Timothy Lea - Confessions from a Health Farm

‘Don’t be disgusting!’ Dad’s voice echoes after us as we bundle out of the front door.

Sid rubs his hands together and a faraway look comes into his eyes. ‘Ooh. I wouldn’t half like to get him in one of those dry heat cabinets,’ he says. ‘I’d turn the bleeding knob up to maximum and watch his nut turn scarlet. Twenty minutes later there would be nothing left but a puddle in the bottom of the cabinet.’

‘Sid! Please! That’s my old man you’re talking about.’

Sid shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. I keep forgetting that he’s a human being.’ Sid has been bashing the horror movies a bit lately and I think that they have an unfortunate effect on him. He is always knocking back his char with a maniacal laugh and saying, ‘Today, Clapham. Tomorrow the world!’ I could belt him sometimes.

‘Where does this tart live?’ I ask.

An expression of pain flashes across Sid’s features. ‘Watch it,’ he says. ‘She’s quality, this bird. Refined. You know what I mean?’

‘She washes her hands before she goes to the karsi?’

Sid shakes his head. ‘Don’t take the piss, Timmo. She’s living in reduced circumstances at the moment but she’s still a lady.’

‘How did you meet her?’ I ask.

‘Down the whelk stall in Northcote Road.’

‘Oh yes. Very salubrious,’ I say. ‘Washing them down with a glass of bubbly, was she?’

‘Whelks happen to be one of the great health foods,’ says Sidney loftily. ‘You wouldn’t cocoa some of the things whelks can do for you.’

‘I know what they do for me,’ I say. ‘And when you see them they look as if they’ve already done it.’

‘Gordon Bennett! You’re disgusting, you are. You take after your old man, there’s no doubt about it.’

‘Leaving the whelks to one side,’ I say. ‘What is this bird doing at the moment?’

‘She’s practising her craft,’ says Sid. ‘She’s a fully qualified masseuse as well as all the other things. She’s got a string of initials after her name long enough to spell out your moniker.’

All the time we are rabbiting, Sid is pushing the Rover 2000 towards Battersea Park and the river – I don’t mean literally, though with the price of petrol what it is today you could be excused for wondering.

‘I think it’s very nice round here,’ I say. ‘All those trees and the kids digging up the snowdrops.’

‘Oh it is,’ says Sid. ‘But it’s not what she’s used to. Back in Druskininkai, things were different.’

‘I imagine they would be,’ I say, philosophically.

‘Here we are.’ Sid stops outside a block of flats facing the park and we get out. The column of bell pushes looks like the buttons on a giant’s waistcoat but the front door is open and Sid sweeps over the threshold and heads for the stairs. It is funny, but I have never visited anybody in a block of flats who did not live either in the basement or right at the bleeding top. Sometimes I think that the floors in between are used for storing old furniture. There is never any sign of life on them. Not so the top floor of Porchester Mansions. The whole place is vibrating and the squeaking skylight sets your teeth on edge, the noise it is making.

‘She must have a client,’ says Sid.

‘If she does embalming she could have another one,’ I pant. ‘Blimey, those stairs don’t half knacker you.’

‘Because you’re so bleeding unfit,’ says Sid contemptuously. ‘Look at me, I’m hardly out of breath. It’s all a question of diet and a few exercises.’

I take a quick shufti at Clapham’s answer to Paul Newman and I have to confess that he does not look in bad nick. Maybe Madam Zonker knows a thing or two.

Just as that moment there is a long drawn out moan that quite puts the mockers on me. I am not surprised that the pigeon which has landed on the skylight relieves itself. I feel a bit edgy myself.

‘What’s that?’ I say.

‘Dunno,’ says Sid. ‘She seems to have finished anyway.’

The shuddering and shaking has certainly stopped and no sooner has Sid stepped towards the door than it swings open. Revealed to my hungry mince pies is a handsome looking bird wearing a cross between a housecoat and a judo robe. She has short hair and sharp, determined features.

‘Hello, Sidney sweetie,’ she says. ‘You have not seen the milkman, have you? He gets later every day. Henry wants his Ovaltine.’ Her accent is very good but you can tell that she is not British. She leans forward to look down the stairs and I can see that her knockers would make a lovely pair of bookends if you could think of the right item to put between them.

‘I haven’t,’ says Sid. ‘Wanda, I’d like to introduce my brother-in-law, Timothy Lea. He’s very interested in physical culture, though you might not believe it to look at him.’

‘Charmed,’ I say.

Wanda smiles and I notice that she has a few gold teeth sprinkled around her cakehole. ‘Likewise,’ she says. ‘Come in. My session with Sir Henry is over.’ She raises the voice when she says the last bit and I get the impression that she is giving someone a message.

I look over her shoulder and there is an elderly geezer adjusting his tie in front of the mirror.

‘Your shirt’s hanging out at the back,’ I say helpfully.

The bloke turns round and – blimey! I recognise that face. I saw him on Midweek . Not for long though, because I was looking for the wrestling. Maybe it was the wrestling? No, it couldn’t have been. Some of them look a bit past it but not as far gone as this geezer. He could rupture himself climbing through the ropes.

‘Thank you,’ he says, looking very uncomfortable.

‘I always find that’s happened when I’ve been to the karsi,’ I say, trying to put him at his ease.

‘Karsi?’ says the bloke.

‘Bog, shit-house,’ I say, helpfully. ‘I always feel a bit of a berk when somebody points it out.’

Who is he? I know I’ve seen him. If he was on the telly after ten o’clock he must be a politician. Oh yes, that’s right! He’s the minister for something. If I can get his autograph I will know who he is. Mum will be impressed, too. He is wearing a waistcoat so he must be a Conservative. Mum has a secret hankering for them. I am quite partial myself. I mean, they have all the money, don’t they?

‘I am afraid that there is no Ovaltine, today,’ says Wanda, picking up a black mask from the carpet.

‘I must have a word with you,’ murmurs the man.

‘Call me later.’ Wanda plucks a piece of fluff from the man’s suit.

‘I’ve got to have those negatives!’

He sounds really worked up about it. Looking at him, I reckon that he must be one of Miss Zonker’s newer clients. There is little physical evidence that she has taken him in hand. He looks far too slack and flabby.

‘Can I have your autograph?’ I say in what is intended to be my friendly voice.

‘On a blank cheque, I suppose?!’ snaps Sir Henry.

‘Thatll do if you haven’t got a piece of paper,’ I say. ‘Hold on a minute. You can use the back of –’

I break off when I see what I have picked up. It is a photograph of a man on a bed with two girls, one of whom definitely hails from dusky climes, as they say. Both ladies seem to be on very good terms with the gentleman in question and a good time is being had by all. It is not the photograph I would have chosen for my Christmas card to the Archbishop of Canterbury but I can see that it might have a fairly broad appeal to some sections of the market.

Sir Henry blushes, as well he might. ‘I’d hardly have recognised you from that angle,’ I say.

‘You should see some of the others,’ says Wanda. ‘Who knows? Perhaps you will.’

‘Wanda –!’