Timothy Lea - Confessions from the Clink

‘Yes, you do your stuff and I’ll see if I can make any suggestions.’

Mrs. S. takes a deep breath – and with those knockers the breaths have to be deep, believe me, and wriggles out of one sleeve of her housecoat. A tasty titty pops into view and she cocks her head to one side. I darn nearly head my cock to her side, but manage to restrain myself. With difficulty.

‘How’s that?’

‘Very good, but a little more posed, if you know what I mean. Try and flex your – yes! That’s it. Smashing.’

‘Shall I do another one?’

‘Please.’

This time both bristols gallop out into the open and a spontaneous burst of applause would not be out of order. This girl has certainly got what it takes and I can’t wait to take it. She arches backwards and her robe flops on to the floor. There is not much else flopping, I can tell you.

‘How’s this?’ she gasps.

‘Unbelievable. Now, careful. Don’t break anything. Let me – that’s it. Now, a bit more. Fantastic! Back a bit more. Hey, wait a minute. I know what. Get on the bed. Yes. Good. Oh, that’s great!’

‘Yes it is,’ she squeaks. ‘But should you be doing it?’

‘Tones up the flesh a treat,’ I mumble idiotically from the gorge between her breasts. ‘My goodness me, but you’re gollumptuous. I can’t see what “Bedtime Wankie” were on about.’

‘Bedside Winkie,’ she corrects me. ‘Oh. Do you really think I’ve got a chance?’

‘Chance?’ I tell her, kicking my jeans over my heels. ‘I think you’re a blooming certainty.’

When I leave Mrs. Sinden’s, a large weight is off my mind and the rest of me is feeling much lighter, as well. What a performer that lady is! I feel as if I have been through a suction cleaner a couple of times. Talk about being taken out of yourself. I have to skate round the rest of the lodgings to pick up all the laundry before lunch and the strain of my morning obviously shows.

‘Ooh, you’re looking completely drained,’ says Petal resting his hand on my forearm. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Don’t do that,’ I tell him. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I’m allergic to being touched.’

‘Ooh, you are sensitive. I can see you had a bad morning. I had a lovely time in the library. They’re ever so nice there. One of the boys, well he’s called Jeremy and he’s my favourite. He said that his whole life-style had been changed since he worked there. His basics have been broadened out of all recognition.’

This comes as no surprise to me and I only hope he will be able to cope with Mr. Warren. Maybe they will be able to strike up a deep and meaningful relationship that will relieve the pressure on my toecap.

Before I can comment further on the subject I hear the crunch of motor car against gravel and look out of the window to see a Rolls pulling up outside the front door. To my amazement, four groovy chicks pile out of it, all fun furs and thigh-length boots, giggling and looking up at the windows.

‘Who the hell are they?’ I say to myself as much as to anyone else.

‘They’re wives, ain’t they?’ says the inmate Legend addressed as Grass, matter-of-factly.

‘Wives!?’

‘Yeah. Every Wednesday your wife can visit you for the afternoon.’

‘Ooh, there’s no getting away from them,’ says Fran distastefully.

‘Supposing you don’t have a wife, then?’ I ask.

‘Well, you’ve had it, haven’t you? Old shit-face is dead against immorality.’

‘But I’ve got feelings. Just the same as any married bloke.’

‘If you had ’em strong enough, you’d get married. That’s what the Governor thinks, anyhow.’

I return my eyes to the crumpet, thinking how unfair it all is. At least, it is good to know that there is some advantage in being married – if you ever got stuck in the nick. Looking at those birds it is difficult to believe that they are spliced. They seem so blooming cheerful compared to most of the wives I know. Maybe this is another result of their old men being in the chokey. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that sort of rubbish. They are certainly receiving a lot of attention from the windows and when they disappear inside it is to a sound like someone testing a leaking set of bagpipes. I have hardly got used to their absence when a charabanc arrives, and then another. They are all jam-packed with real sporty looking birds and I feel like I must be one of the few unmarried blokes in the prison. Me, and Fran, of course.

‘Ooh, they’re like ravening beasts, aren’t they?’ says Fran. ‘I think it’s disgusting, myself. Like Honeymoon Holiday Camps. All of them arriving down here for only one thing. I’d have too much pride myself. It must take all the romance out of it.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, thinking how blooming lucky it is that I had my little session with Mrs. Sinden in the a.m. Without that I could be contemplating knotting myself. You may think it strange that I am wandering about casing the frippet but this is what the place is like. Nobody has asked me to pick any oakum yet – which is just as well as I wouldn’t know which shade to choose – and the only time they lock the door of your cell – oops sorry – room, is when you are bloody grateful because it is time to start worrying about Fran Warren. At this rate, boredom is going to be my chief enemy unless I can pick up Mrs. Sinden’s washing article by article.

I am contemplating this course of action as a serious possibility when another coach-load of bird-life rolls up. I don’t know how many blokes there are in the nick but at this rate a lot of them must be moslems. I look down and allow my mince pies to fondle the curvy limbs as the bints trip down the steps of the bus. Blimey! There is a face from the past I recognise. Daisy Deacon. One of sister Rosie’s friends from my old Scragg Lane days. She was a raver, was Daisy. I remember her well. Rosie was no angel but Daisy left her standing. I can recall Dad having to lock the door of the potting shed because she was always in there breaking his flower pots. Not intentionally, mind. They just got in the way when she had about three fellahs with her. I might have guessed she’d end up marrying a villain. I wonder – Blimey! Mark II!! There is Rosie large as life and twice as tastelessly dressed. What is she doing here? I did not know it was an ordinary visiting day as well. I wonder how she found out where I was? Good old Rosie. I always knew she had a soft spot for me. She does not say too much, but when the chips are down she’s in there – one way or another. Not like dad. Dad’s attitude really got up my bracket to eyebrow height. Dropping me in the S-H-you-know-what like that.