Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

“Have you ever made love in a Rolls Royce?” says Sharp, “It’s unforgettable.”

Oh no!!! I think.

“What do you mean?” says Dawn beginning to sound excited.

“I drove Minto here tonight and I’ve still got the keys. Come on, I love screwing you in cars.”

“You’ve only done it once.”

“That was enough to know I liked it.”

“Where’s the car?”

“Over there.”

“It’s a bit near the golf club, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t mind last time.”

“I didn’t have any alternative last time. You practically raped me.”

“You didn’t mind that, either.”

“I don’t want to do it here, that’s final! Come on—” she squeezes his arm enticingly—”take me for a spin, and then we’ll make love.” Sharp thinks about it and I pray that he is going to say no but of course his twisted, cock-happy little mind reacts in exactly the same way that mine would have done.

“O.K.” he says. “A quick spin along that road that goes out to the fourteenth. We can’t be away too long. Valerie will start getting neurotic.”

And as I hold my breath, they walk towards the Rolls and climb into the front seat. Sad as it is from my point of view, I can’t help feeling a bit amused. The naked Mrs. D. squatting in the back, no doubt hearing voices and wondering what the hell has happened to me. Sharp and his lady love purring off into the countryside, little knowing what awaits them when they eventually fumble towards the rear seat. I wish I could have a photograph of it all. It would be almost enough to make up for my disappointment.

Wait a minute. Photograph! A scheme of monstrous brilliance suddenly occurs to me. Majors are always trying to drop the E.C.D.S. in the brown stuff. Why shouldn’t they have a taste of their own medicine?

I race inside and as luck would have it bump straight into Gruntscomb.

“Quick,” I shout, “where’s a telephone? I’ve just seen a couple of roughs driving off in Major Minto’s Rolls.”

“Really!” Gruntscomb swallows it hook, line and sinker. “which way did they go?”

“That road that goes out towards the links. They’re probably taking a shortcut to Aylsham.”

The last sentence is spoken to myself for Gruntscomb is off to get the biggest scoop of his life. I dial 999 and wait to be put through to the police.

“Hello. Good evening. I’d like to report the theft of a car. A Rolls Royce. I saw it being driven away from Cromingham Golf Club on the links road. About five minutes ago—yes, I’m quite sure. Major Minto … Look officer, I know this sounds stupid, but I was certain I saw a naked girl on the back seat. I thought it might be some of those hippies going to have an orgy. It would be like them to steal the best car they could get their hands on, wouldn’t it? Yes, I’ll be here. My name’s Roger Carpenter, didn’t I tell you? I am sorry.”

I ring off and pass the good news on to the night desks of the Sun, Express and Mirror and by the time I have finished the Rolls was loaded to the roof with naked hippies, many of them bearing a striking resemblance to members of the royal family.

It would be nice to do more but it is now eleven fifteen and I barely have time to catch my train. A shame I won’t be able to see the meeting between Sharp, Mrs. D., Dawn, Gruntscomb and the police, but luckily I have a vivid imagination and it will give me something to think about on the way to London.

I dig out my last 2p bit and start dialling for a taxi.

THE END

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Mum was glad to see me when I got back from Cromingham. Just as she had been when I got back from the nick. A bit worried too – just as she had been when I got back from the nick.

“Everything alright at the Driving School?” she says casually, as I fold my mits round a cup of cha, made as only my Mum can make one – diabolically.

“Fine, ma,” I say, equally casually, trying not to let my expression reveal the death struggle of my shrivelling taste buds. “I’ve decided it’s time I moved on to something else, though.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ma. It was good experience but I feel like a change and Cromingham was a bit dull.”

“I thought you’d settled in.”

“Yes ma, but—”

“I do wish you would find something a bit permanent. Your father and I get quite worried about you sometimes. You’ll never get married at this rate.”

Marvellous, isn’t it? Another step on the way to National Health gnashers and my old age pension. Get married, settle down, have children, drop dead.

“I don’t particularly want to get married, Mum.”

“Well, you want a decent job, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Well then.”

“Yes, Mum.”

There is no point in telling her about how my career as a driving instructor ended: agro, needle, nudity. You want to protect your old Mum from things like that, don’t you? I pick up the paper and glance at the headlines, evincing less interest than Germaine Greer being shown round a brassiere factory. Apparently the police have found two half-naked birds and a bloke in a stolen Rolls Royce on Cromingham Golf Course. Funny that.

I toss the paper aside and thankfully gulp down the last of the tea. By the cringe, there are enough dregs at the bottom of the cup to tell the fortunes of Lana Turner’s bridesmaids.

“Well, whatever you do,” grinds on Mum, “I wish you’d get a steady job. Look how well Sidney has done.”

Odious Sid is my poxy brother-in-law and always dragged in to conversations of this type as a symbol of what hard work and a bit of nous can do for you. In fact Sid is a bit stronger on the latter than the former, though you can’t point the finger at him for that – two is nearer the mark with Sid. He and I were partners in a window cleaning business until he got a bit too close to a girl I was thinking of getting spliced to. In fact “a bit too close” is putting it mildly. He was so close he was touching her in about half a dozen places. In her dad’s garden shed, too. I still get a red flush every time I think about it. Mum and Rosie, she is my sister, don’t know about that little incident, though I keep the threat of revelation dangling over Sid’s nut like the sword of Dan O’Kleas.

“How is Charlie Clore, then?” I say trying not to sound too bitter.

“Don’t be bitter, dear,” says Mum. “Just because Sidney has taken his chances—”

I start choking at this point and it’s not just because Mum’s omelettes taste like they have been made with Great Auks’ eggs.

“Don’t gulp your food, dear,” continues Mum, “I was always telling you as a child. Now where was I? Oh, yes. Sidney. Do you know what he is doing now?”

“Six years in The Scrubs?”

“He’s working for Funfrall Enterprises.”

She makes it sound like the Archbishop of Canterbury so I am obviously supposed to be impressed.