Confessions from a Health Farm

Confessions from a Health Farm

BY TIMOTHY LEA

Contents

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Also available in the CONFESSIONS series

About the Author

Also by Timothy Lea & Rosie Dixon

Copyright

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

‘I got a post card from Nutter, today,’ says Sid, pushing away his tea cup as if he never wanted to see one again – with Mum’s tea you feel like that.

‘That’s nice. How is he?’ I say.

‘Difficult to tell. Most of it has been crossed out by the censors. He seems a bit under the weather, though – not surprising when you think how much it rains over there.’ Sid laughs heartlessly.

I pick up the postcard: ‘The paddy fields, Ho-lung-ti.’

‘It looks nice, doesn’t it,’ I say. ‘The mountains and all that in the background.’

‘Blooming marvellous,’ says Sid. ‘I envy those boys, really I do. Doing away with National Service was the worst thing we ever did in this country. I remember how disappointed I was when they stopped it just before I was due to be called up.’

‘Why didn’t you sign on, then?’

Sid looks uncomfortable. ‘It wouldn’t have been the same, would it? I mean, I wanted to go in with all my mates, didn’t I?’

‘They could have signed on as well, Sid.’

Sid shakes his head. ‘Not everybody feels the same as I do about this septic isle, Timmo. I’ve only got to hear the opening bars of Land Of Hope And Glory and I’m rummaging through Rosie’s Kleenex.’

I tear my mind away from this affecting thought and examine the postcard. The first word is scratched out and followed by ‘you’ and an exclamation mark. Then comes another ‘you’ followed by three words that have been crossed out followed by a double exclamation mark. Fortunately, though it would have been unfortunately, had I been of a sensitive disposition, I can still read one of the crossed-out words.

‘I don’t reckon it was the blokes in Taiwan that censored this, Sid,’ I say. ‘It must have been our lot. Nutter isn’t half having a go at you.’

Not that I blame the poor sod. If you read Confessions of a Pop Star you will recall that Nutter and a group called ‘Kipper’ were rail-roaded out to Taiwan, that used to be Formosa like Alvin Stardust used to be Shane Fenton, by Sidney Noggett who still is my brother-in-law. They thought they were going to promote their chart-busting record but Sidney had arranged for them to promote the Taiwanese war effort by signing them on for five years in Chiang Kai-Shek’s army. Sidney does not usually go to this amount of trouble for people unless they are costing him money and there is little doubt that ‘Kipper’ were becoming an expensive luxury.

Sid picks up the postcard. ‘It’s a nice stamp, though, isn’t it? I’ll save that for little Jason.’

‘You never think about them, do you?’ I accuse. ‘Thousands of miles from home and with none of their own kind near them.’

‘They never have any of their own kind near them,’ says Sid, bitterly. ‘You tell me one person who is as greedy, lazy and useless as they are.’

‘I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Sid,’ I say after I have thought about it for a minute.

Sidney waggles his finger at me. ‘That’s very naughty, Timmo. You know how sensitive I am.’

I take a long look at the poor little suffering tea leaves at the bottom of my cup and decide to change the subject. ‘What’s this new idea of yours, Sid?’ I ask.

‘It’s a gold mine,’ says Sid.

My heart sinks. I can just see it. Some clapped out National Coal Board reject that Sid has been conned into buying. Broken down lifts, flooded galleries, no pit head baths, worked out seams. And who will end up thousands of feet below the earth with a Mickey Mouse torch tied to his bonce and a kiddy’s spade in his mitt? That’s right, yours bleeding truly.

‘I’m sorry, Sid,’ I say. ‘I don’t want any part of it.’

‘But you haven’t heard what it is yet!’

‘I don’t care about the details. I’m not going down any mine.’

Sidney claws the air in exasperation. ‘I was talking metaphysically, wasn’t I? I don’t mean a real gold mine. I never fancied mines after I saw Shaft.’

‘Shaft wasn’t about mining, Sid.’

‘You mean that big, black bloke didn’t have coal dust all over his mug?’

‘No, Sid! He was born like that.’ Honestly, you worry sometimes, don’t you? They say that there are over a million illiterates in the country and I reckon that they lie pretty thick around Scraggs Lane.

‘Oh,’ says Sid. ‘That explains a lot of things.’

‘What about the new idea?’ I say.

Saying that to Sid is like striking a match to find a gas leak, but somehow I can’t help myself. I have been stuck with Sid for so long that I cannot break away. Like a junkie begging for his fix I must know what half-baked scheme the Maestro of Muddle has come up with now.

Sidney leans back nonchalantly and rests his elbow in the frying pan that Mum has left on top of the cooker. Like everything on the cooker, including the rings, it is coated in half an inch of grease and is well equipped to become the first item of hardware to swim the Channel. Sid’s safari jacket therefore has to make a quick trip into the interior of the washing machine before the great white hunter can continue.

‘Do you know what is the biggest problem facing this country today?’ says Sid.

‘Inflation?’ I say. I mean, I listen to the party political broadcasts, don’t I? There is no bleeding alternative.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ says Sid, slightly downcast. ‘Obesity was the word I had in mind.’

Well, it is a free country, isn’t it? I can’t tell him what words to put in his mind, although they would have to be blooming small to fit into that tiny little space. I would have thought that you needed to fold ‘obesity’ in half to get it in without touching the sides.

‘Oh yes,’ I say.

‘You don’t know what obesity means, do you?’ says Sid, triumphantly.

‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s why you used it, isn’t it?’

‘It means being fat.’ Sidney looks me up and down critically. ‘About ninety percent of the people in this country weigh too much.’

‘That’s amazing,’ I say, stretching out my hand for another doughnut.

‘You for instance,’ says Sid. ‘It’s disgusting to see a bloke of your age falling apart at the seams.’

‘What are you rabbiting on about?’ I say. ‘I’m in perfect physical condition. I could run rings round you any day of the week.’

‘You must have put on a stone since you came out of the army,’ continues Sid. ‘You’ve got the beginnings of a paunch and there are rolls of fat building up round your waist. I can’t imagine how you do it. Living here I’d have thought that you had a bloody marvellous incentive not to eat.’

Sid is, of course, referring to Mum’s cooking. He has never had any time for her since she tried to boil a tin of sardines. Mind you, she is diabolical in the kitchen and maybe that is why I eat so much. I am forced to have a go at the nosh she dishes up and I also eat between meals to take away the taste and give myself a little reward.

‘You’re no oil painting,’ I say.

‘I’m fitter than you are, mate. Feel that.’

‘Sidney, please!’

‘I meant my stomach, didn’t I? Don’t take the piss.’

‘I don’t want to feel your stomach, Sid.’

‘Go on!’ Sid is speaking through clenched teeth as he tenses his muscles. Reluctantly, I stretch out a hand.

‘It feels like a pregnant moggy,’ I say.

Sid does not respond well to this suggestion. ‘Bollocks!’ he says. ‘Like ribs of steel, my stomach muscles. You try hitting them.’

‘Sidney, please! This is bloody stupid.’

‘Hard as you like. Go on!’ Sidney stands up and swells out his belly invitingly.

‘I don’t want to hurt you, Sid,’ I say.

‘You can’t hurt me! That’s what I’m trying to tell you, you berk! I’m in shape, I’m fit, I’m – uuuuuurgh!’

I give him a little tap in the stomach and he collapses on the floor, spluttering and groaning. Mum comes in.

‘He hasn’t been at the bread and butter pudding, has he?’ she says, alarmed.

‘No, Mum.’

‘Thank goodness for that. You were right, you know. Some of those sultanas were blue bottles. I think I’ll have to throw it away. It’s such a fiddling job picking them all out.’ She looks down at Sid. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘He was showing me how fit he is,’ I say.

‘He hit me when I wasn’t ready,’ wheezes Sid. ‘That’s what happened to Houdini.’

‘Oh dear,’ says Mum. ‘That doesn’t sound very nice. I wouldn’t stay down there if I was you. It’s not very clean.’

Sid drags himself to his feet and slumps into a chair. Mum was right. He looks like the inside of a carpet sweeper.

‘You did that on purpose,’ he grunts.

‘Of course I did,’ I say. ‘You told me to.’

‘You haven’t put anything in the washing machine, have you?’ says Mum.

I sense Sid stiffen. ‘What’s wrong with it?’ he says.

‘I don’t know,’ says Mum. ‘The man hasn’t been yet. I think it spins round too fast. Either that or there is a rough edge in there.’

Sid springs to the machine and presses the programme switch. He wrenches open the door and a couple of gallons of water thwack against the far wall.

‘I didn’t notice that was in there,’ I say. I am referring to the well-worn chammy leather with pockets.

Sid groans. ‘Eighteen quid that cost.’

‘Blimey! That’s your safari jacket, isn’t it?’ I say.

‘Don’t sound so bleeding cheerful,’ snarls Sid. ‘You ought to have put an “out of order” sign on it.’

‘I did,’ says Mum. ‘But I moved it to the bread and butter pudding.’

‘Gordon Bennett!’ Sid covers his face with his hands.

‘Sid has got a new idea,’ I say, deciding that it is time for another change of subject. ‘It’s something to do with fat people.’

‘I’m going to classes now,’ says Mum. ‘Do you think I look any different?’

‘You look a bit paler, Mum,’ I say.

‘Don’t say that! I was thinking how well I looked. I’ve lost half a stone, you know.’

‘Where did you lose it, Mum?’ I ask.

‘Round the bum, mostly,’ says Mum, with an honesty I could have done without.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ I say hurriedly before she can impart any more revelations. It’s not nice listening to your parents talk about their bodies, is it? It is bad enough having to look at them.

‘The Lady Beautiful Health Clinic,’ says Sid. ‘That’s what I’m on about. More and more people are becoming worried about the condition of their bodies. You mother is only following a trend.’

‘You want to be careful, Mum,’ I say. ‘You remember what happened when you tried that yoga.’ I have to suppress a shudder when I think about it. Everywhere you went in the house there would be Mum standing on her head against one of the walls. And often without any clothes on! Yoga Bare, that’s what Sid used to call her. Luckily she bombed out in the Padandgushtasana position and we did not hear any more about it.

Further discussion is interrupted by the sound of the front door bell.

‘Who’s that?’ says Sid whose reaction to the unexpected reveals a permanently guilty conscience.

‘Probably Dad’s lost his front door key,’ says Mum. She leaves the kitchen and pads off to have a peep through the front room curtains. A couple of minutes later she returns.

‘There’s a gorilla standing on the front door step,’ she says.

‘A stuffed one? With Dad?’ says Sid.

‘No, it’s carrying a briefcase,’ says Mum.

‘Probably something to do with one of those soap powder promotions. Have you got a packet of Tide in the house?’

‘No!’ says Mum, getting all agitated. ‘You keep him talking while I nip out and get one.’

I grab hold of her just before she disappears out of the back door.

‘Hold on, Mum. We don’t know it’s Tide. It could be any of them. You don’t want to spend a fortune for nothing.’

There is another long blast on the front door bell followed by frenzied banging.

‘Sounds like your father,’ says Mum.

‘Let’s have a look.’ I follow Sid into the front room and peel back the yellowing net curtains. There, indeed, is a gorilla carrying a briefcase. It looks towards the window and jabs its finger at its stomach.

‘I think it’s trying to say it’s hungry,’ I say.

‘No, you berk. It’s trying to say its zipper has jammed. Don’t you recognise your own father? He looks more like himself in that than he does in a suit. No gorilla ever stands like that.’ A small crowd of onlookers has assembled at the gate and the gorilla makes a familiar gesture to them.

‘Yes, that’s Dad all right,’ I say. ‘I suppose we’d better let him in.’

‘About bleeding time!’ says Dad’s muffled voice as he charges through the door. ‘A man could suffocate in one of these things.’

‘Now he tells us,’ says Sid. ‘Another couple of minutes on the doorstep and all our troubles would have been over.’

‘Belt up, sponger!’ croaks Dad. ‘Help us get it off, for gawd’s sake!’

We struggle with the zip and eventually manage to release an escape hatch for Dad.

‘Phew!’ says Sid. ‘Are you sure the gorilla isn’t still in there with you? It doesn’t half pong around here.’

‘That’s the bloody tube for you,’ says Dad. ‘You want to try strap hanging from Charing Cross in that thing and see how you feel.’

‘Did you swing from strap to strap, Dad?’ asks Sid, lowering his voice and beating his chest. ‘Me, father Lea. King of de Northern Line.’

‘Shut your face!’ snaps Dad. ‘It’s a lovely thing. I couldn’t let it go in the incinerator.’

I feel I should point out that my revered parent works in the lost property office and is inclined to ‘save’ certain articles which he considers might be lost to Sir Kenneth Clark, or handed in to the keeping of undesirables – e.g. their rightful owners.

‘I don’t understand why you wore it,’ says Mum.

‘It seemed the best way of getting it home,’ says Dad, mopping his brow. ‘I’d have looked bloody silly carrying it, wouldn’t I? This way I was anonymous so nobody knew who I was. The coon who was collecting the tickets at Clapham South took one look at me and started running across the common.’

‘I bet you weren’t even wearing the head-piece, then,’ I say cheerfully.

‘At least he could run,’ says Sid. ‘Look at you. Puffing and blowing like an old grampus. You underline what I’ve been saying to Timmy and Mum. You’re all overweight and unfit. The whole country is dragging round tons of surplus weight. That’s why we’re in the mess we are at the moment. Pare off those extra pounds and the natural vitality will start flooding through your veins.’

‘Sounds disgusting,’ says Dad. ‘Is my tea ready yet?’

‘You’re the worst of the lot,’ says Sid sternly. ‘There’s a permanent depression in the middle of the armchair made by your great fat arse while you watch telly. The only exercise you ever take is jumping to conclusions.’

‘How dare you!’ bellows Dad. ‘This is my house you’re standing in. You keep your filthy tongue under control. I don’t have to listen to this.’

‘Look at him!’ says Sid. ‘That’s a sick face, that is, mark my words. See those treacherous little blue veins running through that sea of scarlet porridge? That’s not healthy. That’s a face living on borrowed time.’

‘He doesn’t look very good, does he?’ says Mum, peering into Dad’s mug. ‘Still, you’ve got to remember he’s been like that for years.’

‘Stop talking about me as if I’m not here!’ squawks Dad.

‘That’s it exactly,’ says Sid. ‘Very prophetic words. Soon you won’t be here. You’ve got to get a grip on yourself. Like I said, you’re living on borrowed time.’

‘If you ever lend me any, you won’t see it back again in a hurry,’ says Dad bitterly.

‘What are you getting at, Sid?’ I say. ‘Are you starting some kind of keep-fit class?’

Sidney’s lip curls contemptuously. ‘Much more than that,’ he says. ‘Keeping fit is just the tip of the iceberg. It’s the whole spectrum of physical and mental welfare that I want to embrace.’

‘Watch your language in front of my wife,’ says Dad.

Something tells me that Sid has been got at. He does not normally come out with sentences like that unless his chips were wrapped in the Weekend section of the Sunday Times.

‘Who told you about that?’ I ask.

‘Wanda Zonker,’ says Sid as if he is glad to get it off his chest. ‘She’s a remarkable woman. She’s a beautician and health food specialist. I’m thinking of getting together with her to open a health farm.’

‘Where’s the money coming from?’ says Dad.

‘I’ve got a bit tucked away,’ says Sid.

‘So you’ve just told us,’ says Dad. ‘I was asking about the money.’

Sid does not take kindly to the implication behind this remark.

‘Shut your mouth, you disgusting old rat bag!’ he snaps. ‘Rosie will probably be coming in with us. There’s nothing underhand about what I’m doing. Nothing compared to nicking stuff from the lost property office and keeping the hall stand full of filthy Swedish magazines.’

‘How did you know they were Swedish, clever shanks!?’ exults Dad. ‘You’ve been peeping, haven’t you?’

‘Please!’ I say, desperate to raise the standard of argument a few notches above crutch level. ‘Can’t we forget about “Swedish Spanking Party, Volumes 1–5” and concentrate on something more intellectually stimulating?’

‘You were at them and all, were you?’ says Dad. ‘Marvellous, isn’t it? I only bring them home for the articles and I’m being branded as some kind of pervert.’

‘What articles?’ says Sid. ‘“How spanking saved my marriage”? “Spanking round the world”? “Cooking for spankers”?’

‘Nothing like that!’ snorts Dad. ‘I mean the articles by famous living men of letters. I don’t look at the pictures.’

‘Yeah. Smoke rises from his fingers, he turns the pages over so fast,’ sneers Sid.

‘ “Wanda Zonker”?’ says Mum. ‘She foreign, is she?’ There is a strong note of disapproval in her voice. Mum has been around long enough to know that foreigners cause most of the trouble in the world.

‘Yes, Mum. She’s a Lithuanian.’

‘Oh.’ Mum does not sound as if that is the best news she has heard since the end of World War Two. ‘Where’s that?’

Sid looks round the room and shrugs his shoulders. ‘I don’t know, Mum.’

‘I’ve never met anyone who did know,’ says Mum suspiciously. ‘You want to watch those Lithuanians. There’s a lot of them about and nobody knows where they come from. You want to ask her if you see her again.’

‘If she says Peckham, he’s not going to know whether she’s telling the truth or not,’ says Dad.

‘It’s definitely abroad,’ says Mum.

‘ “Next week, our panel of experts will be discussing Euthanasia – does it come too late?” ’ says Sid in his posh announcer voice. ‘Come on, Timmo. I’ll go bonkers if I hang around here much longer. I’m nipping round to see Wanda now. I’ll introduce you.’

‘You watch yourself,’ says Dad. ‘Don’t sign anything.’

‘Tell you what I’ll do,’ says Sid. ‘When it’s all fixed up I’ll give you a fortnight’s free treatment. That’ll open your eyes – your pores, your bowels, everything!’

‘Don’t be disgusting!’ Dad’s voice echoes after us as we bundle out of the front door.

Sid rubs his hands together and a faraway look comes into his eyes. ‘Ooh. I wouldn’t half like to get him in one of those dry heat cabinets,’ he says. ‘I’d turn the bleeding knob up to maximum and watch his nut turn scarlet. Twenty minutes later there would be nothing left but a puddle in the bottom of the cabinet.’

‘Sid! Please! That’s my old man you’re talking about.’

Sid shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. I keep forgetting that he’s a human being.’ Sid has been bashing the horror movies a bit lately and I think that they have an unfortunate effect on him. He is always knocking back his char with a maniacal laugh and saying, ‘Today, Clapham. Tomorrow the world!’ I could belt him sometimes.

‘Where does this tart live?’ I ask.

An expression of pain flashes across Sid’s features. ‘Watch it,’ he says. ‘She’s quality, this bird. Refined. You know what I mean?’

‘She washes her hands before she goes to the karsi?’

Sid shakes his head. ‘Don’t take the piss, Timmo. She’s living in reduced circumstances at the moment but she’s still a lady.’

‘How did you meet her?’ I ask.

‘Down the whelk stall in Northcote Road.’

‘Oh yes. Very salubrious,’ I say. ‘Washing them down with a glass of bubbly, was she?’

‘Whelks happen to be one of the great health foods,’ says Sidney loftily. ‘You wouldn’t cocoa some of the things whelks can do for you.’

‘I know what they do for me,’ I say. ‘And when you see them they look as if they’ve already done it.’

‘Gordon Bennett! You’re disgusting, you are. You take after your old man, there’s no doubt about it.’

‘Leaving the whelks to one side,’ I say. ‘What is this bird doing at the moment?’

‘She’s practising her craft,’ says Sid. ‘She’s a fully qualified masseuse as well as all the other things. She’s got a string of initials after her name long enough to spell out your moniker.’

All the time we are rabbiting, Sid is pushing the Rover 2000 towards Battersea Park and the river – I don’t mean literally, though with the price of petrol what it is today you could be excused for wondering.

‘I think it’s very nice round here,’ I say. ‘All those trees and the kids digging up the snowdrops.’

‘Oh it is,’ says Sid. ‘But it’s not what she’s used to. Back in Druskininkai, things were different.’

‘I imagine they would be,’ I say, philosophically.

‘Here we are.’ Sid stops outside a block of flats facing the park and we get out. The column of bell pushes looks like the buttons on a giant’s waistcoat but the front door is open and Sid sweeps over the threshold and heads for the stairs. It is funny, but I have never visited anybody in a block of flats who did not live either in the basement or right at the bleeding top. Sometimes I think that the floors in between are used for storing old furniture. There is never any sign of life on them. Not so the top floor of Porchester Mansions. The whole place is vibrating and the squeaking skylight sets your teeth on edge, the noise it is making.

‘She must have a client,’ says Sid.

‘If she does embalming she could have another one,’ I pant. ‘Blimey, those stairs don’t half knacker you.’

‘Because you’re so bleeding unfit,’ says Sid contemptuously. ‘Look at me, I’m hardly out of breath. It’s all a question of diet and a few exercises.’

I take a quick shufti at Clapham’s answer to Paul Newman and I have to confess that he does not look in bad nick. Maybe Madam Zonker knows a thing or two.

Just as that moment there is a long drawn out moan that quite puts the mockers on me. I am not surprised that the pigeon which has landed on the skylight relieves itself. I feel a bit edgy myself.

‘What’s that?’ I say.

‘Dunno,’ says Sid. ‘She seems to have finished anyway.’

The shuddering and shaking has certainly stopped and no sooner has Sid stepped towards the door than it swings open. Revealed to my hungry mince pies is a handsome looking bird wearing a cross between a housecoat and a judo robe. She has short hair and sharp, determined features.