Confessions of a Window Cleaner (4 page)

I lie in my bed, naked, and listen to somebody’s wireless playing a few houses away. Or maybe they’re having a party. Now that I don’t need it I’ve got a bloody great hard on and when I think of Silk Blouse, or even Aunty Lil, or any of the millions of birds who must be lying alone in bed and feeling like a bit of the other, I’m bloody near bursting into tears.

When I come down the next morning Sid is sitting there with his hands wrapped round a cup of tea and he’s giving me an old fashioned expression that tells me Rosie has been getting at him.

“Morning” I say agreeably. Sid doesn’t answer.

“You going down the Labour today?” says Mum.

“I went yesterday” I say. “I don’t want to look as if I’m begging.”

“Well, don’t leave it too long, dear, you know what your father is like.”

I help myself to a cup of tea and ask Sid for the sugar. He slides it across very slowly without taking his hand off the bowl. I think Paul Newman did it in ‘Hud’ but I can’t be certain.

“I had a talk with your sister last night,” he says.

“Oh, really.”

“Yes, I thought you’d be surprised.”

“Well, I didn’t know you talked to each other as well.”

“Don’t be cheeky” says Mum.

“Don’t suppose you’ve any idea what we were talking about?” says Sid.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Well it was about what we were talking about yesterday.”

“Really? Oh, interesting.”

“Yeah. And to stop us poodling on like this any longer I might as well tell you that I’ve agreed to give it a go.”

“Great!” I say. “Ta very much. You won’t regret it.”

“Um, we’ll see.”

“What you on about?” says Mum.

“Sid and I are going into business” I say. “I’m going to be a window cleaner, Mum.”

“That’s nice, dear. Do you think he’ll be alright, Sid?”

“No” says Sid bitterly, “but you don’t expect much from a brother-in-law do you?”

“Now Sid,” says Mum, all reproachful, “that’s not very nice. That’s not the right spirit to work together in.”

“It’s alright, Mum,” I say, “he’s only joking, aren’t you, Sid?” Sid can’t bring himself to say ‘yes’ but he nods slowly.

“Today, you can do your Mum’s windows” he says, “It’ll be good practice for you. Tomorrow we’ll be out on the road.” He makes it sound like we’re driving ten thousand head of prime beef down to Texas.

“That’s a good idea” says Mum, “I was wondering when someone was going to get round to my windows.”

Sid gives me a quick demo and it looks dead simple. There’s a squeegee, or a bit of rubber on a handle, that you sweep backwards and forwards over a wet window and that seems to do the trick in no time. With that you use the classical chamois and finish off with a piece of rough cotton cloth that won’t fluff up called a scrim. It seems like money for old rope and I can’t wait to get down to it. Sid pushes off to keep his customers satisfied and I attack Mum’s windows. Attack is the right word. In no time at all I’ve put my arm through one of them and I’m soaked from head to foot. The squeegee is a sight more difficult to use than it looks. Whatever I do I end up with dirty lines going either up or down the window and it gets very de-chuffing rearranging them like some bloody kid’s toy. When I get inside it’s even worse because the whole of the outside of the windows look as if I’ve been trying to grow hair on them. That’s what comes of wearing the woolly cardigan Rosie knitted for me last Christmas. I get out and give the windows a shave and then I find that there are bits that are still dirty which you can only see from the inside. I’m popping in and out like a bleeding cuckoo in a clock that’s stuck at midnight. Inside at last and I drop my dirty chamois in the goldfish tank and stand on Mum’s favourite ashtray which she brought back the year they went to the Costa Brava. By the time I’ve cleaned up and replaced the broken window-pane – twice – it’s dinner time and I’m dead knackered.

Sid drops in to see how I’m getting on and you can tell that he’s not very impressed.

“At this rate,” he says, “you might do three a day – with overtime.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s a knack. It’ll come.”

Sid shakes his head. “What with that and your lousy sense of direction” he says. “I’ll be surprised if you last the first day.”

But he’s wrong. It doesn’t go badly at all. Sid starts me off at the end of a street and gives me a few addresses and though I’m dead nervous, I soon begin to get the hang of it. I drop my scrim down the basement a couple of times but there are no major cock-ups and nobody says anything. A few of them ask where Sid is but on the whole it’s all very quiet. In fact, if I wasn’t so busy trying to concentrate on the job I’d be a bit choked. After what Sid has led me to believe, these dead-eyed old bags look about as sexed up as Mum’s Tom after he had his operation. Curlers, hairnets, turbans, carpet slippers, housecoats like puke-stained eiderdowns – I was expecting Gina Lollamathingymebobs to pull me on to her dumplings the minute I pressed the front door bell. Perhaps Sid was having me on or perhaps, and this is much more likely, its some crafty scheme to con me into the business for next to nothing. Sid hasn’t been over-talkative about the money side of the deal. I do get one spot of tea but the cup has a tide-mark on it like a coal miner’s bath and I reckon the slag that gives it to me has the same. Perhaps Sid has purposely given me a list of no-hopers after my performance, or lack of it, with Aunt Lil.

This is a subject I tax him with when we’re having a pint and a wad in the boozer at lunch time but he is quick to deny it.

“Oh no,” he says, “I wouldn’t do a thing like that. No, it’s the school holidays, you see. That always calms them down a bit. You wait till the little bleeders go back – then you’ll be amongst it.”

I had to admit that a lot of kids have been hanging around asking stupid questions and generally getting in the way, so perhaps he’s on the level.

“Don’t worry,” he goes on, “I’ve got a little treat lined up for this afternoon. Very good friend of mine, she’ll see you alright.”

“Not Aunt Lil?” I say nervously.

“No. You won’t be seeing her again. Not if she sees you first.”

“Who is it then?”

“Nobody you know. Sup up and we’ll have a game of darts.”

And that’s all he will say. Of course it preys on my mind and I’m playing like a wanker. Two pints it costs me before Sid rubs the back of his hand against his mouth and looks at his watch.

“Right, off we go.”

It’s overcast and a bit sultry as we cycle along and I envy the way Sid handles his bike. With the ladder on my shoulders I’m wobbling all over the shop.

“Where are we going now, Sid?”

“You’ll see.”

We’re round the back of Balham Hill and I’m all of a tingle. What is Sid up to? We cycle past a row of lock-up garages and Sid hops off his bike and swings up his ladder all in one easy movement. I put both feet down and drop mine in the gutter.

“Clumsy berk,” says Sid.

Still with the ladder on his shoulder, he pushes open the gate of one of the semis and does a quick “dum, de, dum dum,” on the doorknocker before running his fingers through his hair and sucking his teeth. The door opens fast and there’s a bird of about thirty, standing there, wearing a short-sleeved blouse and a miniskirt. She has a large charm bracelet round her wrist and high-heeled furry slippers that make her look as if she’s balanced on a couple of rabbits. She has a bright-eyed cheerful face and it looks more cheerful when she sees Sid.

“Hallo Sid,” she says, and I can tell by her expression that he doesn’t have to threaten her with a gun to get through the front door. Her eyes wander over him as if trying to remember bits that she particularly likes and she steps to one side to let him in. Then she sees me.

“That’s my new mate, Timmy,” says Sid without turning his head.

The bird’s face clouds over for a moment and then snaps back to normal.

She gives me the all-over eyeball treatment and I feel as if I’ve been fed into an IBM machine.

“I never reckoned you needed any help, Sid,” she says drily.

“Very kind of you, Viv,” says Sid with dignity, “but you know how it is. You can’t stand still nowadays, otherwise you’re going backwards. If you’re going to get anywhere you’ve got to expand.”

“Fascinating” says Viv. “Well, did you just come round to tell me how it was going to be you and Charlie Clore from now on, or was there something else?”

“We’ve come round to do your windows, of course,” says Sid. “I just thought I’d introduce you to Timmy.”

“Very nice. Hello Timmy.” She half drops her eyelids as she smiles at me and it’s very effective.

“Timmy hasn’t had much experience—”

“—oh dear.”

“—and I’m keeping an eye on him for the first few days.”

“You always were thoughtful, Sid.”

“Yes, well, I’ll leave him to get on with it then.”

“So I won’t be seeing you again, Sid?”

“Oh yes. I’ll be around I expect, you know. I just thought that—”

Sid’s voice tails away.

“Yes?”

“Well, you know.”

“Yes.”

Viv smiles an understanding smile which is obviously aimed at adding to Sid’s discomforture – and succeeds. Seeing that things are getting sticky I decide to take the initiative and step forward smartish only to be brought to a sudden halt in the doorway.

“You don’t use that inside the house do you?” says Viv, “the rooms are quite small, you know.”

I mumble something and take the ladder off my shoulder. Stupid berk!

“Well, ta ta,” says Viv cheerfully.

“Ta ta, Viv! Be seeing you. I’ll see you later.”

“O.K. Sid,” I say and the door closes behind me.

“In there,” says Viv smoothing down her skirt, and her hands don’t have a lot of work to do, I can tell you.

“In there?”

“That’s right.”

Something about the way she says it makes me feel there’s going to be a bloody great four-poster behind the door but maybe it’s my imagination. I push the door open and I’m in the kitchen. She notices my surprise.

“You want to fill your bucket, don’t you.”

“Oh yes, of course.”

She watches me do it and starts fanning herself with the Daily Mirror.

“Bloody humid, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t stand this kind of weather. Makes me feel sort of itchy all over.”

“How long have you been with Sid?”

“On the window cleaning? Only today, but I’ve known him for a long time. He’s married to my sister.”

I wonder if I should have said that but Viv doesn’t seem over-worried.

“So you’re all living with your Mum and Dad?”

“That’s right.”

All this time she’s talking her eyes are wandering over me and there’s a sort of amused expression on her face. You don’t feel that she’s interested in any of the answers she gets but that she’s just trying to unwind you with conversation.

“I don’t think you’ll get any more in there.”

I turn off the tap and empty some of the water out of the bucket so it manages to spill across the floor.

“Don’t worry,” she squeezes me just above the bicep. “You get on with the windows. I’ll clear this up. You’re a strong boy, aren’t you?” She fans herself with the paper so her tits wobble.

“It’s so muggy, I’m going to take a bath. See if that doesn’t do any good. The bathroom curtains are in the wash, so don’t take any liberties, will you?” She reaches down underneath the sink and I practically need another pair of hands to keep the ones I’ve got from grabbing her. Talk about a nice arse. It shouldn’t be allowed, it’s so nice. Once you see that, all other arses are just bums.

I grab my bucket and get outside breathing deep. I do the downstairs windows and am just getting the ladder up and my blood pressure down, when I hear a tapping above my head. It really is very sultry now and the sky looks as if it’s going to piss down with rain at any moment. I’ve seen enough flicks to know that when nature starts rearing it’s ugly head someone usually gets their end away and I hope the signs do not lie. I am round the side of the house and the window from which the tapping is coming is clearly the bathroom as there is a stream of drain-bound soapy water splashing over my boots. Perhaps she has locked herself in and needs help. The very thought has me whipping up the ladder like a clockwork monkey. Viv is pressed against the window which should be alright because the lower half is frosted glass. However, she is pressed so tight that the first thing I see is a nice bit of milky white tit with a flattened nipple in the middle of it. She moves back when she follows my eyes.

“You alright?” I say.

“I haven’t had any complaints.”

“No. I mean I thought you’d, oh, it doesn’t matter.”

“I wondered if you’d like a cup of tea?”

“Yes, that would be nice. I’ve just got the front to do and I’ll pop in.”

“Right, I’ll put the kettle on.”

The inside of the window is steamed up, and there’s a cracking niff of perfume bashing my hooter. She needn’t have bothered because I’d go for her if she had a spoonful of dripping behind the ears – or would I? I can hardly finish the windows for thinking about it and three times I drop my scrim in the same flower bed and have to rinse the bastard out. I’ll never have a better chance to score and yet that very fact is making my old man feel like it would have difficulty making a dent in a plate of cold soup. It’s like having an empty goal to shoot at and knowing you’re going to bang the ball eight yards over the bar. For a second, I even considered pissing off and leaving the whole thing for another time but I know I’ve got to go through with it – or try to.

Taking another of my deep breaths and feeling absolutely certain that my old man has dropped off and got lodged half way down one of my trouser legs, I rap on the back door and wait for Viv’s husband to open it.

“It’s open” she calls and when I go in she’s just taking the kettle off. She’s still wearing the slippers but on the rest of her is one of those big padded housecoats with frills around the hem. It is tied tightly around the waist but somehow manages to spring apart up top so I get another eyeful of her bristols.

“Do you like it?” she says, and for a moment I’m on the point of telling her I like both of them. Then I realise she means the housecoat.