âIâve answered this advertisement in TheTimes,â says Sid.
âTheTimes?â A note of surprise enters my voice. My brother-in-law is not exactly what you might call a typical Times reader. He tends to find ExchangeandMart a bit highbrow.
âOh yes, Timmo. Itâs a very good paper. Excellent foreign section, very sound on the arts â and it takes 10p worth of chips, no trouble.â
I might have guessed. Sid does all his reading off the magazines Mum cuts up to put in the toilet, or what he finds down at the doctorâs when he is trying to get a medical certificate.
âSo what was it about, Sid?â
âSome geezer wanting capital to extend a profitable business venture.â Sid takes a reflective sip at his pint and my blood runs cold. Sidâs business brain works with the remorseless speed of a blue glacier and his eye for a good thing is matched only by a rabbit trying to have it away with a bacon slicer. He reads my expression. âIt canât do any harm to have a look, can it? I mean, if itâs in TheTimes it must be all right.â
âIt doesnât mean itâs all right,â I say. âIt just means it doesnât read dirty. They donât check everything.â
Frankly, I am amazed that Sid still has any money left. I believe he did all right out of the insurance when Beauty Manor burned down â you read all about that in ConfessionsfromaHealthFarm, didnât you? â but he doesnât talk about it a lot. Frankly, I am not surprised. Sidâs relationship with Sir Henry Baulkit and Wanda Zonker was confusing and probably very unhealthy and I think that when Wanda disappeared Sir Henry was only too glad to lash out a hefty slice of the insurance money to keep Sidâs mouth shut.
âWhat does this bloke do?â I say.
âHe makes beds,â says Sid.
âDomestic help?â I say. âYou donât want to get mixed up in that, Sid. Youâll end up with water on the knee. Thatâs womenâs work.â
âManufacturing beds, you berk!â rasps Sid. âNot farting about with hospital corners. Gordon Bennett! Can you see me as a housemaid?â
âRoll your trousers up and Iâll tell you.â
âGet stuffed!â Sid knocks back his drink and shoves the glass towards me agressively. âItâs your turn to get them in. Iâm not made of money, you know.â
âEverybody knows that,â I tell him. âThey call you Mr Abstinence because you never go for a p.â
âPiss off!â Sid always descends to coarseness in the face of superior word power and I take our glasses to the bar and wonder what harebrained scheme he can be considering. The more half-witted it is, the more likelihood there is of Sid parting with some mazuma. I remember Hulapog â the game where you hurled surplus pogo sticks through unwanted hula hoops. He sold four sets. Still, beds doesnât sound too outlandish. Lots of my best friends have beds. I have passed many a happy hour on them myself. Many people actually sleep on them. Could it be that Sid has actually found a product with a future? I am not sorry to be getting the beers in because â apart from the fact that I am one of natureâs givers â they have a new bird behind the bar who is quite an eyeful. She is of the tinted variety and though not as dark hued as Matilda Ngobla â whose dusky loins I once decorated â she is considerably browner than most brands of toothpaste. She has a lovely pair of top bollocks â slung like cannon balls waiting to be bunged into the breach â and a dark red mouth that makes me think of the texture of rose petals â you can tell I havenât had my end away for a couple of weeks, canât you?
âWhat is your pleasure?â she says.
This is the kind of question that can get a few funny answers even though the Highwayman does cater for a nicer class of person these days. Because I think I might get a bit further with a sophisticated approach I resist the easy descent into roguish raillerie and suggest that the consumption of another couple of pints from the wood might go some way towards satisfying my desires.
âNot many people about,â I say, gazing down the front of her dress as if I expect to find a pair of feet sticking out from between her knockers.
âItâs always quiet on a Monday.â
âI havenât seen you in here before, have I?â
âI donât know. Iâm not your eyes.â While I think about that, she pushes the pints towards me with short jabs of her fingers and gazes into my minces. âI help out sometimes when Gladys wants a night off. We probably havenât overlapped.â She smiles when she says it like the word âoverlappedâ means to her what it means to me. â32p, please.â