes think these programmes bring out the worst in the mothers.’

‘They don’t do a lot for the kiddies either,’ I say, gingerly rubbing the ankle that Jason tried to separate from the rest of my leg.

‘I won’t miss him,’ says Miss Mealie with feeling. ‘I don’t think I offend you too much when I say that?’

‘Oh no,’ I agree, ‘I wouldn’t miss him if I was looking down the sights of a rifle.’

Miss M. takes another hefty swig at her brandy and I signal for the barman to repair it.

‘He has some very nasty habits. He never went to the toilet, you know. When we came to check his locker we found out why.’

‘We had the same trouble with the broom cupboard at home,’ I say. ‘Mum used to think it was the cat. She belted the living daylights out of the poor bleeder.’

‘What have you got on tonight, Timmy?’ says Dominic suddenly, giving me one of those funny looks, as if he means in the underwear line.

‘Well, I – er,’ Miss Mealie is screwing up her eyes in a ‘don’t do it, buster’ grimace, ‘I’m going out with one of my mates,’ I lie. Miss Mealie nods approvingly.

‘I thought of having a few people round for drinks,’ says Dominic expansively. ‘Why don’t you and your friend drop in?’

‘I think he’s got tickets for something,’ I gulp.

‘Well, afterwards then.’

‘If we don’t get out too late. Ta very much.’

Dominic’s eyes narrow. ‘I hope you’ll be able to make it,’ he says firmly. ‘I want to get this situation regarding the new format straightened out as soon as possible. With us having to replace young Noggett it’s a good moment to introduce a new face at the head of the table.’ He looks at Miss Mealie whose smile is about as natural as a set of orange peel gnashers.

‘Jason is definitely out, is he?’ I ask trying to conceal my satisfaction.

‘Definitely. He’s lost the public’s confidence. They can accept what happened but they won’t want to bite their nails down to the quick waiting for a repetition. It’s not fair on the child, either.’

‘Indeed, no,’ I say, shaking my head gravely.

‘I must be off,’ says Dominic giving my arm a squeeze. ‘I’ve got to chill the crème de menthe. Do hope you will be able to look in later. It will definitely be worth your while. And – er, do bring your friend, there’ll be lots of people. Forty-seven Carmarthen Mews. You won’t forget it, will you?’ He gives a little wink and practically dances out of the pub.

‘The place is riddled with them,’ says Miss Mealie disapprovingly, before he is out of earshot.

‘U-mm,’ I say. It is occurring to me that I might be on the outskirts of a dicey situation. Dominic Ralph may well have a scrambled hormone balance but he is in a position to turn me into a telly star. As the solution to any sexual hang-ups that I feel in the next few minutes, Miss Mealie has a much bigger future, but she is obviously not sobbing with gratitude about the prospect of sharing the billing with Uncle Timmy. Maybe I had better keep the demon lust under control tonight and slip round for an arm distance chat with Dominic later.

‘I never meet a real man these days,’ says Miss Mealie, running her finger round the rim of her glass. ‘Only poofs and snotty little kids.’

‘Don’t you like children?’ I say innocently, sliding her glass towards her.

‘Are you kidding? Hey – did you hear that? Joke.’

‘Fantastic,’ I say.

‘The only thing I hate more than kids is mothers. But then you know that. Do you know what I like?’

’No,’ I lie to her.

She leans forward and whispers in my ear. ‘Does that shock you?’

‘These days, nothing shocks me. It’s funny though, isn’t it? You liking that though you don’t like kids.’

‘It never occurred to me to consider that there might be a connection until you mentioned it. It’s like being told that filling a fountain pen makes babies.’

‘Yes,’ I say. I am coming to the conclusion that Miss Mealie is well on the way to becoming very successfully pissed. This, of course, is sad but not so sad that I am going to lose any sleep about it. In fact I may well be able to use it as the framework of a very pleasant evening. If I take Miss Mealie home and put her to bed – and at a pinch myself – I can then go on to Dominic’s and seal my star status over a pitcher of crème de menthe.

‘You were lucky you managed to talk your way out of going to Dominic’s place,’ says Miss Mealie, colliding with my thoughts. ‘It’s a very kinky set-up. I don’t know who he’s living with at the moment but it’s quite awful, the things that go on there. I know that what people do in the privacy of their own homes is their own affair – or affairs – hey, did you hear that? I made another joke.’

‘Great.’

‘Well, laugh when I make a joke. Haven’t you got a sense of humour?’

‘I laugh a lot inside.’

‘You should let it bubble to the surface a little more often. Anyway, where was I?’

‘You were saying I should laugh more.’

‘No! Stupid. I was telling you about Dominic’s flat. I was saying how awful it is. You’re – er, not like that, are you?’

‘As a clockwork orange. Why do you think I’ve got this far with Dominic? There’s a kind of chemistry between us.’

‘Don’t be stupid! I can tell them a mile off. There’s nothing queer about you.’

‘I don’t think you should say that without proof.’

‘Are you serious? You’re having me on, aren’t you? You think you can talk me into taking you into my bed so that I can prove that you’re not queer.’

‘I’m confused already. Let’s just go to bed.’

‘You’re cool, aren’t you?’

‘You told me what you liked.’

‘I didn’t say anything about you.’

‘That would have been forward.’

Miss Mealie is now walking up the buttons of my shirt with her fingers. She gets to the collar, clambers over my chin, tramples on my lips and ends up on my nose. ‘Bite off your nose!’ she says gaily.

‘Let me take you home,’ I husk.

Five minutes later she has made a tellyphone call and I have poured – and pawed – her into a taxi. This evening had better come to something because it is costing me a fortune. There was a time when a bird could reckon she was in for a good time if I ordered a Babycham and two straws.

‘Oh, I’m feeling a sleepy girl,’ murmurs Miss M, snuggling up to me in the back of the taxi. Not long before I can say the same, I think to myself and try not to watch the meter ticking up. By the cringe, but it seems to move faster than the last column on a posh mileometer. At this rate I am going to have to thumb a lift home.

Home. The word makes me feel nervous. Even as I sit here Mum and Rosie are probably propping a vat of boiling oil above the front door. Jason’s golden future in ruins and all because Uncle Timmy slipped him a phial of Micky Phinns. That is what they are going to believe anyway, and little rat fink Jason is not going to come to nunky’s aid. Maybe it would be a good idea to steer clear of the ancestral pile for a few days. Until I am an established star in my own right. Once my mug appears on the screen, Mum at least will forgive all.

‘Here we are, mate,’ says the taxi driver.

‘It’s right next to the tube!’ I say, aggrieved.

‘Yeah. You want me to move it into the middle of Hyde Park for you?’

‘It would have been just as quick by tube.’

‘Yeah, well you’re here now, Rockefeller. There’s a pie stall round the corner if you want to take the lady out to dinner.’

‘Are we there?’ says Miss Mealie, waking up.

‘’Ere! I know you don’t I?’ says the cabby, registering Miss Mealie’s face. ‘You’re on the telly, aren’t you? My kiddies all watch your programme.’

‘How nice,’ says Miss M.

‘Yeah. And my little Trampas has got a birthday next week. Do you reckon you could read out his name?’

‘Drop me a postcard at the studio and I’ll see what I can do.’ Miss Mealie delivers a royal smile and sweeps into the block of flats. The taxi driver is so bowled over that he does not even examine the miserably small tip I have given him.

‘She’s a lady, that one,’ he says, looking me up and down as if I am not fit to dust her microphone lead.

‘A real pro.’ I agree with him and follow Miss M. into the flat. This kind of reverence could become habit-forming. I cannot think why I have never considered show-biz before.

‘ “Trampas”! Did you hear that?’ sniffs Miss M. when I join her in the lift. ‘We had one mother write in whose brat was called Ajax.’

‘He might have been named after the football team.’

‘I don’t think so. We got a letter about his sister next week. She was called Vimia.’ Miss Mealie shudders. ‘God, but I need a drink. You’re coming in, are you?’

Try and stop me, I think. The investment I have made this evening should entitle me to a season ticket.

We leave the lift and walk down a corridor long enough to house a rifle range before stopping outside a door with two hundred and forty-seven on it. I am feeling the excitement I feel before the start of a football match. I know what to do, it is just a question of manoeuvring myself into a position to do it. Miss Mealie inserts her key and pushes open the door. Very nice too. Lots of polished wood furniture and spotlights, and a thick white carpet.

‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ I say, ‘and here – and here.’

‘Down, tiger.’ Miss M. disentangles herself from my probing fingers. ‘Let’s have a drink first.’

‘I like the ‘first’. That must be a good sign.

‘What would you like?’ she says.

‘Scotch would be fine.’

‘Ice, water?’

‘Just water, thanks.’

She wanders into the kitchen and I take a look round the flat. The bedroom particularly catches my eye. A low double bed in the centre of the room with a multicoloured patchwork counterpane. In the ceiling above is a circular mirror.

‘Do you like my bedroom?’ says Miss M., appearing beside me with my drink.

‘Fantastic. I didn’t imagine you in a place like this.’

‘I suppose you thought I lived in a bed-sit with a tabby cat and a pile of Beatrix Potters.’

‘Umm,’ I say, not quite certain what a Beatrix Potter is.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ says Miss M., lounging gracefully across a low divan. ‘What do you do for a living?’

‘Nothing at the moment.’

‘Resting? How very theatrical.’

‘I was working with my brother-in-law flogging cleaners, but we’ve packed that in now. I’ve done a number of things on and off. I worked in a hotel and at a holiday camp. And I was a driving instructor at one time. The first real job I ever had was cleaning windows.’

‘Cleaning windows! That must have been interesting.’ Miss Mealie’s eyes contain more promises than a Turkish Delight commercial.

‘Yes. It did have its moments.’

‘It’s funny you should have been a window cleaner because I have a friend who is looking for one at the moment. Justin Tymely. Maybe you’ve heard of him?’ I shake my head. ‘No? Well there’s no reason why you should have, I suppose. He’s a bit of a wheeler-dealer in the art-film world and he’s making a little epic which has some window-cleaning episodes in it. Maybe I can put you in touch?’

‘Yes please.’

Miss Mealie delves in her bag and draws out a crumpled card. ‘Yes, here we are. Tell him I suggested you got in touch.’

I look at the card which says ‘Justin Tymely–Managing Director, Trion Productions’, with an address and two tellyphone numbers. Very impressive. At last my luck is changing. Not only a famous telly personality but a star of the silver screen as well. I wonder if she knows anyone in radio? I just hope that success does not spoil me. Anyhow I must not think of myself all the time. This Lea-crazy bird is obviously waiting for me to make love to her so she can boast about it to all her friends.

‘You’re very beautiful,’ I say, leaning forward and gently removing the glass from her unresisting fingers. I spill a bit on the carpet, but I don’t think she notices.

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘So are you.’

‘You don’t have to say that,’ I murmur.

‘You knew already, didn’t you?’

‘Kiss me,’ I say hurriedly and dive onto her lips, carefully tucking the glass away under the divan. Her lips are soft as rose petals and she kisses in a continuous nibbling motion, like half a dozen minnows attacking a piece of bread paste.

‘You smell nice,’ she says, when we come up for air. ‘Let’s go into the bedroom.’

‘I smell even nicer in bedrooms,’ I murmur, kissing her on the ear and thinking that it is no wonder that Cary Grant has given up making pictures. Poor old sod, what chance does he have with blokes like me around?

Miss Mealie takes me by the hand like I am one of her tiny charges and leads me to the bedroom. We stop by the patchwork counterpane and her fingers slide round to the small of my back. She eases out my black, Captain Whiplash, tapered, slim-fit, see-through, pure silk shirt and purrs contentedly as her fingers make contact with my bare flesh. I cannot blame her. I would probably react in the same way if I was touching myself for the first time.

There are thirty-eight buttons on the front of her long gingham dress. I know because I count them one by one as I unpop down from neck to navel while we trade kisses like they pay five pounds a hundred. She is wearing one of those half-cup bras which is so shallow it looks more like a saucer and her breasts swell over the top like the heads of a couple of glasses of stout.

‘Hello, Uncle Timmy,’ she breathes, ruffling the hair at the back of my neck and driving against my lips like she is trying to find a permanent anchorage. ‘Here’s to a mutually stimulating relationship.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ I murmur, ‘and what better vessel than your own beautiful mouth?’ I kiss her tenderly and gently tug the dress off her shoulders so that it starts its long descent towards floor level. My God, but it is beautiful! If they gave Oscars for this kind of thing, I would need a fork-lift truck to carry mine away. Miss Mealie obviously thinks so too because she is quick to brush away the hands that fumble for my own shirt buttons.

‘Cool it, stud,’ she breathes. ‘I hate to see a man doing a woman’s job. Just relax and let Auntie Mealie take the strain.’

One of the old school, obviously, I think as I allow myself to be pushed back onto the bed. I gaze up at the circular mirror and enjoy the sight of my new friend spilling kisses down my chest as she swiftly unbuttons my nifty dicky dirt.

‘You have a magnificent body,’ she breathes.

‘U-um,’ I murmur. Well! It sounds conceited to agree with her, doesn’t it? Yet on the other hand there is no reason why I should perjure myself for the sake of modesty. ‘You’re not bad yourself,’ I say, trying to be kind, but she is too busy dismantling the front of my trousers to pay much attention. The way she grabs hold of the zip on my flies, you would think she was going to wrench it straight down to the turn-ups. I try to grab a handful of knockers that happen to be swinging in my direction but again she brushes me aside. ‘Relax baby,’ she coos, ‘this is my party.’

‘Tell me when there’s a game we can both play.’

‘I’ll call you when it’s time to blow out the candles.’

I lie back to think about that one and feel relieved that I have put on a clean pair of socks as they join my shoes on the floor by the bed.

Gazing up into the mirror, I can see what Miss Mealie was on about. It is amazing that I can walk down the street without being savaged by Lea-hungry bints. The frustration some of those poor birds must have to endure when they turn their mince pies loose on my six foot one and a half inches of man-mountain grandeur, does not bear thinking about.

‘And now –’ Biting her lip in honest ecstasy, Miss Mealie seizes the top of my jockey briefs and proceeds to steer them over the not inconsiderable obstacle that my own passionate nature has placed in her way. I can excuse her clumsiness because I realise that this is probably the most exciting thing that has ever happened to her.

Seconds later I am spread out upon the bed like a patient anaesthetised upon a table, naked and waiting for the action.

‘Oh baby, start operating,’ I grunt.

But, to my amazement, Miss Mealie starts doing up the buttons on her dress. ‘What’s the matter?’ I say, raising myself onto an elbow. ‘Are you cold, or something?’

Miss Mealie shakes her head mockingly. ‘ “Or something”,’ she says. ‘Don’t move, I always want to remember you like that.’ And then, she tears her dress open so that buttons explode all over the floor, slaps her face a couple of times and starts screaming.

‘Rape! Help! Murder! Rape! Rape! Rape!’

I find this very interesting. I mean, it is a bit strange, isn’t it? One minute she is all over me and the next it is me all over. Maybe it turns her on to feel that she is being raped. Yes, that must be it. She seems a very passionate girl. I do not mind playing along with her little fantasy if it makes her – and me – happy.

‘Help! Help! Rape!’

If she is going to be like this before I have even touched her, God knows what she will be like in the sack. The prospect launches me from the bed and I close with her fast.

‘Don’t touch me!’

She starts running through the living room and I follow. I hope the walls are thick because her language would make a Billingsgate porter switch off his deaf aid. I catch up with her by the door but before I can deter her she has flung it open.

‘Rape! Help!’ she screams and runs out into the corridor. I get as far as the doorway and then stop. I mean! There is a limit. I don’t mind a quick frisk round the apartment but chasing her round the block in the altogether could lead to trouble. People are not as liberated as you read in the papers.

Just as I am making up my mind what to do next, Miss Mealie returns. But she is not alone. She is sobbing hysterically on the arm of a tall fellow with a flashlight camera in his hand. Another guy follows on behind with a notepad in his mitt.

‘Thank God you came!’ sobs Miss M., hysterically. ‘It was horrible. Horrible!’

‘What are you rabbiting on about?’ I say angrily.

‘How did he get in?’ says the fellow with the notepad, pencil poised.

‘I invited him up to discuss the show and then – and then –’ Miss M. starts sobbing convulsively.

‘He is in the show, is he?’

Miss M.’s sobs stop immediately. ‘He was going to be. That’s what I wanted to discuss.’

‘I’ve never heard such a load of cobblers in my life!’ I say indignantly. ‘She invited me up to her flat and into her bedroom, and then she took all my clothes off.’

‘I can see you put up a fight,’ says the bloke with the camera, taking a shot of me.

‘Was he naked like that when he came into the flat?’ says the one with the notepad.

‘No. He said he wanted to use the toilet and then – and then –’ More sobs soak the carpet.

‘Tore your dress, did he?’

‘She tore her dress!’ I yelp.

All the time the fellow with the camera is snapping away like it was some kind of still-life class he has blundered across.

‘What are you two guys doing up here, anyway?’ I say, beginning to smell a rat – or more likely, three of the little furry chaps.

‘We’re freelance reporters. We were coming to do an article on Miss Mealie.’

‘You’ve got quite a scoop then,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Too bad Miss Mealie won’t let you use it.’

‘What do you mean?’ says the lady in question.

‘It must be obvious. If a kid can get thrown off the programme for puking his ring, then they’re going to crucify you for having a nasty naked man in your room. Even if your lousy story was true, some mud would stick. Now, why don’t you wise up and send these two goons back to wherever it is they come from?’ It would sound better if I borrowed Humphrey Bogart’s mac for the delivery, but even then it might not cut much ice with Miss Mealie.

‘Good thinking, rapist,’ she hisses, ‘but what makes you believe I want to stay on Kiddichat for the rest of my life? There are other forms of entertainment, you know.’

And then I see it all. In a blinding flash it comes to me like a clip from an old detergent commercial. I have been framed. Miss Mealie is after publicity at any price and my career has been sacrificed to get it. I snatch at the camera but the geezer is too quick for me.

‘Uh, uh. Naughty!’ He wags a finger at me. ‘If you want to see the pictures, buy the morning papers tomorrow.’

Chapter Three

‘This is a nice one of Timmy,’ says Mum. “You can’t see a lot of his face though.’

‘You can’t have everything,’ says Dad, all sarcastic like.

They are studying the daily newspapers and I have made the front page of every one of them except The Times and the Guardian. I know that because Mum has rushed out to buy everything except the Jewish Chronicle and Chicks Own. She is dead narky about my non-appearance in the quality press because she had to go up to Clapham South tube station before she found a copy.

Her reaction to my little spot of bother is interesting. Distress, accompanied by pride in the number of column inches I have achieved – I hasten to add that I am referring to space in the newspapers. Already she has the scissors out and I can see that I am taking over from Jason as the family star. Unfortunately my career now seems likely to be considerably shorter than that of the squint-eyed little monster glaring at me over his bowl of Tasty Frosties.

‘You see where tangling with that harpy got you,’ sniffs Rosie, who does not hate me quite so much now that she knows I am not destined for the Uncle Timmy spot.

‘It was strictly a no-tangle action, I’m afraid, Rosie. You don’t want to believe everything you read in the papers…’

‘Oh yeah. Sounds very likely, doesn’t it?’ says Dad. ‘Stark bollock naked and her with her dress half torn off. Nothing remarkable about that, is there? Oh dear me no.’

‘She led me on, Dad. I’ve never had to resort to force yet. It’s not my nature.’

‘She was a hussy, that one,’ says Rosie helpfully. ‘There was always a lot of talk about her.’

‘I think she left those pills there on purpose,’ I say, seeing a chance to patch things up with Rosie. ‘She never liked little Jason, did she?’

‘She never liked anyone except herself.’

‘It says here she’s considering a number of film roles,’ says Mum, who is still studying the papers. ‘She wants to be an all-round entertainer. There’s talk of her going to Hollywood.’

‘More like Neasden Rep,’ snorts Rosie. ‘She can’t do anything.’

‘Don’t look at me, Dad,’ I say. ‘I never found out.’

Most of the papers treat the affair as a put-up job and the police reaction has been less enthusiastic than that of firemen being called out to a false alarm at a waterworks. When I have read the dailies it occurs to me that I am being a bit premature in writing myself off for a job with Dominic Ralph. The worst headline is ‘Was it Rape or a Lovers’ Tiff?’ Most of the others look on the funny side in a way that makes me wish I could have shared their merriment at the time. All in all it occurs to me that I might give Dominic a ring and see where I stand.

In fact I do not stand, I grovel. And even that does not do any good. I ring Dominic at the studio where no one can find him, and at his flat where the phone is answered in an accent that makes Kenneth Williams sound like Richard Roundtree.

‘Who is that?’ minces the voice. ‘I’ll just see if he’s still in.’ Pause. ‘No, I’m most terribly sorry but he’s just popped out. Can I take a message?’

‘Yes,’ I snarl. ‘Tell him to turn off his bleeding electric razor. I can hardly hear what you’re saying!’ I jam down the receiver and compose myself to plan my next move.

I am not getting anywhere particularly fast when I light upon the card that the hated Miss Mealie gave me. This is probably another load of rubbish but anything is worth pursuing in my present situation. The first number on the card rings without reply, but the second is answered instantly.

‘Dukley, Barchester and Rideabout,’ says a very toffee-nosed voice, ‘gee-ood morning.’

‘I’m sorry, I’ve got the wrong number,’ I say, ‘I was after Trion Productions.’

‘Justin Tymely?’

‘That’s right.’

‘He’s on the floor at the moment, shooting.’ Blimey! I think, she’s very cool about it. I wonder why I cannot hear any shots.

‘I’ll ring the police,’ I say. The receiver is half an inch from the rest when I hear squawking coming from it.

‘What are you talking about?’ says the upper-crust voice tightly. ‘He’s shooting a film at the Sheppertree Studios!’

‘Oh, silly me,’ I say. ‘I thought – oh well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll see him there. If you have any contact with him, tell him a window cleaner rang.’

‘Don’t go down to the studio,’ says the bird exasperatedly, ‘we need you here. The windows are filthy.’

‘I’m not a real window cleaner,’ I say. ‘Well, I am, but not at the moment. I’m an actor window cleaner, Timothy Lea.’

‘I’ll tell him you’re coming if he rings in, Mr Lea,’ says the voice icily and the line goes dead.

I am looking forward to visiting a real live film studio but by the time I get to what seems like the other end of the Home Counties, my enthusiasm is waning a bit. The buildings that greet my eye look like derelict hangars and I have not seen anything less impressive since I worked at Melody Bay Holiday Camp.

‘Mr Tymely,’ I say to the peak-capped geezer on the gate. ‘Mr Justin Tymely. He’s a film director.’

‘What’s he doing?’

‘I don’t know. Something with a window cleaner in it.’

The gatekeeper shakes his head and consults a list pinned beside his hatch. ‘Up the Ladder, Jack,’ he says finally. ‘Does that ring a bell?’

‘Probably what I want. Where do I find him?’

‘Straight down as far as you can go, then turn right, second left.’

Fifteen minutes later I find myself outside a metal sliding door with ‘Stage 5’ painted on it. There is also a red light and a sign which says ‘Do not enter when light is flashing’. The light is flashing so I wait obediently. Five minutes pass and it has just started to rain when two youngish men come round the corner. They are dressed in painters’ overalls and for a moment I make the stupid mistake of thinking that they are painters. Their conversation soon disabuses me.

‘So I said to him, I says, “If Crispin is going to have one then I’m going to have one”. Well, I mean, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it?’

‘And what did he say?’

‘Stupid old faggot didn’t know what I was talking about. Can you imagine? Ooh, I could have sunk my nails into him. Sink! Sink! Sink! I know you say I over-react to things –’

‘I never said that! That I did never say. I said you were sensitive.’

‘Well then!’

My contact with the conversation vanishes as the newcomers ignore the red light and disappear into the hangar. There is obviously no point in waiting about outside so I depress the lever and go in after them.

‘Oiy! Can’t you read?’

I am being addressed by a large red-faced man wearing a dirty plaid shirt and paint-spattered trousers.

‘I’m sorry. I was following those two.’

‘Sssh!’ hiss the two gay blades who are now scowling at me as if I have started cracking walnuts under my arm during a palace reception.

‘You use your eyes!’ says the big man.

I nod vigorously and upon enquiring after Mr Tymley’s whereabouts, am directed round the back of what looks like a hastily erected pre-fabricated shed. This must be the set, I think to myself and peer through one of the windows with interest. A pretty, long-haired blonde girl wearing a mini skirt is being embraced by yet another man dressed in painter’s overalls. As my pulse quickens he slides his hand inside the girl’s blouse and begins massaging one of her breasts as if he is trying to smooth it into her chest. Saucy! I think to myself. Obviously Mr Tymely makes a pretty explicit movie even by modern standards. The girl opens her eyes, sees me and gives a little yelp.

‘Ooh, Ron!’ she says.

Ron turns on me angrily. ‘Bugger off!’ he says. ‘Go on, hop it before I give you a thick lip! Bleeding peeping toms!’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say urgently. ‘I thought –’ But there does not seem a lot of mileage in telling Ron what I thought, so I leave him and his lady friend to get better acquainted and push on to an intersection between piles of props ranging from choir stalls to bar fittings. This, at last, must be where the action is, because I can actually see a camera. Standing beside it is a greasy-haired individual with cheeks and chest like a retired pouter pigeon that has gone to bird seed. He is shaking his head at a tall, slim young man who has a mane of hair flowing from halfway down the back of his head, the upper part of that article being bald as an egg. The tall geezer is wearing faded denim from head to toe and has an expensive-looking silk scarf bulging from his neck.

‘All right, all right,’ shouts Lofty, ‘Sellotape her nipples! Jesus Christ, isn’t there a woman in the whole of London who can erect her nipples? When the hell are we going to get something in the can?’

‘Jim,’ says Greasebonce, ‘do her nipples, will you?’ Jim is playing cards with half a dozen painters and stagehands and seems irritated at being disturbed.

‘Oh, bleeding heck,’ he says, throwing down his cards. ‘That’s extra, you know, Sellotaping nipples. Extra.’ He drags himself to his feet and advances onto the set.

‘Bloody unions,’ snarls Greasebonce under his breath in a gruff Scottish accent. ‘Most of these bastards want danger money before they’ll pull the bog chain.’

The set is obviously intended to represent the inside of a bedroom and the lady now complaining about Jim’s cold hands is wearing a black lace negligee and one of the biggest sets of knockers I have ever seen. Cleaning his nails on the other side of the rumpled bed is a queer looking cove in the inevitable painters’ overalls. He managed to make them look like the latest male fashion dreamed up by one of those kinky French designers.

‘Right. Thank you, Jim,’ says Lofty. ‘Now, Mac, if you’ve got some film in the camera, let’s do it again. And for God’s sake, Crispin, put a bit of life into it! Try and imagine Sandra is a man or something.’

‘Charming!’ says Sandra.

‘You’re supposed to be a lusty housepainter about to enjoy the sexual experience of a lifetime,’ continues Lofty. ‘At the moment it sounds as if you’ve popped in to ask for a glass of water because you’ve come over a little queer.’

‘He should be so lucky,’ mutters Mac.

‘If you don’t like my reading, Justin, I don’t know why you don’t get someone else,’ flounces Crispin. ‘Victor Mature, for instance.’

‘He wanted luncheon vouchers,’ says my prospective employer acidly. ‘Now, concentrate on the performance you’re being paid to give.’

‘I don’t know how you expect anyone to say these lines,’ moans Crispin. ‘ “Man, but it’s a really switched-on pad you’ve here, honey.” Good grief, if my old Rada teacher could see me now –’

‘Yes, I know, Crispin,’ says Justin. ‘But the money’s good, isn’t it? It’s better than reading children’s stories on the telly. Now, for God’s sake, let’s have some action!’

‘Bunchleys munchy butter-beans just melt in your mouth,’ says Crispin for no apparent reason.

‘My nipples are going numb,’ says Sandra from the bed. ‘Jim put that sellotape on too tight.’

‘You’ll just have to grin and bear it, dear,’ says Justin as a groan goes up from the camera crew. ‘OK. Let’s get this bleeding scene in the can.’

‘Quiet, please!’

‘Scene one hundred and forty two – Take three.’

‘Mind Sandra when you use that clapper board.’

‘Shut up!’

‘See nipples and die.’

‘Shut up!’

Sandra stands by the bed and Crispin adjusts his hairpiece and squares his shoulders – well, oblongs them really. They are not wide enough to square.

‘Man, but it’s a really switched-on pad you’ve got here, honey.’

‘You like it, do you?’

‘Like it. I love it.’

‘That chest for instance.’ Mac’s camera is honing in on Sandra’s boobs. – ‘You like my chest?’

‘I love your chest. There’s one thing, though.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I think it needs a coat of paint.’

‘You want to paint my chest?’

‘Yes. I’ll go and get my brush.’

‘All right, I’ll get it ready for you.’ As Crispin turns his back Sandra shrugs off her negligee and Mac’s camera lens nearly caps the tips of her titties. Sandra lies down on the bed and Crispin comes into camera holding a brush and a can of paint.

‘OK, Crispin,’ coaches Justin. ‘Register surprise. Good. Now Sandra, take his paintbrush. Bite it. Good. That’s lovely. Beautiful. Hold it there for a couple of secs. Lovely. Now down. Super. Crispin, get on top of her. Not too fast! Don’t leave Mac behind. Right, now reach for the paintbrush, Crispin. Both your hands on it. On the paintbrush, Crispin! Lovely. That’s beautiful. Kiss. Down, down, down. And paintbrush into the tin. Lovely! Right, cut. That was beautiful. We’ll do one more to be on the safe side but we’ll certainly print that one. What do you want?’ Justin has suddenly become aware that I am standing by his side.

‘Miss Mealie sent me. She said you needed a window cleaner. I spoke to your office this morning.’

‘Your what?’ says Mac

‘Shut up,’ says Justin and turns back to me. ‘How is the winsome slut? Still fucking everything that moves?’

‘Nearly everything,’ I say resentfully.

‘You’re the fellow who was in the paper today, aren’t you?’ says Mac who has been peering at me closely. ‘Did you see it, Justin?’

‘I only read the Financial Times,’ says Justin coolly. ‘What were you doing in the papers?’

‘Miss Mealie cooked up some publicity gimmick which had me prancing about in the altogether.’

‘You’ve got the right pedigree for this caper, then. Have you got a card?’

I dive into my breast pocket and retrieve the card Miss Mealie has given me.

‘No, no, dear boy. That’s my card, isn’t it? I mean a union card?’

‘No.’

‘My God. Did you hear that, Mac? You’re not allowed to buy a copy of the ABC Film Review without a union card.’ He looks round the set. ‘If these people knew you weren’t a card holder, they’d be out of that door like lemmings.’

‘I’m sorry. Where do I get one?’

‘You can’t get one unless you’re an actor.’

‘But I can’t be an actor unless I’ve got one.’

‘Exactly. Clever, isn’t it? Don’t worry. We’ll get you one.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Nothing at the moment. I want to use you for some scene-setting stuff, probably tomorrow. You know, shinning up ladders. Standing on window ledges. That kind of thing. All exterior shots.’

‘Don’t I have to say anything?’

‘No, but don’t worry. It’s degrading to have to speak on this kind of film, isn’t it, Crispin?’

Crispin shudders and continues to pat his hair.

‘Completely unnecessary, too. We like to keep the actor’s lips moving to give the impression that they’re alive but apart from that it’s busts, bottoms and bums all the way. Sandra’s mammaries are the language our audience understands.’

‘Couple of flashes from Sandra and the centre of Singapore is ablaze with burning taxis,’ agrees Mac.

‘A lot of your stuff goes abroad, does it?’ I ask.

‘We wouldn’t be in business without our export market. That’s another reason why we play down the dialogue. If you’re trying to flog a movie everywhere from Bangkok to Budleigh Salterton, you’ve got to keep it simple. You noticed the international flavour we injected into the piece you saw?’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘very sophisticated.’

‘Don’t knock it. That’s what the audience wants. They don’t listen to the words.’

‘Did you say we were going to do another take of this scene?’ says Crispin petulantly. ‘I’m not wed to my craft, you know.’

‘Crispin is what they call an old pro,’ explains Justin. ‘He came to us from Children’s Hour via the West London Magistrates Court.’

I watch them do the scene again and it occurs to me how blasé everyone is. There is lovely Sandra revealing her all and most of the blokes on the set are playing cards or kipping. Even Sandra herself calmly chucks aside her copy of The Lady before getting on with it. I suppose the glamour must wear off after a while. Luckily the blood is still running dangerously hot through my veins and when Justin announces that shooting is over for the day I am swift to offer Big S. her robe.

‘Ta, love,’ she says. ‘Did you say you were a window cleaner?’

‘I used to be.’

‘That’s a pity. I hoped I could press you into service. I can’t get anyone to come near me.’

‘You amaze me,’ I husk. ‘Tell you what: I’m not doing very much at the moment. Why don’t I give your windows a quick once over?’

All the time I am talking to her I cannot take my eyes off her knockers and she pulls her robe across her chest protectively.

‘You’re sure it’s no trouble?’

‘None at all.’

‘All right. I won’t be long.’

When Sandra comes out of the dressing room she leads the way to the car park and steers me towards a bubble car, the shape of which is a perfect match for her own best feature.

‘It’s very economical for hopping about in,’ she says. ‘As long as you don’t mind a bit of a crush.’ She reaches across to shut the door and for a second I feel as if I’m bringing in the melon harvest. ‘Snug, isn’t it?’

‘Very. Tell me, how many films have you made?’ I say, demonstrating that gift for conversation that has made me the darling of my Mum’s Tupperware parties.

‘I’ve no idea. About twenty, I think.’

‘I don’t even know your full name.’

‘At the moment it’s Sandra Virgin. I’ve had about six. Paula Rental, Dreft Sunsilk –’

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