LITMIR.BIZ

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of them should be certified and all,’ he says. ‘Come on, lad, it’s not much but it keeps the wife in custard powder and knickers.’ He pushes open the door and for a moment I think we have arrived after a snatch of burglars have turned the place over. Appliances are piled higgledy-piggledy on top of each other and every available surface is inches deep in leaflets and invoices. It is only when I notice the layers of dust and the tabby cat asleep inside the open porthole of an automatic washing machine that I realise it is probably like this all the time.

      The bloke emerging from the back of the shop makes Arthur look like Douglas Fairbanks Junior. He is wearing a khaki cardigan, plaid shirt, baggy trousers tied at the waist with a tie, carpet slippers and mittens. His face is a disturbing grey colour broken by a multitude of small red veins converging on his nose.

      Despite the surroundings I feel a small current of excitement rippling through my body. After nearly four weeks of intensive training by some of the finest salesmen in the business, this is it.

      ‘Hello Alf,’ says Arthur. ‘Bloody parky, isn’t it?’

      ‘Real brass monkey weather. You fancy a cup of tea, Arthur?’

      ‘That’s very nice of you, Alf. Oh, Alf, this is Mr. Leak. He’s just joined the company and he’s spending a bit of time with me.’

      Alf looks me up and down disinterestedly. ‘Management Trainee, is he?’

      ‘No, no, nothing like that. I wouldn’t bring any of them round, Alf.’ Arthur sounds as if he is talking about smallpox germs. ‘How’s it going, then?’

      Alf’s expression grows even sadder.

      ‘Very slow. Sold a cylinder the other week. When is that Wonderwasher coming back?’ Alf’s voice takes on a note of genuine anxiety.

      ‘I wish I knew, Alf. It’s not good, is it? I don’t know what they’re doing down there, really I don’t. They’ve had the strike of course, and the power go-slow. Then one of the component suppliers closed down. But there’s no excuses really, I know there isn’t. I feel very bad about it.’ Arthur looks at me and I nod vigorously.

      ‘You’ve got a funny lot there and no mistake.’ Alf pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his cardigan and gazes out of the window. Arthur nods and we preserve a respectful silence.

      ‘It was the same with the RG 238’s.’

      Arthur is swift to agree. ‘Just what I was saying to young Mr. Leak here. I was saying that, wasn’t I? After the RG 238 we all said, “it can’t happen again”. And what’s happened? It’s happened again. It’s not good, is it? Oh, no. It really isn’t good at all.’ We all nod vigorously this time and gaze out of the window as if having our photograph taken from the street.

      Eventually the silence is broken by Arthur.

      ‘Do you—er, need anything?’ he asks, rather in the manner of a barber pushing forward a carton of french letters. Alf scratches his nose thoughtfully.

      ‘I suppose I’d better have another cylinder. What is it? 478321G isn’t it?’ Arthur shakes his head.

      ‘I’m not certain. Bloody stupid, these numbers. You can never remember them, can you? Is one going to be enough?’

      ‘Should be. The last one was here for six months. The cat had kittens in the carton.’

      ‘Nice pussy,’ I say, deciding it is time I made some kind of contribution, and waggle my finger at the sleeping moggy. Alf turns to me and looks at the calendar with the nude bint on it. He nods slowly.

      ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘And the rest of her isn’t bad either.’

      In the end we have a cup of luke-warm tea out of a chipped mug, leave a pile of leaflets for products Alf does not stock and sell one cylinder cleaner. By the time we have finished it is getting on for twelve o’clock.

      ‘Not much point in making another call before dinner,’ says Arthur. ‘What do you fancy eating?’

      ‘I’m easy. I wouldn’t mind a pint and a wad.’ Arthur shakes his head.’

      ‘I daren’t risk that. It makes me too sleepy.’ I feel like saying that few people would probably be able to tell the difference between Arthur awake and unconscious but I restrain myself. On the basis of this morning’s exercise I cannot see how HomeClean can afford to support a sales force. A whole morning to sell one lousy cylinder cleaner? The mind boggles.

      Arthur, though, seems to be in quite good spirits.

      ‘I built that one up all by myself,’ he says. ‘He never used to take any of our stuff. Now, I get an order every time I go in there.’

      ‘You didn’t push him very hard,’ I say, remembering everything they taught us at Knuttley Hall. Arthur shakes his head.

      ‘Doesn’t do any good with these fellows. You can’t push them. They reckon they know what’s best for them and you’ve just got to play along. Besides, when half the products you sell them are duff or out of stock, it becomes a bit difficult to lean on them. Now, how do you fancy a nice salad?’

      ‘A salad?’ I say unenthusiastically. ‘Well, if you say so.’

      ‘It’s free,’ he says, ‘and served without dressing.’ He giggles and I wonder what he is on about. I am even more perplexed when we stop outside a semi-detached house and Arthur turns off the engine.

      ‘Is this where you live?’ I ask him, imagining a cosy dinner with Mrs. Seaton.

      ‘Blimey no,’ says Arthur. ‘This is what you might call a cold canvas. I have a servicing agreement with the lady who lives here.’

      I look up a bit sharp at that but Arthur is quick to soothe my suspicious mind. ‘Don’t start jumping to any conclusions,’ he says, ‘I refer to the maintenance of her HomeClean products. Drop by about now and you can be certain of a spot of lunch.’

      ‘How do you know you’re going to get a salad?’ I ask.

      ‘Well, you see,’ says Arthur pressing the front door bell, ‘she’s a vegetarian and a naturist. You don’t have anything against nudity do you?’

      Before I can answer the door opens and there is a pleasant faced woman of about fifty beaming out at us. She is wearing a pair of spectacles. My description ends there because that is all she is wearing.

      ‘Good morning, Mrs. Bennett,’ sings out Arthur. ‘Keeping well? I’ve brought Mr. Leak with me. He’s learning the ropes.’

      ‘I hope he knows his onions,’ Mrs. Bennett shakes with laughter at her little joke. And I mean shake. Her breasts would have difficulty fitting into a couple of pudding basins and when they start moving it is like the beginning of an avalanche. If she turned round quickly she could have your head off. I try not to look at them as Arthur pushes me through the door but they are one of the largest things in the house.

      ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ says Arthur. ‘I say that every time I come.’

      ‘I try and keep it looking presentable,’ says Mrs. B. ‘Come on through. I want you to have a look at my toaster.’

      We follow her down the corridor and I am not surprised to find that she has cane bottom chairs in the kitchen. From behind her big end looks like a relief map of North Wales.

      ‘Would Mr. Leak care for some salad,’ she asks.

      ‘Lea,’ I say.

      ‘Oh, alright,’ she says, ‘you can call me Mary. You’ve got an unusual name haven’t you? Lee Leak.’

      I decide not to pursue the matter and say that I would very much like some salad. Whilst we are becoming better acquainted Arthur gets the back off the toaster.

      ‘Ah hah!’ he says, emptying out about half a pound of charcoal. ‘We’ve been a naughty Mrs. Bennett, haven’t

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