Timothy Lea - Confessions of an Ice Cream Man

‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘Take a few deep breaths, you’ll feel much better.’

A crowd is collecting and I am suddenly aware that the girl who was driving the car is amongst them. She looks worried – and very, very beautiful. Looking into her dark passionate eyes quite cheers me up after the distress of Sid’s predicament.

I think Sid likes her too because he immediately grabs hold of her leg and clings to it. ‘What ’appened?’ says the bird sounding appropriately worried.

‘You nearly killed my brother-in-law,’ I say sternly. ‘Snatched away in his prime he would have been.’ Sid nods vigorously and presses his face closer to the bird’s thigh. He looks like a tabby cat with suppertime approaching. I think he is overdoing it a bit but I can’t say anything.

‘It was an accidente,’ says a swarthy bloke who has emerged from the ice cream van. ‘Is nobody hurta.’

‘Nobody hurt?’ I say. ‘Are you a doctor, mate? Do you think he’s usually that colour? Why don’t you push off and shove your nuts in your cassata?’

A murmur of agreement tells me that the world cup preliminaries are still much in the mind of many of the onlookers and Beppo backs off and relapses into grumbling Italian.

‘How are you doing, Sid?’ I ask tenderly. ‘Is there anything you want you’re not already making a grab at?’ Sid withdraws his hand from the Alfa lady’s trousers and makes a hoarse, croaking noise. ‘I think he wants to go to the South London Hospital,’ I say.

‘But that’s a women’s hospital,’ says one of the onlookers.

‘He knows what’s good for him,’ I say.

‘Use my car,’ says the luscious eyetie bint. ‘I am zo zorry about all zis. I do not mean to ’urt ’im.’

‘That’s all right,’ I say. ‘The damages for this kind of thing never go above a couple of hundred thousand quid on average. Mind you, he’ll probably never sing again so it could be a bit more in this case.’

‘Sing?’ says the bird.

‘They called him the Clapham Caruso,’ I say. ‘He had the world at his feet. Now – who knows? – a summer season at Hayling Island if he’s lucky.’

‘You think he’ll sue?’ says the bird.

‘He’ll be forced to,’ I tell her. ‘Just for the sake of the wife and kiddies. That’s their violin lessons up the spout. Yehudi Menuhin will be casting around for a few bob.’ I can see that I have kindled nervousness in the bird’s eyes and I turn my attention to Sid. ‘Let go of the lady’s leg,’ I say in as kindly a tone as I can manage. ‘She’s going to help take you to hospital.’

‘I will never sing again,’ croaks Sid as we help him scramble to his feet. ‘“My old man, said follow the band –” See? It’s not there any more.’

‘Maybe with time and lots of money,’ I say comfortingly. I must say, there is something very sexy about being driven in a fast car by a handsome bird and I really enjoy the journey to St Bukes – Sid makes a noise as we go past the South London but we don’t stop. The way she shoves the stubby gear lever into position with scarlet-tipped fingers. The lunging aggression of her breasts thrusting against the soft angora. The restrained power of her gracefully muscled legs as they step on the pedals. It quite takes my mind off Sid’s gasps and groans. I wonder if the red mark round his neck will ever go? It looks a bit like one of those poncey necklaces you see worn by geezers with gold earrings and intense stares. It does nothing for him.

‘You’re one of the Frascatis, are you?’ I ask, remembering the sign on the front of the ice cream van.

‘Si – I mean, yes,’ says the bird. ‘I am Valentina. Pietro is my uncle.’

‘I’m Timothy Lea,’ I say. ‘This unfortunate creature here labours under the name of Sidney Noggett.’ Sid groans and tries to knee me in the balls.

‘I wish we ’ad met under ’appier auspices,’ says Valentina.’ ‘Ow is the Signor Noggetto?’

‘Multo dicey,’ I say. ‘I think he is in urgent need of medical attention.’

I soon wish I had not spoken because Valentina puts one of her lovely feet down and the landscape turns into a blur before we pull up outside St Bukes with a jerk – well, two jerks if you include Sid. I am disturbed to see that the old maestro is not looking as purple and ghastly as he did a few minutes ago and I consider throttling him back into a medically interesting colour. Probably not a good idea.

‘You had better give me your address and telephone number,’ I say to Valentina. ‘Just in case the repercussions of your inadvertent but ill-considered action are even more serious than I anticipate them being.’

‘I will come in with you,’ says the lovely creature. ‘You get out while I find somewhere to park.’

Half an hour later she is with us refusing a lukewarm cup of tea and a crumbling wad. The out-patients smells of disinfectant and babies and the benches have been polished shiny by countless millions of bums two hours late for their appointments.

‘Good job I’m a bleeding emergency,’ croaks Sid. ‘Some of those poor sods are going to die of old age before anyone gets round to them.’

‘Mr Chow? Mr Banwagi? Mr Ndefru?’ Nobody moves and the nurse goes away again.

‘They must have nipped out to get their free specs and dentures,’ says Sid. ‘You noticed that, did you? Not one of them was English.’

‘Ssh,’ I say. ‘Don’t be rude. Think of Valentina.’ I don’t think she has heard Sid because she smiles and goes on reading her edition of the September 1955 Exchange and Mart . Sometimes I wonder where they get the reading matter that is strewn about in these places. The British Museum must have a snappier collection.

‘Three hours I waited here on Thursday to end up with an Indian doctor,’ says the woman sitting next to me. ‘I didn’t mind that but then he started reading my medical card upside down.’

‘It’s not right, is it?’ I say.

‘Some of the nurses are all right but I wouldn’t trust them with a syringe. I mean, it’s right back to the jungle for them. I’ve had them trying to inject into the bone.’

‘Feeling better, Sid?’ I say.

‘And that Doctor Balbutti,’ says my neighbour. ‘He’s so nervous he terrifies you. He chewed the rubber out of his stethescope while I was describing my symptoms.’

‘Mr Noggett? Doctor will see you now.’

‘I don’t think it’s necessary,’ says Sid. ‘I’m feeling a hundred per cent now.’

‘Nonsense!’ I tell him. ‘Your head is only hanging onto your shoulders by a thread.’ I lower my voice. ‘Belt up if you want to take this Italian bird for a few bob.’ I drag Sid to his feet and am disappointed to find that Valentina is tagging along.

‘Mr Noggett?’ says the nurse looking at the three of us.

‘The man with a neck like a turkey on Boxing Day,’ I say, nodding at Sid. ‘I hope you’ve seen suffering, love, otherwise you might as well chuck the whole thing in and wander across to the kiddies’ clinic – don’t nod your head, Sid. It could be fatal.’

‘Only the patient, please,’ says the nurse coldly. She is obviously a hard nut and I believe that they can turn like that.

‘But I’m the only one who knows the symptoms,’ I say. ‘I saw the whole thing. If it’s a question of settling damages, my presence is invaluable.’

‘Not at the moment it isn’t,’ says the nurse brusquely. ‘Wait in there. The doctor will call you if he needs you.’

‘You’ve got a white one, Sid,’ I say as he goes through the door. He does not reply because his head is tilted right back. This is probably why he crashes into the instruments trolley and breaks half a dozen thermometers.

‘Now it’s gone to his eyes,’ I say as we are shown into a small room containing a bed trolley. ‘That is serious. I was hoping the big game hunting was going to take his mind off the singing.’