Leather Wings Read Online Free Page A

crossword. More than this she has judged risky and unnecessary. Donald is only steps away in his boxy office, multi-coloured tie flashing behind the glass.
    A careful existence. Dull. And yet not so dull as some. Not as dull as Melanie. Melanie reads Mills and Boon. Esther is writing a Mills and Boon, which is quite a different thing and anyway it’s a secret. She won’t confess it to the Women’s Reading Group, not until she is published and rich. Then she will have no trouble finding friends to understand her.
    Esther needs a new friend.

WALLACE
    I TRY TO keep the car tidy, inside and out. It makes a good impression. Rust at the bottom of the doors can’t be helped, but a good hose down on a Sunday and a bit of our own polish on the windscreen, it makes all the difference. (We’ve branched out in the cleaning line and it’s good stuff.) I keep any junk in the boot now, out of sight, and hang a plastic bag for my chocolate wrappers from the door handle. If you’d seen the car before I got this job, you wouldn’t believe I was the same driver. Chocolate wrappers front to back, stuffed in the gear shaft, under the seats, any old where. Red, purple yellow shiny wrappers. Toffeepops, Moro, Kango, Pinky, the lot. I’m a chocolate freak, but now I hide it in one rubbish bag — well, you have to have vices, don’t you? I check my mouth, my teeth in the mirror before I leave the car. Sometimes I take the basket, sometimes the briefcase, depending on what I’m wearing. Basket goes with purple pullover, briefcase with fawn leather jacket. I don’t wear a suit, I’m no Jehovah’s Witness. Jehovah’s no friend of mine. I do have a St Christopher, Mother gave it to me, I can’t think why I wear it, not for her, not for the saint, it’s just become part of me, a kind of joke I have with myself. I have all kinds of jokes with myself. I don’t share them with people, people don’t understand. I know I’m different, but I don’t want anyone else to know. I behave just like everyone else, don’t I?
    My customers don’t find me different, at least I don’t think so. You do get some queer customers answer the door, depending on the time of day. Mostly it’s women though, not that they can’t be queer too, but on the whole they’re easier. More polite. They don’t like to disappoint you, or else they’re after something. I always know. They should teach it in schools, wariness, healthy suspicion. I learned it goodness knows where, but I learned it well.
    No one pulls the wool over Wallace, specially not a woman, a lady, whatever she calls herself.
    I’ve had a good week. Orders taken, cash exchanged,product handed over. You don’t have to order in lots of twelve like you used to, and get stuck with certain lines, often as not. I order as I like, it’s up to me. Funny the stuff they want. This old dear, she goes through an unbelievable amount of that smelly ointment, goodness knows what she puts it on, maybe she eats it. The house reeks. She says it reminds her of something, someone, I forget. I listen to them rattle on and nod my head feeling that smile dry on my teeth. Other times when a customer has next to nothing to say I find myself rattling on, chattering like a chimp on ice, lisp and all, can’t seem to stop. Well, you have to, don’t you? The job doesn’t like silence. I’m a salesman after all. Independent distributor. Most of the independents are into networking these days, they move with the times, a lot of sheep. Not me, house to house is all right with me, sometimes I spend more time talking than selling, but that’s no bad thing, people like to talk, the doctor’s too busy — what am I saying, the doctor’s too expensive — but the Rawleigh’s man … The old people like door to door and I get on great with old people. They’re safe to talk to, they don’t go jumping to conclusions, they appreciate. And after school’s out, well that’s the best time, everyone says so, it has to be. A