LITMIR.BIZ

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they give the impression of being capable of killing you if you interrupt their conversation. Also, despite the fact that they work for rival firms they are all terribly matey with each other. The last fact has to do with their belief that they were born to do better things than discuss washing machines with peasants and that if there was any justice in the world they would all be Paul Getty’s widows.

      I do not know this when I first see Rose Dunchurch – she sounds like a village in the west country, doesn’t she? – and therefore my natural Lea high spirits get me off on the wrong foot.

      Seeing me gazing at the U.H.A. Washwhiz while I try to work out in what way, if any, it differs from the HomeClean WonderWasher, she misinterprets my interest and glides towards me like a crocodile approaching breakfast.

      ‘Thinking about a washing machine, sah?’ she says, all posh-like.

      ‘I seldom think about anything else,’ I say as her eyebrows go up. ‘Tell me, they all look the same to me. What’s so remarkable about this one?’

      ‘In a word, sah,’ she says, ‘“Tickle tension”.’

      ‘“Tickle tension”,’ I gulp. ‘What on earth is that?’

      ‘That is the unique U.H.A. wash action that extends the fabric being washed and gently tickles the dirt from it. Strong but gentle. There’s no tangling, no clumsy propellers to damage your clothes. Independent tests have proved –’

      ‘Yes, yes,’ I say, because I have heard all that before, ‘but is this washing action strong enough to get the dirt out of really dirty garments? I mean, my flatmate does a lot of moto-cross. I reckon it’s going to take more than tickling to get the mud out of that lot.’

      In fact the Washwhiz is a first rate product and I am only repeating the line we have been told to spin the trade. Sales Education have decided that ‘Tickle tension’ sounds a bit feeble and are casually dropping it about that the machine would not pull a boyscout off his sister.

      ‘Oh, no, sah,’ she says, shaking her head in amazement that such old wives tales should still persist. ‘There is no diminution in washing efficacy.’ She uses words like that because she is pretty certain I am not going to understand them. This is another pretty standard selling ploy and usually revolves around product description: ‘You see, madam, the centrifugal drag factor is starboggled by countersunk flange gussets to maintain the perfect balance between fabric safety and drying efficiency’. This, at a pinch, could be used to explain why your machine spin dries worse than anything else on the market. Few customers wish to reveal themselves as the kind of idiot who does not understand about countersunk flange gussets and most of them are impressed by any word they have never heard before. Rose Dunchurch continues, the U.H.A. badge on her generous knockers trembling with selling zeal.

      ‘Don’t be misled into thinking that because the keynote of the Tickle tension washing action is gentleness you are losing out on cleaning power. I know there are other machines on the market that give the impression of a lot going on when you look through the port-hole, but in fact, some of the more powerful actions are too powerful. They are actually driving the dirt deeper into the clothes!’

      ‘No!’ I gasp.

      ‘Yes!’ Miss Dunchurch begins to close in for the kill. ‘Now, with Tickle tension, the whole surface of the article to be washed is opened out,’ she gently opens a folded tea-cloth, ‘not screwed into a ball as happens with some washing machines.’ Her face contorts with disgust and she viciously mangles the tea towel. By the cringe, but she is a strong girl. ‘Now,’ her voice softens again, ‘with the Washwhiz we open up the fabric rather like a flower responding to sunshine,’ I suppress a wince. What diabolical adman could have thought of that one! ‘Gentle jets of water play on the fabric as it circulates, easing out the dirt.’ She agitates the cloth between her fingers and I watch her breasts quivering. I like it when she does that.

      ‘Sounds very good,’ I say earnestly, ‘but I was thinking about a Wonderwasher. They speak very highly of it in the advertisements.’

      Miss Dunchurch looks round carefully to see if the HomeClean Demonstrator is within earshot. She is not.

      ‘Personally,’ says Miss D., ‘I have the highest respect for HomeClean. They make some wonderful products. Their electric pruners, for instance – absolutely first class. But –’ a teeny note of doubt creeps into her voice, ‘I have never been absolutely one hundred per cent confident about their washing machines. I suppose it all boils down to the question of personal experience, whether tangling is something you worry about, how handy you are with a sewing machine –’

      ‘Oh, there you are Timmy, sorry I’m late. Hello, Rose.’ Arthur has crept up behind me unnoticed. Miss Dunchurch’s face registers instant distaste.

      ‘Is he one of yours?’ she says to Arthur as if referring to a puppy that has just relieved itself against her ankle.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘you were doing such a good job I didn’t have the heart to stop you.’

      ‘There is a code,’ she says witheringly. ‘Even in this business one has ethics.’

      ‘I prefer Suffolk myself,’ I say, ‘not so flat.’

      My little joke goes unnoticed as Miss D. continues her outburst of righteous indignation.

      ‘You don’t care do you,’ says Arthur later. ‘She’ll put in a complaint for certain. Head office are very sticky about things like that.’

      He is right there. Big companies may hate each other’s guts in private but in public it is very much a case of ‘after you, Claud, no, after you, Cecil’.

      ‘You’d better try and make your peace with her,’ warns Arthur, ‘remember, you’re still on probation.’

      This conversation is taking place in a corner of the showroom and, from where I stand, I can see Miss D.’s bristols still bristling. If you like the big blonde bomber type you would like Rose Dunchurch. She is generously endowed with curves and has legs that go straight up to her armpits. Now that she hates my guts I have decided that I am passionately in love with her body. This is often the way with me, being someone who likes a challenge. Stupid, as well. I therefore have to find a way of burying not only the hatchet but the chopper and in Miss D.’s present mood this is going to require all my reserves of animal magnetism and low cunning. Fortunately I am equal to the challenge.

      After a brief planning discussion with Arthur we sidle up behind the display of U.H.A. products that Miss Dunchurch is guarding.

      ‘Nice looking machine that,’ I say in a loud stage whisper, intending for Miss D. to hear. ‘Reminds me of the R 49.’

      ‘Quiet, you fool!’ replies Arthur, over-playing his part as I knew he would, ‘that’s not off the secret list yet. Remember what they said at the pre-launch meeting.’

      Behind us there is the sound of a pile of detergent packets tumbling to the ground as Miss D. struggles to get nearer to our conversation. One of the reasons why HomeClean encourages its salesmen to keep on good terms with the competition is so that they can elicit information about new products development, and I am gambling that what she has overheard will encourage Miss D. to soften her heart towards me.

      Waiting until just before dinner time, I approach her with an expression of humble manliness etched across my features.

      ‘I came to apologise for what happened this morning,’ I say, ‘and I wondered if I could buy you a drink to make up for it?’

      ‘Well,’ she says primly, ‘it was very naughty of you. I’m certain that if I reported what happened, your sales manager would take a very dim view of it.’

      ‘I know, I know,’ I grovel. ‘It would probably cost me my job. I haven’t been with the company very long.’

      ‘Well, since you’ve had the grace to apologise, let’s say no more about it.’

      ‘Thank you very much,’ I bleat.

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