Книга - Confessions of a Physical Wrac

Confessions of a Physical Wrac
Rosie Dixon


Rosie tries her hand in the Armed Forces… and wow, does she look good in uniform…The CONFESSIONS series, the brilliant sex comedies from the 70s, available for the first time in eBook.Rosie joins the army – and what a laugh!It isn’t so much enemies she’s fighting off as all the soldiers from the nearby barracks – and some of them are very heavily armed…Also available:CONFESSIONS OF A BABYSITTERCONFESSIONS FROM A PACKAGE TOURCONFESSIONS OF A LADY COURIER and many more!









Confessions of a Physical WRAC

BY ROSIE DIXON










Contents


Title Page (#u5ede117f-f45b-5148-bf44-4750bdd02d5d)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Timothy Lea and Rosie Dixon

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher




CHAPTER ONE (#u20b102ed-1147-53e9-bc51-b2df8c712bbe)


If I am going to be honest with myself – and I do try to be, most of the time – I must confess that the idea of joining the Women’s Royal Army Corps only seriously occurs to me when the police arrest Reginald Parkinson – alias Nicholas Bendon, Justin Cartwright, Benedict Jollybags and Jeremy Rafelsen-Bigg – I never do find out what his real name is.

Regular readers will recall that he is the boss of Climax Tours and that my friend Penny Green and myself have been at full stretch all over the Continent – and the incontinent, sometimes – wrestling with the many problems that arise when you are in charge of a package tour party.

Penny says that she is not surprised to find the police waiting at the bottom of the fire escape when we flee from the Climax London office which is being besieged by angry clients wanting their money back (see ConfessionsfromaPackageTour for enthralling details) and I suppose, of late, I have begun to entertain suspicions that all is not well with the running of the Climax operation. When a company has so many different headings on its notepaper and is run from a suitcase packed with wads of banknotes and deposited in new accommodation every week it is difficult to think of it as having quite that permanence and dependability which are the hallmarks of great British commercial institutions.

What does surprise me is the violence that is resorted to at the bottom of the fire escape. No sooner have Reggy and his colleague, William Nostromo ‘Nosher’ Bustard – alias Count Sergio di Ponsi – thrown the bulging suitcase into the Jag and started to scramble after it – very bad manners not to have waited for Penny and myself – than a policeman steps out of the shadows.

‘Leonard Arthur Brown,’ he says, ‘I have a warrant for your arrest. Anything you say will be taken down –’

‘Knickers!’ snarls my employer.

I don’t know if that is what gives the constable who grabs me the idea, but his hand goes up underneath my skirt in a very arresting fashion. Perhaps he is attached to the squad that breaks up pop festivals. Anyway, it is a most disquieting experience. Especially as I haven’t done anything.

‘Let me go!’ I say, struggling to remove the man’s hand from the rim of my panties. ‘This is an outrage! I’ll write to my MP!’

‘You can write to Jimmy Young about it for all I care,’ says the coarse copper man handling me – and how – towards a police car.

One thing that the awful experience does reveal to me is that policemen carry two truncheons. I can feel both of them pressing against me at various stages of my ordeal. Interesting, isn’t it? I suppose they carry a spare one for emergencies or for serious riots when they have to whip them both out and wade in swinging. I would like to ask about it but I am so angry with the beast who has interfered with my underwear that I preserve a stony silence all the way to the station. Penny is travelling with me and Reggy and Nosher are in a second car with six policemen – about half the number it took to overcome them. Honestly, I have not seen such violent goings on since Dad came back unexpectedly and found my younger sister Natalie and one of her disgusting boyfriends practising limbo dancing – well, that is what they said they were doing. I have my own view of why they were half naked and underneath the dining-room table.

‘What’s going to happen to us?’ says Penny. ‘We’re just employees, you know.’

The policeman shrugs. ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask the Super. He’s the one who’ll decide whether you’re going to be charged.’

‘Is that the distinguished looking man with an air of the young Gary Cooper?’ says Penny. ‘The one with the dinky little silver clasps on his shoulders?’

The policeman looks as surprised as I am. The man I recall as being in charge of the operation was overweight and had an air of the young Martin Borman. ‘Er – I don’t know,’ says the constable. ‘You’ll find out soon enough, I expect.’

No more is said before we get to the station but Penny turns and gives me a big wink. I wonder what she is up to?

When we arrive at what Penny persists in calling ‘fuzzville’ we are separated and put in cells. At least it is not one big cage full of junkies and tarts like you see in American films but it is still pretty awful. The thought of what the neighbours would think if they could see me fills me with horror. And as for Mum and Dad –! The shock might kill them. I am still trembling when I hear the sound of a key turning and the cell door opens. It is the Superintendent who made the arrest. He is carrying his hat under his arm and it looks as if he has just combed his fast receding hair. He peers behind him carefully and comes into the cell, closing the hatch over the peephole before he does so. It may be my imagination but his state of discomfiture seems to match my own.

‘Hum,’ he says, ‘It’s funny but my name is Gary.’

For a moment I can’t think what he means. Why should he think it necessary to visit my cell and impart this information?

‘Gary Nuttley.’

I am on the point of saying that from the look of his hairline I thought it might be Gary Baldy but I control myself. I seldom think of the police as having a highly developed sense of humour. Especially these days when they have so much on their minds.

The man clearly senses my bewilderment. ‘Not Gary Cooper,’ he says with an uncomfortable laugh that breaks in the middle.

Then it comes to me. Someone must have told him what Penny said and he has got the two of us confused. ‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t –’, I am about to say that it was not me who thought that he looked like Gary Cooper and then I decide against it. There is no point in risking antagonising the man. Quite the reverse, in fact. ‘It wasn’t that which made me hesitate,’ I say. ‘It was – er your uniform. It’s very becoming, isn’t it?’

Superintendent Nuttley looks down at the stained worsted as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Yes,’ he says after a pause. ‘I suppose it is really. Quite manly.’ There is a moment’s uncomfortable silence and then he clears his throat and rubs his hands together briskly. ‘This is a bad business,’ he says.

‘You mean, the Police Force?’ I say. ‘Oh, I am sorry. The advertisements speak very highly of it. Rewarding and –’

‘I was not referring to a career as a police officer,’ says Nuttley. ‘That is indeed – er – what you said. I was referring to obtaining money under false pretences, fraud and extortion. All offences with which I am charging your partners.’

‘Not partners,’ I say. ‘Mr Parkinson was my employer but I hardly ever saw him. I still haven’t had my salary.’

Nuttley gives a sort of snorting laugh. ‘You can kiss that goodbye,’ he says. Oh dear, I had a nasty feeling that something like this might happen. I bet Reggy didn’t stamp my cards up to date either. ‘You’ve been very foolish, haven’t you?’ says Nuttley.

‘Yes, I suppose I have,’ I say. ‘Gracious. What is going to happen to me?’

A slight blush colours Nuttley’s cheeks and he glances at the still-shut peephole before speaking. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘That’s up to you. Of course, I have my duty to do and I should prefer charges, but, not to put too fine a point on it, I’d prefer something else.’

For a moment I think that Superintendent Nuttley has put too fine a point on it. What is he getting at? ‘I am innocent,’ I say.

Superintendent Nuttley is now breathing heavily and I can see beads of perspiration on his temples. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I believe that. That’s why I’m giving you this chance. And because you like Gary Cooper, don’t you?’

‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘I never miss High Noon every time it’s on the telly. I don’t think the small screen spoils it at all. “Do not forsake me oh my darling, on this our –” ’

‘Yes.’ The pressure of Superintendent Nuttley’s hand on my wrist cuts short my nervous rendition of the captivating ballad from what should be one of his favourite films. ‘What I’m trying to say is that I’ll release you if you give me release. Do I make myself clear?’ Before I can properly assemble my scattered senses, the brute has clutched me to him and is attempting to invade my lips. ‘Think of it!’ he breathes. ‘No nasty publicity. No having to stand up in court and admit that you were Brown’s mistress.’

‘That’s a lie!’ I shout.

‘Do you deny that you slept with him?’ says Nuttley, pausing in mid-maul.

‘The man plied me with strong liquor and took advantage of me,’ I explain. ‘It only happened once or twice.’

‘Huh!’ says Nuttley. ‘That won’t stand up in court – not like this will!’

So saying, the shameless guardian of law and order takes a step backwards and lets his hands drop to the top of his trousers. Fortunately, if such a word has a place in a recital of such harrowing events, frequently lamented exposure to this kind of situation has prepared me for what is likely to happen next and the shock is bearable. The zip of Superintendent Nuttley’s trousers plunges southwards and his erect pussy pummeller pops into the open like a pet that has been dying to be let out for walkies.

‘Super –’ I begin.

‘Thank you,’ says Nuttley. ‘Lie down on the –’

‘Superintendent,’ I repeat. ‘Please allow me to finish! Do you realise that as a result of this, I hope, isolated lapse, your future career could be in jeopardy – or some other even more distant part of the fast shrinking British Empire? Tuck yourself away before it is too late.’

‘Stop teasing,’ says Nuttley, pressing himself against me again. ‘Just imagine that it’s the real Gary Cooper.’

‘But he’s been dead for years!’ I say, recoiling from the thought. ‘Keep your hands to yourself!’

Yes, once again, the boys in blue seem intent on being the boys in bloomers. Nuttley’s fingers swarm over the top of my panties like a junkful of Chinese pirates – they are short, squat and yellow with nicotine stains – and I prepare to take desperate measures.

‘If you don’t stop, I’ll scream,’ I say. ‘Then you’ll be back pounding the beat. It’ll be back to the wanks – I mean ranks!’

‘I wouldn’t open your mouth if I were you – your legs but not your mouth,’ says the coarse love bandit. ‘I could make it very sticky for you.’ This possibility has never been far from my own mind. ‘How would you like to look down from the dock and see your mother and father sitting in court, the tears streaming down their faces?’

The minute he speaks those words, my resolution wilts and my grip on the thrusting wrist slackens. How would I like it indeed? I have already answered that question. Nuttley has touched me on a soft spot. I allow him to continue unhindered whilst I consider my best course of action. If I let him have his way with me, Penny and I will doubtless be released and my mother and father spared unthinkable suffering and embarrassment. Having established that side of the matter, is it worth examining any other? The man is, of course, a disgrace to the uniform he wears but have I in all consciousness any alternative but to comply with his demands? The answer must be no. At least my principles will not be compromised.

The raising of this last point makes me feel that a word of explanation may be necessary to any new readers. It is easy, for male minds in particular, to think that a girl who finds herself in a compromising situation with a man must be, to some extent at least, responsible for her situation and therefore tainted. I would not like to think that such a charge might be levelled at me. I always have been, and always will be, determined to save myself for my one-day Mr Right. I fear that I must make a further digression to explain the meaning of that last phrase. Certain unkind persons have suggested that it refers to the likely length of my relationship with my Mr Right. In reality, of course, it is merely a way of saying that one day I will come upon the right person and that from that moment on our lives will be indissolubly mixed. Anyway, to get back to the main point I was making. I consider it very important to preserve my virginity – the most precious gift that a girl can give to her betrothed on their wedding night – and to this end I have resisted all kinds of temptations, even when quite fond of people.

However – and there always seems to be a however, these days, doesn’t there? – it is important to understand what I mean by virginity. Basically, it is intending to give yourself to someone. There are occasions in any girl’s life when things happen over which she has no control. She was intoxicated, or subjected to emotional blackmail, or trying to protect a dear friend from a similar fate – there are many circumstances in which the event can take place. What is important is that if she did not want what happened to happen then she did not lose her virginity. Virginity is purely a state of mind. I mean, you can lose your virginity riding a horse but no one would suggest – no, the very idea is too painful!

I hope all this makes my position clear and explains why I can view the unsavoury attentions of Superintendent Gary Nuttley with something approaching a relaxed mind. Goodness! He may be devious and underhand but nobody could call him a bent copper. His night stick is stiff as a ramrod and only slightly shorter. It has occurred to me before in this kind of situation that Mother Nature is very haphazard with her gifts. It is often the most unprepossessing men who carry the largest armaments – not of course that size has any relation to satisfaction. That resides solely in the mind of the receiver – at least, that is what I imagine to be the case. In order to protect my principles I have always shut myself off from sensation when impaled upon the end of an uncalled-for jolly lolly. I try to think about freshly mown grass or something wholesome and British. My friend Penny supplies most of my information concerning sexual matters – both by example and description. Regular readers will not need reminding that she is rather fast and outspoken though I think she does it mainly for effect. I have concluded that she is the product of an unsettled home life and that underneath she is little different from me. She is also rather upper class, which makes a difference. They seem to want everybody to know about things the rest of us would like to keep private, don’t they?

Anyhow, what I am trying to say is that Superintendent Nuttley has a big one. It is also a very naughty big one and it is pushing itself up underneath my skirt like one of those embarrassing dogs that always appear when you are having tea with the vicar – they usually belong to the vicar, too. In fact, Nuttley is rather like a big, clumsy Airedale and I wonder whether it is altogether wholesome to proceed with the thought as he slips his hands round to the back of my panties and begins to force them down.

‘You’re taking advantage of me,’ I say. ‘You’ll regret this afterwards.’

‘I doubt it,’ says the crude creature, puffing as he bends to help my frillies over my heels. ‘I’m just trying to do what’s best for both of us. You help me and I’ll help you. After all, that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?’ He looks around for somewhere to put my panties and ends up by draping them over the peephole. ‘That’s better. Now we can be nice and private.’ So saying, he rips the threadbare, grey blanket off the bed and spreads it out on the floor with a flourish. For some reason the gesture reminds me of Sir Walter Raleigh and Queen Elizabeth – though obviously not in similar circumstances. She would hardly have granted him the patent to make all those bicycles if he had been about to do what Superintendent Nuttley is clearly about to do. ‘Come on, there’s a good girl,’ he says. ‘Lie down and enjoy it. Think what it would be like if you were on probation and you had to come round here every week.’

The remark is presumably meant to offer me some comfort but it fails miserably in its objective. It is with heavy heart and bra lightened by the removal of my breasts that I reluctantly allow myself to be drawn down to floor level. Nuttley continues to snuffle amongst what many consider to be my best feature and again the unhappy analogy with the Airedale invades my mind. I reject it and bite my lip as I feel my skirt being tugged upwards and crude hands forcing my thighs apart. ‘Right,’ says my attacker. ‘Let’s see if the fuzz can tickle your fancy.’

‘Please!’ I say. ‘Suspend your jocularity.’

‘I haven’t worn one since I gave up playing rugger for the Metropolitan Police,’ says the stupid fool. ‘I was a scrum half in those days. Always putting it in. Stand by: “Coming in left, police. Coming in now!” ’

I close my eyes. Why does it always have to be me? I’m certain other girls don’t go through what I go through. Flashers hitchhike half the length of the country to expose themselves to me. If there was a sex maniac on the loose he would end up hiding under my bed. There is clearly something about me that attracts the wrong type of man – and, I fear, vice versa. I do have a habit of falling for rotters. There is obviously something not completely above board about Reggy, or whatever his name is, and I know that he deceived me with Penny. You don’t seem to be able to trust anyone these days.

The only man who has always played the white man with me is my old boyfriend, Geoffrey Wilkes – well, when I say ‘always’ I mean nearly always. There was that occasion behind the heavy roller at the Eastwood Lawn Tennis Club dance but I don’t think that anything happened. They don’t come much whiter than Geoffrey – in fact, he is almost slug-like. I know that he wants to marry me. He told me so after he had made love to me at Penny’s house – oh yes. I suppose there was that occasion as well. Though, of course, I was drunk and did not know what I was doing. I probably imagined it in fact. Perhaps I should settle down with Geoffrey?

It is strange, but no sooner has the thought occurred to me than the gross organ straining inside my narrow love channel becomes the harbinger of something not totally unakin to pleasure. (You can tell who got the form prize for creative writing, can’t you?) It is as if some outside force is trying to tell me something. Every probing thrust is saying ‘Geoffrey Wilkes! Geoffrey Wilkes!’ I have noticed something like this happening before but never in association with a specific name. Fate, taking pity on me as I lay writhing beneath the onslaught of some unwanted love lance, has allowed me a taste of the pleasure that will one day accrue when I am cohabiting with my Mr Right – a sort of trailer for the big feature to come, so to speak.

‘How are you liking it?’ pants Superintendent Nuttley. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it?’

I hurriedly remove the careless hands that have been guilty of pulling Nuttley’s power unit closer to me. I would hate him to get the wrong idea. This depravity has gone on long enough and even though I am transferring my feelings to the distant Geoffrey they are too strong for comfort. I tap Nuttley on the shoulder and pretend to see something behind him.

‘Someone’s coming!’ I hiss.

A long shudder passes through the Superintendent’s body and emerges in a region I would prefer not to to mention. ‘Too true, darling,’ he groans. ‘Too t-r-r-r-r-ue!’




CHAPTER TWO (#u20b102ed-1147-53e9-bc51-b2df8c712bbe)


‘Phew, I never thought we’d get out of that so easily,’ says Penny after Nuttley, true to his word, has released us and we are scuttling down the steps of the police station.

‘Easily?’ I say, trying to stop a note of hysteria from creeping into my voice.

‘Yes,’ says Penny. ‘I thought the only thing that would work would be a sweetener. That’s why I tossed in that bit about Gary Cooper. I thought it might get him going but he didn’t bite.’

‘He didn’t bite you!’ I say, feeling the side of my neck which must look like a piece of uncooked steak.

‘Rosie! You don’t mean –?’

‘Yes, dear! You dropped me right in it. He thought I was the one who fancied him. I had to bear the brunt.’

‘Bare the what –?’

‘The brunt, Penny! Do listen. I had to bare the other thing as well but that’s not what I was referring to.’

‘I bet he had a big one,’ says Penny.

‘Is that all you can say?’ I scold. ‘After what I’ve just been through. “I bet he had a big one”. Is that all the sympathy you can dredge up for a close friend who has given her all to get you out of prison?’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Penny. ‘I just wanted to see if I was right, that’s all. Did he have a big one?’

‘I didn’t really look at it,’ I say.

‘So you didn’t go down on him?’ says Penny losing none of her interest for the unspeakable details.

‘Penny!’ I say, feeling my cheeks redden. ‘I’m not certain I know what that means, though I’m certain I don’t want to find out.’

‘I was referring to a blow job,’ says Penny as I might have guessed she would. ‘Otherwise known as “chewing the fat”, “gnawing the nunga”, “slurping the gherkin” or “pork without talk”.’

‘Please!’ I say. ‘I can assure you that nothing so uneatable – I mean, unspeakable – took place. To answer your first question, my tortured senses do suggest to me that the base member was one of the larger variety. Now let us leave the subject alone!’

Penny shakes her head ruefully. ‘You’re a quiet one and no mistake. There I am, trying to find something worth reading in a back number of the PoliceGazette, and you’re getting outside another champion marrow arrow. Tell me, what is the secret of your success with men?’

‘I wish I knew,’ I say. ‘Then I could do something about it. You don’t think I seriously get any pleasure out of all these awful things that happen to me, do you?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Penny. ‘You puzzle me. I’ve never met a girl quite like you. You seem innocent but –’

I wait hopefully but nothing happens. ‘Go on,’ I say.

‘Well,’ says Penny. ‘It’s not easy to put my finger on – not like some other things – but I think you sort of ask for some of the things that happen to you. Maybe it’s fate or something like that.’

‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘I think you’ve hit on it. Without really knowing it. I’ve been crying out for a permanent attachment and my senses have got all jangled up.’ I can see Penny looking bewildered and I start talking faster. ‘But don’t worry, I’ve sorted myself out now and I think I know what I should do. There’s a boy at home called Geoffrey Wilkes, I don’t know if I’ve talked to you about him?’

‘From what you said he sounded a bit of a drip,’ says Penny.

‘If that’s what I said then I wasn’t being very fair,’ I say. ‘He’s not fantastically exciting but he’s got lots of good qualities. He’s dependable and – and –’

‘And what?’ says Penny.

‘And he’s awfully good at tennis,’ I say, after racking my brains. ‘He won the mixed doubles at the Eastwood Lawn Tennis Club last year.’

‘All by himself?’ says Penny. ‘My, that’s what I call an all rounder.’

‘You can sneer,’ I say. ‘But I think that his homespun values are what I’ve been looking for all this time without really knowing it.’

‘So it’s wedding bells, is it?’ says Penny. ‘A sit-down lunch, two weeks at Horridmelinos and a semi-detached in Chingford.’

‘West Woodford,’ I say, responding just as Mum would have done. ‘I don’t know, but it’s what I’d like at the moment. Anyway, I’m going home to see if he’s still interested. We used to be quite close at one time.’

‘I remember,’ says Penny. ‘You had it off when he came down to our place on that course, didn’t you? I knew I’d seen him somewhere. Carroty-headed feller with big hands.’

‘Burnished rust,’ I say. ‘And all his bodily extremities are well-developed.’

The moment that the words have passed my lips I realise that they may have been ill-judged and Penny is swift to prove me correct. ‘There you go again,’ she says. ‘You can’t help giving yourself away, can you? Socking great helpings of steaming male tonk, that’s what turns you on, isn’t it?’

‘Rubbish!’ I say. ‘Come back to Ching – West Woodford and meet Geoffrey properly before you say things like that. Who knows? You might find that there’s something missing from your life.’

These words, thrown down in anger rather than in a genuine attempt at an invitation, do in fact lead to Penny agreeing to accompany me home for a short visit. Apparently her father is about to separate from his latest wife and she always likes to be out of the way when this is happening. Of course, this kind of experience is a million miles from my own and I always think that Penny considers that there is something slightly strange about me because I am still living with the same mother and father as when I was born.

‘What do they find to say to each other?’ she says. This is the kind of question that opens one’s mind to aspects of family life that one has never properly considered before and I begin to wonder whether Penny’s visit will be as mutually rewarding an experience as I had hoped for. It certainly does not start off very well.

‘Gosh,’ says Penny as we take a prohibitively expensive taxi from Buckhurst Hill Station. ‘Look at those ghastly little houses. Can you imagine living in one of them?’

Before I can answer, the cabby shoves on the anchors and we squeal to a halt outside number 47 Pretty Way. ‘Here you are, Miss,’ he says. ‘That’ll be eighty pence please.’

‘It’s lovely,’ says Penny. ‘It’s got a completely different character from the rest of the houses in the street. I love those gnomes trying to fish the milk bottle tops out of the refuse pit.’

‘That’s the pond,’ I say. ‘A lot of stuff blows in from the people who are waiting at the bus stop.’

Penny and I make a big thing of paying for the taxi and spill the contents of our purses all over the pavement as we struggle to get the money out first but there is no doubt that the damage has been done. The situation is not improved when sister Natalie opens the front door. She is wearing her pink velvet lounging pants and a lilac green transparent blouse that reveals every inch of fabric on the black bra nearly covering her over-developed breasts. I don’t know how she put on her make-up but it looks as if somebody fired it at her out of a cannon – Mum should take her in hand, I have said so, many times.

‘They’re here, Mum,’ she says. ‘Rosie and her posh friend.’

Penny gives Natalie a smile slightly more deadly than cyanide of potassium and pushes into the interior of the house. ‘What a pretty sister you have, Rosie,’ she says. ‘She’s going to look really lovely when her spots clear up. Have you thought about seeing a specialist?’

I might have guessed that Mum would appear flustered and with flour all over her hands and it is no surprise when she tries to shake hands while she is apologising about the state of the house, covers Penny in flour, tries to rub it off with a cloth that has jam on it and – oh! I can’t bear to go on. By the time Dad comes back, says ‘pleased to meet you’ to Penny, tucks his serviette in the top of his collar, sits at the table with his knife and fork bolt upright in either hand and informs everybody that he is looking forward to Coronation Street I am determined that we must get out of the house at any cost.

As soon as Mum has made a pot of tea – oh, why couldn’t we have had Nescafé – I suggest to Penny that we take a stroll round to the tennis club and she agrees with alacrity. It is a lovely evening and as the long hut hoves into view behind the privet hedge covered with the stale crusts of badly cut cucumber sandwiches my heart lifts to the sound of ball making contact with tightly strung gut. I am no great shakes as a tennis player but – who knows – maybe I will be partnering Geoffrey in the longest mixed doubles match of them all?

I do not really expect to see Geoffrey and it is therefore a surprise to look through a gap in the privet and catch sight of my erstwhile beau chasing a high lob which drops inches inside the base line.

‘Hard luck!’ he calls. ‘Just out.’

‘Geoffrey!’ I shout. ‘Yoo hoo, it’s me!’

Geoffrey whips round like a dog hearing the word ‘walkies’ and his eyes probe the privet. He sees me and his eyes light up. ‘Rosie!’ There is a heart-stabbing choke in his voice as he throws his racket aside and starts to run towards me. It is ever so romantic. Just like those bits in the films when the two lovers run towards each other in slow motion. The only difference is that, in the films, one of the lovers does not catch his toe in the top of the net as he tries to vault it. Yes, thank goodness they are playing on a grass court otherwise it might have been serious. Geoffrey ploughs about five yards into the tramlines but gets away with a green nose turning to bright red at the tip.

‘Blast!’ he says. ‘I knew that bloody net was too high. None of my first serves were going in. How are you, Rosie? You’re looking super. Lovely and brown. I have missed you. How – oh –’ He looks at Penny and dries up. I don’t know what it is about her. She is wearing her normal kit of slightly too-tight jeans and a denim shirt with most of the buttons undone.

‘This is Penny Green,’ I say. ‘You have met – fleetingly.’

‘Yes,’ says Geoffrey. ‘I mean, oh yes. How could I ever forget?’ He stares at Penny and swallows hard.

‘Are you going to finish this game, old boy?’ says the man he is playing with. ‘You’re love-five down and fifteen-forty.’

‘Er – no,’ says Geoffrey, feeling his nose tenderly. ‘Let’s call it a draw, shall we? The light’s getting pretty bad anyway.’

‘Dammit, Wilkes!’ says the other man, throwing his racket on the ground. ‘I’ve never finished a game with you yet! How are we ever going to complete the club ladder?’

But Geoffrey does not reply. He opens a gate beside the court and lets Penny and me into the grounds. ‘Jolly lucky you turning up like this,’ he says. ‘There’s a hop on tonight. You’ll be just what the doctor ordered.’

‘I’m not dressed for dancing,’ says Penny, plucking at the front of her shirt.

Geoffrey flushes. ‘Oh, that’s all right. It’s nothing very swish. Anyway, I think you look super just the way you are.’

‘How sweet of you,’ says Penny.

‘Oh it’s nothing.’ Geoffrey twiddles his racket so fast that he drops it on the ground. ‘Would you – er care for a shandy or something? The bar should be open about now.’

‘That would be lovely,’ says Penny. ‘A large gin and tonic would be absolutely divine.’

They go off together into the clubhouse and I breathe an enormous sigh of relief. Thank goodness they seem to have taken to each other. I could not have stood another setback on the human relationship front.

‘Derek Tharge,’ says the man Geoffrey was playing, coming up behind me. ‘You a member, are you?’ He says it in such a way that I am not certain whether he is expressing interest or accusing me of trespassing. He keeps swishing his racket at any daisy that dares to raise its head above grass level and has a permanently preoccupied expression on his face.

‘Rosie Dixon,’ I say. ‘I’m a friend of Geoffrey’s.’

‘Left me to pick up the balls as usual,’ says Tharge, suddenly leaping into the air and bringing down a shower of laburnum leaves with a crudely executed smash. ‘I was having a lot of trouble with my backhand today.’

‘Really,’ I say, thinking that I had better go and join Geoffrey and Penny before they wonder what has happened to me.

‘Yes, I never seem to get my whole game together at the same time. How I won the club championship, I’ll never know. I could hardly put a couple of decent shots together. Everybody else was in the same boat, I suppose.’

‘I expect they must have been,’ I say. ‘Well –’

‘Let me buy you a drink,’ says Tharge, throwing up a ball and serving it viciously through the window of the small hut where they keep all the broken deckchairs. ‘Ooops – sorry. Need to get this old fellow restrung, you know. That’s another problem, choosing which racket to use. I always think it’s a question of how they come to the hand. What’s your poison?’

‘It’s very kind of you,’ I say. ‘But I think my friends have probably bought me a drink.’

In fact Geoffrey has not bought me a drink. He and Penny are thick as thieves in a corner choosing which of the Jimmy Shand records to put on when the dancing starts. I might as well leave them to it, I suppose. After all, I am going to need a bridesmaid – or is Penny too old to be a bridesmaid? Perhaps she will have to be a maid of honour. I must ask someone about it.

‘Going to change your mind?’ says Tharge, who has once again loomed up at my elbow. ‘I’m just going to have a lime and lemonade myself. I never drink anything intoxicating directly after a match.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, not wishing to appear rude. ‘A Babycham would be nice.’ I waggle my fingers at Geoffrey but he does not appear to see me.

‘I had a bit of trouble with my throw up recently,’ says Derek as he steers me towards one of the foam-rubber-disgorging, torn moquette-covered benches that surround the room.

‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘Not the chipolatas again?’ There was once an unpleasant outbreak of food poisoning after a club barbecue and I imagine that it is something of this nature that Derek is referring to.

‘Couldn’t synchronise my arm movements at all,’ continues my companion. ‘It’s terrible when that happens. Your whole game goes to pieces. Ken Rosewall says that if you’re not getting your first service in eighty per cent of the time then you’ve got big problems, cobber – or it might have been Rod Laver. No, wait a moment –’

The club is beginning to fill up a bit now and the first record goes down on the turntable. Nat King Cole. It seems only yesterday that Geoffrey held me tight in his arms and we drifted round the floor, impervious to all that was happening about us – at least, I was. Somebody had put something in the punch. I wish Geoffrey would ask me to dance now. It really is a bit naughty of him to spend all that time with Penny. And why are they wandering out on to the verandah?

‘… so I painted numbered squares all over the garage door.’ Derek Tharge’s voice drones on beside me. ‘Every day I go out there with a racket and a few balls and I shout out numbers to myself. Whatever number I shout, I have to hit the ball against that square. That’s something I learned from Lew Hoad. He used to do it when he was a kid.’

‘I believe most children do,’ I say, trying to look out on to the terrace. ‘I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.’

‘Or was it Frank Sedgeman?’ says Tharge. ‘You know, I think it might have been Spancho Gonzalez. Completely different continent. Amazing to think that he never won Wimbledon, isn’t it?’

I don’t answer because I am now beginning to get worried about Geoffrey and Penny. What are they up to? Is it possible that they have formed some kind of attachment to each other? It hardly seems credible yet I know that Penny has consummated relationships with amazing speed in the past and that Geoffrey is very easily led astray. If he joined her in a large gin and tonic anything might be happening.

‘I’m not much of a dancer. Would you like to step outside?’

‘Thank you. Later.’ I say, not really listening to what he is saying.

‘I could show you the exercise I use for developing my wrists.’

‘Wonderful,’ I say. ‘Will you excuse me a minute? I must…’

I let my voice die away discreetly and move towards the door with ‘Dames’ on it – a memento of a reciprocal exchange visit with a French tennis club that was never reciprocated. A quick glance towards Tharge tells me that he has his nose in his lime and lemon so I veer left sharply and head out on to the verandah. Dusk is falling and I am disturbed to find that there is no sign of Geoffrey and Penny. I glance towards the courts. Perhaps they have gone to look for Geoffrey’s balls? No, they couldn’t have. Derek Tharge was grumbling about the fact that he had to bring them in.

I am about to turn back when I hear a noise. At first it is difficult to place but then it reminds me of someone pouring water over a cabbage leaf. I stick my head round the corner of the verandah and am met with the unpleasant sight of Mr Westbury, the club treasurer, responding to a call of nature.

‘Ooops,’ he says, clearly causing himself some discomfort in his attempt to take evasive action. ‘Didn’t know there were any ladies about.’

I cannot think of an appropriate response to this statement so I turn on my heel with the intention of going back into the clubhouse. Perhaps Penny has gone into the Ladies without me noticing.

I have taken half a dozen steps when my attention is attracted by another noise. It is that of a sharp intake of breath – more a gasp, in fact – and it comes from male lips. I notice that the light is on behind the frosted glass windows of the small room where the tea urn is kept and visiting ladies’ teams sometimes change. As my blood freezes, I hear Penny’s voice.

‘Sorry, I was trying to be gentle.’

‘Oh you were – I mean, you are.’ Geoffrey’s voice sounds on edge. What are they doing? Surely they couldn’t be – No! The thought is too awful.

‘Which way do you want me to stick it?’

‘I don’t mind. I’m in your hands.’

‘Up, I think. Hold on a minute, I’ll just peel the end back. Now, here we go. Gently does it. How does that feel?’

My senses reel and for a moment I think I am going to faint. Can this be true? My best friend and – and my fiancé!

‘Lovely. You put something on it, didn’t you?’

‘Just a dab of Germolene to be on the safe side.’

How cold-blooded can you get? The shameless hussy! I take a stride towards the door intending to expose them in ‘fragrantly delicious’, or whatever it is called, but I control myself. In my present mood I cannot be responsible for what might happen if I got my hands on Penny. There is a tray of knives and forks beside the plastic beakers in the tea-room and if I snatched one of them up –! Who knows? They are plastic, too, but you can do yourself a nasty injury nonetheless. I remember when Geoffrey was trying to prise open a rusty racket press with one of them and it – Geoffrey! How could you do this to me? I don’t know whether I shout the words aloud because I am concentrating on holding back the hot scalding tears. I rush back into the clubhouse and try and pull myself together in the Ladies. There is no point in me staying here any longer. I will go home and Penny can do what she likes. No doubt Geoffrey will bring her back when – when they’ve finished.

Through the flimsy plywood door I hear the haunting strains of Blue Moon and nearly lose all my newly found composure. Why did they have to play that tune? ‘Blue moon, why am I standing alone? Without a something in my heart, without a dream of my own.’ I remember dancing with Geoffrey to that after Rodney Neasden and Janine Smallwood went down with jaundice in suspicious circumstances and had to scratch from the final of the mixed doubles making him and Althea Hodge the champions. It wasn’t much of a victory because only three couples entered and Geoffrey and Althea had a bye in the first and only round but it had seemed a triumph at the time. Now, bitterness and a new insight into Geoffrey’s character helps me to put it in its true perspective. I take a deep breath, stand up, unlock the door and go out to meet the combined glare of the four girls who have been waiting outside the cubicle. I glare back. They can all go and hang themselves as far as I am concerned. I am never coming back to the Eastwood Lawn Tennis Club as long as I live. Tinny dump.

I leave the Ladies and push past the couples on the now crowded dance floor. They are not dancing because the record has stuck. ‘Alone, alone, alone, alone –’ How symbolic. I sweep through the open door and welcome the enveloping darkness.

‘Hey! You’re not going, are you? I’ve just got you another drink.’ Derek Tharge looms up behind me holding a half empty Babycham glass. ‘I’ve spilled most of it now. That’s fifteen p down the drain.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I came over a little faint. It was rather hot in there.’

‘You want to put your head between your legs,’ says Tharge. ‘That’s what I always do. Take a few deep breaths while you’re down there.’

‘I don’t think that’s going to be the answer,’ I say.

‘Maybe you ought to loosen some of your clothing,’ says Derek. ‘You’re not wearing tights, are you?’

‘No,’ I say. In fact I am wearing one of the few suspender belts that I have managed to rescue from Natalie’s thieving fingers. I have a nasty suspicion that she wears them to make herself more sexy when she goes out with her disgusting little boyfriends. I must talk to Mum about her.

‘Good. They’re very unhealthy, you know. I read an article about it.’

‘Really,’ I say. ‘Well, thank you for –’

‘What do you wear?’

This question coming completely out of the blue rather throws me as does the sudden pressure of Derek’s hand on my elbow. We are walking along the line of dwarf conifers that lead from the courts to the road and I had thought that Derek was escorting me to the gate. Am I now to believe that his horizons extend beyond the two lines that border the edge of a tennis court?

‘That’s an unusual question,’ I say.

Derek tightens his grip on my arm and brings me to a standstill. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’m not much good at flowery talk but I’d like to break training with you.’

‘You mean –’ I leave the words suspended because I don’t like to say what I think he does mean.

‘I find you very attractive. You don’t play tennis, do you?’

Derek’s arms slide round me and he makes a clumsy dive at my mouth. I take evasive action and am about to tell him to pull himself together when I see the handle of the heavy roller silhouetted suggestively against the sky. That too brings back memories. Geoffrey and I doing – whatever we were doing. I am still not certain. When you are emotionally involved with someone your senses blur the details. Suddenly, I feel angry. Angry and bitter. Why should Geoffrey be the only one? Why should Penny move in on all the men in my life? They deserve to be punished. I will show them that they are not the only ones who can plunder love. Here, near this object which once held so many tender associations for me, I will forever exorcise myself of the memory of perfidious Geoffrey Wilkes. My principles will not be compromised. This is an act of self-protection, not self-gratification.

‘Why don’t you find out?’ I say.

‘But we can’t play now,’ says Derek. ‘It’s too dark.’

‘I wasn’t talking about tennis,’ I say. ‘I was answering your question about my underwear.’

‘Oh I see,’ says Tharge. ‘Got you. Excellent. Look, let’s sit – lie down. I don’t think it’s too damp. Wouldn’t do to get a chill just before the semi-final of the North Eastern London heat of the southern pool of the All England –’

‘Over here,’ I say. ‘Behind the roller.’

‘Oh yes,’ says Tharge. ‘Cosy. Would you like the rest of your – oh damn! I’ve spilled it all. Down my blazer too. Still these wristlets will soon soak it up. They’re terribly useful. You ought to try them. I know a chap who makes them. I could get you something off.’

I am beginning to wonder if Derek Tharge could get anything off, though I suppose it would be refreshing to find that not all men are only interested in shoving their hands up your – ‘Oh!’

‘Sorry. Is my hand cold?’ Derek withdraws it from my skirt and starts to flap it up and down fast as if waving goodbye to a baby carriage. ‘I’ve got a slow pulse rate, you know. Damn good for anything athletic but it does mean that the old blood doesn’t exactly rocket round your body. Would you like to feel my pulse? No, probably not a good idea. My watch hasn’t got a luminous second hand. Still, I suppose if you held it, I could count slowly. I wouldn’t be far out – not over half a minute, anyway. I mean, that I wouldn’t be far out over the space of half a minute, of course. Not that my margin of error would be –’

‘I know what you mean,’ I say, beginning to wonder if fate has been over-generous in her choice of an instrument of liberation and revenge.

‘It’s funny about you not being a tennis player,’ says Derek, leaning back and resting his weight on his elbow. ‘Glancing at you, which of course I did, I would have thought that you would have been. You’ve got that sort of development. Take your – er chest for example.’

‘Yes?’ I say, leaning forward so that he can take it if he wants to – I mean, at this rate I could be here all night and it is getting a little parky. I am all for revenge being swift.

Derek continues to wave his hand in the air and turns away from my breasts as if there is something not quite nice about them. ‘Well, it’s – I mean, they’re sort of, you know, kind of well-developed, aren’t they? Like you’ve been working at your forehand drive and all that.’

‘I haven’t been working at anything,’ I say, trying, much as it goes against the grain, to inject some huskiness into my voice. ‘It’s just the way nature made me. How’s your hand?’

I think Derek has forgotten about his hand because he glances at it like it is a bird that has alighted on a tree trunk and is flapping its wings at him. ‘Oh yes. It’s probably all right now,’ he says. ‘It seems quite warm. Feel.’

I close my eyes and brace myself for the sensation of his furtive fingers creeping under the tightly strung fabric of my stretch panties. Nothing happens. I open my eyes and see a hand dangling in front of my face. ‘Feels fine,’ I say. I release the hand and reclose my eyes. Still, nothing happens. All I can hear is heavy breathing.

‘What’s the matter now?’ I say, trying to sound calm and sympathetic.

‘Did you hear that?’ says a worried Derek. ‘That sounded like a wheeze.’

‘It sounds perfectly normal to me,’ I say. ‘Now why don’t you forget about it and –’

‘I hope I’m not going to get my old trouble back again. Not now. Mother would never forgive me. Not just before the semi-final of the North –’

‘Please!’ I say. ‘Don’t go through that again. Just relax and stop worrying about it.’ I place my hand on the spot where the legs of the man’s trousers meet and start to massage what feels like a bag of over-ripe gooseberries – or I suppose you might say goosed berries. (I know it’s not the place for a joke but I think that if you can laugh at things sometimes, it makes them easier to bear.)

‘Hold on a minute,’ says Derek. ‘It’s jolly nice of you but I wonder if it’s altogether a good idea. My father had a lot of trouble with his heart and if I’m starting this damn chest condition again I’d better not take any risks. Let’s go back to the pav and have a Horlicks. It’s a bit lumpy but Mrs Smart won’t mind opening a new tin if we ask her nicely. I might be able to find the name of that chap who let me have the sweat bands – OOH!’

I think it must be the first time in my life that I have ever taken the initiative with a man but I cannot allow myself to be robbed of my revenge. I slide my hand up the inside of Derek Tharge’s thigh and continue underneath his shorts until I have made contact with his hot cluster.

‘Uum!’ I say. ‘Nice!’

‘They’re Fred Perry’s,’ says Derek, rising two inches off the ground.

‘Really?’ I say. ‘What’s he going to do?’

‘I mean the shorts,’ says my twitching friend. ‘Oh, I say. Gosh! Jimminy Crickets! Wow!’

‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ I say. It always amazes me – whilst at the same time disgusting me, of course – how quickly a man’s thing can change from being all squidgy and rather pathetic to a deadly love cosh. Derek Tharge’s breaks all records as it races into the ascendant. ‘You don’t want to take it back to the clubhouse in that condition, do you?’ I say.

‘Crumbs!’ says my escort. ‘Well, I suppose I can always whip up an egg in a glass of milk when I get home. It’s difficult to know what to do for the best, isn’t it? None of the tennis books tell you what to do in this sort of situation.’

I tune out his voice and quickly peel off my panties. If I wait for Derek Tharge to take the initiative I could be here until the next Englishman wins Wimbledon. ‘Lie back,’ I say. Tharge’s shoulders meet the ground and I loosen his shorts and pull them down to his knees. His pussy pummeller is swaying like a sapling caught in a cross wind and I steady it with my hand and shuffle forward to put the unpleasantness behind me – I mean in front of me but, at the same time, behind me.

‘Christ!’ says Tharge. ‘I’ve just remembered. I haven’t put my racket in its press. I’d better – Eek!’

With a feeling of relief I tuck Tharge’s bird scarer into my honey pot and proceed to take those measures which unwanted experience has indicated will bring the matter to its speediest conclusion. It is strange, but as I jiggle, joggle up and down, the sensation is not altogether unpleasant. It is as if fate is congratulating me on the stand I have taken and giving me a much appreciated foretaste of the pleasure I can expect when I tie the nuptial knot with my one-day Mr Right and proceed to indulge in those intimate aspects of married life so far denied me.

‘Oh gosh!’ says Derek. ‘Giddy up a ding dong! This is far too nice to be doing me any good. Can we stop before I – eeeeeeh!’

Possibly, I am too intent on taking my revenge but I do not hear the footsteps approaching behind me. ‘Rosie, are you –? Good heavens!!’ I turn round fast – possibly too fast if Derek Tharge’s yelp of agony is anything to go by – and find Geoffrey towering behind me. It is not so dark that I cannot see the horror-struck expression on his face – also the strip of sticking plaster running along the bridge of his nose. Have I, I ask myself, fallen victim of a terrible misunderstanding?




CHAPTER THREE (#u20b102ed-1147-53e9-bc51-b2df8c712bbe)


The next morning, I am standing on the steps of the Army Recruiting Office, waiting for it to open. It is not a decision I have come to overnight and the awful misunderstanding of the previous evening is only partly responsible for it. When I find that Penny was merely applying a sticking plaster to Geoffrey’s injured nose and – and not doing what I thought she was doing, then I feel like killing myself. My whole future blighted by sheer bad luck. The cup of romance dashed from my lips. It is all so unfair.

I try to explain things to Geoffrey but he is very unsympathetic. ‘I could understand it if it was anyone else than Derek Tharge,’ he keeps saying. ‘He’s the kind of chap who pees in the shower. He’s always moving his name up the ladder when he thinks no one’s watching and I’m positive he pinched one of my balls. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the chap who left the net up all night on number three court and pulled the uprights out of the ground.’

‘Forget Large – I mean Tharge!’ I implore him. ‘He means nothing to me. He was just an instrument. I was distraught, Geoffrey. I didn’t know which way to turn.’

‘You seemed to be turning in a lot of directions when I found you,’ says Geoffrey unkindly. ‘I was coming to ask you if you wanted a hot pasty, too.’

‘That was very sweet of you,’ I say. ‘Oh Geoffrey. Can’t we pick it up from there? Can’t we take it from the hot pasty and forget that this unfortunate incident ever took place?’

But Geoffrey is not to be placated and we part with him muttering about how I am always blowing hot and cold and he does not know where he is with me. The last I see of Derek Tharge he is inserting some kind of inhalant up his over-large nostrils and enquiring if anyone has any glucose tablets.

I can’t bring myself to reveal to Penny what I thought might be taking place in the tea-room and so I have to brave her fairly foreseeable comments on my actions.

‘I have to hand it to you,’ she says. ‘You don’t let the grass grow under your feet, do you? In fact the grass has a bit of a job growing anywhere within twenty yards when you swing into action. How did this entrant measure up?’

I avoid answering that question and spend a sleepless night wondering what to do for the best. As I said right at the beginning, Reggy’s arrest does mean that I will have to look for another job – this time, preferably, one that pays a salary. I can’t go on living on promises. That, of course, is something that can be said for accepting a job with a government organisation. The money isn’t always good but you do know that you are going to get paid every week.

I don’t want to live at home because, as much as I love Mum and Dad, we do get on each others’ nerves after a while and the same can be said of Natalie, only more so. What I do want is to find some career that offers me protection from men. Now that true marital happiness seems to have been snatched from my grasp by cruel fate, I do not want to find myself drifting back into those kinds of situations which have led to so much unpleasantness in the past. I want to turn my back on men for a bit. A nice, quiet monastic life is what I need. In fact, I have thought about becoming a nun but I don’t think it is quite me. To be brutally honest, I have never really fancied the uniform and I don’t think I possess sufficient religious conviction to stand all the kneeling. The Women’s Royal Army Corps could be just what I am looking for. Regular pay and meals and the companionship of lots of girls of my own sex. Living with them and concentrating on making a go of my new career will protect me from those unsought involvements which have been so damaging in the past.

‘Hello, darling. Hope you haven’t been here long? Hang on to these a minute while I find the blooming key.’ The man with the shoulder-length hair sprouting from his peak cap thrusts a bundle of doormats into my hand and fumbles in the pocket of his khaki uniform with the Sergeant’s stripes on the shoulder. ‘Lovely article they are. Empire made, every one of them. I was lucky to get ’em. There’s a big run on them at the moment. Come about the typing job, have you?’

I step back and take another look at the sign above the window showing the cut-out figures of five laughing soldiers sticking bayonets into a scarecrow. No, I have not made a mistake. The sign says it quite clearly: ‘Army Recruitment Centre.’

‘I wanted to find out about becoming a WRAC,’ I say.

‘Blimey!’ says the man. ‘Well, you came to the right place, didn’t you? Step inside and we’ll see what we can do. All right for pan scourers, are you?’

I am not a little surprised to find that the interior of the room we go into has more in common with the hardware counter of Woolworths than Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. There are piles of dusters, plastic bowls and buckets, nutmeg graters, tea strainers, cheese graters, assorted cutlery and plates.

‘Are you sure I’ve come to the right place?’ I say. ‘This is a recruitment centre?’

‘Latest model Mark I,’ says the Sergeant, brushing his hair behind his shoulders as he opens a cupboard and a pile of pamphlets fall on the floor. ‘You can see why I need an assistant, can’t you? You wouldn’t fancy the job rather than joining up? The money’s better.’

‘Look,’ I say. ‘I don’t understand. All those dusters and things. What have they got to do with the Army?’

‘They keep down the overheads, don’t they?’ says the Sergeant. ‘That’s important these days. It costs a few bob to keep one of these places open, I don’t mind telling you. The government’s very worried about it – especially this lot. Between you and me, they’d close the Armed Forces down tomorrow if there was any work for the poor bleeders to do when they were demobbed. Them and all the blokes who make the bullets and the bromide tablets.’

‘I still don’t quite understand what that’s got to do with the doormats,’ I say.

‘They are nice, aren’t they?’ says the Sergeant. ‘Shall I wrap a couple up for you? They make wonderful gifts.’

‘It seems to me you’re more interested in selling things than recruiting people.’

‘You don’t miss much, do you?’ says the Sergeant. ‘Tell you what I’ll do. You buy three mats and I’ll have “welcome” stencilled on them for nothing. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

‘Are you really a Sergeant?’ I say.

‘Course I am! On a part-time basis. I’ve taken on the recruitment as well as all the other stuff I handle. That’s how the government’s cutting down on its defence budget. It makes sense when you think about it. I mean, keeping this office open just so a couple of geezers could wander in because it was raining, would be blooming stupid. The country can’t afford the manpower either. There’s so few people coming forward that all the able-bodied men – and women – are needed up the sharp end. Now, what about those mats? Supposing I threw in a free bottle of carpet shampoo?’

‘No thank you,’ I say. ‘I’d like some details of –’

‘And a sponge. I don’t mind throwing in the sponge. That’s the secret of my success. I’m not proud. When things start going against me I throw in the sponge and do something else.’

‘Please!’ I say. ‘What do I have to do to make you understand that I don’t want to buy any mats. I want to join the WRACs!’

‘All right. All right! You don’t have to shout. You can’t blame a man for trying to make a living.’ The Sergeant tips his hat on to the back of his head and pulls open a drawer. A pair of silk bloomers are revealed which he throws on to the desk. ‘That was a lovely line. I’ve got two pairs left. You wouldn’t be –’

‘No!’ I say.

‘Not even if I – no! Right let’s get down to business. I know the papers are in here somewhere. You can write your own name, can’t you?’

‘Of course I can.’

The Sergeant nods and spreads a piece of paper across the desk. ‘Good. Because that is important. An ability to sign a piece of paper with an accurate representation of your own name can take you a long way in any branch of the forces. Now, I’ve got to ask you a few questions. Have you ever had any anti-social diseases? By that, of course, I mean diseases that you get from being over-social.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say.

‘That must count as a “no”,’ says the Sergeant. ‘Now, are you married, divorced, a lesbian, or any combination of the three?’

‘I’m none of those things,’ I say.

The Sergeant nods approvingly, writes something on his piece of paper and turns it round so that it is facing me.

‘That’s the clincher,’ he says. ‘You’re the perfect recruit – in fact you’re almost too good to be true. Sign where I’ve put the plus sign. I used to put a cross but it confused the people at records. When recruits signed with a cross they used to think it was a double-barrelled name.’

‘Is this all I have to do?’ I ask.

‘Just about,’ says the Sergeant. ‘There’s the medical but you’ll waltz through that if you’re sufficiently co-ordinated to sign your name.’

‘Hold on a minute,’ I say. ‘You don’t give me the medical, do you?’

‘Good heavens, no,’ says the Sergeant. ‘You have a proper doctor for that. You didn’t think I was going to examine you, did you. Goodness gracious, how very unethical. No, I just measure you for your uniform. Take your dress off, please.’

My sigh of relief expires abruptly. ‘I can’t believe that you’re responsible for fitting out recruits,’ I say.

The Sergeant clicks his tongue in irritation and throws back a curtain. Revealed to my startled eyes are rows of battle dress uniforms, greatcoats, khaki skirts and even festoons of hand grenades, rifles and machine guns. ‘Do you believe me now?’ he says. ‘It’s another brilliant idea from the Ministry of Defence: Army Surplus with a difference.’

‘What’s the difference?’ I say.





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