Timothy Lea - The Confessions Collection

I remember poor Sid going through a very embarrassing period with this bird who started coming round the house and asking if he could do her windows. She was round there about once a fortnight which was bleeding ridiculous. Added to that, she’s always be walking past dressed up as if she was going to her old man’s funeral. Sid was scared to go out of the house and Mum was giving him the old dead eye. She had a bloody good idea what was going on. Luckily, Rosie had this job in the supermarket so she never twigged. God knows what she would have done if she had. How Sid got rid of that piece I don’t know, because he never talked to me about it, but one day I suddenly think I haven’t seen her for a while and that’s the end of it. Since the business with Viv, Sid has kept his activities very quiet and I think he regrets having opened his mouth that first time up at the Highwayman.

One of the most interesting things about the job is the opportunity it gives you to have a shufty at how other people live. Everybody likes having a poke round somebody else’s place to see what they’ve got. My old Mum for instance. Every time there’s a house in the street for sale she goes round there. She’s no intention of moving, it’s just that she wants to see what kind of wallpaper they’ve got and whether there’s an indoor kasi. She’s also potty on going round the nobs’ houses in the country and coming back and rabbiting on about their stuff as if it’s a dead ringer of hers.

“Little fireplace in the kiddies’ room,” she’ll say, “it had exactly the same tiles as our front room. Very similar, anyway.”

I’m a bit like Mum in a smaller way and there was one job about that time that really sticks in my mind. It was up by the common and one day I’m cycling along when this old bird comes running out holding a wide-brimmed straw hat on her head and waving a walking stick.

“Young man, young man,” she calls out. “Are you a window cleaner?”

I feel like saying no, I always cycle around with a ladder in case I forget my front door key, but I don’t, and she says she has a job for me. As I look at her, I notice that what I first thought was a flower pattern on her hat is in fact bird droppings but I imagine she has just been unlucky and follow her into the semi-circular drive of this bloody great house. There’s newspapers and rubbish strewn everywhere and though I’ve been past the place before, I never thought anybody lived there. By the look of the windows, they can’t do, unless they’ve got bleeding good eyesight because they don’t look as if they’ve been cleaned since they were put in.

“It’s gonna cost you a few bob to clean that lot,” I say, because frankly I don’t fancy the job.

“Only the downstairs windows,” she says. “We’re all downstairs.”

That strikes me as being a bit funny because I can’t imagine a lot of people living there. Maybe they are the survivors of a Victorian hippie commune who can’t stand heights. Anyway, we haggle a bit and I agree to do the downstairs windows for a couple of quid. I’m following her up the front steps when I take a butchers through one of the bay windows. I can hardly see anything they’re so dirty, but there seems to be a lot of movement at floor level which puzzles me. I start to take a closer look but the old bird – “My name is Mrs. Chorlwood” – sends me round the back sharpish. “I’ll open the back door for you,” she says. “I don’t want you frightening them.”

Them? What has she got in there? I move round the house very careful-like, and something knocks against one of the windows from the inside which gives me a start, but I can’t see anything. The garden must have been very nice once, but now it’s all overgrown and there are weeds pushing through the concrete in the bottom of the dried up ornamental pond. I’m surprised they haven’t torn the whole place down and built a block of flats there.

When I get round the back, Mrs. Chorlwood is waiting for me and that’s not all. There’s a pile of empty catfood tins large enough to have fed half Brixton. They pong a bit, too, but that’s nothing to what I find in the kitchen. A large saucepan is bubbling away on a filthy greasy stove and the stink attacks you. There are tins of cat food and packets of birdseed everywhere and a slice of horsemeat from something that must have been running before the war – the Boer war. The sink is blocked up and you can’t see the pattern on the lino for all the muck that has been trodden into it.

Mrs. Chorlwood picks up a carving knife and for a moment I’m getting ready to bash her over the head if she tries anything.

“Din dins time,” she says with a sigh. “It’s hard work cooking when you have a family my size. Now, don’t open any of the windows whatever you do, we don’t want anyone getting out.”

By this time I’ve got a good idea what I’ve let myself in for, but I don’t know half of it. Mrs. Chorlwood opens the kitchen door and the pong hits me like a kick in the stomach. Cats. Gawd strewth it’s diabolical! The hall and stairs are crawling with bloody cats which make a great rush for us the moment they see Mrs. C. You can’t put your foot down without standing on one of their turds and the carpets are soggy with piss.

“Naughty, naughty,” says Mrs. C. “Oh, you naughty Jezebel. Not time for din dins yet. Now come on, Pansy, don’t scratch, dear.” She presses forward and I see that the place isn’t only full of cats. Up above, there’s a flutter of wings and we’re being dive-bombed by a flock of bloody pigeons. The picture rails are thick with droppings, the walls are spattered and there’s even a nest behind one of the light brackets.

“They get very excited about lunch time,” says Mrs. C. Too bloody right they do. One of the cats has practically got my boot off and I have to restrain myself from giving it a boot up the backside.

“I think she’s taken to you,” says Mrs. C. “Sabrina is usually rather reserved at first.”

“Don’t you ever let them out?” I say, giving Sabrina a sly jab when Mrs. C. isn’t looking.

“Out!?” says the old bag looking at me as if I’m bonkers. “Into a world like this? Nobody loves animals any more. Look what they do to each other. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let these innocent creatures fall into the hands of the vivisectionists.” I wouldn’t fancy the vivisectionists’ chances if they got their hands on the likes of Sabrina but it’s an opinion I keep to myself.

“Don’t they fight?” I say. “I mean, surely the cats must be after the birds the whole time.”

“This is no microcosm of the world,” says Mrs. C. seriously. “It is an oasis, a sanctuary where wild creatures can live in peace with each other. They all have enough to eat so there is no need for the law of the jungle.”

“What’s that one eating, then?” I say.

I am pointing to a monstrous moggy with a pile of feathers sticking out of its mouth.

“Oh, you wicked Rufus,” says Mrs. C. flying at him. “You wicked, wicked cat. How many times has mummy told you not to do that?” Rufus draws away arching his back and showing his teeth without dropping a feather. Honest, I wouldn’t fancy my chances against him on a dark night.

“They must be hungry,” says Mrs. C. “Really it’s a shame you have to see them when Rufus is playing up. Normally they’re as good as gold.”

She opens a door and we’re in one of the rooms at the front of the house. It’s large but dark because the windows are so caked with bird shit they appear opaque. The carpet must have been worth a few bob in its time but now you’d be better off selling the bird shit on it for manure. In the middle of the room is a telly and two pigeons are perched on the indoor aerial above it. Mrs. C. switches on the set and as the announcer comes up one of the birds disgraces itself all over him. I rather like that, but Mrs. C. doesn’t seem to notice.