Книга - Confessions of a Personal Secretary

Confessions of a Personal Secretary
Rosie Dixon


Take this down, please, Miss Dixon…The CONFESSIONS series, the brilliant sex comedies from the 70s, available for the first time in eBook.A glamorous advertising job sounds just right for Rosie Dixon, even if her typing skills aren’t as sharp as her outfits…But with chum Penny Green she’s determined to get some proper working experience, even if Wolfgang Bang, Robin Matlock and Blake Edwards have other ideas…Also available: CONFESSIONS OF A NIGHT NURSE, CONFESSIONS FROM AN ESCORT AGENCY.









CONFESSIONS OF A PERSONAL SECRETARY

ROSIE DIXON










Publisher’s Note (#ulink_17892c80-066d-5d99-bc34-be118e9724c8)


The Confessions series of novels were written in the 1970s and some of the content may not be as politically correct as we might expect of material written today. We have, however, published these ebook editions without any changes to preserve the integrity of the original books. These are word for word how they first appeared.


CONTENTS

Title Page (#ua308fd95-d0b2-5d40-9011-c74b5d27318b)

Publisher’s Note (#u20bcd09e-d376-54ea-a28e-008e9aae51d2)

How did it all start? (#ue9605050-d01e-5257-96b7-a4147b7c7475)

Chapter 1 (#u1fd3f1cb-d815-5d94-8415-b5b54b5357fd)

Chapter 2 (#u9c629c11-a360-5ced-8456-00aa27251496)

Chapter 3 (#ufb2e1496-8b77-5036-a98c-b08592d6edd6)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Rosie Dixon (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




How did it all start?


When I was young and in want of cash, (all the time) I used to trudge round to the local labour exchange during school and university breaks and sign on for any job that was going – mason’s mate, loader for Speedy Prompt Delivery, part time postman etc, etc.

During our tea and fag breaks (‘have a go and have a blow’ was the motto) my fellow workers would regale me with stories of the Second World War, ‘Very clean people, the Germans’, or throwing Irishmen through pub windows (the latter apparently crossed the Irish sea in hard times and were prepared to work for less than the locals). This was interesting, but what really stuck in my mind were the recurring stories of the mate or brother-in-law – it rarely seemed to be the speaker – who had been seduced, to put it genteelly, whilst on the job by (it always seemed to be) ‘a posh bird’: “Ew. Would you care for a cup of tea?” ‘And he was up her like a rat up a drainpipe’. Even one of the – to my eyes – singularly uncharismatic SPD drivers had apparently been invited to indulge in carnal capers after a glass of lemonade one hot summer afternoon in the Guildford area.

Of course, this could all have been make believe or urban myth but, but I couldn’t help thinking – with all this repetition – surely there must be something there?

It seemed unrealistic and undemocratic that Timmy’s naïve charms should only appeal to upper class women so I quickly widened his demographic and put him in situations where any attractive member of the fair sex might come across him or, of course, vice versa.

The books were always fun to write and never more so than when involving Timmy’s family: Mum, Dad – prone to nicking weird objects from the lost property office where he worked – sister Rosie and, perhaps most important of all, conniving, would be entrepreneur, brother in law Sidney Noggett, Timmy’s eminence greasy, a disciple of Thatcherism before it had been invented.

One day I woke up and had a brilliant idea. Why not a female Timothy Lea? And so was born Rosie Dixon, perhaps a gentler, more romantic flower than Timmy; always bending over backwards to do the right thing and preserve herself – mentally of course, that was very important – for Mr Right, but finding that things kept getting on top of her. In retrospect I regret that I did not end the series with Rosie and Timmy clashing in a sensual Gotterdammerung, possibly culminating in wedlock. Curled up before the glowing embers they would have had much to tell each other – or perhaps not tell each other.

Anyway, regardless of Timmy’s antecedents and Rosie’s moral scruples it is clear that an awful lot of people – or, perhaps, a lot of awful people – have shared my interest in the couple’s exploits and I would like to say a sincere ‘thank you’ to each and every one of them.

Christopher Wood a.k.a. Timothy Lea/Rosie Dixon




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_2da3bc6f-87f1-5dee-bbe7-edd50f2f3a40)


There is no doubt that it was the rupture – temporary I hope – of my romance with Geoffrey Wilkes that made me think seriously of getting some shorthand speeds behind me. A romantic rebuff is always good for the career-orientated side of my nature. If I am unhappy in love then I am determined to plunge into some new venture to take my mind off it.

It was unfortunate that Geoffrey and his Mummy and Daddy – that is what he calls them – should come upon me when I was teaching seven would-be rapists a lesson but these things do happen. (In Confessions of a Baby Sitter. Ed.) What I was less prepared for was their uncharitable attitude to the whole affair. To imagine that I was taking some kind of sexual initiative is completely to misunderstand my motives. Still, it is no good crying over spilt milk – there were quite enough tears that evening as I recall it. I think that Mrs Wilkes was in a bad mood because my mum and dad had refused to canvass for the Conservative Party and she was just looking for something to criticize. That is why me exposing my love grotto to Slasher and his gang played right into her hands. What a pity that Geoffrey is so completely under his mother’s thumb. I did expect more from him than a series of goldfish pouts leading up to a strangled sob. When Slasher and his horrible horde ran past him and escaped into the night he made no more effort than his father to stop them. Mr Wilkes just stood there staring at my exposed breasts until Mrs Wilkes hit him over the head with her umbrella.

Anyway, as I have already said, it is no good dwelling in the past. Mrs Wilkes put the phone down on me when I rang up to ask if Geoffrey was feeling better and if that is her attitude then I will rest on my dignity until the man himself has the grace to get in touch with me.

I am still smarting as I take my place at the breakfast table after the abortive telephone call. ‘I hear you were out on the job again last night,’ says Dad coldly.

Natalie, my precocious younger sister, sniggers. Something about Dad’s choice of words appeals to her infantile sense of humour. Neither of my parents approve of the Nightguard Babysitting Service which my friend Penny and I started in a fit of temporary insanity. Regular readers – God bless you! – know a number of reasons why.

‘It was the last time, Dad,’ I say. ‘I’m going to get in touch with Penny and wind the whole thing up.’

‘I think she’ll be relieved,’ says Mum. ‘I know she shared our concern. Such a nice girl.’

‘And so well spoken, too,’ says Dad. ‘You could take a leaf out of her book, Rose.’

I shudder to think what I would find on it, I think to myself. When Mum and Dad talk like that about Penny it makes my blood boil. She is my best friend but in the morals department she makes the late, great President Kennedy seem like a less frivolous version of Pope Paul. How my parents could believe that my virtually non-existent sexual experience is enough to contaminate anybody is beyond me. I suppose it is a case of your family always being the first to suspect the worst of you. If they saw a boa constrictor swallowing me they would worry in case I was giving it food poisoning.

With great difficulty I manage to avoid rising to Dad’s remark and take a ladylike nibble at my Weight-Off Minibicki. As so often happens, it disintegrates at the first touch of my teeth and most of it falls on the floor – I think that is why they are so good for weight reducing. It is virtually impossible to get one in your mouth.

‘You should have got a craft behind you,’ says Dad. ‘I always said that. All that escort agency stuff and being a courier on the continent …’ His voice fades away as if he is talking about the white slave trade – mind you, there was not a lot of difference sometimes.

‘It’s not too late for her to start,’ says Mum. ‘She could do the same secretarial course as Natalie.’

Natalie and I outvy each other with our protests and Dad closes his eyes and holds up a restraining hand.

‘It doesn’t have to be the same one,’ he says. ‘But your mother’s right. Secretaries are always in demand. Look what we have to pay Mrs Blanchard, and she only comes in three days a week.’ He is referring to the secretary they have at the builder’s merchant where Dad works. ‘And she can’t even make a decent cup of tea. Wants her own towel, as well now. Did I tell you that, Mary?’

I let Dad go off on a tack and gaze out of the window. Natalie has been drawing on the condensation and as I watch it melting and running down the pane I am suddenly reminded of something. ‘Robin Askwith’ is what her dreaming finger has written – I believe she concealed her age and saw him in some undesirable film where he was constantly exposing his body – but some of the lettering has vanished and now only ‘R-b-n A-kw-t’ remains. Rbn Akwt = Robin Askwith. It is a kind of speedwriting, isn’t it? And what a moment for it to reveal itself. Just when Dad was talking about secretaries and I was turning over in my mind new career opportunities. It is just like the writing on the wall in the Bible which I know was very significant even though we never did it at school. After the Book of Genitals we went straight on to the New Testament.

I am a great believer in signs and Robin Askwith’s name melting down the windowpane is just what I have been waiting for. Also, though I would not admit this to Dad, it backs up my own thinking. Secretarial qualifications always stand a girl in good stead and are likely to do so even more in the future. Geoffrey is always saying that with the government taking over more and more industries there will soon be half a dozen people working and thirty million civil servants supervising them. This should give rise to a lot of secretarial jobs.

I bite my lip when I think of Geoffrey because I had told myself that I was not going to think of him again until he got in touch to apologise for his lack of faith. He will probably never forgive himself if I get snapped up by some smooth executive type, but he will only have himself to blame. Nobody can say that he has not had ample opportunity to plight his troth. Despite all that he has been better at blighting it than plighting it and my patience is becoming exhausted. It has not escaped my attention that a lot of my friends have met their future husbands when working in offices – even though one of them was a window cleaner and not quite what I am looking for: I think it was that film Natalie saw that made me somewhat wary in their presence. Anyway, that is beside the point. I believe that Ruth Dangerfield has a little baby boy now and is very happy and I would willingly be the same. Working shoulder to shoulder in the restrained atmosphere of an office must provide the perfect opportunity to sum up the strengths and weaknesses of a future life partner. You must see their ability to cope with moments of stress and whether they are moody or good humoured most of the time. It must also be possible to get a good idea of how much money they are making. I am the last person in the world to wish to appear mercenary but these days, when everything is so expensive, it seems only sensible to go into marriage as well equipped as possible. Once the arrival of a little stranger is heralded I will have to give up work and the whole responsibility of supporting the family will rest upon my partner’s shoulders. That is one of the problems with Geoffrey – oh dear, I have thought of him again – working in a solicitor’s office. I know the money is good once you are qualified but he always seems to be failing his exams and there is a limit to the length of time a girl can be expected to wait. Even if he ever asked me to marry him I don’t know that I would be wise to say yes.

Such thoughts, and a hundred others, are speeding through my mind as I make my way down Chingford High Street after breakfast. Perhaps that is why I get so confused sometimes – I mean, all those thoughts. Perhaps life would be easier if I had a less active mind. Anyhow, it is no good thinking about that now. All my senses should be directed towards the poster I saw advertising ‘T Lft Sl o Fwt’ or, as you immediately recognized, ‘The Learnfast School of Fastwriting’. It is clever, isn’t it? And so much more identifiable than those shorthand scribbles which look like swear words reproduced in strip cartoons. Once I have mastered – or should I say ‘mistressed’ in this time of female equality? – the technique, I should be well on the way to one of those ‘Two Thousand a Year Plus!’ jobs the ads are always talking about. I mean, apart from the opportunity to meet a congenial life partner, that is a good enough reason to enrol in the first place, isn’t it? I can’t think why I never thought of this before. The typing side of the course could be a bit of a bore but when you think of some of the people you know who can type it can’t be too difficult, can it? After a bit your fingers must instinctively know which keys to go to. Just like driving a car. Which reminds me. I must take some driving lessons.

Ah! there is the poster. Partially obscured by one reading: ‘From he who hath nothing will be taken everything. Corinthians XI.’ I seem to remember the Corinthians XI. They were a football team made up of nice young men from Oxford and Cambridge universities who used to play at the Oval. I remember going to see them once. They were beaten 11–0 by Dulwich Hamlet. Why they should resort to this rather obscure form of recruitment advertising is beyond me but I don’t have time to think about that either. The poster has only just been put on so it is easy to peel it back and find the address of the ‘L.S.F.’ Learnfast House, 136 Edgeley Road. It is interesting that they do not use Fastwriting when setting out the address. I suppose that they don’t want to run the risk of losing potential pupils who never find out where the school is. I do not waste any time but hop on a bus and go straight round to the school. Once I get an idea into my head I really bash it – the idea, I mean.

I am a little surprised to find that Learnfast House looks just like all the other semi-detached houses in the street. I had been expecting a large glass building like the ones that stand empty all over the centre of London. Still, it is definitely the right place because there is a small sign in the front garden and the plastic venetian blinds in the bay windows speak of business efficiency. I pat my hair into place, brush some bits of fluff off the front of my skirt and press the front door bell. It is perhaps unfortunate that I notice a speck of dirt on my sweater at the same moment and am engaged in removing it as the door opens. By the time I raise my eyes, those of the door-opener are glued firmly on my breasts and it takes a nervous cough from myself before our orbs make contact.

‘Good morning,’ I say. ‘Is this the Lftslofwt?’

Of course, I know it is but I want to demonstrate my keenness and willingness to adapt to the new language.

The man who has opened the door is small and wiry with wispy black hair that he brushes back from his forehead. He is also swarthy and possessed of several gold teeth which I notice when he smiles slowly like a crocodile sensing feeding time approaching. At a guess I would say he was foreign. ‘No understand,’ he says. ‘Girls for Rio. They go yesterday.’

‘The Learnfast School of Fastwriting,’ I say with as charming a smile as I can muster. ‘I would like to enrol.’

‘Ah,’ says the man. ‘You want Mr Kruger, I think. He come back soon.’

As if on cue, a large important-looking man comes up the garden path behind me. ‘Goodness gracious me,’ says the newcomer. ‘And still they come. No sooner one batch of lucky graduates transported to a new world of pleasure and riches than others flock to take their places. That’s what makes this job so satisfying, isn’t it, eh Sandor? Always new faces, new opportunities. Come inside, my dear.’

‘Do you find positions for your students?’ I ask, stepping over the threshold.

‘Very much so,’ says Mr Kruger, taking off his astrakan-collared topcoat and throwing it at Sandor. ‘That’s what gives us the edge over all our competitiors. If we agree to take you on then we guarantee you employment – and abroad as well. Think how attractive that is nowadays.’

‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘It must seem strange, I know, but I don’t particularly want to work abroad. I had quite enough of it when I was a travel courier and in the WRACs.’

‘Goodness me,’ says Mr Kruger. ‘You have got around, haven’t you? Well, there’s no need to rush a decision at this point. You’re under no pressure at Learnfast. You can make up your mind in your own good time. Come into my office and I’ll fill out your form.’

I follow Mr Kruger, pondering the exact meaning of his words, and find myself in a pleasant oak-panelled room surrounded by colour photographs of Rio de Janeiro, Port Said and Tangiers – all places I have often wanted to visit. I wonder if I will weaken in Mr Kruger’s presence.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Let’s get down to business. Take your clothes off.’

‘Take my clothes off?’ I say. Mr Kruger clearly fails to detect the question mark in my voice because he shrugs and starts feeling for the zip at my waist. ‘I mean, why should I take my clothes off?’ I say, starting back hurriedly.

‘Haven’t you noticed how warm it is in here?’ says Kruger as if explaining something to a backward child.

‘It’s not that warm!’ I say. ‘Anyway, you could turn the radiators off.’

‘I’m trying to simulate the conditions you would be working under,’ says Kruger. ‘Alexandria can get pretty torrid, you know. Some of these electric typewriters throw off quite a heat. The less clothes you wear the less hot you get and the less danger there is of large furry spiders getting trapped in them.’ He starts turning a handle underneath his desk and a large furry spider decends from the ceiling. After my first scream I realize that it has been let down on a piece of string. ‘Not very nice, eh?’ continues Kruger. ‘You can imagine what it would be like if you started forward in terror, caught your dress in the typewriter and were sucked into the works. No, it’s not a risk I’m prepared to take with any of my girls. Other schools may push their pupils out into the world willy-nilly but not Honest Jack Kruger.’

‘It is for just the kind of reasons that you have outlined, that I wish to work in this country,’ I tell him. ‘That way, with any luck I should be able to keep my clothes on all the time.’

‘Right,’ says Kruger. ‘On your own head be it. I’m only grateful that there’s time before the course is over for you to see sense. Another class should be starting a week on Monday. Leave your telephone number and five pounds registration fee – deductable when you take your clothes off – and Sandor will confirm the arrangements if he’s back in time from his speech therapist – oh, by the way, do you read music?’

‘No,’ I say, trying to keep up with everything Mr Kruger is saying. ‘Is that important?’

‘It’s a big help with our typing course,’ says Mr Kruger. ‘You’ll find out on Monday week, I hope. Don’t forget to wear a loose, flowing garment.’

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘Because I think it will suit you,’ says Mr Kruger. ‘Good afternoon.’




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_2472d8c7-40cf-5556-a96d-68d881da67be)


I think about Mr Kruger a lot in the next few days and it occurs to me that there is something a trifle unusual about him. Something that sets him apart from the normal run of secretarial course directors. Perhaps it is his eyes. The way they seem to be staring right through me. He reminds me of that Swedish mystic with the hat – you know, Sven Whatsit and his trilby. He was able to bend you to his inexorable will by staring into your eyes and playing Rachmaninov’s third piano concerto. Just like Liberace – though of course Liberace was never mixed up in all that unsavoury property speculation around Notting Hill Gate. Anyway, I talk to Penny about it when we meet for lunch at ‘Lettuce Pray’ the new fashionable health food restaurant where everybody is flocking to spend one pound fifty on a thimble full of carrot juice and a lettuce leaf curling up at the edges – probably with embarrassment at the price being asked for it.

As usual, Penny is full of her latest man – an unfortunate choice of words when one sees them lying on the paper, but conveying a very accurate picture of the state of their relationship. She responds to my decision about the Nightguard Babysitting Service with an accepting wave of the hand.

‘Couldn’t agree more,’ she says. ‘The whole thing was becoming a frightful bore anyway. Some of those furnishings were making my taste buds shrivel. I never thought I’d live to see a plastic flying duck with a pair of baby’s booties trailing from its beak.’

‘It was sweet, wasn’t it?’ I say. ‘Look, I’ve just found a caterpillar in my salad. What do you think I should do?’

‘Eat it quickly before they charge you extra,’ advises Penny. ‘You only had the Slim Bean Special with the Thousand Islands Sauce, didn’t you? – on second thoughts, complain. I’ve just seen a waiter I fancy. I think he must be a Cypriot. They’re fantastic, you know. Endless stamina. They—’

‘I think Mr Kruger’s a foreigner,’ I say. ‘He has a faint accent.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with them in their place,’ muses Penny. ‘Stretched out on top of one, driving their enormous parts into the welcoming void.’

The woman with the blue rinse sitting next to us chokes over her banana split and I do wish Penny would keep her voice down.

‘I think it’s a good idea to get something behind you,’ I murmur, watching the caterpillar crawl swiftly towards the edge of the table. I don’t think he was enjoying my salad much either.

‘Makes a change, I suppose,’ says Penny, munching cheerfully. ‘You’d enjoy this book I’m reading at the moment. The hero makes this girl lean over the washing machine when it has just gone into the spin dry programme. Then he—’

‘I meant to get some professional qualifications behind you!’ I hiss. The woman with the banana split is now leaning over to catch every word. Too far over as it turns out because her elbow slips off the edge of the table and her banana pokes her in the eye. Serves her right!

‘It made me decide never to have mine plumbed in under a work surface,’ says Penny. ‘Do you feel like a coffee?’

‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘So you’re agreed that we should fold the Nightguard thing up?’

‘Absolutely,’ says Penny. ‘There was never any money in it, was there? Not that that’s very important these days, of course. Now that the country is destitute I’ve noticed that most of my friends consider it frightfully infra dig to make money. You have to do something ecological like grow bees to be an accepted member of society. Maybe I ought to enrol in this Learnfast thing with you. I’m certain your mother and father would be relieved if I did. Waiter—’ she plucks at the man’s sleeve and draws his mass of black curls down towards her tilted lips ‘—can we have a couple of wickedly black coffees, please?’

‘I’d like a—’ I was going to say white coffee but there is no point. The waiter has sped, pouting, towards the kitchen. ‘I don’t know how you can behave like that,’ I say. ‘You’ve spent half the meal telling me about Edward and now you’re making eyes at the waiter.’ I am feeling huffy because Penny has touched me on a sore point by mentioning how relieved my parents would be if she came to Learnfast with me. The ridiculous thing is that it is true.

‘You can’t have enough of a good thing,’ says Penny. ‘Also, men are so fickle. They’ll lead you up the garden path and then roger your best friend against the greenhouse. “Do as you would be done – frequently”, that’s my motto. Ah, waiter. Do you think you could be an absolute angel and find me an artificial sweetener? I’ve been an awfully silly girl and left my Hermesetas at home – 48, Riverside Gardens, telephone number: 444 3422.’

‘—3422,’ repeats the curly-haired waiter who has produced a pencil stub with the speed of light. ‘Y-a-a-ys, mad-oom. I think I can giva yow what yow want.’

I never find out whether he can or can’t because I have to leave to have my hair done. If you are five minutes late at ‘Hair Today’ they cancel your appointment.

The next time I see Penny is on the doorstep of ‘Learnfast’. It is on the Monday stipulated by Mr Kruger, and Sandor has indeed struck terror into my mother’s heart by ringing up and asking to speak to me. She is getting so sensitive that it worries me sometimes. Sandor may be a foreigner but, goodness gracious, there is nothing wrong with that. Even if he were asking me out to the pictures it would not be the end of the world. You would think that with the speed of travel and communications between countries we would all be becoming one big happy family, but it seems to be quite the reverse. The more we see and hear of each other the more we seem to dislike each other. It is sad, isn’t it?

‘Hi!’ says Penny. ‘I decided to take the plunge. Fascinating dump, isn’t it? Looks more like a back street abortion clinic.’

I blush and search my heart to find if I am truly glad that Penny is joining me at the Lft Sl o Fwt. Perhaps, in the interests of our friendship I should take a brave smile to my lips and say: ‘Penny! I didn’t expect to find you here.’

‘Neither did I,’ says the first girl at her finishing school to finish – she was expelled after three weeks when the under gardener became the over gardener behind the gardenias. ‘I did it on a whim. I don’t know what got into me – well, I do really. He was rather a divine—’

‘Quite,’ I say pressing the front doorbell. Could it be jealousy that makes me fed up with hearing about Penny’s endless sexual adventures? Or is it the note of rapture that always transcends them? Whenever I pick up a paper or magazine, people are continually complaining about their lack of sexual satisfaction or seeking advice on how to get more. Why should Penny always strike lucky with the love lollies? I can’t remember her expressing dissatisfaction with an ‘amorous joust’ as she is wont to call them since she purchased the silence of the night porter at Queen Adelaide’s Hospital Nurses’ Home with her body and found it wanting – wanting but not offering much in return by all accounts. Still, I must not be too unkind. We have been through a lot together.

‘Miss Dixon! Welcome to Learnfast. And you, dear young lady. Trip over our portal but mind your step if you understand me.’ Mr Kruger is clearly in a jovial mood and I see his eyes lighting up Penny like searchlights. ‘Have you come with your friend?’

‘That would be telling, cheeky,’ says Penny, gaily chucking Kruger under the chin. ‘I believe I have to fill in some dreary old forms before I’m allowed to pound the keys. Is that correct?’

‘Absolutely,’ purrs Kruger. ‘Come into my sanctum and I’ll take down your curricula vitae.’

I think I would have slapped his face if he had said that to me – especially after my near experience on my last visit – but Penny follows the man without a murmur. I suppose close examination of the petit point of life’s rich, varied tapestry has taught her how to handle people like that.

I am told to join ‘the others’ beyond a door bearing a card saying ‘Typing Class’ and when I enter, it is to find a group of girls and Sandor clustered round an upright piano. I think that perhaps we are going to start the day with a jolly sing-song but I am soon disillusioned. There are letters marked all over the keys and Sandor explains – with great difficulty since he hardly seems to speak any English – that these correspond to the arrangement of letters on the keys of a typewriter.

‘Listen carefully most,’ he says. ‘I now play you “Dear Sir, yours of the fifth ult to hand is,”’ and he begins to pound the keys making a din that bears no relation at all to music. The class listen hard and make notes – I mean the kind you take down with a pencil – but by the end of an hour and a half’s tuition there is not one of us that can play ‘Yours truly’. I can see why Kruger was stressing the importance of a musical background. There is also no sign of Penny. I am beginning to wonder if her interview with Kruger has made her think better of the whole enterprise when the door opens and she slips in looking rather flushed.

‘It’s hot in there, isn’t it?’ I whisper.

Penny nods and winks at me. ‘What a monster,’ she says. I nod understandingly. ‘Did he push it?’

Penny opens her eyes and flutters her knees in a gesture I find puzzling. ‘And how!’

At that moment, the door bursts open and Mr Kruger staggers in. I have never seen a man looking nearer to apoplexy. His face is scarlet and glistening with sweat and he feels his way along the wall to the goldfish bowl and gulps down most of its contents until the unfortunate fish is back-paddling against his lips. I noticed that the curls on the collar of his astrakan coat have all disappeared and that the fur now hangs limp and straight like André Previn’s hair.

‘Is he all right?’ I hiss.

‘It depends on your standards,’ says Penny. ‘I’d give him five out of ten for stamina with a two-point bonus for having a big one.’

Before I can ask her what she is talking about, I am called to the piano to play ‘We apologize for the delay’ without looking at the keyboard and the class is dismissed for ten minutes. When I get out into the hall where Sandor is selling doughnuts and paper cups of watery tea there is no sign of Mr Kruger, and Penny has gone to the toilet. The break is needed for I have found the morning’s work much harder than I had expected. At least there is some comfort in learning that most of the other girls feel the same.

‘I don’t know how I’m going to practise,’ says one of my fellow pupils. ‘We don’t even have a typewriter at home let alone a piano.’

‘A concertina will do the trick,’ says Sandor who seems to be able to hear any conversation that takes place within ten yards of him – though you can never get ten yards from anyone in the small semi-detached that houses Learnfast – ‘Your mother or other loved one can supply the squeezes. You apply the fingers to the notes. Maybe I sell you one, cheap, cheap.’

‘I wonder what you need for Fastwriting,’ murmurs another girl. ‘Probably a Lear Jet.’

But in fact you only need a pencil and a lot of inspiration. Sandor explains the principle, which is that you leave out all the letters that you don’t need in the words, and we copy out some texts and pass them round the form to be deciphered. Since all the texts are different nobody knows what they are going to get and very few people can understand anything. When I get mine back I cannot understand it either. It is all rather worrying. Especially as Sandor just shrugs and continues to read a book called ‘Open wider, please’. From the look of the cover I do not think it is about dentists. I would feel more reassured about Sandor if he did not wear a T-shirt with ‘I choked Linda Lovelace’ stencilled on it.

By three o’clock Mr Kruger has recovered sufficiently to pay us a visit and hope that we are all settling in well. He tells us not to worry if we find things difficult and says that both Fastwriting and Symphonic Typing – apparently that is what it is called – are such revolutionary techniques that we must approach them as if learning a new language.

‘You cannot take to them as a duck makes water,’ adds Sandor helpfully and Mr Kruger taps him playfully on the head with his clenched fist. Sandor falls to the floor and pretends to be unconscious. He is still lying there as we file out laughing. It has been a hard day and a little light relief is welcome.

In the days that follow, the work does not get any easier and I have to confess that I am not making the progress I had hoped for. Symphonic Typing is a dead loss as far as I am concerned and I am relieved beyond belief when we eventually sit down in front of a real typewriter. I have taught myself to play Chopsticks but that is about all Mr Kruger’s ‘unique piano method’ has done for me.

The typewriters are as old as the hills and rear up like steel wedding cakes, but at least they should provide me with the first step towards playing the only music I am really interested in at the moment – the rhapsodic, flowing beauty of more than forty words a minute. I run my fingers lovingly over the keys and – oh no! This is too much! I have put up with a lot from the Lft Sl o Fwt – including the totally inadequate toilet arrangements in the back yard: it is so embarrassing going out there and finding Mr Kruger and Sandor playing some form of quoits with the lavatory seat – but I do expect any typewriter, however ancient, to still have the letters visible on the keys.

‘Mr Sandor!’ My hand shoots into the air. ‘The lettering has worn off my keys. I can’t see anything.’

For the first time that I can remember, Sandor looks totally in command of the situation. ‘The letters were never on the keys in the second place!’ he says. ‘It is necessary for you to remember their position by your experience.’

Something inside me snaps. ‘This is ridiculous!’ I shout. ‘Typing on the piano was bad enough but if you think I’m going to sit down at a typewriter that doesn’t have any letters, you—’

‘Darling.’ Penny looks up from the copy of ‘Open wider, please’ that she is reading under her desk. She says that Sandor gave it to her in the back yard – I believe he gave her the book afterwards as a memento. ‘Don’t subject your underwear to unnecessary strain. Not having any letters on the keys is standard teaching practice.’

I glance round and see that the surrounding typewriter keys have less writing on them than the lavatory walls at Festival of Light headquarters. Oh dear. I blush scarlet and sit down hurriedly. ‘I was only trying to make a stand,’ I murmur to Penny.

‘You don’t have to make one with Sandor,’ says Penny. ‘He self-erects if you brush past his coat on the hallstand.’

‘Now, if the interruptions finished quite have,’ says Sandor singling me out for a crushing glance, ‘to work we will get down. First I give you letter, then you transfer it to typewriter. If at first, mistakes you make, worry not. It is the habit. Are you ready with your little pencils? Good! I begin: “Dear Mummy, it is very nice here in Sierra Leone and I am making lots of new friends. The sun is shining and …”’

In the weeks that follow I notice a very funny thing. All the dictation we get takes the form of letters home from Port Said, Accra, Dar es Salaam and the like, and all of it says what a good time the writer is having. After a while you begin to feel that it must be lovely in these places and a number of the girls can hardly wait to take up Mr Kruger’s oft repeated promises of overseas employment. Only one hurdle remains to their ambition: the final examinations for the Learnfast Diploma – or the Lft Dla as we call it amongst ourselves. Mr Kruger has explained that because of its revolutionary techniques the school sees little point in sitting its pupils for open examinations and prefers to set its own special tests.

‘Anyone Pitmans can pass,’ says Sandor. ‘But Learnfast, now difficult that is.’

He is right. I had been expecting a tough exam but my performance is abysmal. I do not finish my typing in the allotted time and what I do do is littered with mistakes. As for my Fastwriting, it is quite unintelligible. Not surprising when one is being dictated to by Sandor who can hardly enunciate in fractured English. I sign my papers with heavy heart – we have to sign all our work at Learnfast – and prepare for the worst. I think if I fail I will try again at one of the more traditional secretarial schools. There is no point in trying to duck the fact that the Learnfast techniques are too sophisticated for me.

‘The results disappointing very are,’ says Sandor the next day as we assemble nervously in the assembly hall – or front lounge as it might be called if the house was in private use. ‘Mr Kruger upset is. High hopes dashed are. Himself he will you tell. One on top of the other.’ Penny nods as if the arrangement does not come as a complete surprise to her and I decide that I might as well get the bad news over as quickly as possible and volunteer to go first.

When I go through the door of Mr Kruger’s office I am surprised to find that he is not alone. A brooding, dark-haired man is sitting beside the desk and studying me through piercing eyes no less magnetic than Mr Kruger’s. He wears a small moustache and reminds me of Omar Sharif.

‘Ah, Miss Dixon,’ says Kruger rising to his feet courteously as does the stranger. ‘Allow me to introduce Mr Hassan who is recruiting secretaries for some of his Middle Eastern ventures.’

‘Charmed,’ says Hassan bending over my wrist and implanting a small kiss on the back of my hand.

‘Likewise,’ I say. ‘But don’t forget, Mr Kruger. I don’t want to go abroad.’

Mr Kruger frowns and runs his finger down a list of names on his desk. ‘I’m afraid it’s not very easy for a young lady in your position to be too dogmatic about where she goes. Your charm and sweetness have made an indelible impression on us all but your examination marks have not come up to what we normally consider to be diploma standard at Learnfast.’

‘So I’ve failed?’ I say. ‘That’s what you’re trying to tell me isn’t it?’

Mr Kruger looks toward Mr Hassan as if expecting him to speak but the Arab courteously waves his hand, willing the Managing Director of Learnfast to continue. ‘Yes and no,’ says Kruger clasping his hands together and looking up at the ceiling. ‘As I have already intimated, your general expertise leaves something to be desired when considered against the technical qualifications of the average secretary practising in the Western Hemisphere, but in terms of the Middle East where standards are, perhaps, less exalted—?’ Kruger puts a question mark into his voice and raises his eyebrows towards Hassan who spreads his arms wide in another inscrutable gesture ‘—you might have something to offer.’

‘I can’t understand why,’ I say. ‘I mean, I don’t speak a word of Arabic.’

‘That is not important,’ says Hassan, his voice confirming the dark brown impression it made when uttering the word ‘charmed’. ‘English is the language of intercourse.’

‘Business intercourse,’ says Kruger hurriedly.

‘Precisely,’ says Hassan. ‘To have an English secretary is very much a question of prestige.’ He turns his dark brown eyes on to me and my resolve begins to weaken. Arabs have such a romantic reputation, don’t they? Despite eating sheeps eyes with their fingers and making their wives walk in front of the camel in case there are any mines left over from World War II. I especially like the Westernized ones – like Hassan. His beige silk suit fits so perfectly that it might have been sprayed on to his body and his heavy gold cufflinks must put a heavy strain on the stitches that hold the arms of his shirt to the rest of the sumptuous lawn material. Perhaps I am being too hasty in my rejection of a position abroad.

Kruger clearly senses the hesitation in my eyes because he coughs apologetically and glances at his watch. ‘Why don’t you have a private chat about it with Akmed?’ he says. ‘He can put you in the picture about it better than I can.’ He turns to Hassan. ‘You can use the interview room on the second floor.’

‘I have already installed myself there,’ says Hassan smoothly. ‘If Miss Dixon would care to accompany me I would be delighted to fill her in.’

‘Well-er, yes, thank you,’ I say. I mean, it is difficult to refuse isn’t it? Kruger is already rustling his papers and looking over my shoulder for the next pupil and I have nothing to lose by hearing what Mr Hassan has to say. I can always say no.

As we go out of Krugar’s office, Penny is waiting outside the door and I notice the way her eyes light up appreciatively as they dwell on my accompanying hunk of Eastern promise. ‘I’m popping upstairs with Mr Hassan,’ I murmur.

‘Dixon strikes again,’ says Penny clicking her tongue against her teeth in rather unsavoury fashion. ‘You sure know how to pick them, don’t you?’

I do not reply but follow the route suggested by Mr Hassan’s courteously extended arm. His manners are certainly impeccable. He was probably educated at King’s College School, Wimbledon or some other hallowed fount of learning in this country.

We turn right at the landing and Mr Hassan gestures me towards a room at the back of the house. I open the door and am surprised to see what at a first glance I take to be a coffee percolator bubbling away on the floor. I look closer and find that it has a couple of tubes running away from its top. Of course! It is a hookah, or whatever they call them. One of those water pipes that the Arabs smoke while the Turkish Delight and After Eights are being circulated. There are also some brightly coloured silk cushions littered about and an embroidered rug. I must say, they do cheer the place up. The picture on the wall of a woman drowning in a lily pond has never been a favourite of mine.

‘Rest yourself,’ says Hassan waving me towards the floor. ‘First, let me show you your flat.’

In fact I am not at all flat and I am just about to protest, when Akmed pushes an artist’s impression of what looks like a large apartment block into my hand. There is a clump of palm trees shown next to the sign reading ‘Shufti El Bints’ so I imagine it must be somewhere abroad.

‘Alexandria,’ says Akmed answering my unasked question as he throws himself down gracefully on the rug beside me. ‘Very near the sea. I think you would like it there.’

‘It does look nice,’ I say. ‘But surely it’s very expensive, isn’t it?’

‘The rent for the flat would be deducted from your earnings – I mean, salary,’ says Akmed. He flashes me a charming smile and extends one of the pipes from the hookah towards me. ‘You like to try? It is very much the habit when business is being talked in my country and we get down to business now, do we not? Insert it between your lips like so, and suck gently.’

Well, I am always game for anything above board and though I don’t really approve of smoking, one go can’t do any harm can it? I watch Akmed’s firm lips close round what looks like the ivory mouthpiece of the pipe and experience a strange sensation that it is difficult to put a finger on. A kind of mental shiver – more a tingle – runs through my nervous system when his cheeks hollow and he starts to suck. It is like bashing your funny bone against something. A disturbing sensation but fascinating at the same time.

Hoping that Akmed Hassan has not been talking business with any dirty old Arabs lately I slip the tube he proffers between my lips and give a nervous suck. A heavy fragrance hangs in the room and as the first whiff of smoke enters my nostrils I immediately identify it with the all-pervading odour. My, but it is strong! My head swims as I breathe out and a slight feeling of dizziness makes me close my eyes.

‘You like it.’ The tone of Akmed’s voice suggests that he is making a statement of fact, not asking a question, but I nod in a reflex gesture of politeness.

‘Mmm,’ I say, searching for the right words. ‘It’s very unusual. I’ve never come across anything quite like it before.’

Akmed smiles understandingly. ‘The world is full of new sensations. Now, perhaps you would explain your reservations about working in the Middle East and I will try to set your mind at rest. Perhaps you think that I and my fellow countrymen are – how do you put it – dirty wogs?’

‘Oh no!’ I say, taking another nervous puff at the hookah. ‘It’s not that at all – I mean, I don’t think you’re what you just said. Nothing of the sort. My dad put in oil-fired central heating before anyone else in the street. I think the pyramids are wonderful. They must have been terribly difficult to make. It’s just that I want to stay at home.’

I break off as another swirling mist envelopes me and I close my eyes. I feel as if I am floating above the ground. It must be something to do with the way the tobacco smoke is filtered through the water.

‘I think your services would be very much in demand,’ breathes Hassan rubbing the back of one of his fingers against my cheek.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say. ‘But I think my typing might let me down a bit.’

‘And I would be able to see you sometimes,’ husks Hassan. ‘We could drive to Sidi Shaba for dinner.’

‘I’d love to meet him,’ I murmur. ‘But are you sure I’d be able to cope – I mean, if I changed my mind and decided to come?’

Hassan squeezes my wrist comfortingly. ‘I am certain of it. You would not be alone at the Shufti El Bint. There are many girls who put up there—’ he smiles to himself ‘—girls from all round the world. And, as I have said, there would be me.’

‘And would I have far to go to work?’ I ask.

‘Much of your work would be done on the premises,’ says Hassan evenly. ‘Business in Arab countries is conducted in a much more fluid situation. Business men will come to you when they have need of your services.’

‘Gosh. It’s certainly different from this country, isn’t it?’ I say. Hassan’s proposition certainly deserves serious consideration but am I in the right mood to give it? I don’t know what it is about the man’s hookah but I have not felt so woozy since someone spiked the punch at the Eastwood Lawn Tennis Club Summer Ball. The room is swimming and Hassan’s handsome features remain my only point of focus. ‘You like the hubble-bubble?’ he asks.

‘I’m afraid that most of these new dances leave me cold,’ I say, wondering why he has changed the subject. ‘What kind of salary were you thinking about?’

Hassan does not reply but removes the pipe of the hookah from his lips and lets it drop between his legs. ‘Now we exchange pipes,’ he says. ‘Old Eastern custom.’

‘I don’t know if I can take much more,’ I say. ‘I feel a bit—’

‘Suck!’ There is a compelling edge to Hassan’s voice and the look of throbbing intensity in his eyes is so powerful that I have to turn away. I glance down and there is the heavy doorknob dome of Hassan’s – no! it can’t be!

‘Suck!’ Hassan’s spread fingers alight on the top of my head and begin to exert downward pressure. I must be having some kind of hallucination. I glance once more into Hassan’s eyes but find myself hypnotized by the mouthpiece of my hookah pipe which he guides sensually between his lips. He runs his tongue along its tip and then takes half a dozen quick puffs. Again I experience the near pain of identification with his act. What is happening to me? The downward pressure on my head increases and I obediently bend and take the fluted shaft between fingers and thumb. It could be a microphone or a— ‘Suck.’ The note of command has now left Hassan’s voice and is replaced by one almost of pleading. I close my eyes as another lazy, hazy wave breaks gently over me and part my lips. Wider, this time, opens my mouth and I feel the firm slippery surface buffeting my tongue. I return the pressure and, as if programmed by some secret force, repeat the actions that Hassan practised on the mouthpiece of his hookah. His hand falls to the back of my neck and kneads the flesh as one might fondle a dog. There is a sinuous urging in his movements and I respond to it, drawing more and more forcefully on the shaft between my lips until it seems that I must bring the liquid in the gourd bubbling to the surface.

‘Allah be merciful!!’ gasps Hassan. ‘Eeeegh! It is too much.’ With this remark, he jerks the pipe of his hookah from between my lips and kisses me passionately on the mouth. Well! you can imagine how taken aback I am! This is not at all the kind of thing I was expecting when I came upstairs to discuss job opportunities in the Middle East. I think too, that some of the potency of the pipe must have worn off because my last few puffs did not have such a head-clouding effect on me.

‘Mr Hassan!’ I draw back horrified and am even more disturbed to discover that the advantage-taking Arab’s pussy-pummeller is rearing into the air from between his legs – not that, unless you had led an incredibly sheltered life, you would expect it to be rearing from anywhere else. I try to scramble to my feet but Hassan seizes me and hurls me back against the cushions. To think that I was actually considering him as the major reason for going to Alexandria. Dixon, when will you ever learn?

‘I must have you!’ Hassan starts ripping off his clothes and I realize that things are getting serious. What a hard, muscly body he has. How disgusting! And that huge blunder buss of a plunder puss. I had heard that Arabs had big ones but this is ridiculous. He is better endowed than the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.

‘Let me go!’ I hiss. ‘Put that stand aside!’

‘After what you have just done to me?’ gasps Hassan. ‘What are you, some kind of trick pleaser?’

I don’t answer him but make another dive for the door. It is hopeless. He is on to me like a cat on to a mouse and I feel his gross organ trapped between our two bodies like a rolling pin.

Oh dear, what does a woman do in a situation like this – and why does it have to happen to me when I have put on my best costume so that I would make a good impression at my final interview? Ping! There goes one of the attractive beetle-shaped buttons. A fat chance I will have of finding that with all the cushions and things littering the floor.

‘I must have you!’ Hassan does repeat himself.

Of course, most of the experts – they always happen to be men, have you noticed that? – say that you should lie back and let them get on with it. They would, wouldn’t they? To do otherwise is to run the risk of inciting violence – in addition, of course, to the violence that is being dished out to you. In this instance I don’t seem to have much alternative. Akmed Hassan is wickedly strong and quite, quite ruthless when it comes to removing undergarments. He just rips them off. I wonder if Arab women wear underclothes? Dwelling on some such subject of mild general interest is a help in taking one’s mind off the ordeal. It is a bit like counting the plaster mouldings on the ceiling whilst the dentist is drilling your teeth. Ping! Ping! Two more buttons fly across the room. If only it did not make one feel like an accessory I would offer to take my clothes off. I mean, they cost so much, these days, don’t they? The emotional wear and tear is bad enough without the expense of having to replace half your wardrobe. Hassan has now uncovered my breasts – to put it at its mildest – and is brushing his cheeks against my nipples and making moaning noises. They are obviously very excitable, these Arabs. I can just imagine what it would be like to get stuck in a traffic jam in Alexandria. I am well out of it. Hassan is now drawing on my dainty little breast buttons as if they were a substitute for his hookah and with the suction power he is generating I would not be surprised to see smoke rising from them. What an impulsive hashamite he is! Such passionate vigour might be almost pleasing if it was the result of a union solemnized by the nuptial knot. As it is I can only close my eyes and try and remember the address of the nearest Pitman’s College. I was a fool not to go to them in the first place.

Akmed’s right hand has now made considerable inroads into my plundered nether regions and two long, lithe fingers tap dance round the entrance to my reception area before immersing themselves up to the second joint in my spasm chasm. Once trespassing in the domain of the man (as yet unknown) that I am saving myself for, the unwelcome digits commence a scissor kicking routine that peppers the walls of my passion parlour with unsought thrills. What a brute this creature is. He not only rapes me but seeks to make me enjoy it at the same time. How low can you get?

Akmed proceeds to show me by withdrawing his fingers and inserting his head under my skirt. At least I am spared the sight of it as it performs acts that are almost too unspeakable to think about let alone be consigned to paper that might be read by innocent printers. Oh! what tongues they have, these Arabs. Absolutely disgusting! Like thirsty Great Bernards going berserk all over you. I have never known such penetrative power in something long and soft. It is like a velvet rasp. It is almost a relief to my outraged senses when Hassan starts quivering and brings his head up with a sharp exclamation – I think he had forgotten that it was under my skirt. His nose springs back against my pelvis and as a second muffled shriek of agony rents the air I marvel at the elastic qualities of crimplene. This time, he withdraws his head more carefully and scurries up my body until his hickory dickery is practically docked. I can feel its urgent dome pressed against the lips of my labia like an impulsive drunk with the toecap of his shoe poised against the saloon bar door as six o’clock approaches.

‘You beast!’ I hiss. ‘You’ll be sorry for this.’

Should such an emotion as sorrow be passing within a thousand miles of Akmed Hassan, no light of recognition dawns across his features. Poising only to show me the roots of his lower row of molars and deliver himself of another quiver, he utters an ‘Allah be praised’ and releases his seed steed into my private pastures as if they were the OK Corral. I had imagined that the impetuous dauphin of the desert would be swiftly to the boil, but this is not the case. He settles to a long rhythmic stroke and returns to browsing on my breasts, neck and shoulders. The effect of this onslaught can be imagined. I am like that stout person on the bridge when those behind cried forward and those in front cried back. The horrible Hassan is causing an uncomfortable clash between the mental and physical side of my nature. There is only one thing to do: perform the considerable mental feat of imagining that the swine across my thighs is my ‘one day Mr Right’. In that way I can achieve some physical retribution for the ordeal I am being asked to suffer and avoid the aftermath of mental anguish which would be my lot were I to voluntarily submit to prenuptial embraces of an intimate nature. Fortified in spirit, I place my hand on one of Hassan’s naked haunches and feel his brown body shiver within me. The power in his thighs would fuse the springs on a scrummaging machine and I notice that the force of his onslaught has driven us back almost to the wainscoting. Behind us there is a trail of mangled carpet pile like the wake of an ocean liner.

Surely he must come soon? Even my own refined and hardly exposed senses are beginning to experience the onslaught of orgasm. I feel myself being sucked remorselessly into the quickening current that speeds towards the waterfall called climax.

But no! Hassan withdraws his love wand and succeeds in joining the fingers of his right hand about it. ‘More suck,’ he says.

‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to smoke that thing again. I’m certain it’s bad for you.’

‘Not for me,’ say Hassan earnestly. ‘We do it together, yes?’

‘No—’ I say. But he has already dived down and is trying to pick up the hooka pipe with his teeth – at least, I think he is. Before I can be certain, the door opens and Penny walks in.

‘Oh Penny,’ I say. ‘Thank goodness you’ve come.’

‘And not the only one by the look of things,’ says Penny, her eyes taking in my dishevelled condition. ‘Not by a long stroke.’ Her glance strays to Hassan’s funny gun. ‘Uum. And talking of long strokes …’

‘He attacked me,’ I gasp. ‘Admit it, you beast!’

Hassan starts to splutter something but Penny holds up a silencing hand. ‘I know what these swine are up to,’ she says. ‘Your lower ribs with any luck.’ To my amazement she starts to unzip her skirt.

‘Penny!’ I gasp. ‘What are you doing?’

‘There’s only one language these devils understand,’ she says grimly. ‘I’ve dealt with Kruger and now it’s this one’s turn.’

She is now down to suspender belt, panties and bra and I see Hassan’s startled expression match my own. ‘You are looking for a job in Alexandria?’ he says eagerly. ‘Air conditioned waste disposal unit, free veterinary attention for your donkey – aaaaaaaaargh!!!’ His description of the fringe benefits dies away in a scream as Penny sheds her panties and leaps on to his rampant root. Her aim is unerring and she begins to shimmer up and down like a piece of ribbon tied to an electric fan.

Demonstrating that refinement of feeling for which I am renowned I dress myself as well as I am able and, closing the door of the interview room quietly behind me, go downstairs to where the stretcher bearers are carrying Mr Kruger out to the ambulance.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_673647ae-31e0-5558-8b79-b1cd5022fb1c)


‘I’m annoyed with myself for not getting on to him sooner,’ says Penny.

‘I thought you got on to him pretty quickly in the circumstances,’ I say, finding it impossible to keep a note of disapproval out of my voice.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ says Penny. ‘I was talking about Kruger and his racket.’

‘Racket?’ I say. ‘You mean all that banging on the piano?’

‘That was just a front,’ says Penny. ‘The course was meant to be so impossibly difficult that no one could pass.’

I feel myself getting confused. Maybe it is the noise from the jukebox in the Flying Wad where we are having a cup of coffee – or tea – or something dark brown and tepid costing twelve pence a cup. ‘I know I’m very stupid—’ I break off and wait for Penny to disagree with me. She does not say anything so I continue —‘but I don’t see why they should want us all to fail.’

‘So everybody would jump at the chance of a job in one of those faraway places with strange sounding names,’ says Penny. ‘It was those letters that made me realize what they were up to. Do you remember how we were always typing letters home saying how lovely it was in Ismailia – and signing them?’

‘Of course I do,’ I say. ‘You think they were trying to brainwash us into thinking that these places were marvellous?’

‘More than that,’ says Penny. ‘They were actually going to send the letters back to our parents once we got there.’

‘But why wouldn’t we be writing our own letters?’ I say. ‘I may be unusual but I always try and drop Mum and Dad a postcard even if I’m only going to be away—’

‘You wouldn’t have had time to write letters home,’ interrupts Penny. ‘You’d have been serving the unspeakable needs of scores of dark-skinned gentlemen.’

‘You mean, we’d have been in the typing pool of a local government office?’ I say. ‘Oh dear, I was hoping for something a bit more elevated than that.’

‘You’d get something elevated, all right,’ says Penny, a hint of asperity creeping into her voice. ‘Don’t you see what I’m getting at? The Learnfast School of Fastwriting is a recruiting centre for a callgirl racket! This is the white slave trade nineteen seventies style.’

It takes a few minutes for the full meaning of Penny’s words to sink in and I am so thunderstruck that I take another gulp of my coffee – something that I vowed not to do after the first mouthful.

‘I could kick myself,’ says Penny. ‘If only I’d got the whole thing into perspective at an earlier date. What an opportunity wasted.’

‘To expose this vile trade in human souls?’ I say.

‘No, you fool! To clean up in a few Middle Eastern currencies.’ Penny purses her lips angrily. ‘Kruger would have been putty in my hands – in fact, he was putty in my hands when I’d finished with him – and Hassan was no problem. I should have been gentler with them. I get too carried away sometimes.’

‘Just like them,’ I say, thinking of the two pairs of twitching feet protruding from the end of the stretchers.

‘It’s too late, now, I suppose,’ says Penny, wistfully. ‘Still at least I’ve got my diploma.’ She affectionately pats a scroll of parchment protruding from her bag.

‘You got a diploma?’ I say, astonished. ‘Let me see that!’

‘Look away,’ says Penny. ‘It’s perfectly authentic. See, there’s Kruger’s signature.’ She points to a shaky zig-zag line falling off the bottom of the page.

‘Signature?’ I say. ‘It looks more like a seismograph recording of an earthquake.’

‘Well, I suppose he was a bit shaken up when he wrote it,’ says Penny. ‘I wasn’t going to leave that place empty-handed at any cost.’

‘You don’t have any scruples, do you?’ I accuse.

‘Of course not, darling,’ says Penny breezily. ‘Neither do you. Look at the position I found you in with Hassan: just about to embark on a crafty soixante-neuf. Hardly reticent, was it?’

‘I don’t like what you’re suggesting,’ I say.

‘You adore what I’m suggesting,’ says Penny. ‘The trouble is that you won’t admit to it.’

Penny is utterly wrong, of course. I have always taken the greatest care never to place myself in a position which might sully the gift of virginity which I intend to bestow on my one day Mr Right. However, as regular readers will know, I believe that virginity is very much a state of mind. As long as one was not responsible for one’s actions or undertook them for reasons unconnected with sexual gratification then one cannot be said to have ‘lost’ one’s virginity. It is as simple as that. Thankfully, for my own peace of mind, I cannot think of one occasion in which I have betrayed the trust that my future husband will surely place in me. Some people may say that I am being fussy and old-fashioned in these free and easy times but I think that if you have principles you should stick to them.

‘I don’t wish to pursue this particular line of conversation,’ I say, coldly. ‘What precisely do you intend to do with your diploma?’

‘I’m going to put it to work, of course. One might as well have a stab at the secretarial life. If I’d have thought about it I could have got you one too.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ I say. ‘Still, I don’t see what practical good it would have done me. I’m still not going to be able to take shorthand or type decently even if you give me half a dozen diplomas.’

‘No, darling,’ says Penny. ‘But at least they would get you through the door, wouldn’t they? I’m certain one would pick it up in no time under actual working conditions – jumping jehosophat! I’ve just thought of something: Uncle Jack!’

‘What’s he got to do with it?’ I ask.

‘He’s one of Daddy’s brothers who owns an advertising agency. He doesn’t have a lot to do with it now but I’m certain he could find us a job.’

‘Why didn’t you think of this before?’ I say, wearily.

‘Well, you never think of your relations, do you? – not if you can help it. Anyway, the training will have done us some good. We can’t be completely useless, can we?’

I am not so certain and it is with heavy heart that I subsequently approach the impressive building in a square off Piccadilly that houses Breach, Sully, Crush and Reckitt – or B.S.C.R. as they are more widely known in the profession. I can see lots of people hurrying about behind the huge expanses of glass and there is something terribly intimidating about the sight of so much activity. It is like looking inside an ants’ nest. I wish Penny was with me but she is attending a wedding in Norfolk – as maid of honour. Really, I am not one to point the finger but it does seem a little like Jack the Ripper introducing the Magic Roundabout.





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