Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

“So, he came home unexpected, did he?” he beams. “I wish I had a pound note for every time it had happened to me. Good luck to you, lad.” And off he goes swaying slightly and chuckling to himself whilst he prods hopefully for the key hole.

Dame Fortune is obviously splitting her face in my direction and as danger recedes so my happily pissed feeling returns as if it has just been hiding away in an odd corner of my body till the trouble blew over. Fresh from the jaws of danger I decide that it is a marvellous moment to go and propose to Elizabeth. Half naked and glistening with dew and sweat I will be revealed in the back garden hurling handfulls of earth against her bedroom window. Crummy Charlton Heston couldn’t do it better – certainly not in my condition. I am so possessed of the strange feeling that I have to go to Elizabeth. It’s like a murderer giving himself up. I feel that someone there is saying, “Right, lad, we got you out of that one, but there’s a condition, see?”

Now the problem is how to get there. Elizabeth’s place is a couple of miles and it is beginning to rain. Wearing just a pair of trousers I do look a bit unusual and not everybody I meet is going to be as pissed as my friend on the steps. It occurs to me, in a blinding flash of inspiration, that if I take my trousers off and run in my pants people will think I am some barmy athlete out training. Trouble is, as I discover when my jeans hit the ground, my pants are still in the flat.

This could be a problem but luckily my guardian angel is still earning her keep because I come round the corner to find she has left a brand new bike there for me. There is no one about and it isn’t padlocked so in no time I’m whizzing away on my errand of love listening to the hum of the wheels and feeling the rain sting my face. Exhilarating is the word for it, I think, and I’m almost singing out loud when I skim to a halt a few houses away from Elizabeth’s place. I prop the bike up against the fence and pad down to Number 47. My feet feel like raw frankfurters but I don’t care and swing my leg noiselessly over the gate. There is not a soul about and the only light comes from a street lamp about fifty yards away. Round the side of the house just brushing against a dustbin lid which refuses to fall – it’s my lucky night, see? – and I’m in the back garden. The rain is falling steadily now and I stand there feeling the wet grass beneath my feet and sucking in mouthfuls of air. I’ve had some good times I think to myself, but I’m not sorry it’s all going to change. I look up to the grey waste of the sky and wonder how I will feel in the morning; what I will say to Mum and what Sid will think about it. Rosie will probably start snivelling and Dad will just shake his head and ask if we intend to move in alongside of Sid, Rosie and the baby. I can see it all. Of course, this presupposes that Elizabeth will say yes, but that is an odds on certainty. The bird has been angling for it since the first time I took her out.

I pick out Elizabeth’s window and go over to one of the flowerbeds for a handful of earth. As I bend down, a cat glides silently along the wall above me and my eye follows it up to the small shed at the end of the garden. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think I can see a light glowing in the darkness. Perhaps Elizabeth’s old man has forgotten to turn off the lamp he uses in there. As a future son-in-law it is my duty to protect his property so I slope off to see what I can do.

When I get nearer I can see a line of light around the door and am amazed to hear someone talking in a low voice. Even more amazed when I recognise who it is.

“Oh, that was wonderful,” sighs the girl. “I’d no idea it could be like that. You are clever. You’re so clever.”

An ice cold current of electricity surges through my stomach and I try to make myself believe that this is not happening to me. I must be drunk, or dreaming – or anything!

“It’s easy when it’s with you,” the other voice is also known to me and the pain becomes unbearable. “I could go on doing it all night. I don’t know what it is, but you really turn me on—”

“Oh Sid.”

“Liz.”

Now, if I had any sense I’d bite my lip and tiptoe quietly away writing it all down to experience. Sid has done me a favour really. Better now than when we’ve got hitched. God, how bloody stupid can you get? There I was, deciding to give it all up and settle down with this quiet, demure little girl who would make me a good wife and mother, and all the time the dirty little slut is having it away with Sid. There’s no justice in the world, is there? No wonder blokes go off the rails. ‘I’d no idea it could be like that.’ Bloody hell!

“Sid!”

“Oh Liz.”

Bloody hell!!! My howl of rage must be heard the other side of Tooting Bec Common. I go through the door like it’s wet tissue paper and there is Elizabeth lying on her back on the workbench with Sid standing between her legs.

“You bastard!”

“Hey, what the—”

“Oh, no!”

There’s no point in describing it in detail, and I can’t remember exactly what happened anyway. All I know is that when I leave that shed, it is through a gap in the plywood walls which has been made by Sid’s body. Every light in the neighbourhood is on and Elizabeth’s screams suggest a big future in grand opera – provided she can get the fish glue out of her hair – both sets.

I step over Sid and stride away down the garden. Some blokes would probably be able to think of something comforting and profound at a moment like this, but I’m buggered if I can.

THE END

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

I don’t know how you would react to finding your brother-in-law knocking off your fiancée in the potting shed, but I can tell you that I was annoyed. Not annoyed so much as bloody choked. I mean, what a liberty. My own brother-in-law! The horny bastard who was living in the room below mine at the ancestral home of the Leas in Scraggs Road. It would have broken my sister’s heart. Poor Rosie thought the sun went in every time he pulled up his trousers. But what about me? Why was I being so generous with my sympathy? The cunning of the bitch. All that ‘butter wouldn’t melt between my legs’ innocence. The reproving looks every time I used a four-letter word, her little hand sneaking over the top of her glass after the second Babycham. Well, she certainly had me fooled.

That’s what annoyed me most of all, really. I’d been fooled. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I’d reckoned her as being a bit on the flighty side, but I’d never had an inkling. She’d really made a mug out of me.

I must confess that when I’d stalked off into the night, leaving them clambering out of the wreckage of the shed, I though seriously about going straight home and sobbing the whole story to Rosie. But as I strode through the drizzle and my blood cooled a bit, two things stopped me. One was the praiseworthy desire to spare my sister’s feelings already alluded to, and the other, and much stronger emotion, the fear that everybody in the neighbourhood would soon know that I had been shat on by sexy Sidney, Balham’s answer to the piston engine. If I dropped Sidney in it, he wouldn’t be slow to make sure that everybody in S.W.12 knew that my fiancée preferred him in bed, in a shed, or anywhere, and I couldn’t have stood that. Some of the things I’d heard her whispering to him in the shed fair made my blood curdle; mainly because I had a horrible suspicion that she had never felt like that with me. I didn’t want to think about it, but I couldn’t help it.