Confessions from a Health Farm

‘Hello, Sidney sweetie,’ she says. ‘You have not seen the milkman, have you? He gets later every day. Henry wants his Ovaltine.’ Her accent is very good but you can tell that she is not British. She leans forward to look down the stairs and I can see that her knockers would make a lovely pair of bookends if you could think of the right item to put between them.

‘I haven’t,’ says Sid. ‘Wanda, I’d like to introduce my brother-in-law, Timothy Lea. He’s very interested in physical culture, though you might not believe it to look at him.’

‘Charmed,’ I say.

Wanda smiles and I notice that she has a few gold teeth sprinkled around her cakehole. ‘Likewise,’ she says. ‘Come in. My session with Sir Henry is over.’ She raises the voice when she says the last bit and I get the impression that she is giving someone a message.

I look over her shoulder and there is an elderly geezer adjusting his tie in front of the mirror.

‘Your shirt’s hanging out at the back,’ I say helpfully.

The bloke turns round and – blimey! I recognise that face. I saw him on Midweek. Not for long though, because I was looking for the wrestling. Maybe it was the wrestling? No, it couldn’t have been. Some of them look a bit past it but not as far gone as this geezer. He could rupture himself climbing through the ropes.

‘Thank you,’ he says, looking very uncomfortable.

‘I always find that’s happened when I’ve been to the karsi,’ I say, trying to put him at his ease.

‘Karsi?’ says the bloke.

‘Bog, shit-house,’ I say, helpfully. ‘I always feel a bit of a berk when somebody points it out.’

Who is he? I know I’ve seen him. If he was on the telly after ten o’clock he must be a politician. Oh yes, that’s right! He’s the minister for something. If I can get his autograph I will know who he is. Mum will be impressed, too. He is wearing a waistcoat so he must be a Conservative. Mum has a secret hankering for them. I am quite partial myself. I mean, they have all the money, don’t they?

‘I am afraid that there is no Ovaltine, today,’ says Wanda, picking up a black mask from the carpet.

‘I must have a word with you,’ murmurs the man.

‘Call me later.’ Wanda plucks a piece of fluff from the man’s suit.

‘I’ve got to have those negatives!’

He sounds really worked up about it. Looking at him, I reckon that he must be one of Miss Zonker’s newer clients. There is little physical evidence that she has taken him in hand. He looks far too slack and flabby.

‘Can I have your autograph?’ I say in what is intended to be my friendly voice.

‘On a blank cheque, I suppose?!’ snaps Sir Henry.

‘Thatll do if you haven’t got a piece of paper,’ I say. ‘Hold on a minute. You can use the back of –’

I break off when I see what I have picked up. It is a photograph of a man on a bed with two girls, one of whom definitely hails from dusky climes, as they say. Both ladies seem to be on very good terms with the gentleman in question and a good time is being had by all. It is not the photograph I would have chosen for my Christmas card to the Archbishop of Canterbury but I can see that it might have a fairly broad appeal to some sections of the market.

Sir Henry blushes, as well he might. ‘I’d hardly have recognised you from that angle,’ I say.

‘You should see some of the others,’ says Wanda. ‘Who knows? Perhaps you will.’

‘Wanda –!’

Sir Henry follows our hostess to the door and I hear his voice continuing to plead with her.

‘Minister of Defence!’ I say.

‘Not any more,’ says Sidney. ‘They swop around so much these days, I lose track.’

‘He didn’t give me his autograph, did he?’ I say. ‘Mum will be disappointed.’

‘Don’t worry. Wanda will get it for you later,’ says Sid. ‘You can have the whole cabinet if you want them.’

‘They’re all physical fitness fanatics, are they?’ I splutter. ‘You wouldn’t think it to look at them.’

‘Half an hour with Wanda makes new men of them,’ says Sid. ‘That’s why I want to set her up somewhere. She’s got the technique and she’s got the contacts. She can’t cope with the demand here.’

‘I think he’s beginning to see the light,’ says Wanda coming in to the room and opening the top drawer of a filing cabinet. ‘Drink, anyone?’ She looks me up and down and darts her tongue between her lips. ‘We’ll have to whittle a few pounds off you, won’t we?’

‘Why?’ I say.

‘Because if you are going to be one of our hygienists you must be seen to be practising what you preach. Your body is the best advertisement for Inches Limited.’

‘That’s the name of the firm,’ says Sid. ‘Clever, isn’t it? We’re negotiating with Sir Henry for the use of his country seat, Long Hall.’

‘Shortly to be renamed Beauty Manor. It’s a residential course, you see?’

‘Sort of,’ I say. They are going a bit fast for me.

Wanda gives Sid a meaningful glance. ‘I think you had better leave us, Sidney sweetie. I want to show Timmy my credentials and give him a few tests.’

‘Oh yes?’ I clear my throat noisily.

‘All right,’ says Sid. ‘Have you got any films to be developed?’

‘Yes,’ says Wanda. ‘And this time, don’t take them to Boots. The address is on the label.’

‘Oh yes,’ says Sid, blushing. ‘I got some very old-fashioned looks when I went to collect them. Fancy dressing up a policeman in a wig. If I hadn’t seen his hobnail boots sticking out from underneath the perfume counter –’

‘Yes, yes. Very distressing,’ says Miss Zonker, waving Sid towards the door. ‘It will teach you to be more careful next time.’

Sid nods at me. ‘See you later, Timmo.’

‘Tra la, Sid.’

The door closes on my brother-in-law and Wanda Zonker subjects me to her penetrating gaze. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘But I have to scrutinise you.’

Hello! I might have guessed there would be a catch in it. Sidney never said anything about that.

‘You look alarmed,’ says Miss Z.

‘It’s what you were talking about,’ I say. ‘I don’t fancy it. I might want to have children one day and I’ve heard there’s no going back.’

Miss Zonker looks puzzled. ‘Your meaning escapes me,’ she says. ‘Perhaps I had better set your mind at rest by revealing some of my parts’ – in fact she says ‘past’ but she gives me a nasty turn for a moment. ‘I have studied in all the great salons of Europe: Lausanne, Madrid, Stockholm, Paris, Budleigh Salterton. Physical dancing, rhythmical massage, remedial culture, or any combination of the three. I am a founder member of the Volcanic Mud Institute and the Wax Lyrical and have received diplomas from the Papuan Cosmetologists Institute, the Greek National Electrolysis Society and the CBI.’

‘That’s amazing,’ I say. ‘It’s practically a science, isn’t it?’

Miss Zonker’s face clouds over. ‘What do you mean “practically”? We are scientists fighting the war against physical imperfection.’

‘But you don’t have any medical qualifications, do you?’

‘Medical qualifications?’ Miss Z practically holds the words at arm’s length with one hand while applying contractual pressure to her hooter with the other. ‘Our field of activity is so enormous as to defy restriction. There is no part of the mental or physical process that I will not grapple with.’ Her breasts heave when she says it and her eyes blaze. I can see that I have touched on something she feels strongly about. ‘Before we go any further there is one question that I must ask you.’

‘My cards are stamped up to date,’ I say.

‘Are you frightened of the human body?’

This was not the question I was expecting but it is still pretty easy. ‘No,’ I say.

‘Good.’ Miss Zonker suddenly unties the sash of her robe and – eek! She has shed her threads before you can say Roger Carpenter. ‘It’s only flesh, isn’t it? Shoulders, breasts, hips –’

‘Yes!’ I gulp. ‘But –’

‘Nothing to be ashamed of. We’re all the same underneath these dust sheets we call clothes. Take your trousers off.’

Oh dear. I never feel at my happiest when I am up against one of these forward ladies – especially when they come from somewhere in Eastern Europe. You never know what they’ve been used to, do you?

‘Is that really necessary?’ I say.

‘If you reveal signs of an inhibited nature you will be no good to us at Beauty Manor. Think of yourself as a sculptor and human flesh as your clay.’

I try to think about it but I find it difficult. Maybe it is because Miss Zonker is wrestling with my zipper. My, but she is a strong girl. She grits her teeth and – wheeeeeeeeeeh! The opening at the front of my trousers now goes down to my knee.

‘So sorry,’ she says. ‘Now you will have to take them off.’

‘They’re not even split down the seam,’ I say miserably. ‘I’ve only had them a couple of weeks. They were French.’

Miss Zonker removes a screen and starts fiddling with a large stills camera. ‘At Beauty Manor you will wear a toga,’ she says. ‘Right. Just a couple of snaps for the album. We intend to keep a case history of each of our employees. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind posing with that discus.’

‘Sidney didn’t discus this with me,’ I say, wittily. Miss Zonker does not say anything. I expect that, being foreign, she finds it difficult to understand our British sense of humour. ‘How’s this for the pose?’ I say.

‘Very nice,’ she says. ‘But I think it would be better if you took the discus out of your mouth. You look like one of those African women with a plate lip.’

‘Just trying to make it more interesting,’ I say. ‘How about this?’

‘That’s much better. There’s only one thing. It loses a lot with you standing there in your shirt and underpants. The socks don’t help a lot, either.’

‘I don’t like them much, myself,’ I say. ‘My gran gave them to me. You know what it’s like?’

‘Take everything off,’ says Miss Z firmly. ‘I want you naked.’ She starts clicking on spot lights and I have to shield my eyes against the dazzle. ‘Come on.’ I respond to the tone of brisk efficiency in her voice and start sliding down my Y-fronts. After all, she is a professional, isn’t she? If she has cabinet ministers on her books, she must be above suspicion. Funny about that photograph, though. I must talk to her about that.

‘Shove it up by your ear,’ she says.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The discus.’

Oh. For a moment I thought we were on to the remedial contortions.

‘This is just for the record, is it?’ I say.

‘That’s right. Bend your knee a bit. That’s lovely. Of course, we might get a cover shot out of it.’

‘A cover shot?’

‘ “Butch Male on the Rampage”, “Health and Dexterity”, something like that.’

‘But I’m not like that!’ I squeak. It’s funny how your voice always breaks at the wrong moment, isn’t it?

‘It doesn’t matter. Nobody’s going to know. It’s going to make money and that’s beautiful.’

‘Is it?’

Wanda Zonker speaks what I later learn is one of the great truths of the beauty business.

‘Anything that makes money is beautiful,’ she says, almost reproachfully. ‘Drop your shoulder and turn a bit more to the right. You’re showing too much puppy fat. We’ll have to work at those inches, won’t we?’ Her voice suddenly goes all husky and her shadow falls across one of the lights. ‘You’re still tense, aren’t you?’ She is now standing so close to me that her bristols are brushing my shoulder,

‘I’m not used to this caper,’ I say.

‘It’s the sex thing, isn’t it?’ she says.

‘Not exactly,’ I say.

‘You’ve no need to be ashamed. It’s a fairly common hang up.’ While she talks, her fingers are brushing against my hang down. ‘I come up against it every day.’

‘Really?’ I say. ‘Can I put this thing somewhere for a moment? My arm is getting tired.’

‘Of course.’ Miss Zonker brushes her lips against one of my biceps. ‘I think it would be a good idea if we broke off for a bit.’ Percy is now in a very breakable condition and I clear my throat nervously. Miss Z moves her hands to my shoulders and I breathe easier. ‘You’re thinking of me as a sex object, I can tell.’ She looks down between our bodies and we both know what she is talking about. ‘I think maybe we’d better get this thing out of the way, don’t you?’

I am not quite certain what ‘thing’ she is talking about but I am too shy to ask. That is why I learned so little at school. If I had my time again I would always ask.

‘Uuum,’ I say, to show that I have been thinking about it. ‘Whatever you think is best.’

‘I don’t want a sound working relationship to be sullied by any feelings of guilt emanating from a suppressed libido.’ She is a lovely talker, isn’t she? They must be very handy with the languages in Lithuania – very handy with the hands, too. Percy is practically going into orbit. I feel so uncouth behaving like this, but then, when you have an action man kit like mine you don’t have a lot of alternative. It sort of takes you over.

‘Excuse me.’ Miss Zonker peels herself away from the front of my body and pulls open a cupboard. Like a shelfful of imprisoned moggies, a bundle of furry rugs bounds into her arms. She tosses them onto the floor at my feet and prods one with her toe. ‘Lie down,’ she says.

I am very glad of the opportunity to wriggle into a bit of cover because I feel a right nana standing under the arc lights without as much as a dab of athlete’s foot powder to deaden the shine on my shimmering torso. Down at floor level it is much cosier. That fur feels fantastic against your skin! I do hope it is not habit forming. I would hate to feel that I had to borrow Mum’s fox stole next time I felt like a spot of nooky. You would have to watch the teeth, too, wouldn’t you?

‘That’s nice. Face me. Don’t smile.’ CLICK!

She is still taking photographs. I feel like a one hundred-and-eighty pound baby on a tiger skin rug.

‘Can you move –? No. A bit more – no. Let me –’

‘Ooh!’ She certainly knows how to arrange her sitters. CLICK! I have only just stopped blinking when she burrows into the furs beside me and snuggles close.

‘Now, where were we?’ she says. I don’t think she really expects an answer because her hands dive deep down below where my legs become one big happy family and start drawing themselves up and up and – ooooooh!

‘The massage is the medium,’ she murmurs.

‘Definitively!’ I agree with her.

The camera clicks and I wonder whether to tell her that she has forgotten to turn it off. I don’t give it a lot of thought because Wanda Zonker has ways of taking your mind off things.

‘Is that nice?’ she says.

‘Fantastic,’ I say. ‘Do you want me to do it to you?’

‘You can’t do it to me,’ she says.

‘I know. I mean, something like it.’

‘All right. Gently now … gently. Use your fingers like the tip of an artist’s brush … aaaaaargh! That’s better.’

All the time she is talking her own fingers are doing a spot of hampton courting and I feel that I must express my gratitude in practical terms.

‘Aaaah,’ she sighs. ‘That’s heaven. I can see you’re becoming less inhibited already.’

I don’t say anything because Mum always told me it was rude to speak with your mouth full.

CHAPTER 2

‘Centre spread of Woman Now!’ says Sid sourly. ‘All right for some, I suppose.’

‘I believe they did a lot of retouching,’ I say.

‘They’d have to, wouldn’t they?’ sneers Sid.

‘On the body hues,’ I say. ‘Come on, Sidney. There’s no need to be like that. Just because I was the first British Mr November in the magazine’s history. I had no idea they were going to use the pictures.’

‘I can’t see why they did it,’ moans Sid, looking me up and down. ‘There must be hundreds of blokes with better physiques than you. Blokes who have whittled themselves down to a tight knot of whipcord muscle. Blokes like me for instance.’

‘I think you may have whittled a bit too far,’ I say. ‘Wanda told me that she daren’t use you in case your dongler got obscured by one of the staple holes.’

Well, I don’t want to boast but I have never seen Sid in such a state before. He is practically begging me to ring up birds he has not seen for ten years to prove that there is nothing wrong with his equipment. Of course, I made the whole thing up so I just sit back and enjoy myself. It goes to show how some blokes are always worried that another bastard has got a beauty that plays Land Of Hope And Glory while it submerges. I say ‘another’ but I reckon that we are all a bit like that. I know I am. The trouble is that you never see the opposition on the rampage, do you? You don’t know what you’re up against – or rather, what the bird you fancy is, was or has been up against. You see a bit of the placid flaccid when you’re in the changing room at the baths but – unless you lead a very exciting private life – it is not often that a male nasty in full flight skims past your peepholes.

I know they say in all those books that size does not matter but if I don’t believe it, what chance have you got of convincing a bird? The books have got to say that, haven’t they? I mean, you can’t spell out the brutal facts too bluntly, can you? Some blokes might decide to knot themselves. It seems obvious to me that a whopperchopper is going to turn a bird on like a good pair of top bollocks do a bloke. Anyway, the point is that Sid is reeling on the ropes and things don’t get any better for him when he sees my fan mail. Really! Some of those letters! Talk about ‘come up and see me sometime’. It is more like ‘drop ’em and cop this!’ No finesse at all.

‘I am slim, blonde and very adventurous and I would like to make love to you until the cows come home.’ Some of the ones from women don’t mince the monosyllables either.

‘Blooming nutcases!’ snorts Sid. ‘Nobody in their right mind would want to be mixed up in anything like that.’

‘Just wait till I’ve finished signing these photos,’ I say. ‘Oh dear, I wish I had a shorter name sometimes.’ I raise my hand to my mouth. ‘Sorry! I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Said what?’

‘About being short.’

Sid turns scarlet. ‘Will you belt up! There’s nothing wrong with me, I tell you.’

Honestly, it is like taking candy from a kid.

Soon after I have been asked if I will stand as a Liberal candidate, Sid leaps round to Scraggs Lane with his face wreathed in smiles.

‘It’s settled!’ he says. ‘Wanda has come to an arrangement with Sir Henry. She’s been after his seat for a long time.’

This does not come as a complete surprise to me. She did a few funny things when I was with her. Nice but – well – funny.

‘I’m very happy for them,’ I say.

‘Long Hall,’ says Sid gazing into the distance.

‘Was it?’ I say. ‘I suppose she wanted time to be certain.’

‘What are you blathering about!?’ says Sid, unpleasantly. ‘I’m talking about Long Hall, Sir Henry’s country seat. We’re going to turn it into Beauty Manor. Don’t you remember anything you’re told?’

‘It all comes flooding back, now,’ I say. ‘I’ve been so busy with the modelling that I haven’t had time to keep up. By the way, Sid. When do I get paid for all this?’

Sid waves his hands in the air as if trying to dry them quickly.

‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Wanda.’

‘But she told me to talk to you about it.’

Sidney closes his eyes. ‘Look, Timmo. We’ve got a lot on our minds at the moment. This health farm thing could be very big. It needs constant attention. You’ll get your money. I’ve never let you down yet, have I?’

‘You’ve never not let me down, Sid. The last time I asked you for some cash you owed me you said “leave it to me, Timmo”. That’s what I’ve been doing all my bleeding life, leaving you money!’

This kind of argument makes less impression on Sid than a caterpillar stamping on reinforced concrete but at least it ensures that he takes me with him and Wanda when they go down to Long Hall.

I am quite partial to the country, once you can get to it, and I have a nice game with Wanda seeing who is the first person to spot a cow – it takes us forty miles, and then it is hanging up in the window of a butchers. Sidney is a rotten sport and will not play. I think he is sulking because he did not think of the idea in the first place – though maybe he is still worrying about the size of his dongler. Acornitis is what I have taken to calling his condition. Every time we drive past an oak tree I shake my head and he goes spare.

‘Here we are,’ says Wanda when we are somewhere on the other side of Henley. ‘Turn right at the gates.’

We sail past a couple of stone lions holding shields in front of their goolies and I soak up the acres of rolling parkland sprinkled with clumps of trees. It is better than any nick or reform school I have ever been to. I never knew you could see places like this if you were not a lunatic or a con. At the end of five hundred tons of gravel is a warm redbrick house with two wings and hundreds of windows – looking at them makes me blooming glad that I’m not still in the window cleaning game. You could perish your scrim on that lot.

‘This isn’t the place, is it?’ I say. ‘Not all of it?’

‘All of it,’ breathes Wanda. ‘Europe’s most modern beauty farm.’

‘You can’t have bought it?’ I say. ‘It must be worth millions.’

‘We’ve set up a company which will run the estate as a beauty farm, restaurant and superior country club. In return for our management expertise and a share of the profits from the enterprise –’

‘And because Sir Henry Baulkit owes us a favour,’ interrupts Sid. ‘We have carte blanche to convert the house to meet the requirements of its new usage.’

I can’t recall what Carte Blanche looks like but I remember the name. She must be one of those posh interior decorators you read about in the dentist’s waiting room.

‘Where is Sir Henry going to live?’ I ask.

‘He has a house in town which he uses when Parliament is sitting. His wife and daughter will be moving into the dower house.’

‘What’s wrong –?’

‘ “Dower” spelt D-O-W-E-R, not D-I-R-E,’ says Sid. ‘Spare me the Abbott and Costello routine.’

‘No need to be so touchy,’ I say. ‘You never learn if you don’t ask.’

‘Can you see that doe?’ says Wanda.

‘You bet I can,’ says Sid. ‘We should make a million out of this little caper.’

‘I was referring to the deer,’ says Wanda coldly.

‘Tch, Sidney!’ I say. ‘You’ve got a little caper on the mind, haven’t you?’

Sidney’s reply to my botanical jibe is unnecessarily coarse and hardly suitable for repetition in a book of this kind. I am glad when we arrive at the pillared front door.

‘Blimey!’ I say. ‘Take a gander at that bird. It looks like the hat Aunty Edna wore at Uncle Albert’s funeral.’ I remember the item well because there was a lot of talk about it at the time in family circles. It was also considered that the choice of scarlet stockings was inconsistent with the impression of a woman trembling on the brink of physical collapse over the loss of a dearly loved one. No one was very surprised when she married the coal man two months later. ‘She always had dirty finger nails,’ said Gran, significantly.

‘That’s a peacock,’ says Sid, following my gaze. ‘Blimey. Haven’t you ever been to Battersea Park?’

‘Some bugger nicked them two days before I went,’ I say. It is funny, but now that Sid reminds me, I seem to recall that the keeper was reported to have seen a coloured bloke climbing out of the aviary. I suppose it could have been a coal man …

‘Don’t look for a door bell,’ says Sid scornfully. ‘Houses like this don’t have them. Fold your mitt round that piece of wire and give it a pull.’

I do as I am told and we are lucky to avoid serious injury when the lightning conductor comes hurtling down and misses us by inches.

‘It’s going to need a few bob spent on it,’ says Sid, wisely.

‘What do you think of the weathercock?’ says Wanda.