THE RUDE ADVENTURES
OF
BRENDA SMITH
by
Mick Wright
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Mick Wright on Smashwords
The Rude Adventures Of Brenda Smith
Copyright © 2010 by Mick Wright
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Thanks to the following:-.
To Elaine for introducing me to the Amstrad Word Processor all those years ago and to Steve for allowing me to use it in his factory. To the Programme Controllers of various radio stations who have allowed me to broadcast over the years and to the members of their audiences for listening. To my friend Tom Galley who has kindly given me credits in the sleeve notes of some of his excellent Phenomena albums ….. so here‘s a mention back, Tom! To my family for their continuing support and finally to the late Sam, my wonderful Burmese cat, who sat quietly beside me contentedly licking his balls whilst I wrote most of this book. RIP Sam.
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THE RUDE ADVENTURES OF BRENDA SMITH
ONE
Seven o‘clock. The time of day that Brenda dreaded most. Ron had arrived home from work and was slumped in his usual armchair. Evening battle was about to commence. Brenda fired the first salvo.
"I had sex today with a total stranger."
"Did you dear?" He muttered from behind his newspaper. "That must have been nice for you. Had the tetanus?"
"What for?"
"Bite from his guide dog."
"Very funny. Met him in the Greengrocer's. Said I had a lovely pair of Melons and asked if he could squeeze them. I said of course he could, as long as I got to play with his Cucumber. It was funny really. Strange, isn't it? The way you meet people? We went out to the car. I was parked round the back. You know, the bit where they keep those big industrial dustbins. Between the Butchers and the Undertakers. Smelled like a rubbish tip."
Ron ignored her as usual, rustled his newspaper and turned to the sports pages.
"Team are having a good run. Saturday's win lifts us three places in the table."
Brenda sighed but soldiered on.
"Slipped his hand right up my skirt, he did. We hadn't been in the car five minutes and he was all over me. Mechanic, I should think. Rough palms and fingernails black as coal. He was gentle though. Have to give him that. I went down on him. Right there and then, on the front seat of the car. He got too excited. Too quick for me. I should have known better really. Couldn't get out of the way in time. Copped the lot. Some of it oozed from the soft warmth of my pouting lips and dribbled down my chin. I wiped it off on my knickers."
"Didn't know you were a contortionist," he said, studying the match report.
"No .... silly! My knickers were on the floor of the car .... where he'd thrown them after he'd whipped them from my smooth and silken thighs."
"Lugged them across your fat arse and cratered cellulite you mean. I can't believe this penalty."
"I should have used a condom really .... but you don't think of those things at the time, do you? Wants me to meet him again on Friday. Outside the betting shop at the back of the market. Always has a bet on Fridays. Says if he wins, he'll buy me a new vibrator. I fancy one of those with the black body and the gold tip. Mind you, Mary's had half a dozen and she says they tarnish after a while."
"Mary's had half a dozen husbands, and they tarnished after a while," he muttered, still questioning the referee's decision. "At least you can change the batteries in a vibrator. She should have tried plugging her husbands into the mains."
"Pig! You never take me seriously. Why don't you put that paper down and talk to me! I'm telling you I made love with a total stranger today .... and all you can think about is Sheffield bloody Wednesday. God you infuriate me!"
"Yes dear. Tell me. Those knickers that he trawled across your cellulite? Were they the sensible ones that your mother bought you for Christmas? The ones with the two-inch elasticated waistband that comes almost to your chest? Or did you buy something special?"
"You leave my mother out of it!"
"And as for condoms .... Yes. You should use one. Preferably a bloody great big one that fits over your head like a plastic bag and stops you talking rubbish while I'm trying to read the paper. I'm going down the pub!"
He screwed the paper into a heap, threw it to the floor, marched across the room in a temper, and slammed the door behind him.
TWO
Everything about Brenda Smith was as ordinary as her name suggested. Forty-three years old, she'd done her bit. Knocked out a couple of fine kids, and now they'd fled the nest. Jonathan, the eldest, was married with one on the way and Simon was in his last year at University. Life should have been idyllic. Instead it was boring. She looked around the kitchen. Spotless. Every one of the grey-faced cabinets was clean, and the tiled work-surfaces and stainless-steel sink-top gleamed cleaner than the day they were fitted. So they should .... since her life now revolved around cleaning. She'd become a cleanaholic. Dusting where there was no dust, polishing where there was no dirt, and washing bed linen that had never been used. Brenda Smith was bored. Dead bored. She thought about cooking Ron's dinner. Then she looked at the clock. How could she even think about his dinner? It wasn't even ten o'clock in the morning. He wouldn't be in until seven at the earliest .... and if last week's performance was anything to go by, it would be nearer nine before he finally rolled in drunk. She filled the kettle and plugged it in. At least a cup of tea might help. Or should she be adventurous for once and risk an extra shot of caffeine and have coffee instead? God, the decisions were difficult. She picked up the freebie newspaper from the doormat and flicked through the countless photographs of local councillors. Councillors, councillors, and more councillors. Hundreds of them. Oh yes, there was the occasional snap of some charity function .... but there, lurking in the background, was the councillor, another bloody councillor! She read through the planning applications. No, nobody wanted to build a Supermarket next door. Not this week, anyway. She laid the paper on the table and sighed in exasperation. Another day.
She stood up and ambled across the kitchen to where a small mirror hung from a nail in the wall next to the frying pan and peered into it sheepishly. On her own admission, she looked a mess. Her blonde hair looked ruffled and dishevelled and in need of a trim and her watery blue eyes were tired and drawn and surrounded by enough Crows feet to frighten Alfred Hitchcock. No wonder Ron didn't take much notice anymore. She sat down, miserably, and telephoned Mary.
"Tell me something, Mary," she said, trying not to sound too concerned. "Do you think I'm still attractive?"
The laugh that came back down the line was both hurtful and unwanted.
"No .... seriously. Do you think I'm still attractive? Or am I so far past my sell-by date that even a dodgy market trader wouldn't touch me?"
Mary was still cackling at the other end of the telephone.
"What's brought this on all of a sudden? Another row with Ron? Still losing out to Sheffield Wednesday? I've told you before, Brenda .... get yourself a toyboy and have some fun. It'll knock years off you."
"But I don't want to knock years off me! I just want to be appreciated. Fancied even. Last time I heard a wolf-whistle it was at London Zoo when the kids were little. Tell me, Mary, what am I supposed to do to make him take notice? Go to one of his football matches? Strip off on the terraces? Streak naked across the pitch? He'd only say I was spoiling his view of the goalmouth. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned romance?"
"Sorry honey, Sheffield Wednesday got in the way. Sad state of affairs when you can't compete with twenty-two overgrown schoolboys prancing around on a football pitch in their shorts. Pop round for a coffee and a chat. Sounds like you could use it."
Brenda replaced the receiver and went upstairs. She looked at her motley collection of dresses. Once upon a time they'd been new .... and once upon a time they'd been in fashion. Now she'd have to wait another thirty years for the fashion cycle to come around again before she'd be seen dead wearing most of them. "Damn," she muttered, grabbing the first thing that came to hand, and ten minutes later she was knocking on Mary's kitchen window.
God how she hated this house. Mary never did a stroke of housework .... yet it always looked immaculate. Three husbands and she'd done very nicely out of all of them. Lucky bitch.
Mary opened the door. A year younger than Brenda, she still looked great in blue jeans and a tight sweater. All the curves were still where they should be. Not like Brenda, with her sagging backside and sunken boobs after the rigours of childbirth and years of domestic slavery. Sometimes she found it easy to hate her best friend.
"I've told you before, Brenda," Mary said, lecturing her like a school ma'am. "What you need is a bit of excitement in your life. A bit of sparkle. If the old man doesn't fancy you .... then find someone who does. It's as simple as that. Why don't you come out with me one of the nights and I'll get you fixed-up?"
Brenda slumped into a chair and leaned heavily on the circular kitchen table.
"That's easy enough for you to say, Mary. You don't have to slave over a hot stove, waiting for your Lord and Master to wander in drunk when he feels like it."
"Nor do you, Brenda. Nor do you. You only do that because you want to."
"But I don't want to! That's just the point! But how can I get out of the routine? The boredom's driving me crazy!"
Mary studied her friend. She certainly looked like she could use a twenty thousand mile service.
"Remember when we were kids, Brenda? You were always the outgoing one with a string of boyfriends? And I was the quiet one .... lurking in the background, waiting to catch your rejects. Well if you took a bit more time and trouble with yourself it could be the same again. Those are the things I've always admired about you. You've never lost your personality .... or your sense of humour."
"Well if I didn't laugh, Mary, I'd cry. Honestly I would. But what can I do about it? Seriously now."
"I've already told you!" she snapped in reply. "And I am serious. Get yourself a bit on the side. Forget Ron. What he's not getting he won't miss .... and if he'd rather go to football matches than spend time with you then good luck to him. It doesn't mean you have to live like a Nun."
"That's all well and good," Brenda said with a sigh. "But I just don't think I could do it. It's been so long. We've been married over twenty years and I can't imagine what it would be like .... you know .... doing it .... with somebody else."
Mary laughed.
"Nonsense! You'd soon get the hang of it, Brenda, believe me. One decent screw and you'd wonder why you hadn't done it years ago. The thrill, the excitement, the adrenalin. The feelings of 'will I or won't I'? 'Should I or shouldn't I'? That's what you're missing. Forbidden fruit. It's hardly the same when your husband rolls across you with eight pints of lager inside him and starts belching out curry fumes. You just need the right start."
Brenda looked down at her wedding ring.
"I don't know, Mary. It doesn't seem right somehow. I'm not sure I could ...."
"Nonsense! We've had this conversation too many times before. It's about time we did something about it. Contact pages in the local rag. That's what we'll do. I saw an advert in it this week. 'Two Knights In Shining Armour Seek Two Damsels In Distress'. That's what it read. Well you sound like a damsel in distress, so let's go for it. You can always change your mind later and chicken out."
Brenda smiled.
"Are you sure? I had a friend once who advertised for a 'Man In Uniform'. She was hoping to meet a soldier or a sailor but she ended up with the eighty-four year old commissionaire from the local bingo!"
"Like I said, Brenda. At least you've never lost your sense of humour. Now let me see if I can find that advert."
Brenda sat in the kitchen while Mary went to retrieve the newspaper from the dustbin. She returned a few minutes later carrying a soggy mess of newsprint.
"Sorry about this," she said, trying to unravel it. "Cat peed in the garage and I used this to mop it up. I know it's in here somewhere." She peeled off another damp page then smiled in triumph. "Here we are. Just as I said. Box number. Now all we have to do is compose a suitable letter. Something suggestive .... but not too direct."
Brenda laughed. "Oh Mary, how can you be suggestive without being direct? We know what they want .... and they know what we want .... so how can you not be direct?"
"Well there's direct .... and direct, isn't there? I mean, I'm hardly going to write 'Married Woman Over Forty With Two Grown Up Kids Desperately Wants Screwing', am I? I think we could be a little more subtle than that Brenda. Perhaps something along the lines of 'Bored Housewife In Need Of TLC. Discretion Assured'. Yes. That's more like it."
"TLC? What the Hell is TLC?"
"Come on Brenda! Don't tell me you haven't read those pages. Everybody does. It's the only thing those free newspapers are good for."
"Apart from mopping up cat pee."
"Yes. Apart from mopping up cat pee. It stands for Tender Loving Care. They use abbreviations to shorten the ad. Less words .... less money. There's loads of them. GSOH .... Good Sense Of Humour. ALA .... All Letters Answered. AC/DC .... Bum Bandit. Get the picture? I'm sure you can work the others out for yourself."
"And what if they do reply?"
"Then we sit down and have a council of war and decide whether or not to go through with it. We'll ask them for a couple of photographs if you like. Just to make sure they're not Gorillas."
"And what if they ask us for photographs?" Brenda groaned. "Then we're sunk. I haven't had a decent photograph taken in years. The last one was in one of those booths for a passport and you know what they're like! They might as well have your prison number printed underneath."
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Mary replied. "Let's get the letter done first."
THREE
John sipped at his pint then sighed in exasperation as he passed yet another envelope across to his friend.
"Well how about this one?"
"Na," Dennis said, examining the photograph at arms length and screwing up his face. "Looks a bit ugly to me. Probably replies to all the ads. I know we're looking for crumpet but we don't have to scrape the barrel. Show me that other one again. The letter from the two older tarts. The one that says 'don't call us - we'll call you'. You know what that means. Married. Don't want the old man answering the 'phone. How old are they anyway?"
"Doesn't say exactly," John replied, scanning the letter. "Over forty. Discretion assured."
"Desperate for it," Dennis muttered. "Guaranteed. Fancy another pint?"
John Taylor and Dennis Adams had known each other since schooldays. Now they worked together as fitters at the local gasworks and were regular drinking pals. In fact that was where the whole idea had stemmed from. A few pints in the Bull and Bladder, a look at the contact ads in the local rag, and a Chicken Vindaloo at the Star of Bengal had sown the seeds. Then it had become a matter of honour as to whether or not they would actually have the bottle to go through with it. They had shared the cost of the advertisement and a return on their investment looked promising. Response had been encouraging. Crumpet everywhere. Dying for it.
"You sure about these two in their forties?" John said, rather distastefully. "It probably means nearer fifty. That's older than me mum. Can't imagine doing it with some old bag of that age? Seems obscene somehow. Granny grabbing."
Dennis was watching a fly as it attempted to paddle in his beer.
"Think of their experience," he said, sliding the creature out on his finger and squashing it messily on to the table. "Anything you fancy doing, they're bound to have done before. Must've done. Otherwise they'd have got bored stiff screwing the same bloke all the time. Experience, John. That's what they'll have. Experience. Granted the old flesh might be sagging and hanging off a bit in the wrong places .... but I'm sure if you close your eyes you can manage it."
"I don't know, Den," he replied, looking slightly aghast. "It's a bit of a bag-over-the-head-job, isn't it? I mean .... ? Women old enough to be your mother? It's a bit naughty. Sends a shiver down my spine."
"Don't be so stupid," he replied, leaning backwards and laughing at his friend. "It's all the rage. You've only got to look at all the actresses who've shacked up with their toyboys. Must think sex is the secret of eternal youth."
"That and plastic surgery," John muttered, sipping at his beer.
"All right then. Sex and plastic surgery. But they don't do badly on it, do they? Look at Britt Eckland. She's old enough to be your mother .... and I bet you'd think twice before stepping over that!"
"Yes. But I doubt if Britt Eckland puts adverts in the contacts pages of the Sheffield Chronicle."
"Fair point, John. Fair point. But it's still the same principle. You never know, you might strike lucky and land some rich widow who wants to pamper you and shower you with gifts .... and all for a good seeing to once a week."
"And you need your head examining."
Dennis smiled.
"Look, John. There's no point in us even thinking about it really is there? I'll write and send them the photographs and telephone number and then we just sit back and wait. Then it's up to them. If they 'phone .... they 'phone. If they don't .... they don't. There's plenty more fish in the sea. Right?"
"Right. But where do we take them if they do 'phone? Can't bring them in here, we'd be a laughing stock. And we can't take them back to my place. Don't think my mum would be too impressed."
"Quickie round the back of the industrial estate. That's all you want. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am and another notch on the foreskin. Nothing permanent. Besides, they will already have though of that. Women of the age are organised. They've probably got a flat somewhere. Love nest. Satin sheets and lacy underwear. I can see it all now."
"Well all I can see is an empty glass, a madman called Dennis Adams, and a clock that tells me it's time to go."
FOUR
The telephone rang and Brenda answered it in the hall. Mary sounded excited.
"I've got the letter. Came this morning. Feels like it's got photographs in it. Shall I open it or do you want to come round?"
Brenda felt her pulse race. She hadn't expected her own reaction. She was trembling like an excited schoolgirl.
"I'll be there in five minutes. And don't you dare steam it open before I get there!"
"Would I do a thing like that?"
"Yes Mary, you bloody well would!"
Brenda grabbed her coat and dashed out of the door. Minutes later she was sitting breathless in Mary's kitchen.
"Well go on then. Open it!"
"Brenda! Don't be so impetuous! Savour the moment. Feel it in your loins. Steam yourself up in hot expectation."
"Just open the bloody letter, Mary. Let's see who wants to meet us."
Mary slit the buff-coloured envelope with a butter knife and slowly withdrew its contents, licking her lips and mocking at Brenda.
"I thought you weren't keen," she said, glancing privately at the two small photographs. "Twenty years of marriage. Remember?"
"Bugger that. Let's have a look at the pictures."
Mary passed them across the table and studied her friend's reaction. She watched her eyes drift through the letter as she devoured its contents.
"Sound okay, don't they?" Mary said. "Especially the dark one. He's mine. You can have the mousy one."
"They're a bit young aren't they?" Brenda replied, slowly. "I mean .... nineteen and twenty? That's cradle snatching. My eldest son's older than that. And I don't know about the mousy one. He looks a bit effeminate to me. I never did like fair-haired men with moustaches. He looks a bit weedy."
Mary laughed loudly.
"I can't believe you, Brenda! One minute you're not sure if you want to go through with this .... and the next thing you're being selective. I think you're starting to enjoy this."
"If they allowed selective breeding in humans, Mary, my kids would have a different father. And anyway, if I'm going to be unfaithful to my husband for the first time in over twenty years, I'm going to make damn sure it's with someone I fancy. Not some puny seven stone weakling. And that's not all. If it ever gets that far, I'm going to make bloody sure that he's got the right tackle to handle the job. Know what I mean? I'm not interested in some weedy bloke with a three-inch dick. I can get that at home."
Mary laughed again at her friend's outburst.
"You never told me that before. Poor Ron. Poor you! "
"Well it's not exactly the kind of thing you talk about in public, is it? And anyway, it's bigger than that .... but you know what I mean."
Mary picked up the letter. "So what do we do now? Would you like me to write to them and ask them for their vital statistics .... or is that the only statistic that's vital to you? "
"I don't know, Mary. What do you think is best?"
"Well I suppose I started it .... so I'll have to finish it. I'll 'phone them tonight. When can you get a night out?"
Brenda thought for a moment.
"Friday," she said. "This Friday. Ron's going to London to watch Sheffield play. He's going on a coach with some of the lads from work. They're staying in some tacky hotel on Friday night so they can get plastered the night before the match. They're leaving on Friday afternoon."
"Perfect!" Mary exclaimed. "What's good for the goose .... And besides, that means your house is free all night .... just in case things should develop, if you know what I mean?" She smiled wickedly at her friend but Brenda looked shocked.
"Oh no, Mary! Not in my own house! I could never do that! Suppose the neighbours saw? You know what a nosey old cow she is next-door-but-one. Never misses a trick. God, if she saw me with another man while Ron was away she'd shout it from the rooftops!"
"Okay, Brenda. Don't panic. I'll find out if Friday's okay with them. If it is, we can just go for a drink with them and see how we get on. There's no point in planning too far ahead. We might want to dump them. Leave it to me. I'll 'phone you in the morning and let you know what's happening. I won't 'phone tonight in case your dear husband deems to be in residence for once in his life."
FIVE
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
Brenda was in the kitchen peeling carrots when the telephone rang. She wiped her wet hands on a tea towel and then lifted the receiver. It was Mary.
"It's all set, Brenda. Eight-thirty tomorrow night at the Crown and Cushion in Station Street. It's the Karaoke night. I'll pick you up at a quarter-past. They're meeting us there, so we can escape in my car if we need to."
"Oh Mary," she said, sounding hesitant. "I'm not sure about this. What am I going to wear?"
"How about the little blue number you wore to the Co-op do? Suited you that did. Showed off your legs."
"Showed off more than that," she mumbled. "That plunging neckline had old man Connors turning purple when I had to dance with him. Randy old git. He kept staring down my cleavage and muttering about 'two bald heads'. Then Ron was sick down the front of it in the taxi on the way home." She laughed. "Mind you, I did cheat a bit as well. I had my boobs held up with surgical tape. It was a tip I got from a magazine. It ran from one shoulder right across to the other like a sling. Apparently it's what all the top models do. But I still think that dress is a bit too revealing."
"If you've got it Brenda.... flaunt it. And you've certainly got it, that's for sure. But I'd forget about the sticky tape. If he gets his hands down there and finds four feet of Elastoplast, he'll think he's groping the Invisible Man. And don't forget what you're going out for. You're not out with Ron now….you're out with me. And we're only looking for one thing. SEX!"
"Mary! You make me sound like some middle-aged nympho!"
"Yes?"
Brenda was panicking.
"It's no good, Mary. I can't go through with it."
"Yes you can. I'll see you at a quarter-past-eight."
The line went dead.
Brenda couldn't settle. She paced around the kitchen for ages, her pulse racing uncontrollably. She turned on the radio…then turned it off again. Then she went into the lounge and switched on the television and flicked through the channels. Nothing worth watching. Nothing at all. Not even the adverts. She glanced at the clock. Ron wouldn't be in for at least another two hours. There was only one thing for it. She'd go shopping.
Two hours later she struggled up the path carrying four heavy carrier bags bursting with expensive and unwanted shopping. He'd go mad when he saw the bill. Sod him! And anyway, Kangaroo steak might be nice for a change.
Ron arrived late as usual and in a stinker of a mood. Brenda could always tell. First came the slam of the front door that sent a near-nuclear shockwave through the entire house rattling ornaments and disturbing the pictures on the walls. Then came the Neanderthal grunt which, over the years, she had learned to interpret as 'hello'. She thought it wise to give him ten minutes to calm down and get his work boots off and his slippers on before attempting to question him about Friday's trip to London.
"Shall I make sandwiches", she said carefully. "Or is there food on the coach?"
"Coach."
"What time does it leave the gasworks?"
"Four."
"How many of you going?
"Enough! Bloody Hell, Brenda. What is this? The Spanish inquisition? It's a football match. That's all. A poxy football match. I'm not going to Outer Mongolia for a month!"
"More’s the pity," she muttered, flicking at her knitting. "What shall I pack? You'd better take some clean underwear. I know what you're like on Southern beer. And don't take your white trousers. You may think you're John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever but they don't look so good with brown stains."
"Don't pack anything. I'll do it myself."
"Suit yourself,” she said, humming quietly. "Your dinner's in the oven. Looked nice when I put it in three hours ago. Peas must be black by now."
"Not hungry."
"Jolly good. Dog's lucky day."
"About all it's fit for."
"When are you back?"
"Midnight Saturday."
"I'll see you Sunday then."
"Sounds about right."
"Why don't you talk to me?"
"Nothing to say."
Brenda sighed, threw down her knitting and gave up. She went upstairs and looked into her wardrobe. The blue dress was there but she felt nervous and apprehensive just looking at it. 'Oh sod him!' she thought. 'He's asked for this. Mary was right!' And she wasn't going to wear the frumpy old knickers her mother had bought her for Christmas, either. She was going to wear stockings and suspenders and high heels. Served him right. He'd bloody well asked for it!
SIX
THURSDAY NIGHT
The Bull and Bladder was quiet. It always was, early on Thursday nights. Only later would the in-crowd appear, dressed to impress.... or so they reckoned.... and bound for the nearest disco. They always came here first for a few drinks at cheap prices to help deaden the impact of the million decibels of distorted noise that would brain-damage them later. For now though.... the place was almost deserted. John paid for their drinks and passed a pint across to Dennis.
"What's the plan then?"
"Crown and Cushion," Dennis replied, taking a sip from his beer. "Half-eight. Karaoke night. Just in case."
"In case of what?"
"Escape route. Get lost in the noise and watch the idiots performing. No need for conversation then. Insurance against ugly women."
John Taylor nearly choked on his beer.
"And suppose they want to sing?"
"Bloody Hell!" Dennis replied, looking mortified. "Hadn't thought of that. No. Doubt it. No. Definitely not. They won't want to make an exhibition of themselves or make themselves look stupid."
"Sure?"
"Sure."
"So how do we recognise them?" John said, leaning excitedly towards his friend. "Distinctive features? 'Screw me' tattooed on their foreheads? 'Grab Here' printed on their backsides?"
"Blue dress and a yellow trouser suit."
"Which is which?"
"Dunno."
"Look. Dennis," he said, in a softer voice and looking seriously concerned. "Do you really think this is such a good idea? I mean.... it's all a bit sort of.... well.... contrived.... isn't it? Two old tarts looking for a good time. Trying to recapture their lost youth? Mutton dressed as lamb?"
"Scared?"
"Petrified!"
"Come on, John," he said, reeling backwards. "It's only a bit of fun. Wind 'em up and take the Mickey. Tell 'em we fancy a four-up and watch 'em squirm."
"You worry me, Dennis," John muttered, shaking his head. "You don't seem to have a very high regard for the fairer sex."
"Willie warmers," he said, sipping at his beer. "Expensive, sophisticated willie warmers. That's what they are."
"I bet you wouldn't say that to your mother."
"No point," he replied, grinning. "She wouldn't understand anyway. The last time she had sex was probably around the outbreak of the Great War. I think they invented the light-bulb especially for her.… just so she could switch it off!"
John groaned. "How did I ever get involved with a prat like you?"
"Like attracts like, John. You should know that."
Dennis smiled at the barmaid… and wished he hadn't when she smiled back to expose a jagged array of gold fillings and black teeth. 'Paper bag job?' He mumbled. 'Try a bin-liner.'
"So what's the plan then? Driving or walking?"
"Taxi's the best idea," Dennis replied. "Split the fare. Then we can have a drink without worrying about it. If they've got a car we can go somewhere else with them later. Come to think of it… they're bound to have a car. Especially at that age. They wouldn't be seen dead on a bus dressed up to the nines. Besides, it's an excuse for one of them to stay sober and keep an eye on the other one."
"Guess who gets the sober one?" John muttered but Dennis ignored him and continued making the arrangements.
"So I'll book the taxi to pick us up from my place at eight o'clock then shall I? That way we can get there early and swallow a couple of pints before they arrive."
"Dutch courage?"
"German Pilsner probably. Anyway, it always gets busy there on Karaoke nights so if we get there early we can grab a table. Somewhere in the dark where we won't have to be seen with them. Should be a laugh, John… if nothing else!"
SEVEN
FRIDAY MORNING
Ron was angry.
"Where's my bloody socks?"
"On the radiator in the kitchen. Under the towels."
"Well that's a damned stupid place to put them. Ten minutes I've spent looking for those. And they aren't here!"
"What aren't?"
"The Mickey Mouse ones. The ones I always wear to away matches. Brings the team luck."
"Like when they lost five-nil at Spurs?"
"Bent referee."
"Well they'll just have to survive Saturday without Mickey. They had holes in and I threw them away. I'll get you another pair next time I'm at Mothercare."
"Stupid cow," he muttered, stuffing his white trousers into his holdall.
"And don't forget your washing tackle and toothbrush! You always forget. And your aftershave. What's it to be this week? Fragrance of paint-stripper or essence of hydrogen sulphide? You know how they rely on you to add a little extra 'something' to the exotic smell of the terraces."
"Your mother bought me that aftershave."
"Yes… as a joke."
“Your bloody mother’s the joke. Still thinks the Moon landing was Thunderbirds without the strings. Stupid woman. I can't wait to get away from here."
"And I can't wait for you to go. I'll listen to the traffic reports and pray for carnage on the M1."
"You'll miss me when I'm gone."
"Try me, Ron. Please God. Try me."
EIGHT
FRIDAY MORNING
Dennis strolled into the workshop. John was grappling with a rusty nut that connected a pipe to a flow-valve. He saw Dennis coming and stopped for a moment.
"What you gonna wear then?"
"Trousers I suppose. Can't wear jeans in case we go somewhere posh. Think I'll put on a tie as well."
John yanked at the nut with his spanner. "Got you, you bastard," he hissed as it jerked loose. "Right then. Trousers it is. And a tie. That'll strangle me for sure." He wiped his greasy hands on his overalls. "Ties and beer don't mix, Dennis. You should know that. Few pints and you're bulging at the neck and red in the face."
"Mark of respect to the ladies," he replied. "And besides that, they won't let us in anywhere decent without one."
"Okay then," John sighed. "Collar and tie it is. But I warn you, Dennis. If these two turn out to be dragons, the tie goes straight into the pocket. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
"Now then. Let's get down to brass tacks. We meet them in the Crown and Cushion and they seem okay. Then what?"
"We play it by ear," Dennis replied. "Take things as they come. First we find out if they've got wheels. If they haven't got transport it's another taxi; and we don't want to run up taxi fares unless it's worth it. No point in wasting money if we aren't going to get a leg-over."
"True. But what happens if mine fancies me… but yours doesn't fancy you?"
"We split up. We'd better agree to that now, John. No point in sour grapes. If you've got the chance of getting your end away… take it. But we hold a Post-Mortem afterwards and we get all the juicy details. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
NINE
Brenda watched him through the lounge window as he ambled down the street. A Sheffield Wednesday holdall swung from his right hand and a blue and white striped scarf was wrapped around the collar of his anorak. A navy blue knitted hat completed his soccer supporter’s uniform. 'Overgrown yobbo,' she muttered and breathed a deep sigh of relief as he disappeared around the corner… then she telephoned Mary.
"He's finally gone," she said, sounding relieved. "I thought he'd never go. Faffed around for ages. I've never known anyone so disorganised. Late for his own funeral. He's taken all his stuff to work with him and he's going straight from there. The coach picks them up at four o'clock."
"So now you're free to go out on the razzle," Mary chuckled. "Or has he taken the key to your chastity belt with him?"
"Well I don't actually feel much like razzle material at the moment," she replied, sounding miserable. "The washing machine's flooded again and I'm up to my neck in mops and buckets."
"There there, Cinderella," Mary cackled down the line. "You shall go to the ball."
"Thanks Mary, but I hardly think a Karaoke night at the Crown and Cushion pub qualifies. Not unless your Mini's about to turn into a coach and horses? And if I tried to walk in glass slippers I know exactly what would happen. I'd slip over on a wet floor. Very pretty sight. Cinderella. Flat on her back with her legs in the air."
"Now you've got it, Brenda. That's the idea!"
"Mary! Tart! One track mind!"
"I hope so, Brenda. I sincerely hope so. Now then, now that he's finally gone, let's get down to basics. You don't want us to take them back to your place?"
"No Mary. I couldn't do that! Honestly I couldn't."
"That's okay. I understand. That means their place or mine. Personally I don't give two hoots about my neighbours. They already know what I'm like. Besides, I always feel more comfortable in my own bed… if you know what I mean. If things go well, I suggest we come back here. Okay with you?"
Brenda was gripping at the telephone and her stomach was churning.
"Fine by me Mary. I'd feel a lot safer in your house than somewhere strange. But I'm still not sure that I could actually… "
"Take it as it comes," Mary interrupted, sounding totally relaxed. "Don't even think about it, Brenda. If it happens… it happens. And another word of warning. If it does happen, don't feel guilty about it afterwards. That's rule number one. Take it from me. I've got the experience. You'll do yourself more harm by worrying about it than actually doing it. Providing you take the necessary precautions of course. Mind you at your age… Never mind. Now then, how do you feel about group sex?"
"I beg your pardon? What did you just say?"
"Group sex, Brenda. Orgies, combinations. You know… One man - two women. One woman - two men. That type of thing."
There was silence on the telephone.
"Speak to me Brenda. I know you're still there."
"I.… I just can't believe… what you've just said to me."
"Well I only asked what you thought of it. I didn't say you had to do it."
"Well it's just that… well it came as a bit of a shock. That's all. I thought it only happened in magazine stories and dirty books. I mean… well I suppose… well I haven't really got anything against it… it's just that… "
"Never done it, eh? Don't know what you've missed. Never mind, that's not the point. The only reason for asking is that I thought we could wind them up a bit for fun. You know how you want to take out your tape-measure and.…?"
"I wasn't being serious, Mary!"
"Yes you were! And I thought we could scare the living daylights out of them by suggesting something they won't be expecting. Frighten the life out of them. Men are all the same, Brenda, no matter what age. Big ideas until it actually comes down to it. Big talk with their mates about what they'd like to do with this and do to that… and then they run like scared rabbits. You watch. We can try it tonight. Even if we don't fancy them. If you ever want to see a man go green at the gills… suggest group sex. Unless he's exceptional, he'll make every excuse under the Sun to get out of it. Scared he won't measure up to expectations… in every sense of the word."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Well you certainly won't need your tape-measure, that's for sure ... and with a bit of luck, you'll get what you've been missing for the last twenty years!"
Brenda was shaking with nerves.
"What are you wearing tonight, Mary?"
"I thought I'd give the yellow trouser suit an airing. Usually has the desired effect. You know, long dark hair and tightly waisted jacket."
"Makes your bum stick out like a peacock."
"Don't be bitchy, Brenda. It doesn't suit you. It's absolutely ideal for a first encounter. Buttons down the front, hook and eye waistband and zip fly. Plenty of bits to fumble with before you get down to the serious stuff."
"You're being a bit hopeful."
"Forward planning, Brenda. Setting targets. If he gets past the waistband he's in for the night."
"Tart!"
"See you later."
TEN
FRIDAY NIGHT
The Crown and Cushion was getting busy. A small army of roadies in tee shirts and jeans were constructing a wall of lights and amplification in preparation for the ritual Karaoke night. John and Dennis stood watching them from the bar.
"Pint?"
"Might as well."
"Find a table, John," Dennis said, pointing vaguely. "Somewhere over the back there. See if you can get one in a dark corner."
John Taylor threaded his way through the crowd and nearly tripped headfirst over some cables.
"Bloody stupid place to put them," he said, as he thumped into the back of an astonished drinker who nearly swallowed his glass.
"Clumsy sod!"
"Sorry mate. These cables. Karaoke."
He found a corner table… perfect!.... and sat down to stake his territorial rights. Peering through the assembled masses, he saw Dennis coming but it was too late and he closed his eyes in pain as two pints of best bitter sprayed high into the air. By the time he opened them again, Dennis was standing at the table wiping froth from his lapels.
"Bloody cables," he mumbled. "Who's stupid idea was this?"
"Yours," John replied with a smirk.
"Okay, smart-arse," he said, taking a seat opposite him at the table. "What time is it, anyway?"
"At the third stroke," John replied, looking down at his watch. "It will be ten past eight, precisely. Bip. Bip. Bip."
"Right then!" Dennis said, quickly. "Twenty minutes to blast-off. Here's the plan. We sit here in the corner and watch for them. Even you can't miss a yellow trouser-suit in a dump like this, John. She'll stick out like a Canary. Then we wait until they've ordered a drink… that saves us money… and then we study the form. If we fancy them we say 'hello'. If not, we do a runner out of the side door. Okay with you?"
"Sounds about right," John nodded in agreement.
"Good!" Dennis exclaimed, clapping his hands and smiling. "Well it's your round then. And see if you can get them here in one piece this time, will you?"
ELEVEN
"Are you sure about this dress, Mary? You don't think it's a bit ... well, you know..?"
"Elastoplast?"
"There's no Elastoplast, Mary. It's all me. I just hope me doesn't fall out!"
"Well if you drop a contact lens on the floor, Brenda, leave me to look for it. If you bend down wearing that dress you're likely to give yourself two black eyes. Now then, walk up and down the hall."
"What for?"
"Just do as I say, Brenda. Walk up and down the hall."
Brenda strutted down the hall, balancing carefully on her high stiletto heels. Then she twirled and walked back again.
"Splendid, Brenda. Splendid! Wobbling up and down nicely. That ought to get them interested. Now give me another twirl."
This time, she walked to the end of the hall and spun like a Flamenco dancer. The hem of her dress fanned out and rose upwards like the blades of a helicopter.
"Brenda! You're wearing stockings and suspenders!"
She felt herself colouring.
"I'm sorry, Mary. I ... "
"Oh don't apologise, Brenda. It's perfect! One flash of your stocking-tops and they'll be frothing at the mouth. And with my buttons and your suspenders, we can't miss!
"Mary, I'm still not sure I.… "
"Time to go then. Into the carriage, Cinders. Let's get you to the balls."
______
Ten minutes later, Mary was reversing into a tight space on the car park of the Crown and Cushion. There was a bump as her Mini rammed into the car behind.
"That'll do nicely," she said, nonchalantly. "Trick I learned from a lorry driver."
"What else did he teach you?" Brenda mumbled. "An alternative Highway Code? Never do it on the hard-shoulder when the Police are watching?"
"Very funny," Brenda. "Can you get out?"
"Not really," she replied. "It's a bit tight. I can't quite get the door open."
"Hold on then and I'll pull forward a bit."
The car lurched forward and Brenda opened her door and clambered out, tottering on her high stilettos. Mary reversed again… and this time there was a sickening crunch and the tinkling of glass as a headlamp disintegrated behind her.
"Right then," she said, looking at Brenda. "Take a deep breath and here we go."
They clattered up the stone steps and penetrated the smoke-filled atmosphere of the Crown and Cushion. Brenda raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glare of a spotlight.
"God! It's like a fog in here. Can you see them, Mary?"
"Not yet," she replied, glancing around her. "They'll be hiding in a corner somewhere… watching us and giving us the once-over. You can bet your life on it. And they'll wait until we've bought a drink before they make any kind of a move. Come on, Brenda. Let's parade ourselves at the bar. They can't miss me in this outfit. That's another reason why I wore it. Stands out like a Canary."
"More like a lumpy banana," Brenda mumbled.
"Thank you Brenda," she replied, sarcastically. "Now then. What shall we have? Fruit juice to start with. It's cheaper and I'm driving. We can risk a couple of large gin and tonics when they're paying. There's really no point in us wasting our own money, is there? Now then, what would you say goes best with this outfit?"
"Millet," Brenda replied immediately.
"Tomato juice, I think," Mary said, ignoring Brenda's comment and answering her own question.
"Oh no!" Brenda said, stepping backwards and looking her friend up and down. "You'll look like a blood-sucking vampire or, worse still, a walking advertisement for a pizza company. Mind you, Mary, I must say that you're displaying all the right colours for it, aren't you? I mean… there's the yellow for the cheese, the red tomato juice and your black buttons could double as black olives. Perhaps I should start calling you Margherita? Yes. That's it. Me Cinders… you Margherita. What a pity you aren‘t meeting a man named Basil?"