Chapter 10

In which Timmy and Sid journey to Nice and are met by Desiree and her friend Gee Gee, a lady who introduces Timmy to the delights of the Eskimo Cocktail, the principal ingredients of which appear to be ice cubes presented in an unusual manner.

'Blimey!' says Dad 'It's disgusting. I never niffed nothing like it!'

'You want to get your hooter out and about a bit more often, don't you?' says Sid.

"That's enough from you, sponger,' says Dad. 'You ought to be ashamed of yourself coming round here in that condition. What's wrong with your posh house in Vauxhall? Why does our bath towel have to cop it?'

'Bath towel?' says Sid. 'That rag used to line the cat's basket when I was living here. Anyway, I didn't want to come round here. It was just the nearest place to where the sewer came out.'

It's terrible, isn't it? I thought at least we were falling into an underground river. It's the first time that I have ever wished I had the use of one of Dad's gas masks. How we got out constitutes a series of adventures too disturbing to relate in the sort of book bought mainly by clergymen's sons and the daughters of gendefolk but I must say, I will never be able to look another Richard the Third in the faece again.

"That pong!' says Dad. 'I can't stand it.'

'Oh belt up!' says Sid. 'You should have got a snitchful before we cleaned up.'

I am dead worried because I have a date with Gretchen and I don't want her to start having doubts about my personal freshness programme. I have enough problems as it is, what with her minge being like a clenched fist and my hampton making less headway than a dumpling up a pea shooter.

'I don't know what you were doing down there, anyway,' sniffs Dad. 'You got a job with the Council, have you?'

Sid puts on his scornful look. 'I'm not in a position to diverge who we're under contract to but it's someone considerably higher than the Council I can assure you.'

Dad taps his hooter. 'Smells considerably higher and all,' he says.

'Supposing I said MI5 to you?' says Sid.

'I'd say you were round the twist. You're more like thirty-five if you're a day.'

'MI5, not am I five?! T say. 'Oh Dad. If only I could tell you. This time I'm doing something of national importance. Just like you were when you were counting how many buildings were burning during the war. I'm off to Cannes tomorrow.'

"That's good,' says Dad. 'Working for Heinz, are you? Knock us off a crate of baked beans while you're there.'

It is funny, but once I get back to Scraggs Lane I find it difficult to believe that our experiences at the headquarters of Mission E actually took place. Am I really a C Man? Did I truly meet P and Boris and have it off with Felicity in the Debriefing Room? When Sid has gone, I sit on my bed and examine the only link with reality I have-no, not that-my airline ticket to Nice. When I look out of the window and see Mrs. Dugdale combing her chmchillas it does not seem possible that a few hours ago I was plunged into the world of international espionage. Still, I suppose it must be like this for agents all over the world. You have to stop for a cup of cha and a wad sometimes. I take another look at the plane ticket and push it back into my genuine imitation leather wallet. I do wish it was a return.

My date with Gretchen is not a success and I have to take some of the blame on my own shoulders and otherparts. I have carefully nicked some of Mum's cold cream to ease things along and I reckon that it must have been a bit too cold. It was either that or the piercing North Easter streaking through all the holes the vandals have made in the shelter on the children's playground. Litde bastards!' They don't deserve all the money the council lavishes on them. The council ought to do something for the rest of us. All the couples who want to get their ends away and have nowhere to do it. We haven't all got cars, you know. The minute I get on the council there are going to be snogging cabins springing up all over Clapham and Wandsworth Commons like mushrooms. They will work on a meter basis and if you stay five minutes after a warning bell has gone, a built-in mechanism will tip you out of the side of the hut. You won't have to use the same sheets as anybody else because the bedding will advance like an automatic towel. It's a good idea, isn't it? I reckon that it will bring in so much bread that we will be able to halve the rates after six months.

This is all very well but it is not helping my relationship with Gretchen. The poor kid is in tears. Not just the pain but the frustration. She wants it just as much as me. If only I could get her to see a doctor. A local anaesthetic there's no point in going a long way to have one-a little snip and-hey presto! Open season for furtling the furburger. I will have to get on to her about it when I get back-at this rate it's the only way I will get on to her.

When I meet Sid at the airport he is in a diabolical mood. There is an ugly swelling beside his right eye-no, as well as his nose-and it transpires that he and Rosie have had words. Apparentiy, he told her that he was taking an overnight bag to the South of France and she got the wrong idea.

'You haven't said anything about the outfit,' he says eventually. 'I suppose you don't like it either?'

'Well,' I say, trying to be tactful as always. 'I think the red, white and blue beret is going it a bit.'

'I knew you'd say that,' says Sid. 'And after all the trouble I went to painting it, as well. You've no idea how blooming difficult it is to stop the paint running on this felt.'

'I have,' I say. 'It's still running down the side of your nut-the bit that hasn't smudged, that is.'

'Blast!' says Sid. 'Anythingelse?'

'Well,' I say. 'The matelot's jersey with the hoops. That's Rosie's, isn't it?'

'How did you know?' says Sid.

'Because it's got a big saggy bit in the front where Rosie's knockers have been punching holes in it,' I say.

Sid looks really depressed. 'You must like the little moustache,' he says.

'What little moustache?' I say.

'Oh bugger!' says Sid. 'Don't say it's fallen off again! I don't know why I bother.'

'I don't know why you bother, either,' I say. 'And Sid. Do yourself a favour. Take that loaf of French bread out of the front of your bell bottoms. You'll get us both arrested.'

Sid whips out his loaf and yelps with pain-I think it must have been a crusty one. 'You're like your blooming sister,' he says. 'No imagination. Can't you see? I'm trying to act the part. If we're going to France we want to look like Frenchmen, don't we?'

'Why?' I say.

'It's obvious,' says Sid as if talking to a godfer (God forbid: kid. Ed.). 'So we can blend into the background. So we don't raise suspicion. We're playing for high stakes, you know. You don't seem to be taking this assignment seriously. I bet you haven't got a French phrasebook, have you?' I shake my head and Sid smiles triumphantly. 'I have. I got it from the library. If this plane's got a postillion on it and he gets struck by hgjitning then I'm in business.'

But nobody on the plane gets struck by lightning. They don't get the chance to. The plane gets blown up before anybody can get on it. Yes! Amazing, isn't it?

'I expect somebody left a fag on,' says Sid. 'They're always telling you not to do it, aren't they ?'

"Thank goodness we weren't on it,' I say.

'Exactiy,' says Sid. 'You took the words right out of my mouth. We've had a lot of good luck today, haven't we?'

Sid is right. A number of strange things have nearly happened to us since we arrived at the airport. To start with there is the taxi that drives straight at us outside the terminus. I know the cabbies are a bit funny at Heathrow but there is no cause for that. Then there are the automatic doors. They only cut Sid's suitcase in half, don't they? And the escalators. The minute we get on them, they speed up and throw us down the luggage ramp. I nearly get on the plane before my hold-all. When flames come out of the hotair hand dryer and the bloke on passport control tries to stab Sid, I begin to feel that this is not our day. It is not the best photograph that Sid has ever had taken but there is no need to react like that.

By the time we eventually board Air France Flight No. 1169 to Nice I am feeling quite edgy.

'We only need to get hijacked and that's it,' I say. 'It'll be Sea-Link for me every time. I'd vomit all the way to Boulogne rather than go through this lot again.'

Sid's scaly eyes are playing over the shapely limbs of the stewardess, a dark-haired beauty who looks as if she has had to borrow her kid sister's uniform. 'I wouldn't mind high-jacking her,' he says. 'lligh-jacking, low-jacking, you name it.'

'Come off it, Sid,' I say. 'You know what P said.'

'We haven't got there yet,' says Sid. 'It's all right on the journey. These Continental birds are all crazy for it you know. Watch this.' Sid tips his beret towards his hooter and whistles through his teds. 'Oy, darling,' he says, jerking his gunga din towards his rock and boulder. 'You seen Emanuelle, have you? How about making me a life member of The Mile High Club? Plenty good fucky-wucky, jig-jig, you sawy ? And chuck in a bottle of after shave from the store cupboard while you're at it.'

The bird looks at Sid like he has crawled out of one of the thick paper bags. 'You are ze most disgusting man I 'av ever zeen,' she says. 'Take your 'and off my leg or I will pour scalding 'of coffee over eet.'

'Stuck up bitch,' says Sid when she has gone. 'That's the Roman Catholic Church for you. They're all repressed. It was different during the war, you know. They couldn't do enough for you then. I knew this bloke who told me how far he got on a bar of chocolate. It wasn't even milk.'

'She doesn't seem to be too repressed down there,' I say. 'Look. She's sipping champagne out of that geezer's glass and his hand is running all over her like a Derby winner.'

'He won't get anywhere,' says Sid. 'She's a lesbian. I can spot them a mile off.'

'But she's put down her coffee pot-and-yes. They've both gone into the karsi.'

"There's probably a blockage. There was when I went in there.'

"Then why is the door quivering like that?'

'Because they've probably had to resort to violent measures to clear the blockage. Gordon Bennett! Do I have to explain everything to you? Have you no imagination?'

'I think they're having it off, Sid.'

'llaving it off! A lesbian and a pouf ?'

'How did you know he was a pouf, Sid?'

"They're all poufs, aren't they? All that drinking champagne and waving your hands about and smelling nice. What real man would descend to that in order to get his end away? I'd rather do without, myself. I'd rather preserve my manly identity. I turn my back on all this kinkiness.'

There is much more in this vein but, frustrated in my attempt to get a second cup of coffee, I drift off to sleep. Just as well really, because I miss the rocket attack on the aircraft. Everybody is talking about it when we eventually make an emergency landing at Nice-on the beach not the the airport. Honestiy, you have never seen so much topless frippet running into the sea in your life. Like lemmings, they are-and lemons-and grapefruit-and some of them like blooming great melons. It must be a shock for them actually going in the briny after all those years of just looking at it and slapping suntan lotion over their knockers.

'I reckon we must have violated Liechtenstein air space,' says Sid.

"They don't have any air space in Liechtenstein,' I say. 'You have to lean over the border into Switzerland to breathe.'

Eventually, a coach arrives to take us to the airport and Sid unknots his handkerchief and rolls down his trouser legs. Honesdy, he would be embarrassing even if he was not dressed like a mixture of Popov and Popeye.

'What we've got to do now is formulate a plan of campaign,' he says. 'We've been very fortunate in receiving this tip-off. Now we've got to make the most of it.'

'Right, Sid,' I say. 'But where do we start? We reckon the photographs were taken in a posh Mickey Mouse but there's millions of them round here-look at that bougainvillaea !'

'I missed her,' says Sid. 'I wasn't thinking of concentrating on the house. I was thinking we ought to find something that will lead us to the house.'

'A road?' I say. 'Surely that presents the same problem.'

'I'm going to present you with a handful of your own gnashers if you don't pull yourself together,' says Sid. 'I was talking about the distribution of the photographs. If they're flooding the country they've got to get into it. What better way than by post? If we hang around outside Cannes Post Office I reckon we'll see some geezer shoving a lorryload of buff envelopes into the mail box. We follow him home and, hey voile!-or whatever they say out here. Which reminds me, I've left my phrase book on the plane. I wonder if the stewardess will get it for me.'

'She's still in the toilet with that pouf,' I say. 'I believe the firemen are having trouble getting them apart.'

'Blooming marvelous,' says Sid. 'I wondered why there was none of that stuff about "fasten your seat belts we are about to crash". The airline business is going to the dogs and they don't give you those little boiled sweets any more, do they? You know, the ones that stop your ears falling off. What do you think of my plan, then?'

'It's got to be a mover,' I say. 'Provided that they are using the postal service and that they aren't posting the letters somewhere else.'

'Good,' says Sid. 'I'm glad it has your complete approval. As soon as we've checked through customs and I've had a Tom Tit, we'll start putting it into practice. I reckon we should be home in a couple of days.'

Nice airport is full of swankily dressed groovers kissing each other on the cheek and sporting tans that would get you asked to leave Smethwick Conservative Club and, once again, I can't help wishing that Sid was dishing out the couth a bit more. Even my lightweight lurex is getting a few doubtful glances so you can imagine how much the frogs reckon his clobber.

When he comes back from the karsi, he is looking double-choked. 'You've got to watch these bleeders,' he says, bitterly.

'What are you on about, Sid ?'

"They've only nicked it, haven't they?'

'Nicked what, Sid?'

"The karsi. They must have only just put it in, too. You can see the footprints of the bloke that nicked it.'

'Sid!' I say. 'Really! I thought you knew about things like that. It's quite usual for the frogs not to have a pedestal and all that stuff. You squat down on those footprints and let yourself go.'

'Blimey!' says Sid. 'I don't fancy that. That's disgusting, that is! I'm not surprised none of the blokes wear turn-ups on their trousers.'

'You'll find that a lot of things are different over here,' I say. 'Now, what do you want to do? Have a nice cup of tea or get straight round to the Post Office ?'

Sid puts on the expression he always wears when they play the National Anthem after the Epilogue. 'One thing I want to do is remind us both of the importance of this assignment. It was all right until we got here but now the fun and games have got to stop. You remember what P said?'

'No,' I say.

'Well don't forget it. I've noticed the way you've been clocking the birds around here. Any one of them could be a Russian spy. They know how to get it out of you.'

"Those two birds in London certainly did,' I say. 'OK Sid. I get the message. Be dead wary of any judy who tries to give me the old heave ho. Don't worry, I'll be on my metde.'

No sooner have I squared my enormous shoulders and invested myself with a new sense of dynamism and purpose than a bird pushes her way towards us wearing a bikini that barely covers her raspberries-and I mean barely. She is not badly equipped in the pushing department either. 'Excuse me,' she says. 'It eez L and N, eez it not? I am sorree I am late meeting you. We do not zink zat you survI mean, the traffic eez very 'eavy thees time of the year.'

I turn to Sid expectantly. No doubt he will tell the lady to piss off, if not actually slap her round the mush a few times.

'Charrning, I'm sure,' he says. 'Forever would be too short a time to wait for someone of your fragile and exquisite beauty. How do you fancy copping a few yards of stout British hampton up your velvet snatch?'

I cannot argue with the sentiments. These are beautifully expressed. But they seem slightly at odds with what Sid has just been warning me about.

'Ahhem,Tsay. 'Sid-'

'Boris zent me,' says the bird. 'I am Desiree. 'E zink that you need car. Eet eez outside now.'

"That's great,' says Sid. 'Very considerate. He's a real gent that Boris. Can we give you a lift anywhere? My Marquis of Lome is proceeding in a northerly direction at the moment.'

My initial feeling of relief when I hear Boris's name is tainted with wariness. There is still something about the man I do not trust. And all those things that have gone wrong since we left home. Were they really accidents?

'I am afraid zat you vill 'av to vait vor a vew minutes,' says Desiree. 'Ze car eez not quite ready for you. I am aving ze men give it a thorough overall.' She nods towards the exit doors and I see a couple of men bent over the engine of a Fiat. They seem to be fitting a metal canister connected to two wires.

'Some kind of petrol-saving device, is it?' says Sid.

'Oui,' says the bird. 'Vith zat in ze car you vill use very littel petrol. I, Desiree, guarantee it.'

'Well that's marvelous,' says Sid. 'Thanks a bunch, Daisy Ray. How's about a spot of in and out while we're waiting? I think I've just fallen deeply in love with you.'

Honesdy, Sid makes the average Aussie sound like Little Lord Faunderoy trying to grease his way to a new velvet suit. I expect Desiree to adjust her mit to the shape of Sid's cakehole but, to my amazement, she slips her arm through his and actually seems to reckon the idea.

'Zat vould be 'eaven cheri,' she pouts. 'Bring your so 'andsome ami and ve vill make ze promenade to ze beech. Zere ve can be alone. Ooh la, la, la, la!'

I am quickly beginning to realise that my fears regarding Desiree were groundless. Her back bumpers are pressed together so tight that you practically hear them squeaking when she walks and her brown, glistening body excites thoughts that some might consider unclean. Her mince pies are big and brown and there is a bright red carnation stuck behind her ear. When she smiles, her teds dazzle you, and her nostrils flare wider than Sid's bell bottoms. I wonder if she has a friend?

This question is soon answered when we come to a bar made of rush matting at the back of a sandy cove. Desiree gabbles something in French and the sandy cove shrugs his shoulders and pushes off. I am glad because I found his over-muscled body offensive.

'Close ze door and let us be alone,' says Desiree. 'Zis eez my friend, Gee Gee.' I suppose they call her that because of her teeth which are slightly protruding-amongst other things. I don't know if we have struck lucky but French birds seem to be particularly well-equipped in the knocker department.

'Pleased to meet you,' I say. 'My name's Tim-I mean.'

'Eet zoots you,' says the bird. 'Vot vould you like to drink?'

'I don't know,' I say. 'Something refreshing would be nice. It's a bit close, isn't it?'

'I hope so,' says Sid. 'Why don't you two push off behind that screen. Daisy Ray and I are very much in love and would like to be left alone.'

'Eez good idea,' says Desiree, feeling behind her for the catch of her bikini top. 'Gee Gee vill look after you. She always say she like big strong Engleesh boy.' So saying, she releases the catch on her bra and her boobs practically chase me from the room. Sid was obviously right about French birds. They are clearly desperate for it. Thank goodness help arrived just in time.

'And now, 'of boy like cold drink.' Gee Gee gives me a look that would unseal an envelope at twenty paces and lifts the lid of an ice bucket. "Vot eez your pleasure?' This bird is clearly not wearing anything underneath her ridiculously stretched T-shirt with 'McElrea was here' printed on it and I can see the dimples on her raspberries. What a good job I don't wear specs. They might steam up and I could stumble on top of her and do her a nasty injury with my erect doughnut driller. Thank God that another terrible accident has been averted.

'Weller,' I say. 'I don't know, really. I'm not very good on the old French drinks. An Oily Prat might slip down all right.'

'A Noilly Prat? With ice? Yes, I think you like lot of ice.' Gee Gee drops a couple of cubes into an empty glass and sashays towards me with a movement like something arranged by Frank Zappa. 'Take your jacket off. You eez 'of.'

I put my arms behind me to start pulling off my jacket and the bird presses against my chest and ruckles her knockers up and down like she is rolling pastry. It is what might be described as a forward gesture and makes me feel that a kiss on the lips-or any other part of the body for that matter-might not be unappreciated. I lower my north and south and we engage cakeholes. Gee Gee's tongue shoots into my mouth faster than a mother-in-law streaking into a newlyweds' flat to make sure that it is good enough for her daughter, and her hand fumbles for my fly.

'I cool you down,' says the forward frog frippet. 'I give you eskimo cocktail.'

"That's nice,' I say, wondering what she is talking about. One thing that won't be a problem is a swizzle stick. Percy is stiffer than a giraffe's neck in a draught and you could stir a vat of toffee with him-though I would rather you didn't.

"Very nice.' To my surprise, Gee Gee raises the glass to her lips and takes the two ice cubes into her mouth. It is certainly a way of cutting down on your calories though I would not recommend it to get the party going.

My hampton has now broken cover and Gee Gee seizes it and shows me her tongue as she gives an electric shiver. Something about the way she looks into my eyes alerts me to what is about to happen and I suck in my breath. Gee Gee plucks open the buttons of my shirt and her cold, wet mouth begins to taxi southwards down my chest. 'You can't,' I say. 'No, no! You mustn't. It's-Oh! Eeh! Owl Ugh!-quite nice really, isn'tit?'