LITMIR.BIZ

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is a few moments before I can say anything.

      ‘That’s it, is it?’

      ‘That’s the first verse.’ Sidney studies my face. ‘It’s not easy to find something to rhyme with “job”.’

      ‘It can’t be.’

      ‘I think the bit about the kettle makes it homely. I think women will like that.’

      ‘They should do, Sidney. It’s certainly got a very patriotic melody.’

      ‘I’m glad you noticed that. The second verse isn’t quite as good:

      If it’s dirty

      Or merely slightly soiled –’

      ‘Yes, yes, Sidney,’ I say hurriedly, ‘but what happened about the dealer?’

      ‘Oh yes. Well, the girls got a bit teuchy when the bloke told Happy Spirit what she could do with her sunflower and there was a bit of unpleasantness.’

      ‘Oh dear. Nothing serious I hope?’

      ‘Not too bad. The police soon got it under control – once the second van load had arrived, that is.’

      ‘Took a bit of stopping, did it?’

      ‘Just a little. I thought the fire hoses were unnecessary myself but I suppose you can’t blame people for not taking chances.’

      ‘Girls alright, are they?’

      ‘Ours are. One or two of the assistants had minor sprains and that kind of thing. None of them were detained.’

      ‘Oh good. So it was nothing too serious?’

      ‘We’ll know after the hearing tomorrow.’

      ‘The hearing?!’

      ‘About eleven o’clock, the bloke thought they would be on.’

      ‘“They”? You mean the Daughters of the Cherry Blossom?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Arrested?!’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘And you haven’t sold anything either?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘Oh, my gawd!’

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      With the Nippons in the nick, Sid comes out on the road in the afternoon and by close of play we have sold one Nugget between us.

      ‘At this rate, Sid,’ I tell him on the way back to Canal Street, ‘it’s going to take us fifty-four years to sell the other nineteen thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine, and I don’t fancy myself as a seventy-six year old cleaner salesman.’

      ‘I don’t fancy you as a twenty-two year old ponce,’ snarls Sidney, who is smarting because it was me who sold the cleaner, ‘now belt up!’

      Luckily Mrs. Runcorn is a warm, worldly Sid-crazed woman, who knows how to distribute tea and sympathy and she soon diagnoses our problem.

      ‘Had a bad day, did you, boys?’ she says. ‘Never mind. They call this place the salesman’s graveyard. I’ve seen grown men sobbing their hearts out in front of the telly.’

      ‘That’s not what you –’ I begin.

      ‘Shut up,’ says Sid.

      ‘Exactly what line of business are you in?’ inquires Mrs. R.

      ‘Cleaners. The Noggett Nugget,’ I say, ‘named after him.’

      ‘Ooh, really! I should be honoured then. It’s funny you should be selling cleaners. I was only saying to Rita yesterday that we needed a new one. Yours is good, is it?’

      I look at Sidney and Sidney looks at me. ‘It’s Japanese,’ he says eventually, ‘a multi-purpose machine. It does a lot of things.’

      ‘A lot of things,’ I echo.

      ‘I might be interested in one of those,’ says Mrs. R. brightly. ‘Can I see one?’

      I get out the demonstration model which is looking a bit the worse for wear after all the lugging about it has had to endure and plug it in. I am taking no chances and have not connected up any of the fancy features.

      ‘It’s a good little vacuum cleaner,’ I say. ‘Watch.’

      But unfortunately Mrs. Runcorn cannot watch. When I press the switch there is a blinding flash and all the lights go out. Not only the lights in the house but in the house next door and outside in the street. When we feel our way to a window we find that the whole street is in darkness.

      ‘It must have got wet,’ I say weakly.

      ‘If the bleeding Japs had had that thing in the war, it would have taken more than Errol Flynn to save us,’ says Sid. ‘By the cringe, but I’m right up to here with it.’

      ‘Never mind boys,’ says Mrs. R. good-naturedly, ‘I’ve got some candles. We’ll phone up the electricity board. They’ll soon have it on again.’

      But they don’t soon have it on again and when Rita comes home the four of us eat our supper by candlelight. Very romantic it is too with the soft glow of the candles almost matching the gleam that comes into Sidney’s eyes every time he looks at Rita. She seems to be responding and as the evening progresses I reckon that Sid could take his pick of mum or daughter. Would that I could consider myself so lucky but for once in my life – well, not once, say about three hundred times – neither bird seems to respond to my animal magnetism. Strange, isn’t it? Watch it! I heard that.

      Without the telly there is very little else for the four of us to do on such a slender acquaintance and around half past nine we take our candles and retire to bed. Depressed by the events of the day I am badly in need of a spot of nooky to cheer me up, but my chances of getting it seem fainter than Lord Longford being arrested for sniffing little girls’ bicycle seats.

      In such circumstances, the native cunning of the Leas comes to the foreskin and I assemble a master plan to ensure myself a fifty percent share of the flesh-fodder available. It is unlikely that either of the ladies will keep their candles alight for long after retiring and this fact can easily be checked by peeping through their keyholes. Sidney is lusting for Rita and will direct his person in that direction whilst Mrs. R. will be waiting for any sound of movement so that she can leap out and snaffle him for herself or, at least, play the bitch in the manger and stop him getting to Rita. If I can arrive outside Sidney’s room without being heard and then make sufficient noise to arouse Mrs. R., it is likely that she will bustle out without lighting her candle and surrender to my arms in the belief that I am Sidney. It is worth a try anyway. In my present mood anything short of a chloroform pad is worth a try.

      The minute I get into my room I stop by the not quite closed door and shed my clothes noiselessly. Five minutes pass and the silence is deafening as I ease my naked body out into the dark corridor. I creep over against the banisters where the creak is least pronounced and can see no more cracks of light under any of the doors. Good. Step by delicate step I ghost round to a position outside Sidney’s room judging the distance from the patch of grey sky I can see through the landing window.

      No sooner have I arrived than I hear Sidney’s bed creaking and the unmistakable sound of his dirty great plates of meat colliding with the carpet. No doubt he is tripping off on a similar errand to my own. Disaster! I do not fancy bumping into him at a moment like this. I put a restraining hand on the door knob and find my finger brushing against a key. Almost before the thought has formed itself in my mind I have turned the key and Sidney is imprisoned in his bedroom. I am hoping that the realisation of this fact will not prompt a typically unseemly reaction from my brother-in-law, when the bedroom door beside Sid’s opens swiftly and a hand reaches out and seizes

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