Confessions of a Window Cleaner. Timothy Lea
I’ve been trying to grow hair on them. That’s what comes of wearing the woolly cardigan Rosie knitted for me last Christmas. I get out and give the windows a shave and then I find that there are bits that are still dirty which you can only see from the inside. I’m popping in and out like a bleeding cuckoo in a clock that’s stuck at midnight. Inside at last and I drop my dirty chamois in the goldfish tank and stand on Mum’s favourite ashtray which she brought back the year they went to the Costa Brava. By the time I’ve cleaned up and replaced the broken window-pane – twice – it’s dinner time and I’m dead knackered.
Sid drops in to see how I’m getting on and you can tell that he’s not very impressed.
“At this rate,” he says, “you might do three a day – with overtime.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s a knack. It’ll come.”
Sid shakes his head. “What with that and your lousy sense of direction” he says. “I’ll be surprised if you last the first day.”
But he’s wrong. It doesn’t go badly at all. Sid starts me off at the end of a street and gives me a few addresses and though I’m dead nervous, I soon begin to get the hang of it. I drop my scrim down the basement a couple of times but there are no major cock-ups and nobody says anything. A few of them ask where Sid is but on the whole it’s all very quiet. In fact, if I wasn’t so busy trying to concentrate on the job I’d be a bit choked. After what Sid has led me to believe, these dead-eyed old bags look about as sexed up as Mum’s Tom after he had his operation. Curlers, hairnets, turbans, carpet slippers, housecoats like puke-stained eiderdowns – I was expecting Gina Lollamathingymebobs to pull me on to her dumplings the minute I pressed the front door bell. Perhaps Sid was having me on or perhaps, and this is much more likely, its some crafty scheme to con me into the business for next to nothing. Sid hasn’t been over-talkative about the money side of the deal. I do get one spot of tea but the cup has a tide-mark on it like a coal miner’s bath and I reckon the slag that gives it to me has the same. Perhaps Sid has purposely given me a list of no-hopers after my performance, or lack of it, with Aunt Lil.
This is a subject I tax him with when we’re having a pint and a wad in the boozer at lunch time but he is quick to deny it.
“Oh no,” he says, “I wouldn’t do a thing like that. No, it’s the school holidays, you see. That always calms them down a bit. You wait till the little bleeders go back – then you’ll be amongst it.”
I had to admit that a lot of kids have been hanging around asking stupid questions and generally getting in the way, so perhaps he’s on the level.
“Don’t worry,” he goes on, “I’ve got a little treat lined up for this afternoon. Very good friend of mine, she’ll see you alright.”
“Not Aunt Lil?” I say nervously.
“No. You won’t be seeing her again. Not if she sees you first.”
“Who is it then?”
“Nobody you know. Sup up and we’ll have a game of darts.”
And that’s all he will say. Of course it preys on my mind and I’m playing like a wanker. Two pints it costs me before Sid rubs the back of his hand against his mouth and looks at his watch.
“Right, off we go.”
It’s overcast and a bit sultry as we cycle along and I envy the way Sid handles his bike. With the ladder on my shoulders I’m wobbling all over the shop.
“Where are we going now, Sid?”
“You’ll see.”
We’re round the back of Balham Hill and I’m all of a tingle. What is Sid up to? We cycle past a row of lock-up garages and Sid hops off his bike and swings up his ladder all in one easy movement. I put both feet down and drop mine in the gutter.
“Clumsy berk,” says Sid.
Still with the ladder on his shoulder, he pushes open the gate of one of the semis and does a quick “dum, de, dum dum,” on the doorknocker before running his fingers through his hair and sucking his teeth. The door opens fast and there’s a bird of about thirty, standing there, wearing a short-sleeved blouse and a miniskirt. She has a large charm bracelet round her wrist and high-heeled furry slippers that make her look as if she’s balanced on a couple of rabbits. She has a bright-eyed cheerful face and it looks more cheerful when she sees Sid.
“Hallo Sid,” she says, and I can tell by her expression that he doesn’t have to threaten her with a gun to get through the front door. Her eyes wander over him as if trying to remember bits that she particularly likes and she steps to one side to let him in. Then she sees me.
“That’s my new mate, Timmy,” says Sid without turning his head.
The bird’s face clouds over for a moment and then snaps back to normal.
She gives me the all-over eyeball treatment and I feel as if I’ve been fed into an IBM machine.
“I never reckoned you needed any help, Sid,” she says drily.
“Very kind of you, Viv,” says Sid with dignity, “but you know how it is. You can’t stand still nowadays, otherwise you’re going backwards. If you’re going to get anywhere you’ve got to expand.”
“Fascinating” says Viv. “Well, did you just come round to tell me how it was going to be you and Charlie Clore from now on, or was there something else?”
“We’ve come round to do your windows, of course,” says Sid. “I just thought I’d introduce you to Timmy.”
“Very nice. Hello Timmy.” She half drops her eyelids as she smiles at me and it’s very effective.
“Timmy hasn’t had much experience—”
“—oh dear.”
“—and I’m keeping an eye on him for the first few days.”
“You always were thoughtful, Sid.”
“Yes, well, I’ll leave him to get on with it then.”
“So I won’t be seeing you again, Sid?”
“Oh yes. I’ll be around I expect, you know. I just thought that—”
Sid’s voice tails away.
“Yes?”
“Well, you know.”
“Yes.”
Viv smiles an understanding smile which is obviously aimed at adding to Sid’s discomforture – and succeeds. Seeing that things are getting sticky I decide to take the initiative and step forward smartish only to be brought to a sudden halt in the doorway.
“You don’t use that inside the house do you?” says Viv, “the rooms are quite small, you know.”
I mumble something and take the ladder off my shoulder. Stupid berk!
“Well, ta ta,” says Viv cheerfully.
“Ta ta, Viv! Be seeing you. I’ll see you later.”
“O.K. Sid,” I say and the door closes behind me.
“In there,” says Viv smoothing down her skirt, and her hands don’t have a lot of work to do, I can tell you.
“In there?”
“That’s right.”
Something about the way she says it makes me feel there’s going to be a bloody great four-poster behind the door but maybe it’s my imagination. I push the door open and I’m in the kitchen. She notices my surprise.
“You want to fill your bucket, don’t you.”
“Oh yes, of course.”
She watches me do it and starts fanning herself with the Daily Mirror.
“Bloody