Confessions of an Ice Cream Man

Tina is kneeling in front of Clare and leaning forward threateningly and I sense that aggro is but just split seconds away. In such an explosive situation a man has to stay cool, I think fast, and arrive at a split-second decision. I reach for my y-fronts and start to pull them on. If you start by saving yourself that’s always one life on the credit side.

‘You ! ! ! ! –’

‘Now girls,’ I say. ‘You musn’t –’ I reach for my trousers and turn round to see – blimey!

CONFESSIONS OF AN ICE CREAM MAN

Timothy Lea

CONTENTS

Title Page

Chapter One

In which Valentina, an Italian ice cream lady, nearly garrots brother-in-law Sid and proffers exquisite retribution to Timmy after an unpromising beginning.

Chapter Two

In which Valentina’s mum arrives and an unexpected love idyll is rudely interrupted.

Chapter Three

In which Timmy goes to buy some ice cream tricycles and meets dissatisfied, passionate Pam.

Chapter Four

In which Sid unveils his unique vehicle for selling ice cream and the family attend a taste test of the first batch of Mum’s ice cream.

Chapter Five

In which Timmy goes down to the library to get some Italian ice cream leaflets translated and becomes involved with Tina and Clare who have come under the Italian influence.

Chapter Six

In which Timmy prepares to go out on his first sales foray.

Chapter Seven

In which Timmy bumps into Mrs Betty Gregson on the job and is forced to do naughty things with her by a kinky and mistrustful husband.

Chapter Eight

In which Timmy makes an ice cream action painting with an uninhibited lady called Sybil who has an artistic bent and a desire to experiment.

Chapter Nine

In which Sid gets the ice cream concession at the Clapham Open Tennis Tournament and things start to go wrong.

Chapter Ten

In which things continue to go wrong and get even worse when Sid and Timmy find themselves closely involved with Mrs Brewer and her sensitive daughter, Henrietta.

Chapter Eleven

In which Sid prepares to exhibit at The International Ice Cream Manufacturers’ Great Exhibition

Chapter Twelve

In which everything hinges on the result of the competition for the best ice cream.

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CHAPTER ONE

In which Valentina, an Italian ice cream lady, nearly garrots brother-in-law Sid and proffers exquisite retribution to Timmy after an unpromising beginning.

‘Fifty thousand quid a year,’ says Sid.

‘You what?’ I say. I thought he had dropped off over his pint but this is clearly not the case.

‘I’ve just worked it out,’ he says, nodding towards the ice cream van barely visible beneath a pall of kids. ‘That’s what that Frascati geezer is taking home to his old lady and the bambinos. Three a minute at an average of ten pence a time. That’s eighteen quid an hour – make it twenty to keep to round figures. Start around ten and finish at six. That’s a hundred and sixty quid a day. Six-day week. That’s nine hundred and sixty nicker a week. Fifty-two weeks in a year. That’s fifty thousand quid near as damn it.’

‘He’s not working flat out all the time,’ I say. ‘There’s no market in the winter.’

‘He switches to hot dogs and field dressings during the football season,’ says Sid. ‘Even if he was only working half the year that’s twenty-five thousand quid. Can’t be bad. I’ve always said you can’t go wrong flogging nosh – provided you work for yourself, of course.’

‘I never remember you saying that,’ I observe.

‘That’s because you never listen,’ says Sid. ‘You just sit there wondering how long you can hang onto that pint so that you don’t have to buy another one.’

‘I bought the last one!’ I tell him.

‘What does it matter?’ says Sid. ‘You’re so petty. I don’t pay attention to things like that.’

‘That’s what I’m complaining about,’ I say. ‘You’re as tight as a french letter on a bollard.’

‘What a disgusting way to talk,’ says Sid. ‘I don’t know what your bleeding mother would say if she could hear you.’ He drains his pint and sighs. ‘Oh dear, it’s always the foreigners, isn’t it? They’re the only people making any money in this country at the moment. If the Arabs haven’t bought it, it’s only because the Pakistanis and the Chinese won’t sell. You have to go the other side of Thornton Heath to see an Englishman.’

‘I don’t understand it,’ I say. ‘If we’re in such desperate schtuck why are they rushing to get in?’

‘Because their standards are much lower than ours,’ says Sid. ‘They’ll accept things no Britisher would tolerate. Cold beer, that kind of thing. What they put up with at home makes this country seem like paradise.’

We watch an Alfa Romeo glide to a halt beside the ice cream van and a slim, dark girl get out and shake back her tawny black hair. She is wearing black satin trousers that cling to her high-hitched arse the way the outer skin of an onion is moulded to the inner layers. The pencil line of her panties runs round the curves like a contour line. She bends to get something out of the car and a parched cry of need breaks from Sid’s throat.

‘Blimey,’ he breathes. ‘She could have a lick of my cornet any day of the week.’

‘She looks foreign,’ I say.

‘They’re not all bad,’ says Sid ‘It’s the men that make the trouble.’

As we watch, the bird goes to the back of the van and opens the door. ‘One of the family,’ I say. ‘You’re right, Sid. They must be doing all right if she can afford an Alfa.’

‘It’s just a question of whipping up some powder and that,’ muses Sid. ‘We could do it at home. Your mum could do it.’ His face clouds over. ‘No, probably not. I haven’t got over the caraway seeds on that sundae turning out to be mouse droppings.’

‘It was the tiny footprints gave it away, wasn’t it?’ I say. ‘Taste-wise it was like everything else Mum dishes up.’

The bird comes down the steps of the van and she has a movement that would make a Swiss watch envious. She wafts along like she is dancing to a tune nobody else can hear. ‘I wonder if they do a recipe leaflet?’ I say.

‘No harm in asking,’ says Sid. He gets up and squares his enormous shoulders and I can see that Clapham’s answer to Paul Newman is about to strike again.

‘Be gentle with her,’ I say.

‘Piss off!’ says my brother-in-law. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and moves purposefully towards the Alfa. The bird has just closed the door as he approaches and he spreads his arms wide against the coachwork and bends down so that his head is nearly inside the car. It does not stay there long because there is a whirring noise and the automatic window nearly gives Sid a cleft palate. He starts back and then stops dead. I never fancied Sid’s cowpoke tie – two bits of string threaded through a brass bull’s head and decorated with metal spurs on the ends – and this instrument of sartorial torture nearly proves to be his undoing. The metal spurs get snagged inside the window and when the bird drives off Sid is forced to run along beside the car or indent for a smaller collar size. The bird does not immediately cotton on to what is happening and thinking that Sid is giving chase she accelerates. This is definitely not good news for Sid’s windpipe and it is a good job that the string snaps before his neck does. When I get to his side his adam’s apple is squatting on the brass bull like it is a golf tee. I don’t know if blue is his favourite colour but only the bloodshot eyes break the monotony of his bloated ultra-marine mug – it is like the flesh tints on a cheap colour tele. If I had a knife I could cut the string away but on the other hand there would be the danger of slitting his throat which I know he would not like. Decisions, decisions: I always wanted to find out what I would be like in an emergency and now I know – useless. ‘EEEurgh!!’ Sid plucks the string from his throat and lies writhing in the grass. For a moment I think he is going to be Uncle Dick but then he sits up and grabs me by the trouser leg. ‘Uuugh!’ he says.

‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘Take a few deep breaths, you’ll feel much better.’

A crowd is collecting and I am suddenly aware that the girl who was driving the car is amongst them. She looks worried – and very, very beautiful. Looking into her dark passionate eyes quite cheers me up after the distress of Sid’s predicament.

I think Sid likes her too because he immediately grabs hold of her leg and clings to it. ‘What ’appened?’ says the bird sounding appropriately worried.

‘You nearly killed my brother-in-law,’ I say sternly. ‘Snatched away in his prime he would have been.’ Sid nods vigorously and presses his face closer to the bird’s thigh. He looks like a tabby cat with suppertime approaching. I think he is overdoing it a bit but I can’t say anything.

‘It was an accidente,’ says a swarthy bloke who has emerged from the ice cream van. ‘Is nobody hurta.’

‘Nobody hurt?’ I say. ‘Are you a doctor, mate? Do you think he’s usually that colour? Why don’t you push off and shove your nuts in your cassata?’

A murmur of agreement tells me that the world cup preliminaries are still much in the mind of many of the onlookers and Beppo backs off and relapses into grumbling Italian.

‘How are you doing, Sid?’ I ask tenderly. ‘Is there anything you want you’re not already making a grab at?’ Sid withdraws his hand from the Alfa lady’s trousers and makes a hoarse, croaking noise. ‘I think he wants to go to the South London Hospital,’ I say.

‘But that’s a women’s hospital,’ says one of the onlookers.

‘He knows what’s good for him,’ I say.

‘Use my car,’ says the luscious eyetie bint. ‘I am zo zorry about all zis. I do not mean to ’urt ’im.’

‘That’s all right,’ I say. ‘The damages for this kind of thing never go above a couple of hundred thousand quid on average. Mind you, he’ll probably never sing again so it could be a bit more in this case.’

‘Sing?’ says the bird.

‘They called him the Clapham Caruso,’ I say. ‘He had the world at his feet. Now – who knows? – a summer season at Hayling Island if he’s lucky.’

‘You think he’ll sue?’ says the bird.

‘He’ll be forced to,’ I tell her. ‘Just for the sake of the wife and kiddies. That’s their violin lessons up the spout. Yehudi Menuhin will be casting around for a few bob.’ I can see that I have kindled nervousness in the bird’s eyes and I turn my attention to Sid. ‘Let go of the lady’s leg,’ I say in as kindly a tone as I can manage. ‘She’s going to help take you to hospital.’

‘I will never sing again,’ croaks Sid as we help him scramble to his feet. ‘“My old man, said follow the band –” See? It’s not there any more.’

‘Maybe with time and lots of money,’ I say comfortingly. I must say, there is something very sexy about being driven in a fast car by a handsome bird and I really enjoy the journey to St Bukes – Sid makes a noise as we go past the South London but we don’t stop. The way she shoves the stubby gear lever into position with scarlet-tipped fingers. The lunging aggression of her breasts thrusting against the soft angora. The restrained power of her gracefully muscled legs as they step on the pedals. It quite takes my mind off Sid’s gasps and groans. I wonder if the red mark round his neck will ever go? It looks a bit like one of those poncey necklaces you see worn by geezers with gold earrings and intense stares. It does nothing for him.

‘You’re one of the Frascatis, are you?’ I ask, remembering the sign on the front of the ice cream van.

‘Si – I mean, yes,’ says the bird. ‘I am Valentina. Pietro is my uncle.’

‘I’m Timothy Lea,’ I say. ‘This unfortunate creature here labours under the name of Sidney Noggett.’ Sid groans and tries to knee me in the balls.

‘I wish we ’ad met under ’appier auspices,’ says Valentina.’ ‘Ow is the Signor Noggetto?’

‘Multo dicey,’ I say. ‘I think he is in urgent need of medical attention.’

I soon wish I had not spoken because Valentina puts one of her lovely feet down and the landscape turns into a blur before we pull up outside St Bukes with a jerk – well, two jerks if you include Sid. I am disturbed to see that the old maestro is not looking as purple and ghastly as he did a few minutes ago and I consider throttling him back into a medically interesting colour. Probably not a good idea.

‘You had better give me your address and telephone number,’ I say to Valentina. ‘Just in case the repercussions of your inadvertent but ill-considered action are even more serious than I anticipate them being.’

‘I will come in with you,’ says the lovely creature. ‘You get out while I find somewhere to park.’

Half an hour later she is with us refusing a lukewarm cup of tea and a crumbling wad. The out-patients smells of disinfectant and babies and the benches have been polished shiny by countless millions of bums two hours late for their appointments.

‘Good job I’m a bleeding emergency,’ croaks Sid. ‘Some of those poor sods are going to die of old age before anyone gets round to them.’

‘Mr Chow? Mr Banwagi? Mr Ndefru?’ Nobody moves and the nurse goes away again.

‘They must have nipped out to get their free specs and dentures,’ says Sid. ‘You noticed that, did you? Not one of them was English.’

‘Ssh,’ I say. ‘Don’t be rude. Think of Valentina.’ I don’t think she has heard Sid because she smiles and goes on reading her edition of the September 1955 Exchange and Mart. Sometimes I wonder where they get the reading matter that is strewn about in these places. The British Museum must have a snappier collection.

‘Three hours I waited here on Thursday to end up with an Indian doctor,’ says the woman sitting next to me. ‘I didn’t mind that but then he started reading my medical card upside down.’

‘It’s not right, is it?’ I say.

‘Some of the nurses are all right but I wouldn’t trust them with a syringe. I mean, it’s right back to the jungle for them. I’ve had them trying to inject into the bone.’

‘Feeling better, Sid?’ I say.

‘And that Doctor Balbutti,’ says my neighbour. ‘He’s so nervous he terrifies you. He chewed the rubber out of his stethescope while I was describing my symptoms.’

‘Mr Noggett? Doctor will see you now.’

‘I don’t think it’s necessary,’ says Sid. ‘I’m feeling a hundred per cent now.’

‘Nonsense!’ I tell him. ‘Your head is only hanging onto your shoulders by a thread.’ I lower my voice. ‘Belt up if you want to take this Italian bird for a few bob.’ I drag Sid to his feet and am disappointed to find that Valentina is tagging along.

‘Mr Noggett?’ says the nurse looking at the three of us.

‘The man with a neck like a turkey on Boxing Day,’ I say, nodding at Sid. ‘I hope you’ve seen suffering, love, otherwise you might as well chuck the whole thing in and wander across to the kiddies’ clinic – don’t nod your head, Sid. It could be fatal.’

‘Only the patient, please,’ says the nurse coldly. She is obviously a hard nut and I believe that they can turn like that.

‘But I’m the only one who knows the symptoms,’ I say. ‘I saw the whole thing. If it’s a question of settling damages, my presence is invaluable.’

‘Not at the moment it isn’t,’ says the nurse brusquely. ‘Wait in there. The doctor will call you if he needs you.’

‘You’ve got a white one, Sid,’ I say as he goes through the door. He does not reply because his head is tilted right back. This is probably why he crashes into the instruments trolley and breaks half a dozen thermometers.

‘Now it’s gone to his eyes,’ I say as we are shown into a small room containing a bed trolley. ‘That is serious. I was hoping the big game hunting was going to take his mind off the singing.’

‘Big game ’unting?’ says the bird, her eyes widening.

‘“Noggett of the North,” they used to call him,’ I say. ‘The very whisper of his name used to start the caribou migrating. He could shoot the centre out of a washer at twenty paces.’

‘But a washer does not ’ave a centre,’ she says.

‘Hmn. Maybe he was fooling us all these years.’ I can see I will have to step warily with this chick. She is not as stupid as I would like her to be.

‘What do you want of me, Mr Lea?’ she says, taking a deep breath and giving her knockers the freedom of her sweater to do it in. Her lips tremble and I am reminded of such sultry temptresses as Silvano Manure and Melina Mercury – a girl who could really put your temperature up.

‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I just want to remind you that there’s a man’s life at stake out there. That’s got to be worth something. Maybe you didn’t mean it but you’ve got to face up to the fact that because of you he may end up as some kind of vegetable –’ a beetroot by the look of things. I am enjoying my role. I always saw myself as more of a Raymond Massey than a Richard Chamberlain.

‘I repeat, what do you expect me to do about it?’ Her eyes are as green and level as the baize on a billiard table – only slightly less wide as well.

‘Let’s face it,’ I say. ‘This thing has got to go to court – or there again, maybe it hasn’t.’

‘What do you mean?’ she says.

‘I’d have thought it was obvious,’ I say. ‘If you anti up a few bob out of court we may be able to avoid a lot of unpleasantness. I mean, imagine the effect on a jury of seeing that poor creature out there and knowing that he was never going to sing Mozart’s “Cosy fanny” again.’

‘Cosi fan tutte,’ she says.

‘Just as you like,’ I say. ‘If you prefer the original it’s all the same to me. This is no moment to split hairs over the arts. There are more important issues at stake – that man’s future for example.’

The bird looks at me levelly and then takes a step to my side.

‘I zink I know what you are getting at,’ she says. She suddenly slaps the rubber sheet on the trolley bed and there is a loud ‘swalch’ which makes me jump. ‘You are trying to bedmail me.’ She reaches up and pinches one of my ears.

‘Ouch!’

‘If I sleep with you, you will forget the ’ole thing?’

‘Look,’ I say. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. Nothing was further from my mind. I was thinking purely in terms of a financial settlement to compensate for the injuries received by my unfortunate brother-in-law. Anything that might occur between us would arrive naturally in the fulness of time and as a result of a deep and meaningful relationship. It would be spontaneous and very beautiful.’ I glance at my watch. ‘Are you doing anything this evening?’

‘I ’ave no money. I ’ave only my body.’

It is strange but a feeling of relief accompanies my reception to these remarks. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well, what about that car?’

‘It belongs to the business. My Uncle Pietro, ’e ’olds everything.’

‘He was the geezer who opened his trap outside the Highwayman?’

Valentina nods. ‘’E is an ’ard man.’

No doubt about that. And probably well connected to the Mafia to boot. Start putting the squeeze on him and you could end up with half a dozen unfilled cornets up your khyber. Best to reconsider the lady’s offer. After all, Sid is in good hands and the whole thing was his own fault when you think about it.

Valentina walks her fingers up my chest. ‘We make love and you forget about the whole thing. It was an accident, no?’

‘What kind of heartless brute do you think I am?’ I say. ‘Abandon my own brother-in-law for the call of the flesh? You Italians aren’t the only ones with family feelings. Tight-knit is the word for the Leas – or maybe ‘tight nits’ would be better. Anway, I keep the thought to myself.

‘Very well.’ Valentina tilts her head aggressively. ‘There is nothing else I can do. You will ’ave to sue.’

‘And anyway, we can’t do it here,’ I say. ‘Anybody could come in. I’ve been caught like that before.’ I start to panic a bit when I realise that I might end up with nothing after that diabolical cup of tea and all those old magazines with the crosswords filled in.

‘We could go to my ’ouse.’

Uhm. That sounds a lot more tempting. Goodbye, Sid. ‘Very well,’ I say, trying to make it sound as if I am struggling with myself.

‘So, it eez to be my body. Will you shake on it?’

‘I expect so,’ I say. ‘More a shudder than a shake really.’

‘I mean, will you shake ’ands to confirm your agreement?’

‘Oh yes, of course.’ I shake hands feeling a bit of a berk and Valentina tosses back her hair and walks to the door waiting for me to open it. I must say, she is very businesslike about the whole thing.

Sid is sitting in a chair with his head tilted back as we come in. I see his eyes swivelling towards me. ‘Well, we’re off now, Sid,’ I say light-heartedly. ‘If they offer you a transplant I’d think very seriously about it.’ I see a worried look spreading over his face and I lower my head to one of his lugholes. ‘We’re going to have a little business chat,’ I whisper. ‘She’s got an angle and I think there could be something in it.’

Sid nods. ‘If you hang on for five minutes, I’ll come with you. I’m nearly through, here.’

I think quickly. ‘Best if we go on,’ I say. ‘If you’re still stuck here when we leave it looks more serious and puts me in a better bargaining position.’

Sid pats my shoulder. ‘Good thinking,’ he says.

I return to Valentina and shake my head. ‘Looks bad,’ I say.

‘I know,’ she says. ‘He may never be able to sing again.’ I can’t help feeling that there is a trace of sarcasm in her voice and it is in silence that I follow her out into the car park. I hope I am going to enjoy what I have lined up for myself. Valentina is not exactly bubbling over with hot-blooded Italian vitality and I am a very cold starter when met less than half way. Even as I think about it I can feel the heart dropping out of my winkle. I can actually feel it shrinking – like a slug dropped on a block of ice. I must try and turn my mind to something else – like England’s chances of qualifying for the World Cup Finals. No, there is no point in torturing myself. There must be something else. But no, my thoughts keep returning to the void between my legs. The void once occupied by a vibrant organ eager for the fray – and blooming nearly frayed on more than one occasion. There is no doubt about it. The best times have always been the unexpected ones. When a spot of nooky sort of slunk up behind me. I don’t think I could ever have it off with a tart.

I mean, I always remember the first time on Clapham Common with Sid’s Aunty Lil – well, strictly Speaking, it wasn’t the first time, was it? Not with me getting it tucked under her suspender strap and never realising. How green I must have been in those days. How refreshingly innocent. Anyhow, I was useless with Lil and that was because it wasn’t for real. I was just ten minutes of Lil’s time. And what am I with this bird? Not Marcello Masturbati, that’s for sure. Just a way of buying off trouble. It’s not the stuff of great romance by a long chalk. Maybe I should tell her to stop and get out – I mean, me get out. But, on the other hand, that’s being cowardly, isn’t it? That would be turning my back on an experience. If I do that I will never know what might have happened. I will give my old man an even worse complex than it has got at the moment. Once it knows that I am pulling it out before it has even had the chance td get in I will be creating big problems. And there is not just this bird to think about. There must be others – in the future – somewhere in the future. One has to face up to failure sometime. It’s inevitable. That’s what makes one human as opposed to someone who believes what they read in Cosmopolitan. Even if it is a total disaster with Valentina and she tells all her friends – what the hell! There must be about fifteen million shaftable birds in this country and she can’t know all of them. Even if she does, it’s not the end of the world. Women like a challenge – some of them, anyway. If she can’t convert Percy into fifteen and a half centimetres of nether ramrod then there must surely be others prepared to have a try. I mean, if you reverse the situation, I’ve never held it against a bird for being untutored in the ways of love – in fact I frequently have held it against her. Not only held it but propelled it forward urgently until the only tight band in her life was a recollection of Nat Temple’s lot playing at the opening of a brewery extension.