Timothy Lea - Confessions from the Clink

‘You were always a shy boy, weren’t you Timmy?’

I feel like saying that compared to Daisy a rape specialist would be a blooming shrinking violet but I keep my mouth shut. When Daisy was knocking around – and I use the expression advisedly – with my sister Rosie, I was a little less experienced than I am now. In fact, I had not broken my duck. It was not until brother-in-law Sidney came upon the scene and introduced me to the window-cleaning business that I began to blossom out.

‘You’re quite good-looking,’ continues Daisy stroking my temple with fingers that feel as they have been used for stirring pre-cast concrete. ‘Pretty hair for a man. I wish my hair curled like that.’

‘Stick around, kid,’ I think to myself. ‘I may be able to save you the price of a home perm kit.’ I turn over on to my back and gaze up into her generous features hoping that the rest of her is also in a giving frame of mind.

‘Poor little Timmy,’ she says softly. ‘You never knew what it was for, did you?’

I could give her an argument on that but once I have decided on my plan I must see it through to the bitter end.

‘I want,’ I murmur passionately, ‘I want –’

This indication of volcano-like emotion struggling to find expression can work wonders with birds and I am not surprised when Daisy’s friendly pinkies start creeping under the bedclothes. I try to hold the expression of helpless innocence on my face but it is difficult because I know what Daisy is going to find.

‘Oh,’ she says.

‘I don’t know what’s happened to me,’ I gasp. ‘I seem different somehow. Do you think I’m all right?’

‘Very definitely,’ says Daisy climbing swiftly to her feet. ‘Look the other way – I’ve got a little surprise for you.’

It always puzzles me this: how some of the biggest scrubbers in the world don’t fancy you seeing them in the altogether. Once they get to close quarters, anything goes, but they won’t let you grab an eyeful of what any kid wandering around an art gallery would get for nothing.

Daisy has not got a beautiful body but there is a lot of it. You have to take the good with the bad. And it is presented with all the subtlety that those lingerie shops in Shaftesbury Avenue can muster. Her bra looks like one of those things your mum used to put round the Christmas cake when you were a kid. And her panties – well, it is not every girl that has ‘Chase me charlie, I’m the last bus home’ embroidered across her nicks in gold thread. Her suspender belt is a very welcome trip down memory lane as far as I am concerned and has little black roses where it makes contact with the stocking tops. I may not know much about art but I know what I like and Mrs. Deacon is bang on target.

‘You’re looking,’ she says reproachfully as she leans forward and unhooks her bra. When she does that, I duck instinctively.

‘You’re beautiful,’ I say as if a blindfold has just been removed from my eyes. Remember those words: ‘You’re beautiful.’ I know I labour the point but if you never said anything else to a bird you would get more than your fair share of nooky. That is, basically, what any piece of frippet wants to hear when you open your cakehole. And it has opened more doors than a Metropolitan Police Vehicle Removal Officer – with infinitely more satisfying results, too.

‘Do you think so?’ she says. That is the kind of stupid thing birds usually say at moments of melting tenderness and though I feel like saying ‘no, I only said it because I wanted to get my end away’ I control myself and continue to gaze into her mush like a moody moggy. She is now climbing out of her panties and revealing a pair of thighs like the entrance to a waste disposal unit. Looking at her and remembering her reputation I am not certain if I dare trust my delicate equipment to her tender mercies – I say tender because she is built a bit like one.

I recall that when the American sixth fleet came to town she and Rosie welcomed them so enthusiastically that half the complement of an aircraft carrier had to be helped on to the train back to Portsmouth. The U.S. Navy had to ring up the Russians and ask them to postpone the next Middle East Crisis for a couple of weeks while they recovered. Faced with that kind of animal enthusiasm, am I going to be able to cope?

Now without a stitch, apart from anything left behind in her appendix scar, Daisy pulls back the sheets and slips in beside me.

‘Oh,’ I gulp. ‘Oh, oh.’

I try to sound like a chocolate tester being subjected to a new taste sensation. My barely restrained enthusiasm obviously communicates itself to Daisy because she slumps across my chest so that I can feel her breasts like two heavy bags being dumped on a customs officer’s desk.

‘Have you ever done this before?’ she says. ‘With a girl?’

I am not certain I like the last bit very much. Have you noticed how difficult it is to try and change people’s minds once they have formed an impression of you?

‘I’ve tried,’ I say bravely.

Her hand is toying with my action man kit again and there is no doubt that percy is eager for action.

‘You shouldn’t have any problems,’ she says encouragingly. ‘Why don’t you put it in?’

‘Put it in?’ I croak.

‘Gordon Bennet!! Give it here.’ With an impressive display of champion skills Daisy Deacon puts a hammer-lock on my hampton and manoeuvres it into the position where it can do the most damage. ‘Now push. There we are. That’s nice, isn’t it? It’s nice for me anyway.’ Just in case I should try and make a bolt for it, Big D grabs hold of the cheeks of my ask-me-no-questions and applies sufficient pressure to make me think she may be attempting a crotch swallow. This is a tempting proposition but the time has now come for me to shed the Robin side of my nature and make with a bit of Batman. From Cock Robbing to Batterman, in fact. With one bound – or extensive wriggle – I am free and directing my energies to a sustained bout of pelvis pounding.

‘Oh!’ squeaks Daisy. ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’

It is as well that my morning exertions with Mrs. Sinden have taken the edge off my appetite as it would be very easy to come to the boil too soon with Daisy. She has the happy knack of giving you the happy knackers and should wear a flashing sign saying ‘loves it’ across her wide Miss Houri bosom.

‘You’re a quick learner,’ she gasps. ‘I’ll say that for you.’

‘There’s nothing to it, really, is there?’ I pant. ‘I must have had some kind of blockage in the past.’

‘You want to stick to girls, dear. It’s much better for you in the long run. Much better for them, too. Ooh, that is nice. I feel as if I’ve just had a champagne enema.’

‘You don’t look as if you have an enema in the world,’ I say wittily. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you looked in.’

‘So am I.’ And so saying the good lady hauls me to her and proceeds to try and batter a hole in the mattress. Two can play at that game and in less time than it takes to explain to an Irishman that he can move a wheelbarrow from one place to the other without using another wheelbarrow, we are thundering into what I hope is a grandstand finish. Our happy howls are almost too large for the cell and when we at last collapse into a panting heap there falls a silence in which I can sense the rest of the prison holding its collective breath and wondering what is going to happen next.

What happens next is that the door opens and Rosie comes in. There is a pink flush in her cheeks and her eyes appear to be watering but I do not pay too much attention to that.

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