Книга - Rosie Dixon’s Complete Confessions

Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions
Rosie Dixon


The complete Rosie Dixon confessions from the CONFESSIONS series, the brilliant sex comedies from the 70s, available for the first time in eBook.Save over 16% on the individual purchase RRPContains:CONFESSIONS OF A NIGHT NURSECONFESSIONS OF A GYM MISTRESSCONFESSIONS FROM AN ESCORT AGENCYCONFESSIONS OF A LADY COURIERCONFESSIONS FROM A PACKAGE TOURCONFESSIONS OF A PHYSICAL WRACCONFESSIONS OF A BABYSITTERCONFESSIONS OF A PERSONAL SECRETARY









Rosie Dixon’s Complete Confessions

by Rosie Dixon










CONTENTS


Title Page (#u8cb67860-64f4-5296-a41e-d7eb7cfe2467)

Publisher’s Note

How did it all start?

Confessions of a Night Nurse (#u7640b52a-28e5-52d8-95ea-55797a91538d)

Confessions of a Gym Mistress (#ub79a5644-19b6-5050-aa9b-0c6de98f2e65)

Confessions from an Escort Agency (#litres_trial_promo)

Confessions of a Lady Courier (#litres_trial_promo)

Confessions from a Package Tour (#litres_trial_promo)

Confessions of a Physical WRAC (#litres_trial_promo)

Confessions of a Babysitter (#litres_trial_promo)

Confessions of a Personal Secretary (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also available in the CONFESSIONS series

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher




Publisher’s Note (#u280f5ac8-d46a-57d2-8037-29b0b0cfe648)


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.




How did it all start? (#u280f5ac8-d46a-57d2-8037-29b0b0cfe648)


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










Confessions of a Night Nurse

BY ROSIE DIXON










CONTENTS


Title Page (#u85379392-6728-5b27-b370-7a03dbb8661f)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11




CHAPTER 1 (#uc4d3158f-0f8c-5859-9924-f50062ecc567)


“Don’t forget to water the plants, dear.”

“No, Mum.”

“Not too much water. You don’t have to drown them.”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Make sure you close all the windows and lock everything up when you go out.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Don’t forget to let the cat out.”

“No, Dad.”

“And don’t let Natalie stay up too late watching television. She’s still growing, you know.”

“Yes, Mum.”

Mum picks up her gloves and handbag and looks round the room.

“I’m certain there was something else I wanted to say.”

“There’ll always be something else you want to say,” says Dad, wearily. “Hurry up, Mary, or we’ll miss the train.”

“You’ll be good girls, won’t you?” says Mum. “Oh, dear. I wish I wasn’t going, now.”

“What do you mean, ‘now’?” says Dad. “I never wanted to go and stay with your sister in the first place. It’s bad enough having her here, but at least I can suffer in my own home.”

“Have a lovely time, Mum,” says Natalie. “You too. Dad. I hope the weather stays nice for you.”

“It never has done yet,” sniffs Dad. “Every time we go there it’s ‘Oh dear, what a pity. If only you’d been able to come last week. The sun shone from dawn till dusk.’ I don’t believe it ever stops raining.”

“Don’t listen to your father,” says Mum patiently. “He loves it when he gets there.”

“If he gets there. If you don’t get a move on we’re going to miss that train.”

“You’re the one who’s doing all the talking, dear.”

“You should have got a taxi,” says Natalie.

“I’m not made of money, my girl,” says Dad. “The train fare alone comes to over five quid.”

“I’ll give you a hand with the bag, Mum.” Unless I do something to get them out of the house they will be here all night.

Mum still looks worried. “I wish I could remember what it was I was going to say.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll think of something. Goodbye, Rosie.”

“Goodbye, Dad. Have a nice time.”

I open the front door and everyone gets in each other’s way. Eventually we finish saying goodbye and Natalie whistles through her teeth and leans back against the door. “Do you really think that—” She stops as I press my finger against my lips. Instead of dying away the sound of footsteps is getting louder. There is a moment’s silence and then the door bell rings. Hardly has the first note sounded than I fling open the door. “Here’s your handbag, Mum.”

“Oh yes. How silly of me. What I really came back for was to remind you about the rhubarb. I couldn’t get it all in the fridge so I put it on top of the cupboard. You won’t forget it, will you?”

“No, Mum.”

Mum shakes her head. “I know there’s something else. I’ll probably think of it on the train.”

“There isn’t going to be a bleeding train,” yodels Dad.

“I’ll drop you a postcard.” Mum waves hurriedly and follows Dad down the street. I hear him shout “There you are, we just missed one”, before they disappear from sight.

“I don’t dare say anything,” says Natalie as we close the door. “What time is the train supposed to go?”

“Half past four.”

“So we won’t know whether they got it until about half past five. I won’t be able to live through the tension. Can I borrow one of your ciggies?”

She does not wait for me to reply but dives into my handbag.

“What do you mean ‘borrow’? You never give anything back. Anyway, you know Mum doesn’t like you smoking.”

“What she doesn’t know isn’t going to worry her. Lots of girls at school smoke much more than I do.”

“Well, borrow their fags, then. They can obviously afford it.”

Natalie lights up and blows a big cloud of smoke at the flies on the ceiling. “Free! Isn’t that fantastic? Six whole days of bachelor girl living. When are we going to have the orgy?” Some girls might be joking. With Natalie you never know. She is three years younger than me but I wonder about her sometimes. There can’t be many fifteen-year-old girls who have grown out of three bras.

“You know what Mum said,” I warn. “No parties.”

“I wasn’t talking about a party, was I? Come on, Rosie. Don’t say you’re going to turn into a recording of Mum’s voice the minute the door is closed.”

“Do use an ashtray,” I tell her.

“What did I tell you? I do wish you could listen to yourself sometimes. You want to get a job as a school teacher. You’re wasting your time down at the tech.”

“You worry about me when you’ve got your ‘O’ levels, Lolita.” It is fast occurring to me that a week with Raquel Welchlet could well result in a few frayed nerve ends.

“Brains aren’t everything,” says my gay, fun-loving little sister. “I want to be a model, anyway.”

I watch her experimenting with the buttons on her stretch cotton blouse to see how many she can undo before her navel appears and understand why Mum and Dad worry about us so much. “Models aren’t idiots,” I say.

“I’m not an idiot,” says Natalie. “I’m a fire sign, that’s all. Outward going and uninhibited.”

“I don’t believe in horoscopes,” I tell her. “Scorpios never do.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” A sense of humour is not one of Natalie’s strong points. “Seriously though.” She buttons up the reasons why she was voted the most popular girl in her class—there were more boys than girls. “We ought to have a party to repay all the hospitality we’ve received. You could invite all your friends from the tennis club.” The way she says “tennis club” she makes it sound like “geriatrics anonymous”.

“I wish you wouldn’t go on about the tennis club. I just like watching tennis, that’s all.”

“And your lover, Geoffrey.” Natalie wags a finger at me. “Oh yes. I know all about the two of you looking for lost balls in the long grass.”

“What do you expect us to do, leave them there?”

“This was after the club dance.”

“Oh ‘Natalie’ I wish you could get it into your thick head that Geoffrey Wilkes and I are not lovers.” I hope I sound convincing because I would like to be persuaded myself. Somebody must have put something in the fruit cup that night, because when we went behind the privet I began to feel quite weak at the knees. Maybe it was the night air. There had been a terrible fug in the clubhouse. Geoffrey started kissing me and trying to put his hand up my skirt and I remember wishing that he was that aggressive on the tennis court. Perhaps that is why I gave him the teeniest bit of encouragement. Silly, really, but I just wanted to know what it felt like. It was not until I saw my panties hanging out of his jacket pocket that I realised what was happening. We were lying behind the roller and he was making the most incredible grunting noises. I was kissing him more to keep him quiet than for any other reason. He was behaving terribly badly because he was taking advantage of me. The fruit cup was quite harmless on the previous occasions I had been to the club. His fingers were running riot in my reception area and I was in such a state that I did not know where they ended and his pork banana began. I should have been paying more attention but I was so frightened that someone might come—I mean approach, of course. I was just getting rather worried when he suddenly rolled off me and was sick behind the roller. It was terribly embarrassing and I felt quite ill myself as I hurried back to the club house. I don’t think anything had happened—I mean to me, of course—but it was a very nasty experience. When Geoffrey came in five minutes later, the colour of a dead cabbage leaf, with my panties still hanging out of his pocket I could have died. Everybody was so rude and I am not surprised that Natalie heard about it. It just shows how careful you have got to be.

“That’s not what I heard. You gave him your knicks to blow his nose on, did you?”

I ignore this tasteless remark and become engrossed in the TV Times. It is unhealthy the way Natalie harps on about sex the whole time.

“Ooh! look. They’ve got a repeat of Casualty Ward.”

“What? Now? Smashing,” Natalie drops her fag into her tea cup and follows me into the front room. I wish I had kept my mouth shut because I would much rather curl up with Edward Chancellor by myself. He is the sexy star of the show Doctor Eradlik.

“Haven’t you got any homework to do?” I snap.

“They don’t give us homework.”

“Well, they should. When I was your age I was—” I start to think about more important things as dreamboat’s face looms up on the screen. Some people think he is too pretty, but when he looks straight at the camera like that I feel my tongue creeping out of my mouth and running nervously along my upper lip—at least, I think it is nerves.

“Her skin may be black but her kidney is the same colour as a white girl’s.”

“Doctor Eradlik! You don’t mean—!”

“Yes, Sandy. There’s no time for prejudice when a man is dying.”

“Would you like to have a spade’s kidney?” says Natalie thoughtfully.

“Ssssh!”

“I don’t think I would myself. I’ve nothing against them but—”

“Shut up!” I hiss.

Eradlik stops tapping his folded stethoscope against the palm of his hand and looks at his watch. ‘If Gruntstone doesn’t give his consent to the operation in the next five minutes, it’s going to be too late.’

“That bigot will never give his consent to anything that involves his son having a black girl’s kidney. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You look beautiful when you’re mad, Nurse Timkins. Your eyes blaze like all those stars out there.”

“You mustn’t kiss me, Doctor. I’m supposed to be sterilised.”

“I couldn’t believe that lips so sweet and pure could ever bear the stigma of stapyhylococci.”

Dream Snogger is just about to put his beautiful mouth to work when the telephone rings. I don’t mean the telly telephone but the one in our hall. I wait hopefully for Natalie to answer it but I am wasting my time. God help him if it is some adenoidal little pimple factory wanting to know if my kid sister is going to the youth club—or Teen Scene as the new vicar now calls it. I try and catch her eye as I stalk past but she is staring at the screen with her thumb in her mouth and her skirt up to her panties.

“Don’t scratch yourself like that,” I say primly.

“Why not? I’ve got an itch.”

“It’s not nice.” I pick up the telephone. “Hello!” My voice is meant to sound about as welcoming as Moshe Dayan being invited to judge the Miss Egypt Beauty Contest. There is a pip, pip, pip and the line goes dead. I return to the front room.

“That was Mum,” I say.

“What did she want?”

“She hasn’t got through yet. What’s happened?”

“They can’t wait any longer so he’s doing an emergency operation without the father’s consent.”

“And using the black girl’s kidney?”

“I think so. Do you smell anything?”

“Only that awful perfume of yours. You don’t wear that at school, do you?”

“Of course not. I don’t want to enslave them.”

“Smells like something burning. You didn’t leave anything on in the kitchen, did you?”

Natalie shakes her head. “No.”

“Well, don’t just sit there. Go and have a look.”

“Why me?”

“Because I just answered the telephone.”

Natalie nods towards the telly. “It’s better if you go because I know what’s happening and I can tell you. If I go—”

“Oh, stay there and mind you don’t scratch another hole in yourself!”

“Charming!”

I make tracks for the kitchen and the smell of burning gets worse with every step. Don’t say the rhubarb has caught fire. I glance at the dials on the cooker and wrench open the oven door. Crikey! I haven’t seen so much smoke since Dad borrowed an indoor barbecue set. I grab a couple of wet tea towels and drop the burnt offering in the sink where it sizzles merrily. It looks as if it might once have been a steak and kidney pud. In the hall the telephone rings.

“Telephone!” shouts Natalie helpfully. I make a quick list of the ten ways I would most like to kill her and snatch up the receiver. Pip, pip, pip, pip …

“I’ve found the steak and kidney pud, Mum,” I speak the second the pips stop.

“I’ve no time to talk now, dear,” says Mum. “Listen carefully. There’s a steak and kidney pud in the oven which should have come out half an hour ago.”

“I found it, Mum.”

“You must take it out immediately.”

“I have done, Mum.”

“Do you understand, dear? I can’t talk because the train is just about to go and your father is shouting at me. There’s a steak and—”

There is a muffled squawk and a noise that could be Dad yelling something I am grateful I cannot understand.

“Hello? Mum?” I can still hear station noises in the background and I imagine that Mum must have left the phone dangling as Dad dragged her away. I am about to hang up when I hear a sound like someone breathing and a voice full of eastern promise purrs from the receiver.

“Hullo, how are you?” says a man’s voice.

“Hello,” I say. On the spur of the moment it is difficult to think of anything else to say.

“Dear lady, how happy I am to be speaking to you. You do not know me but I am of strong build and reaching towards the upper limits of those considerably in excess of five feet tall. I am only recently arrived in your country and would be most happy if you would go out with me. I have had many happy reports of the friendly disposition of the ladies of London and I would like to put them to the test.” His voice drones on and I have half a mind to call Natalie.

“I’m sorry but I’m married,” I say. I mean, there is no need to be unkind, is there?

“I eat husbands for breakfast!” insists the voice at the other end of the line. “My ardour is unquenchable. I am a lion! By the holy waters of the Ganges I will—”

I put down the receiver with a shaking hand. I know that there are some funny people about but why do they always have to pick on me? Only the other day the middle aged man sitting opposite me in the tube whipped open his mac to reveal something that looked like a small garden gnome weathered by a million years of non-stop rain. By the time I had opened my eyes he had got out at Clapham North.

That was not an isolated incident. Strange men are always rubbing themselves against me on public transport—and some of them are not so strange either. I thought the fellow with the bowler hat who had his umbrella jammed against my reception area was unaware of what he was doing—until I saw that he did not have an umbrella. Why does it always have to be me? I know girls who spend their whole lives waiting for a man to flash himself at them. I only have to look at a man below a line drawn at right angles to the top of his zipper and I have an evens chance of copping an eyeful of crotch insulation. I have the same effect on men’s willies as a summer shower on a lawn full of thirsty worms.

“I didn’t know you were married,” says Natalie as I come through the door. “Geoffrey put you in the family way, did he?”

“I was getting rid of another crank,” I say.

“You mean Mum?” asks Natalie.

“Her as well. She put a pie in the oven for us.”

“And Geoffrey put a bun in the oven for you. It’s our lucky day, isn’t it?”

“Do stop going on about Geoffrey. I just watch him play tennis sometimes, that’s all.”

“And soak up the ritzy atmosphere at Eastwood Tennis Club. Was that Mum’s pud we smelt?”

“Yes. Steak and kidney.”

Natalie pulls a face. “I wouldn’t have been able to eat it anyway. Doctor Dish has just whipped out that black bird’s kidney.”

“Is she all right?”

“She is at the moment, but she’s not going to last, is she?”

“Why not?”

“Stands to reason, doesn’t it? If you’re black you never last long on this programme. Specially if you’ve been going out with a white fellow. It saves all the embarrassment. See? She’s going to snuff it. The little white light has stopped bleeping.”

“I’ve seen them come back after the little white light has stopped bleeping.”

“Not black ones, you haven’t. Anyway, it’s two weeks since somebody kicked the bucket so we’re due for a spot of the deathbeds. It makes the whole thing more realistic, doesn’t it? You watch.”

Natalie’s blood is colder than an eskimo’s inside leg measurement and I can’t remember her crying since Mum put her David Cassidy T-shirt in the washing machine—he came out looking like Wee Georgie Wood.

On the screen, emotions are running higher than the interest rate on a hire purchase agreement. Doctor Eradlik is gazing into the camera as usual and behind him a brash young voice can be heard.

‘Sure. I feel great, doc. How’s Dawn?’ An expression of refined pain flashes across Eradlik’s beautiful face. ‘What’s the matter, Doc? Is something wrong? Doc—’

The voice breaks off in mid-speech even before Eradlik has swung round. ‘You’re not going to find this very easy, Sonny. I’m not finding it very easy myself. You see, Dawn gave you much more than just her kidney.’

‘You mean—?’

‘Yes, Sonny. She gave you her life.’

“Just like I said,” interrupts Natalie.

“Ssssh!” Natalie has no soul. Lots of body but no soul. Sonny is reacting badly to the news so Eradlik puts his hand on his shoulder and gazes into the camera again. ‘We found out after the operation that only one of her kidneys was working.’

‘You mean—?’

‘That’s right. The one she gave to you.’

‘So she knew?’

‘Yes, Sonny. She knew. But she also knew that you didn’t know, and knowing that gave her the strength to know herself.’ The camera moves from Eradlik’s face to the sobbing Sonny and then outside to a shot of the sun rising over a hill.

“I like the end bit best, when he walks down the long corridor and the girl is waiting for him with the sports car,” says Natalie. “The music is nice, too.”

I pat the tears out of my eyes with a Kleenex and prepare to wrestle with Mum’s burnt dish.

“You know, I think I’d really like to be a nurse,” I say. “I really would.”




CHAPTER 2 (#uc4d3158f-0f8c-5859-9924-f50062ecc567)


“I hope nothing goes wrong,” I say.

“Of course nothing will go wrong,” says Natalie. “It’s only a little party.”

It is the day before Mum and Dad are due to come home and much against my better judgement I have been nagged into giving a party with Natalie. The way news of us being on our own has rocketed round the neighbourhood you would think we were a couple of queen bees who had put up a notice saying “Come and get it!” outside the entrance to the hive.

“Don’t you think those trousers are a bit tight?” I say.

“Yes,” says Natalie. “That’s the idea. They’re supposed to be figure-hugging.”

“Figure-hugging? They’re squeezing your body to death. I don’t know how you get into them.”

“You spray them on and wait for them to dry. Don’t be a spoilsport, Rosie. Relax and have a good time.”

“I’m not going to relax until everyone has gone home. You know what Mum said. No parties. She’d go mad if she knew that bunch of refugees from Easy Rider was coming round here tonight.”

“It’s not really a party, more a sorry.”

“You mean a soiree, don’t you? It’ll be a sorry when Dad finds out about it.”

“Why should he find out about it?”

“Because the neighbours are going to tell him, stupid. Mrs Wilson has already got tennis elbow from pulling aside the curtains every time someone comes to the front door.”

“Maybe we should ask her?”

“You must be joking. She’d spend all the time in a corner taking down evidence. The last party she went to was to celebrate the shooting down of the first Zeppelin.”

“What was that?”

“You don’t know anything, do you? It was a German airship used in the first world war.”

“Oh, you mean a giant French letter that carried passengers.”

“Yes. It didn’t carry as many passengers as a real French letter, though.”

“Does Geoffrey use French letters?”

“Why do you suddenly ask that? I don’t know.”

Natalie looks concerned. “Well, you should do. You don’t want to end up in the family way, do you? That would really upset Mum and Dad.”

“What I meant was—Oh, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to discuss my sex life with you, Natalie. You take some of your own advice and watch out tonight.”

I mean it, too. The way the local boys look at Natalie you would think she was a bag of warm aniseed balls thrown over the wall of Battersea Dogs’ Home. At least there is one good thing about those trousers—I can’t see any one getting them off in a hurry.

“What time is Geoffrey coming to make the punch?” Natalie starts to shiver with make-believe ecstasy. “Oh! To think that humble little me is actually going to drink the same punch as they serve down at the tennis club. Will it taste the same without the silver bowl?”

“Depends whether you still have your teeth when you try it,” I say.

Further unpleasantness is prevented by the door bell ringing.

“That’ll be him,” says Natalie. “Lod Raver himself. I can’t wait to see those hairy wrists stirring in the mandarin oranges.”

I restrain myself and open the front door. It is Geoffrey. He is wearing his tennis club blazer as I was frightened he might be. He is about as trendy as cardboard spats.

“Hello Geoff.” Natalie puts on her big smile and Geoffrey beams. She is so two-faced that I could kill her. Even Mum and Dad don’t know what she is really like.

“I’m not too early, am I?” says Geoffrey. He has not looked at me yet. It is just as well that I don’t fancy him.

“Of course not,” simpers my adorable little sister. “In fact, Rosie was getting all screwed up waiting for you. You must excuse me, I’ve got to put my face on.”

“Take care which one you choose,” I hiss, hoping that the venom does not seep through my teeth.

“Fantastic looking bird, your sister,” says Geoffrey admiringly as Natalie disappears up the stairs. “Definitely ladies doubles champion, eh?”

“Are my breasts sagging down to my knees?” I say. “Am I repulsive or just invisible?”

“What are you getting so worked up about?” says Geoffrey. “I only said that your sister was attractive.”

“What about me? You haven’t addressed a word to me yet.”

“You know I think you’re attractive.”

“Not unless you tell me I don’t.”

“But I have told you. I’ve proved it as well.”

Eastwood Tennis Club’s most persistent lobber tries to hoist his hand up my skirt.

“Stop it! You’re here to make the punch.” I push him away from me and am slightly annoyed by the way he gives up so easily. “What have you got in that bag?”

“All the ingredients for an unforgettable evening.”

“Not the stuff we had the night you made such a fool of yourself?”

“I don’t remember you grumbling when we were out by that roller.”

“I wasn’t myself then.”

“Well, whoever you were, you had a damn good time, I can tell you!”

“I’ll leave you to get on with it.” I extend an ear in the direction of the front door. “The rest of the mob will be arriving at any minute.” I pop into the hall and, sure enough, some egg head silhouettes appear against the frosted glass. I open the door as the first finger crashes against the bell push and find myself looking at three greasers in studded leathers and crash helmets. They make the average hell’s angel look like a refugee from Andy Pandy Cleans Up Toytown.’

“Is this where Natalie lives?” says the one with a fringe that looks as if it has been used to sponge some oil from a bicycle chain.

“Yes,” I say. It is a reply I think about a lot in the following weeks. It could so easily have been no.

“I’m Ted and she invited me to her party. These are my mates, Nutter and Flash.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“How do’s.”

All three of them are now behind me.

“Where can we put our helmets?” says Ted. “We don’t want some bleeder pissing in them.”

“I don’t think that’s very likely,” I say haughtily. “Put them down by the hallstand. Shall I take your bottles?’

Ted looks at Nutter who looks at Flash before all three of them look back at me. ‘We haven’t got any bottles, luv. Natalie said there wasn’t going to be any bovver. I’ve got my flick knife but I’m hanging on to it.”

“I don’t think you quite understand,” I say patiently. “You’re supposed to bring your own drink. Didn’t Natalie say it was a bottle party?”

“I can’t remember. No, I don’t think so.”

“I expect it slipped her mind.” I withdraw to the foot of the stairs. “I’ll tell her you’re here, Ted. You and your friends.”

“Ta, luv.”

“Look, Ted, there’s a geezer in there got some booze.”

“You’re right, Flash. Hey, mate, you don’t want to pour that on top of a load of orange peel. That’s wasting it.”

“Yeh. That’s good gin you’ve got there.”

As I reach the top of the stairs I can hear Geoffrey making spluttering noises. “Natalie!” I shout, bursting into the bathroom. “Oh, Natalie! Do you know—crikey!”

Natalie’s eyelids have been extended towards her temples so that she looks like bride of Batman. Each eyelash is a stamen thick with mascara.

“Don’t start on me, for gawd’s sake!” she says, reading my expression. “It’s my party as well, you know.”

“I’ll talk to you about the ‘as well’ later,” I say. “At the moment there’s three ton-up merchants down there threatening to smash up your party before it’s even started.”

Natalie goes to the window. “Oh yes. That’s a bit naughty of them, leaving their bikes on Mrs Wilson’s front lawn, isn’t it?”

“What!” By the time I have checked that Junior Fun-lover is not joking she has left the room.

I rush downstairs and find Flash helping himself from the half empty gin bottle while Ted embraces my sister. I use the term embrace in order to avoid embarrassing my more sensitive readers.

“Who are these people?” hisses Geoffrey. “They’ve drunk nearly everything I was going to put in the punch.”

“They’re friends of Natalie’s,” I whisper. “Watch them like a hawk.”

Talking of watching, the one called Nutter is leering at me as if someone has just told him that I have his photograph pinned up over my bed. “Wanna dance?” he says.

“There isn’t any music,” explains Geoffrey.

“Well, don’t just stand there with that lemon in your hand. Hum ‘The Blue Danube’.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snaps Geoffrey. He can be very rude to line judges.

“Don’t you call me ridiculous, mate,” says Nutter, menacingly. “I’m not wearing a poofy blazer.”

“I’ll put something on,” I say, hurriedly.

“I’d rather you took something off, luv.” Nutter winks at Flash who laughs slowly like treacle flowing down a plug hole. He is obviously the ugly, silent type.

“What about the punch?” hisses Geoffrey. “It’s pure fruit juice at the moment.”

“We’ll have to borrow some of Dad’s booze and put it back later.”

“Where is it?”

“I hid it to be on the safe side. It’s in the—” I break off as Ted walks past me drinking from a bottle of scotch. I know it is Dad’s because of the biro marks on the side. “Cheers,” sings out Ted, nodding to us. “Going to have some music? That’s nice.”

“—In the bread bin in the kitchen,” I continue. “You’d better move fast before there’s nothing left.”

“Hurry up with the music, Rosie. People want to dance.” Natalie takes a swig of Ted’s bottle and drapes herself over him like ivy. At that moment I think I could probably kill her in about fifteen seconds. I put a record on and go out as the front door bell rings again.

An hour later, I am feeling slightly better. A lot more people have come and not all of them look as if they would take the gas meter home with them for the loose change.

Geoffrey has put a bottle of sherry and half a bottle of egg flip—Flash washed his hair with the other half, I think—in the punch and it has certainly given it body. Not that it was short in this department after I added the tin of Russian Salad. I think this might have been a mistake because a rumour went round that someone had been sick in the bowl. Still, it did help make it last a bit longer. What with Dad’s booze and all the odds and ends we have picked from the larder the party is going to cost a fortune. Despite that, I will have no regrets if nothing disastrous happens. Geoffrey gets very worked up every time I dance with Flash or Nutter but I keep explaining to him that Hells Angels do dance like that and I am prepared to put up with it if it saves the family home. Nutter is quite attractive in a greasy sort of way, rather like Elvis with slightly more hip twitching. Of course he is not my type but silly Geoffrey does not seem to understand this. I have just removed Nutter’s hand from my behind for the umpteenth time when Geoffrey pushes between us.

“I’m going to have to have it out with you if you’re not careful,” he snaps.

“I’ve been trying to have it out with her, but she doesn’t want to know,” says Nutter wittily. “Still, the night is young. Why don’t you push off back to Butlins and make the most of it?”

“Boys, please!” I say. As you can imagine, the thought of these two brute male hunks battling to the death over me is too horrible for words. I am about to say more when Natalie appears at my side. This is good news in some respects as I thought she was permanently attached to Ted’s side.

“Mrs Wilson is at the door,” she says.

“Oh my God! What does she want?”

“You.”

“Got a bit of aggro, have you?” says Nutter helpfully. “Want me to put the nut on someone? I’ll get the boys. Ted—”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” I say hurriedly. I take off for the door and there is Mrs W. bristling like an electric hedgehog. “You’ve got to do something about the noise,” she shouts. “I don’t know what you’re doing in there.” She peers past me into the interior and I see Ted and Natalie scampering up the stairs. The studs on Ted’s back spell “Ted” and a V sign.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I say. “I’ll try and get them to quieten down a bit. It’s somebody’s birthday, you see.”

“I can’t see what that has to do with it. Some of us have to work in the morning, you know.”

“Of course.” I try and close the door. I don’t want to leave Ted and Natalie alone upstairs for a second longer than I have to. As I glance over my shoulder I see Flash and Nutter leaving a film of grease on the bannisters.

“Don’t try and slam the door in my face, miss! The noise isn’t the main reason why I came. Have you seen my front lawn?” I glance over the hedge and my heart sinks. The glistening handlebars of the bikes remind me of a reindeer round-up. There must be stands at Earls Court that have fewer bikes on them.

“I’m terribly sorry. I’ll get them off at once.”

“If you don’t, I’m going to ring the police. The whole thing is quite disgraceful. Your parents aren’t here, are they?”

“They’ll be back tomorrow,” I simper.

“Humpf!” Mrs Wilson takes another look past me just as one of Geoffrey’s friends pushes out of the front door and is sick all over Mum’s petunias. Oh dear. How very unfortunate. Mrs Wilson stalks down the garden path still muttering and I shoot back into the house. The first thing I see is Geoffrey holding his dripping nose over the rubber plant in the hall. He can be very thoughtful sometimes.

“Did one of them hit you?” I say. “Oh dear, I am sorry. Can you try and get everyone to make less noise? The woman next door is threatening to call the police.”

Geoffrey says something to the effect that she can’t call the police soon enough as far as he is concerned but I laugh it off and make a run for the stairs. I have a vision of Ted trying to tug Natalie’s trousers off while Flash and Nutter wander around helping themselves to the flying ducks.

I dash into Natalie’s room and find to my relief that it is empty. Perhaps she is in the toilet. Somebody must be because there are half a dozen people waiting outside.

“I think Jim’s passed out,” says one of them. He puts his eye to the keyhole.

“Can you see him?”

“No. His head’s in the way. HEY JIM!!”

“Don’t shout like that!” I yell. “One of the neighbours has threatened to call the police.”

“She should call the fire brigade,” says one of the onlookers.

“Get him out but don’t make a noise.” I am beginning to feel that things are getting on top of me. Where are Natalie and those terrible greasers? Surely they couldn’t be in—? No. It is too horrible to think about. I throw open the door of Mum and Dad’s bedroom and—

“Hello, darling. What took you so long?”

At first I think it is just Ted and Flash on the bed and then I see Natalie lying between them—naked!! Nutter is hopping round the room trying to take off a boot.

“Get off that bed,” I shout before remembering to lower my voice. “This is my mother’s bedroom.”

“That’s why we’re playing mummies and daddies,” says Ted.

“Nineteen seventies style,” says Nutter.

“Yeah,” says Flash.

“Don’t be a spoilsport,” says Natalie. “Don’t take any notice of her. She’s jealous because she hasn’t got anyone.”

“Get off that bed,” I hiss. “You’re drunk and you’ve no idea what you’re doing.” I grab her by the arm and haul her to her feet. “Get out. I’ll handle this.”

“You can handle this and all,’ says Nutter who has now got his boot off. I tear my eyes away from the enormous love truncheon rearing up like a fascist salute and bundle Natalie towards the door. She loses no time bursting into tears. “You hate me, don’t you?” she sobs. “You never want me to have any fun.”

I grab Mum’s dressing gown from the hook on the door and shove it into her arms as I push her out into the corridor. I should be getting some kind of medal for the efforts I am making.

“And now you three can get your clothes on, get downstairs, and get your bikes off Mrs Wilson’s lawn.”

“Who’s she?”

“Must be the old tart next door,” says Ted. “She looking for trouble, is she?”

“I’m looking for trouble,” I say. “If you don’t get out of here immediately, I’m going to ring for the police.”

If I had expected my audience to bash their heads together in a mad rush for the door I would be disappointed.

“You know what your trouble is, darling?” says Ted. “You’re too tense.”

“Up tight is what he means,” says Nutter, folding his arms round me. “You want to relax more.”

“Let me go!” I say. It is awful because I can feel his thing pressing against my tummy. I try to struggle but he is terribly strong. Hairy, too.

“She needs a little relieving massage,” says Ted. “Bring her over here.” He stretches out an arm and pulls me down onto the bed.

“You touch me and I’ll scream,” I warn him.

“And disturb all the neighbours? You don’t want to do that.”

He runs his hand over my stomach and I notice that he has incredibly hairy wrists. On some men I find that quite sexy.

“You wouldn’t dare,” I say.

“Massage,” says Ted.

“Yeah,” says Flash. Of the three I like him the least. Not, of course, that I would pay for any of the others to go to charm school.

“You’re getting the counterpane filthy,” I say.

“For you, Princess, I’ll take it off. Now. Why don’t you do something like that?” Before I can say anything he has put his hand up my skirt and is pulling at my tights and panties. “I like these long skirts, don’t you, Nutter?”

“Yeh, they keep your neck warm.”

I am in big trouble. If I start screaming, all the neighbours will hear and Mrs Wilson will call the police. There is also Natalie to consider. By lying here and letting them do these awful things to me I am protecting her. It is terrible but—

“Help me peel her,” says Ted.

“Yeah,” says Flash.

Their crude hands force down my skirt while by word and gesture I try to convey my revulsion.

“Bet you’re feeling better already,” says Nutter as he kneels across me and starts popping open the buttons of my silk blouse. They are covered in fabric and I can just see the problems I am going to have getting the grease stains out. Nutter is half naked and in a matter of minutes the person wearing most on the bed is Flash. He has on a grey string vest which might one day have been white. Clothes are littered all over the room and I can see my lovely plaid skirt lying in a crumbled heap on the floor. I am so distressed that I can hardly find the strength to push Ted away. His disgustingly lithe, muscle-packed body looms over mine and he begins to gnaw one of my nipples as if it is a wad of chewing tobacco. On all sides, pussy-pummellers menace me like loaded weapons.

“Right, darling,” says Ted. “Cop this.”

“If you’re going to do that,” I say to Flash, “take your boots off the pillowcase.”

Honestly, the things I have to go through for my sister.




CHAPTER 3 (#uc4d3158f-0f8c-5859-9924-f50062ecc567)


It was awful getting raped. I mean—not so much getting raped as all the embarrassment it caused. Especially with Geoffrey. It was a pity that he had to come barging in to say that the police were in the hall just as Nutter was—perhaps I had better not say what Nutter was doing. I don’t really like to think about it myself.

As you can imagine, I was in a terrible state. I mean, after all I had gone through, to find that the police were downstairs was really too much. And so sneaky, too. I thought they were supposed to ring bells and all that kind of thing. At least Natalie had been spared. This thought was some comfort to me in the trying days to come.

I will always remember the expression on Geoffrey’s face as he slumped back against Mum’s dressing table and watched Nutter and Flash trying to put on the same pair of pants—I think they were mine in any case.

“Don’t just stand there, Geoffrey,” I have to tell him. “Come and help straighten this counterpane.”

“You swines!” He can be so emotional sometimes it is quite embarrassing. He hurls himself at Ted and collects another punch on the nose as the hideous trio make a bolt for the stairs.

“Geoffrey, please! If you’re going to start bleeding all over everything again you might as well go downstairs.” I mean, as if I did not have enough problems.

Geoffrey is practically wringing his hands. “Did they—? Did you—? Were you—?”

“It’s no good crying over spilt milt—I mean, milk,” I say, fluffing up the pillows. “Pull yourself together, Geoffrey. It’s not the end of the world. Anyway I don’t see what you’re getting so agitated about. I had to put up with all the unpleasantness.”

For a moment I think he is going to burst into tears. It is a shame really because I am only trying to be level-headed like Nurse Dubotaki on the Dr Eradlik show. Just “picking up the pieces” as she would put it.

Downstairs there are more policemen than you would find in a raid on a strip club and by the time they leave, the front garden is churned up worse than Mrs Wilson’s lawn—rotten old bag! Apparently some of the neighbours reported a man trying to crawl through the toilet window while the rest of the calls were just about the noise. Anyway, six police cars turn up which is considered a local record. They are very unhappy about Jim Whats-his-name? in the toilet because they think he has been trying to flush acid round the bend. When they break the door down they discover otherwise. Very unpleasant it is too. The bloke who got jammed in the window is not very happy either because somebody pulled his trousers down and put boot polish all over his bottom. Some people do have a funny sense of humour, don’t they?

By the time the last police dog has finished savaging the front room cushions and Natalie and I are left alone it is three o’clock in the morning and the house looks as if it has been used to store hurricanes.

“Well, I hope you’re satisfied,” I say. “That was a nice party, wasn’t it? The house wrecked and the neighbours already forming a queue to complain to Mum and Dad. Have you seen Mrs Wilson’s lawn? It looks as if it’s been used for a ploughing match.”

“Just our luck that it had to rain,” sighs Natalie.

“Our luck?” I laugh hollowly. “I must have been round the bend to let you throw this party. Where do you meet some of the people you invited? That Ted creature, for instance. He attacked me, you know.”

“Why? Wouldn’t you let him out?”

“I’m serious, Natalie. I was subjected to a physical assault by all three of them.”

“If you mean raped, why don’t you say so?”

“It’s not a word I like to use out loud.” She is very free with her language is Natalie. I can feel myself blushing.

“Why didn’t you tell the police?”

“How could I? You know the scandal would break Mum’s heart. I couldn’t do that to her.”

“Not. But you could snitch my boyfriend.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Natalie.” It is amazing how people can react against you when you’ve tried to do your best, isn’t it?”

“I’m not being ridiculous. You’re just a lousy hypocrite. You fancied him yourself.”

For a moment I am speechless. How could she imagine me falling for that gib, hairy, muscley, over-developed sex maniac? The whole idea is too ridiculous for words.

“If you must know, I did it—I mean, I submitted in order to protect you,” I say.

At these words the ungrateful little baggage has the cheek to laugh in my face. It is almost too much. There was me, bending over backwards to spare her the crude physical indignities that were inflicted on my body and she has the impertinence to suggest that I was doing it for my own gratification. At that moment only the forbearance gained by watching the Dr Eradlik programme prevents me from saying something I might one day regret.

“Balls!” Junior Foul Mouth loses no time in continuing her unjustified attack. “You don’t fool me! You pretend to be all goody-goody, but underneath you’re sex-mad. Well, big sister, I have news for you. While you were stealing my boy friends I was moving in on yours.”

“What are you talking about?” I say—having a nasty idea that I know very well what she is talking about.

“Geoffrey made passionate love to me in Dad’s shed,” she says, slowly removing a cobweb from her jumper as if to prove it.

“Don’t be ridiculous. He was terribly upset when he heard what had happened to me.”

“He wasn’t worrying when he was with me. He’s very sexy when he gets his blazer off, isn’t he?”

“He actually made love to you?” I ask. I mean, I just can’t believe it. Not Geoffrey.

“And how. Dad’s vice fell off the work bench.”

More destruction! It really is too bad. And, even more difficult to bear, is the physical betrayal involved. My own sister and the boy whose net I have adjusted at the Eastwood Tennis Club. If blood is thicker than water in our family then no wonder Mum’s porridge tastes like consommé. I know that men are hypocrites but how could he have made so much fuss about my sacrifice after misbehaving with Miss Rentapussy? Even Doctor Eradlik does not have to contend with this kind of treachery in his unflagging fight to make Mount Vista Hospital a better place to die in.

“I can’t bring myself to use words low enough to describe your behaviour,” I say with dignity.

“Hoity-toity,” sneers Natalie.

“In order to avoid more bloodshed I think it would be a good idea if we started cleaning opposite ends of the house,” I say with commendable self control. “May I suggest that you tackle the so appropriately named tool shed—if it is still standing?”

Mum and Dad are due back on the Sunday afternoon and Natalie and I hardly exchange more than a few words up to that time. However, I do see Mrs Wilson. I am standing in one of the dustbins trying to force the rubbish down and make room for some more bottles. She takes one look at me, over the fence, shrugs, and says “That’s the best place for both of you.”

By the time I have opened my mouth she has gone inside her house and slammed the back door. There is obviously little point in expecting any sympathy there.

“Do you think we ought to go to the station?” I ask Natalie.

“And get a train out of the country?”

“No, stupid. Meet Mum and Dad.”

“You can never be certain what train they’ll catch. We don’t want to miss them and find them having a long chat with Mrs W. when we get back.”

“True. We’d better stay here, then. Do you think the place looks all right?”

“It’s difficult to say. I know where all the stains and scuff marks are, so I notice them more easily than the average person might.”

“I hope you’re right. The trouble is that Mum isn’t the average person. After six days away she and Dad are going to come through that door like they’ve got to find six deliberate mistakes in sixty seconds.”

For once Natalie and I share a common emotion. It is expressed in a shiver of terror.

It is half past four when Mum and Dad pause at the gate and look at the garden as if they can’t believe their eyes. I remember the time because a film called A Farewell To Arms had just ended and I am still brushing away the tears. It is about this nurse who falls in love with a soldier at the front. You know—where the fighting is. They make love in his hospital bed and she gets pregnant and dies in childbirth just as they are going to cross over into Switzerland and safety. It is so sad that I cried buckets. The bloke was Rock Hudson and it really made me feel what a wonderful job nurses do.

While I am trying to compose myself, Natalie rushes to the front door and throws it open. “Hello, Mumsie!” she cries. “Did you have a lovely time?”

“Quite nice, thank you, dear,” says Mum.

Dad is still gazing thunderstruck at the garden. “Where are all the flowers?” he says.

“The milkman’s horse got up on the pavement, Dad.”

“He got it out of retirement, did he? He’s had a van for five years.”

“Vandals,” I say. “There’s been an awful lot of trouble while you’ve been away. Look what they did to Mrs Wilson’s lawn.”

“Blimey. I thought it was an open cast coal mine. You told the police, have you?”

“They know all about it,” says Natalie truthfully. “What was the weather like, Dad?”

Dad carries the suitcases into the house. “Diabolical. The worst we’ve ever had there—the worst we will ever have there. I’m not going back. Holiday? It was more like six days in a prisoner of war camp.”

“Where’s my coat?” says Mum, looking at the hallstand.

I am just thinking that it must have been nicked and wondering what to say when the telephone rings. I know instinctively who it must be, but before I can move Dad picks up the receiver.

“Hello? Oh, hello Mrs Wilson.” He puts his hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Mrs Wilson. Stupid old bag. What on earth can she want?”

“I’m going upstairs,” says Mum.

Ten minutes later Natalie and I are in the front room with Dad who now knows what Mrs Wilson wanted. He has turned a strange blue colour and his hands are shaking. “Now listen, you two,” he says. “I’m going to—”

At that moment Mum comes in. She, too, is looking strained and holding something in her hand. “I was doing the unpacking and I noticed these stuffed down the end of our bed,” she says. “Whose are they?”

She is dangling a pair of bright yellow men’s underpants which, with a shiver of distaste, I remember covering Flash’s vulgarly large private parts. Natalie bursts into tears.

“Were people using our bedroom?” snarls Dad.

“Oh Rosie, why did I ever listen to you?” sobs my deceitful little sister.

“Right. You go outside with your mother. I want to speak to Rosie.” They are hardly out of the room before Dad lets fly. “What you’ve done is a bloody disgrace! You’ve disobeyed your mother and you’ve blackened our name amongst the neighbours—I understand you’ve even had the police round here. The house is like a pigsty and I shudder to think what went on.”

“Dad—”

“Shut up! When I want your interruptions I’ll ask for them.

“What I am most disturbed about is the effect your behaviour is having on your sister. She is at a very formative age and the kind of carryings on you go in for could be a blooming disaster as far as her moral standards are concerned.”

“Dad—!”

“Shut up!!! You must realise that, being older than her, you have to set some kind of example. Supposing she starts imitating your behaviour?”

“It’s not fair, Dad. I always get the blame for everything. Just because she’s younger than I am you seem to think that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Well, I’ve got news for you—”

“And I’ve got news for you, my girl. I want you out of this house just as soon as you can find a job to support you. I think you’re a bad influence on your sister and it’s much better if the two of you are kept apart.”

For ten seconds after he had finished speaking I am on the point of telling my father a few home truths about my sweet little sister; and then my mind soars up to a higher plane. I see Doctor Eradlik walking down a long white corridor, a look of stoical self-sacrifice etched across his beautiful features. I see Jennifer Jones approaching Rock Hudson’s bed. I have arrived at a decision.

“Very well, Dad,” I say calmly. “I can tell you what I’m going to do, now. I’m going to be a nurse.”

Three and a half weeks later I have been summoned to an interview with the matron of Queen Adelaide’s and Dad and the family are just beginning to understand that I meant what I said.

Dad, particularly, finds it difficult to believe that any hospital would be prepared to consider me. He has an idea that nurses are somewhat like nuns and unlikely to be accepted if they have so much as caught a glimpse of an unpeeled banana. He also reckons that you have to be of noble birth and watch BBC 2 as well as have it.

“You’re not going to tell me that all those black nurses are princesses,” says Mum.

“I don’t know so much,” says Dad. “A lot of those blackies you see on the telly are better dressed than white people.”

“You don’t watch those,’ says Natalie. “You watch the ones with the bare titties doing the conga.”

“Natalie! Watch your language, please!” Mum looks horrified.

“We all know where she gets that from, don’t we?” Dad fixes me with his beady eye and I would like to bash him over the nut with Natalie.

Raquel Welchlet is the one who continued to be most surprised by the way I stick to my resolve.

“I never reckoned you were serious,” she says. “I thought you were just doing it for effect. Like when you read that book about air hostesses.”

“Air stewardesses,” I hiss. “Hostesses are people who work in nightclubs.”

“Those stewardesses spent all their time in night clubs if that book was anything to go by.”

“Well, nurses don’t spend all their time in night clubs so you needn’t start fretting about my eyesight.”

“I don’t think you’ll be able to stick it even if they do accept you. They work terribly hard, you know.”

“But it must be rewarding, mustn’t it?”

“The pay’s lousy from what I can make out.”

“I didn’t mean that.” Natalie is about as sensitive as a clay tuning fork. “I meant that it must be satisfying to nurse people back to health.”

Natalie sniffs and shakes her head. “I don’t like sick people.”

“It’s people like you that give being healthy a bad name,” I tell her.

Mum is merely realistic. “Do what you like, dear, but make sure you don’t catch anything.”

Queen Adelaide’s is a big disappointment after Mount Vista on the Doctor Eradlik show. It is a huge hospital but it looks as if it was carved out of charcoal and then had a giant vacuum cleaner bag emptied over it. What I at first imagine to be its grounds turn out to be the public park next door. As I go through the swing doors two nurses are coming out. They are wearing red cloaks with blue linings and talking in upper class voices.

“Stupid little bitch thought your sternum was what you sat on,” says the first.

“Oh no!” The second one’s voice screeches into the air like a rocket. Dad would love them.

Just inside the door is a pigeon hole behind which sits a pigeon wearing glasses. She coos softly to herself when I say that I have an appointment with matron and shuffles through a pile of papers.

“Rose Dixon?” She rises up slightly and leans forward as if she is wishing to confirm that I have brought the lower half of my body with me. Apparently satisfied, she sinks back and gives me totally unmemorable directions of which I can recall no more than that I have to go to the third floor. I am frightened to ask her to say it all again unless I immediately give the impression of being hopelessly stupid—just like the girl the two nurses were talking about. Who knows? The directions might be part of some cunning test to check on my memory.

I get into the lift and, for some reason that I will never understand, press the button marked four. I immediately press three but the lift glides contemptuously past my destination and stops at the fourth floor. The doors slide open and I am faced by an old man in a wheelchair and a nurse who is escorting him. He is wearing a dressing gown and seems half asleep. The nurse has no sooner pushed her patient into the lift than she slaps her hand to her forehead.

“Jesus, but it’s a fool that I am. I’ve gone and left his records in the ward. Hang on here for a moment, will you?”

Before I can say anything she has disappeared down the corridor. My presence on the fourth floor must suggest to her that I am a member of the hospital staff.

She has pressed the “door open” button but no sooner has she padded off than the patient’s eyes open a quarter of an inch, rather like those of the crocodiles you see in all those nature films on the telly. I am probably being very unkind comparing him to a crocodile because he looks quite a sweet old man. He is smiling at me now.

“She’ll be back in a minute,” I say comfortingly. It is all rather nice because I feel like a nurse already.

“Get your knicks off!”

Before I can be certain that I am hearing aright the old man has pressed the button marked B for Basement and the doors are closing.

“Please! We must wait,” I yelp.

“We’ll go down to the boiler room and stimulate each other on the coke,” says the sprightly greybeard. “You don’t mind a few pink patches on your bum, do you?”

“I’ve got to see Matron!” The lift sinks below the third floor.

“Don’t waste your time. She’s the ugliest woman in the hospital.” He suddenly propels his chair across the lift and pins me against the wall. “Come here! I want to take handfuls of you.”

He is a man of his word, too. When I come to think about it he must be both the oldest and the dirtiest man that I have ever met.

“Stop doing that!” I squeal, thinking that his sense of direction has not faltered over the years. “You must pull yourself together!”

“Up guards and at ’em! I’m eighty-four and I could show you young girls a thing or two.” He whips open his dressing gown and once again proves his point. I must say that though it distresses me to look at his equipment it is certainly more ramrod than shamrod. The door slides open and I catch a glimpse of an amazed man in shirt-sleeves leaning on a shovel. Hurriedly I press the button for the fourth floor.

“You were in the army, were you?” I humour the wizened octogenarian.

“The Gold Coast. That’s where you get them. Big, wobbling titties wanging against your belly. That’s the stuff to give the troops, eh?”

“It’s very nice,” I say appeasingly. “But don’t you think you ought to put it away now?”

“I know just where to put it away. It won’t keep, you know. They don’t.”

What a very lively old man, I think to myself. I bet he has more than a glass of Lucozade for elevenses.

“You’ve got a firm bosom, my dear.”

“Thank you. Can I have it back now?” For a senior citizen he certainly has very strong fingers. I can hardly prise them off my sweater.

The doors slide open on the fourth floor and there is an astonished nurse blinking at us.

“What happened to you, Mr Arkwright?”

Greybeard shrinks into his wheelchair and half closes his eyes.

“She tried to elope with me, Nurse Finnegan.”

“He went mad the minute you disappeared,” I say lowering my voice discreetly. “He started mauling me and suggested we made love in the boiler room.”

Nurse Finnegan looks at me in a way that might be described as strange.

“She pressed the button, Nurse.”

“You wicked old man.” I round on him so fiercely that Mr Arkwright sinks even lower into his chair. Nurse Finnegan is looking at me suspiciously.

“You don’t nurse here, do you?”

I give her the famous Rosie Dixon smile. “Not yet. I’ve come to see Matron.”

“What were you doing on the fourth floor?”

“I pressed the wrong button.”

“Don’t leave her with me, Nurse Finnegan,” croaks Arkwright pathetically.

“Hasn’t he done this before?” I whisper.

“They call him Mr Sunshine,” says Nurse Finnegan gazing at me with obvious suspicion.

“Bengers Food,” murmurs Mr Arkwright, closing his eyes.

Nurse Finnegan does not let me out of her sight until she sees me knocking on Matron’s door. I can’t blame her in the circumstances but I wish there was some way of repaying that horrible old man. I am still thinking about my harrowing experience when an upper class voice rings out from the other side of the door. “En-ta!”

I go in and find myself in the presence of a woman who makes Hattie Jacques look like Twiggy’s kid sister. She is sitting behind an antique desk signing papers.

“Miss Dixon?” She does not look up.

“That’s right.”

“My staff address me as matron.”

For a moment I think she is supplying me with some interesting information for my scrap book. Then I cotton on. “Yes, Matron.”

“That’s better. Now, where have you been? I was told you were coming up and then you disappeared for ten minutes.”

“I got lost, Matron.”

“Lost?” Matron looks up at last. “Good gracious. When I look at you I would find it easier to believe that you had been assaulted.”

“Well, actually—” And then I stop myself. Even if she believes that I was attacked by a sex-mad geriatric she will probably think I egged him on. Either way it is not going to make a very good impression.

“Actually, what?”

Matron has enough hair on her upper lip to clog a moustache cup and when she moves, the starch in her uniform crackles like an icy pond breaking up—at least, I imagine it is in her uniform.

“Nothing,” I say.

Matron gazes down her nose towards a bosom that looks like a ruckle in a barrage balloon. “I think I should make it absolutely clear at the onset that I am a stickler for smart turn-out. The discipline required to make sure that one is a credit to oneself and the hospital carries over into one’s attitude to one’s job and inspires confidence in the patients. By arriving here as if you have just been dragged through a hedge backwards you have not taken that first step towards reassuring me that you have the right attitude of mind to become a nurse.”

“I’m afraid my appearance is due to my confusion at losing my way,” I grovel.

Matron gazes up towards the ceiling and sighs. “No matter. The golden days are past. We must be thankful for what we can get.”

“Amen,” I don’t know why I say it. It is just that she drones on in such a way as that I imagine I must be in church.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Granted.”

“What?! !”

“I mean, granted, Matron.”

Matron shudders and her moustache quivers as if a strong wind has just run through it. “I have a horrible suspicion that you are trying to mock me, Miss – er Dixon.”

“Oh no, Matron.” What is the old bag on about?

“Tell me, Miss Dixon.” Crackle, crackle goes Matron’s uniform. “Does your family have a nursing background?”

“I think my father had his tonsils out.”

“No, Miss Dixon.” Something seems to be causing Matron pain. Maybe her cap is on too tight. “What I meant was do you have any relations who have worked in the medical profession?”

“My Aunt Gladys used to work in Boots during the war.”

Matron’s eyes are now tightly closed. “Fascinating. It says on your curriculum vitae that you have one ‘A’ level. What is that?”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Matron. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what ‘A’ level you’ve got?”

“Oh, I see. I thought you meant what does curriculum vimto mean. I’ve got geography.”

“Geography.” Matron shrugs. “It could have been woodwork, I suppose.”

“Not really,” I say, hoping I don’t appear too pushy. “We didn’t do woodwork after ‘O’ levels.”

Matron closes her eyes again. “Of course.” She shudders and then addresses me in a firm brisk voice. “Now, Miss Dixon, I don’t have to tell you that nursing is a hard, arduous profession. You have to dig deep and conscientiously to find jewels. Many girls—” she shakes her head sadly “—just can’t take it.” She looks at me expectantly and I can see that she is hoping that I will speak up and show her that I am not the wilting type.

“I know what I’m letting myself in for,” I say.

Matron nods. “Sometimes it’s a good idea if a gel faces up to the facts right at the onset and realises that she isn’t cut out for the life. Long hours … mental and physical strain … the requirement to study while you work… .” Her voice dies away and she smiles sympathetically. It is the first time I can remember her smiling.

“That’s what everybody says to me,” I tell her.

“Y-e-s.” Matron speaks slowly and thoughtfully. “That’s never worried you? I mean, you think you would be able to cope all right?”

“I’m no stranger to stress,” I tell her. “I used to work on the check-out at Tescos. Of course it was Saturdays only because—”

“We have what we call a four weeks trial period at Queen Adelaide’s.” Matron obviously takes in what you say to her very quickly. “It’s a safety precaution on both sides. During that time a nurse is able to see if she likes the life and—” Matron pauses dramatically “—we are able to see if we like her. Should we find that we are suited to each other, training proceeds, with preliminary examinations after one year and the majority of our gels becoming fully qualified State Registered Nurses after three years.”

I give her my cool, efficient nod and tuck my blouse back into the top of my skirt—ooh! I would like to take away that old man’s false teeth and feed him toast. Matron crackles and gives me another smile. “You’re not intimidated?”

I think hard for a minute and then shake my head. “I don’t think so. I’ve had a polio jab, though.”

Poor Matron. There is no doubt that she is in pain. Probably some tummy upset due to all the strains and stresses of the job. “We will be writing to you in due course. Thank you for coming to see me and for expressing your willingness to indulge in life’s noblest work.”

For a moment I think she is going to stand up but she just crackles and goes back to signing papers. The interview is presumably over. Short and sweet. It could have been worse. I win another brisk nod when I fall over a chair and then hobble out into the corridor. There is no sign of Mr Arkwright but I go down by the stairs, just in case.




CHAPTER 4 (#uc4d3158f-0f8c-5859-9924-f50062ecc567)


I will always remember the day the letter arrived saying that I have been accepted for training at Queen Adelaide’s because it coincided with the headlines in the paper reading “Shortage of Nurses reaches epidemic proportions.”

“What’s that bit underlined in red?” says Dad, who is studying every word of the letter as if he cannot believe his eyes.

“That’s the safe period, Dad.”

“The safe period!?”

“A trial period while we see if we’re suited to each other,” I explain.

Dad looks less worried. “I was going to say, I’m not all that struck on safe periods.” He looks at Mum in a funny way. Mum avoids his eyes.

“That’s wonderful news, dear,” she says. “Queen Adelaide’s is a lovely hospital. I remember my Aunty Maud dying there. It was the happiest time of her life.”

Dad looks me up and down and a worried expression slowly spreads across his face. “You look after what you’ve got,” he says.

Dad need not worry. I have no intention of allowing my new found freedom to tempt me into loose habits. His belief that I have low moral standards must come from some Freudian backwater of the mind up which I would not like to propel myself without a paddle.

It has always been my intention to present my future husband with the precious gift of my virginity upon our wedding day. An old fashioned idea, you may think, but one that I take very seriously. Perhaps I hear you say: Yes, but what about Geoffrey and the ton-up boys? Well, I don’t think anything really happened with Geoffrey. Certainly, I can’t remember it and that is what it is all about, isn’t it? I mean, virginity is a state of mind, isn’t it? Take the ton-up boys who took me, for example. I suppose that technically they all had sexual intercourse with me but it was completely against my will. While the thick banks of muscle were thudding against my quivering pelvis my eyes were tightly closed. You can’t say, that in a situation like that, I lost my virginity. I was just moving it swiftly to one side in order to save my sister from the horrible experience and my mother from the shame.

Not, of course, that I am a prude. I have indulged in my share of heavy petting. In fact, I think that Dad’s attitude to me may have been shaped by the time he found me in the front room with Terry Miller. I was much younger then and at the age when you do things without really thinking, or rather, you do things because you think everyone else is doing them. I was amazed the way Dad flew off the handle. He would still have thrown Terry’s Y-fronts on the fire if the poor bloke had been wearing them.

What disturbs me most is my capacity to arouse strong sexual feelings in the most unlikely people. A few more patients like Mr Arkwright and things could be very embarrassing. I can’t understand what it is about me. I am just a normal 38-22-36 inch blonde, five foot eight-and-a-half inches tall. I don’t receive a lot of letters of complaint about my body but I am not that different to other girls. It must be some kind of chemistry. I am like a piece of litmus paper. When certain men look at me they start to turn red.

My farewell to Mum, Dad and Natalie is spared from becoming too emotional an occasion by the discovery of Mum’s rhubarb on top of the kitchen cupboard shortly before I leave. In the five weeks that it has been there it has undergone some interesting changes and I doubt if Queen Adelaide’s has many less pleasant sights in store for me.

In typical fashion Natalie blames me and in typical fashion I tell her what she can do with the rhubarb. Dad sides with her and Mum says it is both our faults, which is true. What really makes me choked is the way that I have behaved in exactly the same forgetful fashion that I would expect from Mum. I always feel slightly superior to her when she gets dithery and yet I have to go and do a thing like that.

“At least you won’t have to heat it up,” I say. “That fur will keep it warm, no trouble.”

Natalie pretends to be disgusted and it is all I can do to stop myself from giving her a slap. That girl would take the salute at a march past of flashers without batting an eyelid so she has nothing to act up about.

All in all—and nearly free for all—I am glad when the taxi comes. Dad reckons that this is sheer extravagance but I tell him that I want to arrive at the hospital as a student nurse, not a patient. Lugging a heavy suitcase from one end of London to another is not my idea of gentle exercise.

Despite the fact that I tell Dad that he is a mean old sod I watch the meter like a hawk. I don’t think I look out of the window once. I will traffic lights to turn green and make little jerking movements to help ease us through the traffic. The driver is the young chatty type and I should be warned.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what are you going in for?” he says, drumming his fingers on the side of the cab.

“I’m going to be a nurse.” As it turns out I should have said rabies.

“Oh.” Immediately he sounds much more cheerful. “Wonderful bunch of girls, nurses. I think they do a fantastic job.”

“Yes,” I say. The meter has now clocked up 85p. Since the journey started the value of the pound has probably passed it travelling in the opposite direction.

“I’ve been out with quite a few nurses. They always like a bit of fun. Know what I mean?”

“Yes.” Honestly, it is ridiculous the way this meter goes on. The digits on a petrol pump travel slower.

“I expect you’re just the same?”

“Yes.” And what are all those extras? This bloke would obviously charge you 3p for your hand bag.

“A bit of slap and tickle never did anyone any harm. That’s what I say. I mean, you’re a mug if you think different these days, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” I break my concentration to dart a quick glance out of the window. We must be nearly there now. Yes, that’s the park.

“Do you fancy a bit of a giggle this evening?”

One pound 25p! I could have gone to Brighton for the day with that.

“I said do you fancy coming out with me?”

“Yes—I mean, what did you say?”

“Gordon Bennett! Your ears don’t see very far, do they?”

At last the cab has stopped but the meter is still running.

“How much is that?” I say hurriedly.

The driver opens his door, swears at the bloke he nearly knocks off a bicycle, and slowly walks round to where my cases are strapped.

“Nothing, if you’re a good girl,” he says. Before I can say “turn the meter off” he has opened the door and is pushing me back into my seat. “How about a ride for a ride?”

“Do you mind!” I say forcefully. “Let me out of this cab. And turn that meter off! We’re not going anywhere.”

“We can soon change that.” Without further ado the horrible herbert hoists his horny hand up my skirt. How unpleasant. And totally uncalled for. With my luck I could have had this experience on the tube for a fraction of the money.

“How dare you!” Mary Peters could not fail to be impressed by the speed and grace with which I jab my elbow in the direction of Ben Hur’s action man kit.

“What’s the matter, darling? Why are you suddenly playing hard to get?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let me go!” This time my aim is better and I am rewarded with a gold medal groan as my excitable fellow passenger cops a bunch of fives in the nether regions. From the noise he is making it sounds as if I have made them the “never” regions.

I do not hang around to see if I can put on a spring but escape onto the pavement, fast.

I am struggling with my cases when a huge, roly-poly bear of a man with a beard and an untidy mane of black hair appears at my side.

“Is this driver free?” he asks.

“Very,” I snap.

“Where is he?” The man has a deep voice that sounds like Clement Freud selling dog food or the Liberal Party but I have left my portable tape recorder at home.

“He’s sitting in the back—correction, lying in the back,” I say.

“How very odd.” The man looks from me to the driver and then back to me again. “Is he all right?”

“I hope not,” I say.

It is not in my nature to be unkind to anyone but with everyone else making stands I feel that I might as well make one too. Black beard stares at me thoughtfully and opens the cab door.

“Aren’t you going to help the lady?”

“Aaaaaaaargh!” says the driver.

“He’s already tried,” I say tartly. “Excuse me.” I tug my skirt into shape and trudge off with my cases. Thank goodness this unsavoury incident took place outside the nurses home and not the main hospital. I wonder who the man with the beard was. He had very piercing eyes.

It is not until I hear the taxi pulling away that I realise I have not paid any fare. Oh dear. Still, I expect I will be able to live with myself.

Inside the entrance to the nurses home is an office and inside the office is a small man wearing a brown house coat. He is smoking a brown cigarette which looks as if it grows out of his brown mouth.

“Yes?” he says when I have cleared my throat a couple of times.

“My name is Dixon. I’m a new nurse.”

“Oh yeah.” The man drags himself out of his chair and rises slowly to his feet in a series of harrowing wheezes. “My back,” he explains.

“You should see a doctor,” I say sunnily.

The man winces. “I seen enough bleeding doctors in this job, don’t you worry. Now, what did you say your name was? Nixon?”

“Dixon.”

“That’s right.” The man rocks on his feet as a long shudder passes through his body. When you look at him you feel that he must have bought up most of the stomach powders in South West London—brought up quite a few of them too.

“Dixon R. You’re sharing with Green P. in 5C.”

“Thanks very M,” I say. “I hope we don’t land in the soup.”

“Yerwhat?”

“Green Pea,” I say merrily. “It’s a kind of soup, isn’t it?”

The man looks at me as if I am round the bend. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“Nothing at all,” I say wearily. “Which floor is 5C on?”

“The fifth. The lift is out of order and you’ll have to carry your own bags up. I can’t risk my back. I’ve done too much of it.” He could only be referring to carrying bags.

“You’re the porter are you, Mr—?”

“Greaves.”

“Spelt G-R-I-E-V-E-S?”

“E-A,” says Mr G warily. “You’re not trying to be funny, are you?”

I shake my head and begin to drag my bags towards the stairs. Greaves watches me as if he thinks I am going to start snapping off lengths of bannister rail and hide them in my knickers.

There is a telephone in the hall and a small, dark girl is twisting the flex into knots as I go past. I cannot help overhearing what she is saying because she has a loud voice and I am listening very hard.

“Oh yes, darling. Yes please, I’d love it, love it, love it.” I wonder if the flex was coiled before she started the call.

“Oh God, I wish you would be here now. I crave you. Capital K: Crave!” Something tells me she is not talking to her local rent assessment officer—still, you never know these days. “All right snooky-pooky, until this evening. Give my love to the Red Baron.” I wonder who the red baron could be? Of course it might be—no, it couldn’t. I have been living with Natalie too long. I must try and stop thinking about things like that.

The voice dies away with the first bend in the stairs and I day dream about how nice it will be when I too have been here a few months and settled down with a nice boyfriend. I know that my first weeks are going to be spent with a Sister Tutor but after that I will go on one of the wards as a junior. Provided I like it of course. It is very sensible of them to give you the option to leave after a month. As Matron said, I expect that there are a lot of girls who are not really suited to the life.

By the time I get to the fifth floor I am exhausted. I don’t know it then but it is the best introduction to being a nurse that I could possibly have had. It is not tender, compassionate hands that keep a hospital functioning but the nurses’ feet driving round the wards at a rate that would make the average marathon runner trade in his gym shoes.

5A, 5B, 5C. It would have to be right at the end of the corridor. I knock on the door. No answer. I adjust my ‘pleased to meet you’ smile, just in case, and turn the knob. The room has not featured in any of the Homes And Gardens I have leafed through at the dentist but it looks comfortable enough with two single beds, a large cupboard and a dressing table-cum-chest-of-drawers. The bed nearest the window has two expensive looking cases on it—you know, genuine imitation pigskin—and one of them carries a label saying Penelope Green. I hope this bird is not going to be hopelessly toffee-nosed and tweedy. I would have fancied someone a bit more with-it myself.

I have just taken my jacket off when the door bursts open and the girl who was on the telephone in the hall rockets into the room.

“Christ,” she says. “Those bloody stairs could give you a miscarriage before you fell. I’m Green P. What super boobs you’ve got.”

The words come out like an explosion in a sugar puff factory and I almost duck.

“Um—Rosie Dixon,” I say. “We’re sharing a room, aren’t we?”

“If that dwarf genitaled bronchitic in reception is to be believed we are. My name is Penelope but most people call me Penny, or ‘you’, or something like that. I say, you don’t have a dutch cap, do you? I think mine has perished.”

“I’m on the pill,” I stammer. Of course this is only a precautionary measure. Just think how awful it would have been being raped by those three greasers if there had been a danger of getting in the family way?

“It doesn’t matter,” says Penny breezily. “It would probably have been too big anyway.” Before I can thank her for the compliment she continues. “You’re so lucky being on the pill. I’m not brainy enough. I keep getting the days mixed up or losing them. I had a boyfriend once who took half a dozen to cure a headache.”

Penny speaks in this posh voice but she is certainly not stuck-up—well, you know what I mean. I nod weakly and wish I did not feel so inadequate.

“It’s my first night in London for months,” sighs Penny. “I have this boyfriend who is absolutely out of this world. I met him at the Badminton Horse Trials. My God, but I envied his mount every inch of that cross-country course.”

“Yes,” I say thinking that this girl makes sister Natalie seem like an apprentice nun.

“I couldn’t take my thighs off him. Do you know what I mean?”

I nod weakly. “We’re not going to be allowed out on our first night, are we?” I say.

“Oh Jodhpurs! They can stuff that for a start. They haven’t built the nurses home yet that can hold Penny Green. Nothing is going to keep me from Mark’s comely withers this eve.”

Full marks for persistence, I think to myself. “That was him on the telephone, was it?”

Penny nods her head as if tossing a nose bag in the air to get the last ounce of hay. “Every time I hear his voice I practically have to put on a new pair of knicks. Nudity doesn’t worry you, does it?”

I don’t have a chance to say either way before she starts peeling off her clothes. She really has a very attractive body. Small but beautifully marked, as I once heard someone say to Geoffrey. I don’t know what they were talking about.

“What time have we got to be somewhere?” asks Penny.

“Eighteen hundred hours in lecture room B.”

“I can’t expect him to wear a nosebag, can I?” Penny has both hands under her breasts and is pushing them up in the air as she divides her attention between the mirror and my own front bumpers. “You make me feel flat-chested,” she complains.

“I suppose there’s always coypu interrupted,” I say. I mean, I want to show her that I am not hopelessly inexperienced when it comes to the art of love. I have read my share of articles in the Sunday Mirror.

“What?”

“Coypu interrupted,” I say, pleased that I know about something she doesn’t. “It’s when the man pulls out his thing just before—”

“Oh! You mean coitus interruptus? I thought you were talking about those big things like otters that make holes in river banks.”

“Oh no. Not them!” What is she talking about? I wish I had never started all this.

“No I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” says my room mate. “Mark’s never pulled up before a jump yet.”

“Spiffing,” I say.

Penny abandons her breasts and starts to pull on a sweater. “I suppose there’ll be some awful jaw and then we’ll be told to turn in with a mug of Horlicks. Well, I’m getting out. There must be a window open somewhere. If not I’ll give G.B.H. the glad eye until he lets me out.”

“G.B.H.?”

“Grievous Bodily Harm. That’s what they call him. He’s halfway to the knackers yard, isn’t he?”

“You mean Mr Greaves?”

“Exactly. Mr Greaves. It’s good to know that he’s sleeping in the same building, isn’t it? Makes one feel more secure somehow. Should Oliver Reed attempt to break in, help is at hand.”

She breezes off to spend a penny and I find that she has taken all the top drawers and most of the wardrobe. She is like Natalie with refinement. Fancy me thinking that she had probably been here for years. The upper classes are like that. They always make you feel that they own everything. Of course, most of them do.

I manage to stow most of my things away and when Penny comes back we join the progression of anxious looking girls that is beginning to drift towards the ground floor.

“What made you want to be a nurse?” I ask.

“Nothing on earth. It was my father’s idea. I had to agree, to make him pay for my last abortion.”

“Oh.” Penny is very good at stopping you in your tracks.

“What about you?”

This is not an easy one. There are so many different reasons and I don’t want Penny to get the wrong impression about me. In fact, I don’t know what impression of me I do want her to get. “It seemed a good idea at the time,” I say.

“Like my abortion,” agrees Penny.

“That was Mark, was it?” I say, my romantic mind imagining the distress it must have caused them both.

“You never know, these days, do you?” says my new friend. “It could have been at the Dublin Horse Show. It wasn’t all pelting each other with bridge rolls, you know.”

I nod understandingly. You never think the upper classes are capable, do you? But they are obviously at it like knives the minute they have had their teeth braces removed.

“Isn’t your father worried about sending you away from home?” I ask.

“He wouldn’t care if I shacked up with the Harlem Globetrotters as long as I didn’t do it on the doorstep. He also thinks I’m going to see the light and turn over a new leaf once I get a starched apron on. Daddy is awfully silly like that.”

Just like my Dad, I think to myself.

Our trip to the lecture room has three main purposes. Firstly, to meet Sister Tutor—her real identity is masked like that of an all-in wrestler—secondly, to learn how to put on our uniform, and thirdly, to be introduced to the mysteries of bed-making.

Sister Tutor gives an opening address which makes John Wayne haranguing a bunch of marines before they go over the top sound like Sooty reminding Big Ears to save milk bottle tops. She is a tall, thin woman with a kind of blotchy skin you usually find stretched over a rice pudding. I do not think she smiles once the whole time she talks to us. The uniform is straightforward with starched cap, collar, and cuffs that clip on like handcuffs and are removed when we get down to work. The minute we have finished—on go the cuffs. “They’re to remind us that the place is a bloody prison,” whispers Penny. Apparently, walking round the hospital without your cuffs is only slightly less frowned on than getting into bed with the patients.

Where Sister Tutor really comes into her own is in the matter of making beds. Her eyes glisten like those of a Seventh Day Adventist who has just had the door shut on his foot and phrases like “mitred corners” and “draw sheets” drop from her lips coated in drool. A bed and bedding have been provided on the stage of the lecture room, and Sister Tutor puts us all through our paces before we are allowed to go back to our rooms with the suggestion that we should do some more practising on our own beds.

“I didn’t find that too exhausting,” says Penny.

“Not surprising considering you volunteered to be the patient,” I tell her. Honestly, this girl is going to take some watching.

“It was wonderful practice,” murmurs Penny. “All that bottom raising while they whipped the draw sheets in and out.”

“You’re not still thinking of going out, are you?” I say. “It’s half past nine already.”

“I don’t care if it’s two o’clock in the morning. I need a good—”

“Nurse Green?” G.B.H. stops us at the foot of the stairs. “There was a telephone message for you. It’s the last I’ll ever take. I’m not an answering service, you know.”

“Stand sideways.” Penny pretends to survey G.B.H. critically. “No, you’re not, are you? It must have been the light.”

“Young man said he was sorry but he had to go on guard duty at Buck House and couldn’t make it tonight.”

“Oh FFFFFFarthingales! How absolutely sick making.”

“That was Mark, was it?” I ask.

“Yes. Off to look after Big L and Philip.” She reads my perplexed expression. “Oft to Buckingham P. to look after the Queen of E. and Pip the Greek. Mark is in the Cold-streams.”

I feel a bit uncomfortable when she talks about the royal family like that but I am impressed. Standing in front of one of those sentry boxes with a corgi pointing out my trouser seam to the tourists would not be my cup of tea but there is no doubt that it carries a lot of responsibility.

“Oh dear. You’ll have to help me with my mitred corners.”

“No way! I’m not going to stay here the whole evening. Let’s go and have a drink.”

“I lock the door at eleven,” says G.B.H. cheerfully.

“Ridiculous!” sniffs Penny. “My needs were better catered for at my boarding school. I had this exotic French mistress who had the most enormous crush on me. She used to invite me into her room and give me creme de menthe out of her tooth mug. She got the sack because matron sneaked on her. Matron was in love with me too. Have you ever thought about becoming a lesbian, Rosie?”

G.B.H. is awaiting my answer with interest so I give a gay little laugh—maybe gay is the wrong word—and shake my head vigorously. “No. Never.”

“Me neither. Of course I used to stroke Mademoiselle Cheyssial’s feet when she asked me to but that was only for the booze. We never got down to something you’d read about in the Sunday Times.”

“No,” I say uneasily. G.B.H. is staring at Penny as if she had just come in through the skylight and said “take me to your leader.” I find that the look in his eyes makes me feel uncomfortable. “Maybe it would be a good idea to get a breath of fresh air,” I say.

Half an hour later I am beginning to think that it was the worst idea I ever had. I hardly ever go into pubs and in the area around Queen Adelaide’s they don’t serve a lot of cucumber sandwiches, I can tell you. Penny rabbits on in her upper class voice and we get some very old fashioned glances.

“Don’t you think we should have gone in the saloon bar?” I murmur.

“Good Heavens, no. It’ll be full of ghastly middle class people drinking port and lemon. I like it here with the pools of ale and the whippets.”

I can’t see any whippets and the man next to me is sipping a Babycham but I don’t say anything.

“Daddy says working class people are the salt of the earth,” says Penny, polishing off her second double scotch of the evening. “It’s the middle class who cause all the trouble. God, I need a man.”

If only she didn’t have such a loud voice! Even the old bloke in the corner drops his double six as he chokes over his beer.

“We’d better be getting back, hadn’t we?” I say nervously. Penny rapes an Irish navvy with her eyes and shakes her head.

“What’s the hurry? There’s certain to be a window we can climb through. I think this place could warm up in a minute.” She sticks a cigarette in her mouth and looks around hopefully.

Another twenty minutes and I am talking about The Black and White Minstrel Show to the Irish navvy’s mate who is talking to me about taking a little stroll: “Just a breath of fresh air to bring some colour to the cheeks of your arse,” he husks whimsically. Penny and the fellow with McAlpine stamped across his donkey jacket have been outside for fifteen minutes now.

“I think we must be going in a minute,” I say, primly removing the Paddy’s friendly hand from my thigh.

“It’s not taking after your friend you are, I’m thinking,” he says, disappointment and stout drowning his voice. “You haven’t touched a drop of your Guinness.”

“I’m certain my friend will drink it when she comes back,” I say glancing nervously at my watch. Ten to eleven! We are going to be locked out unless she gets her skates on. I finish picking another beer mat to pieces and glance towards the door. Thank God! There she is, her slim boyish figure dwarfed by the giant hulk of the Irish navvy following her. The mick stumbles as he comes through the door. I notice that his eyes are glassy and that he is feeling his way towards the table along the backs of chairs. Too much to drink, I suppose.

“Did you find one that was open?” I say as he slumps down opposite me. They went out to look for a fish and chip shop. For a moment the man looks puzzled, and then he gives an understanding nod. “No, they were all closed.” He stretches out a shaking hand for the Guinness but Penny gets there first.

“Hands off, Patrick,” she says. “That was thirsty work.”

She tilts back the glass until only a few sad riverlets of froth are left running down its empty sides.

“I don’t know where she puts it all,” I say.

The big mick laughs hollowly. “Sure, and you can say that again,” he says. “Twenty years I’ve been handling a pneumatic drill and I’ve never known anything like it.”

I don’t know what he is talking about so I smile politely and look at Penny. “We really ought to be going. It’s nearly eleven, you know.”

Penny waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t keep on about it. It’s so boring. I’m starving anyway. I want to go and eat. Patrick’s going to take us to a fab little café he knows, aren’t you, Paddy?”

“But Penny, it’s our first night,” I squeak.

“Jesus!” says Patrick.

The trouble with Penny is that once she has got an idea into her head, there is nothing you can do to shift it. She is also very good at making you feel wet if you disagree with her. All this means that the party moves on to the Green Clover Café where Patrick falls asleep with his head on the table and my mick goes off to help Penny mend the lock on the toilet door. It must have been stiff because he is sweating like a pig when he comes back.

“Penny! We’ve got to go,” I hiss.

Penny considers my bloke who seems on the point of drifting off alongside his mate and nods. “Yes, these two have had it, haven’t they? I wonder if there’s any chance of getting into Buck House. I feel like—”

“No!” I yelp, feeling it is time I put my foot down. “We’ve got to get back.”

“All right, all right, you don’t have to shout. I hope you’re not always such a stick in the mud.” She waves at the balding man behind the counter who is cleaning his nails with a fork. “Waiter, can you call us a taxi.”

“You’re a taxi, madam,” he says.

“That joke’s as bad as the food and only slightly older,” snaps Penny.

“Hoity-toity,” says the café owner.

“Up yours!” shouts Penny.

“Do you think we ought to leave something for the meal?” I say hurriedly indicating the sleeping micks.

“A ton of bicarbonate of soda would be preferable,” sniffs Penny. “No, I think they would be most offended. Let’s leave them to their dreams.”

I unclamp Patrick’s sleeping hand from my thigh and stand up.

“I hope we see you again, duchess,” says the owner as he opens the door with a flourish.

“I think it’s very likely,” says Penny. “I’m a public health inspector and if I survive the meal I’ll be back to take samples.”

I am sorry to have to report that a few very unfortunate things are said after that but, luckily, I am so busy scouring the streets for a taxi that I don’t hear most of them. When a cab shows up it is only because the driver lives in the next street and it requires all Penny’s powers of persuasion and another ten minutes before he agrees to take us back to the nurses home. What they were haggling about in that doorway I will never know. I am only grateful that it is not the dreadful sex maniac who brought me to the hospital in the first place. Every time I see a taxi I expect the driver to leap out and demand one pound forty.

“Is he going to take us?” I ask as Penny sinks into the seat beside me.

“Yes and no.” Penny straightens her skirt as the driver staggers into the cab. What does she mean? I wish she would make herself clearer.

“How are we going to get in?” I ask her once the cab starts moving.

“Ring the front door bell and say we got stuck in a traffic jam.”

“They don’t have traffic jams at one o’clock in the morning.”

“Oh, all right, fuss pot. We’ll climb in. I suppose it will remind me of the pantie raids back at the dear old coll.”

“The boys used to raid you, did they?” I ask.

“Silly girl! We used to raid them. I had a tuck box full of Y-fronts. Some of them put up a pretty good fight though.” Her eyes glint with relish. It certainly seems a lot different to Park Road Comprehensive. What exciting lives some people lead.

When we get back to the nurses home there is less action than at a geriatrics’ jitterbugging contest and I begin to get really worried. There are no lights and the place looks like Dartmoor during a power cut. To add to our problems there is an argument about the fare and I leave Penny to deal with it while I try to find a window we can climb in by. I came back just as she is getting out of the back of the taxi and smoothing down her skirt.

“Did you get it straightened out?” I ask her.

“Eventually,” she says. “I hope we’re going to find it easier to get in than some people I can think of.”

I don’t know what she is talking about so I say goodnight to the driver, who seems to have passed out on the back seat, and lead the way round the side of the building. Most of the windows have bars but there is one that is unprotected and open.

“Fancy having to climb in to this crummy place,” sniffs Penny. “It’s like weevils having to crawl back into a cheese. Give me a leg up.”

With a neat display of the Olga Korbuts, she pulls herself onto the window ledge and flips open the catch. “I’ll get in and help you up.”

I acknowledge her whisper and look around me in the darkness. What a way to spend my first night at Queen Adelaide’s. If we do get to our room without being discovered we will have to be up in a few hours’ time.

“Hurry up. It’s somebody’s bedroom.” Penny is leaning out of the window and I take her hand and scramble up the wall, laddering my tights. If I am honest with myself I have to admit that I have not enjoyed this evening very much. I would have been much better off staying at home and practising mitreing my corners.

“Are you O.K.? Good. Let’s get out of here.” Penny turns to refasten the window and I make tracks for the door. My fingers have just closed around the handle when I glance towards the bed. There is not much light in the room but just enough to see—oh my God!—G.B.H. turns in his sleep and suddenly opens his eyes. I tear open the door.

“Oy! You!”

I shoot into the corridor and automatically close the door behind me as I come face to face with one of my fellow student nurses wearing a dressing gown. I see her eyes widen as they examine my dishevelled person and then pass on to the sign on the door behind me: “Mr Greaves—Porter”.

I hope she does not think—no, she couldn’t. Still, some people are very good at jumping to conclusions. It would be so unfair if there was any unjustified scandal about me. I would hate my nursing career to start under a cloud.

“I was just complaining about a leaking tap,” I explain. “It was awful. I couldn’t sleep a wink.”

“Yes,” says the girl looking at me strangely.

I walk beside her to the foot of the stairs and let myself into the lift. I have been there for three minutes before I remember that it does not work. There is no sign of Penny and I imagine that she is explaining to G.B.H. what happened. Maybe I had better go and back her up. I let myself out of the lift and walk back down the corridor. I can hear no sound of voices from outside the Porter’s door and only a rhythmic creaking of what sounds like bed springs. Good. G.B.H. must have gone back to bed—if he ever bothered to leave it—and Penny must have gone upstairs while I was in the lift. Poor girl, she must be as ready for bed as I am.




CHAPTER 5 (#uc4d3158f-0f8c-5859-9924-f50062ecc567)


Penny is not in the room when I get upstairs and I imagine that she must have gone to the toilet. I want to find out what G.B.H. said but I am so exhausted that I fall asleep the moment I tumble into bed. The next thing I know, the alarm clock is scrambling my brains and I discover that it is six o’clock. Penny’s fingers are still clutching at air on the bedside table.

“Cancel this morning, will you?” she groans. “I am feeling distinctly fragile. That fourth pint of Guinness was definitely a mistake.”

“What happened with G.B.H.?” I ask. “Is he going to report us?”

“I think I have more grounds for reporting him,” yawns Penny.

“Why? What did he do?” I can imagine G.B.H. waking up, thinking that he is faced with a couple of burglars and—

“Virtually nothing. Snivelling little gnat-testicled creep. He couldn’t satisfy an over-sexed elf who went off like a tin of pre-war snoek.”

“Penny! You didn’t—he didn’t—”

“Oh, don’t be so wet. It was the only way of shutting him up, wasn’t it? I didn’t notice you hanging around to explain that we were collecting for the Salvation Army.”

“I came back,” I say indignantly.

“It’s more than he did,” sniffs Penny. “He makes love like someone rubbing a pencil mark off a sheet of tissue paper.”

The very thought of being touched by Mr Greaves makes me feel sick and I am relieved that he is not in his office when we go to breakfast. This meal is served in the main hospital dining room and it gives me a chance to survey some of the medical talent on display. There is only one real hunk of Eradlik material to be seen and I am not on the brink of tears when I notice him gazing at me moodily over the rim of his coffee mug. Not to be outdone, I return his piercing glance and slowly raise my own cup to my lips without taking my eyes away from his. Unfortunately, I have forgotten to remove my teaspoon. By the time my eye has stopped watering I find that Penny has moved in and is sitting down beside Doctor Dish and fluttering her eyelashes as if trying to pick up speed for take-off. She is certainly hot stuff with the fellows, this girl. In fact, once or twice during the previous evening I thought that her behaviour was a bit over-friendly. Still, I must not be too unkind. It is probably that I am not used to upper class high spirits.

The breakfast itself is not a great success, unless you like hunks of bread cut thicker than platform shoes and fish cakes that taste as if they have been made from whale blubber. Not that I am worrying about food too much. I am nervous about what the day has in store and dog tired. If I was at home I would still be in bed. I feel a mixture of home sickness and resentment that I ever had to leave.

Our first job after breakfast is to draw kit and and our second to satisfy Sister Tutor that we can wear it without looking like reject waitresses.

“It’s a cap, not a tiara, Dixon,” she snaps at me. “And you, Green. Yours looks as if it was put round a cake before it went in the oven.”

“Rotten old bag,” hisses Penny. “Obviously aching for a couple of yards of steaming tonk.” All the other nurses look round and I wish she had not addressed the remark to me. I see the girl who was outside G.B.H.’s room giving me an odd look and I smile sweetly. The girl turns away hurriedly. Oh, dear.

When I first put on my uniform I feel as self-conscious as a shaven armpit in a French convent but soon, looking round me, I feel almost comforted by the knowledge that most of the patients will not be able to tell the difference between me and a S.R.N. until I give them an enema. That day seems a long way away as Sister Tutor gives us a lecture on the structure of the hospital—everyone except the woman who dishes out library books is senior to us—and moves smartly on to the structure of the human body with the aid of a couple of skeletons. “Norman and Henry Bones, the boy detectives,” says Penny. “I’ve been out with Henry. He’s a disastrous poke as you can see.” I turn redder than Ted Heath being caught fiddling with his organ during choir practice every time Penny opens her mouth but she is certainly the liveliest of my fellow trainees. Further evidence of her speed off the mark is given to me when I lie flat on my bed after an exhausting day and watch her giving her eyes the full Mata Hari treatment—or matted houri as seems more appropriate in her case.

“Mark?” I ask.

“No. He deserves a period of rejection after standing me up for the Royal Family. I’m having a drink with Robert Fishlock, that dishy houseman we were both ogling this morning.”

“Great,” I say, spelling the g-r-a-t-e in my imagination.

“Where’s he taking you to?”

“His flat. Intimate, don’t you think?”

Quite possibly, I must. Still, I expect Penny can handle herself—as a last extreme.

When my flat-mate has gone out I settle down with one of the medical books I have been forced to buy but I am so tired that I can hardly look at photographs without falling asleep. Some of those bushmen are quite extraordinary, aren’t they? No wonder his wife is smiling.

Penny returns just as I am about to turn off the light.

“Did you have a nice time?” I hear myself saying.

Penny examines her neck in the mirror and shivers. “Out of this world,” she croons. “I believed that things like that only happened in dreams I was ashamed of thinking about when I woke up. I feel like a piano that’s just been played by Artur Rubinstein. All my keys are glowing.” She pops open the buttons of her blouse and touches her breasts as if bringing back memories. Crikey! I wonder if you can get Dr Fishlock on the National Health.

“Did you er-um?” I murmur tactfully.

“You mean, did he introduce his love truncheon to my spasm chasm?” says Penny cheerfully. “You bet he did. You don’t have to help this stallion to clap hooves under a mare’s belly.”

“How nice,” I say, patting my hair nervously. She is so outspoken, isn’t she?

“‘Nice’ is too small a word for what happened in that flat,” snorts Penny. “We tore up the Kama Sutra and wrote a new book. Suddenly The Perfumed Garden seemed like A Guide to Compost Growing.”

I try to control my excitement. Penny Green sounds like a girl who has been around a bit in her time and if she reckons that Dr Fishlock is sexy then I am very interested. Not of course that I want to get involved in any sexual shenanigans. It is just that I would like to be able to resist someone who was supposed to be very attractive. You have to stick your big toe in before you know whether the bath water is cold. I also feel slightly choked that Penny got to Doctor Dish before me. He did make eyes at me first and if I had not had my accident with the spoon—who knows? It would probably have been me resisting his passionate advances.

Penny is still rambling on when I fall asleep and it is just as well that I do get some shuteye because the following day we are introduced to life on the wards.

“Everard Hornbeam, and don’t get in everybody’s way,” says Sister Tutor looking me up and down as if she expects to find that my uniform is on back to front. All the wards in the hospital have names like that and seem to be called after famous surgeons or benefactors who gave money after the hospital had disposed of a troublesome mother in law.

When I get to Everard Hornbeam, Sister Bradley nods at me briskly and passes me on to Staff Nurse Wood who steers me towards Nurse Wilson who smiles fleetingly and gives me into the charge of Junior Martin who I later find has been on the ward for three weeks. Nurse Martin hands me a bed pan and directs me to the sluice.

In the hours that follow I get to know the sluice pretty well and I begin to suspect that the patients’ cornflakes were laced with syrup of figs in expectation of my arrival. I also discover that I have about as much status as a pork chop at a bar mitzvah. So much for my illusions about being on the same footing as the rest of the nurses once I was wearing a uniform. Nobody is fooled for an instant. I am on a men’s ward and I can see the patients nudging each other and winking as they make remarks about me. It is all very embarrassing and I suddenly become very conscious of my body. Every time I bend down my breasts and bottom seem to be lunging out all over the place and I can hardly walk down the ward without tripping over my feet.

All the other nurses move around as if programmed by computer and when not bearing full bedpans and bottles in one direction and empty ones in another I hover by their sides like a humming bird waiting its turn at a flower. In all respects I am totally useless and left in no doubt of this fact: “Nurse. Carry on with this dressing, will you? No, you can’t do that, can you?”—“Nurse. Test the diabetic specimens. Damn. You can’t do that, can you?” When Staff Wood comes up beside me and says “Come on, Nurse. Don’t hang about. Try and find something to do,” I nearly burst into tears.

Fortunately there are a number of tasks to be performed which require no medical knowledge and not all of them are directly connected with bowel movement. Preparing and taking round “elevenses” is one such job and it gives me my first real chance to get to know the patients. Their favourite tipple is marked up on a board in the kitchen and it is with a start of recognition that I see the name Arkwright. Could it be the famous Groper Arkwright who shared my lift when I came for my interview with Matron? I do remember an old man curled up asleep at the end of the ward.

In an even more worried state of mind I set off pushing my trolley and trying to smile sweetly. “Mr Evans? Cocoa, isn’t it? Would you like some sugar?”

“Yes please, Nurse. Three.”

My spoon is poised over the mug when Staff Wood snatches it away. “Mr Evans is not allowed sugar,” she says coldly. “Get a grip on yourself.”

I blush scarlet and wish I could get a grip on Staff Wood’s wind pipe. Why does everybody have to be so unpleasant? It soon becomes clear to me that most of the patients would be quite happy to kill themselves for a spoonful of sugar and that nearly all of them are treating themselves for their own versions of the ailments.

An exception to this rule is Mr Buchanan in the third bed down. He has already given up the ghost. When I approach him he beckons me closer and addresses me in a confidential whisper that can be heard four beds away. “Don’t bother with me, lass. You give your time to those it can still benefit. Just let me be and I’ll try not to be too much trouble. I’ve had a good innings and I can’t grumble.” He squeezes my hand and a tear glistens in his eye. It is all very affecting.

“Has he got a chance?” I whisper to Nurse Wilson as I push my trolley on to the next bed.

“Who? Mr Buchanan? He’s being discharged next week.”

How strange, I think. It was never like this on the Doctor Eradlik programme.

The next bed contains Mr Arkwright who still appears to be sleeping soundly. I have half a mind to tiptoe past but it occurs to me that I have got to come into contact with him sooner or later so it might as well be now. Taking the steaming mixture of malt, milk, eggs and added vitamins that I have been reading about on the tin I advance to the side of the bed. He probably won’t recognise me anyhow.

“Mr Arkwright,” I croon. “Wakey, wakey.”

Immediately, a scrawny arm shoots out and claw-like fingers sink into the soft flesh at the top of my thigh. “I want to play naughty nanas with you,” husks a familiar voice.

“Mr Arkwright! Please!”

“Come on, my little chickabee. Pull the screens round and hop aboard the love train.”

“Oops!” I don’t want to pour steaming Ovaltine all over the dirty old sod, but it is not surprising that I lose my balance when he tries to shove a couple of gnarled fingers up passion alley.

“Nurse! What have you done? Are you all right, Mr Arkwright?”

It is the first time that I have heard Staff Wood say anything nice to anyone and I realise that “Mr Sunshine” is a male version of what Natalie is going to be like in about seventy years time. What a revolting thought.

“Don’t just stand there, Nurse. Can’t you see that Mr Arkwright is in pain?” For one wonderful moment I think she is going to tell me to shoot him, but in the end I have to strip the old swine’s bed and change his pyjamas. Since this manoeuvre is performed behind screens there are ample opportunities for Mr Sunshine to demonstrate that his reflexes are as quick as ever and few of them are missed. When I limp away with a pile of sodden bedding my bottom is black and blue.

“Is he always like that?” I murmur to Nurse Martin.

Nurse Martin, having been on the ward for three whole weeks, looks surprised that I should have the barefaced cheek to address her unprompted. “Always like what?” she says haughtily.

“Grabbing and mauling,” I say.

Nurse Martin makes a convincing job of looking amazed.

“‘Grabbing and mauling?’ Why, he’s a sweet old man. They call him—”

“Don’t tell me,” I say. “‘Mr Sunshine.’ O.K., it must be me.”

“It certainly must,” snaps Nurse Martin. She looks at me as if I have still got a bat’s leg sticking out of the corner of my mouth.

The next face from the past I bump into belongs to the bearded character who took my cab. He is dressed in a white coat and is skimming through a patient’s notes as if trying to produce a picture.

“If you don’t get out of bed soon I’m going to have to kick your fat arse off it,” he bellows. “We need that bed for someone who’s ill. I want to hear that you’re feeling much better when I come round tomorrow, right?”

There is a mumble of assent from the bed and the doctor turns to find himself face to face with me.

“Why, if it isn’t Kung Fu,” he says. “You want to be more careful with those karate chops, I practically had to give that cabby the kiss of life before I could get up to town.”

He runs his fingers through his mop of dark hair and goes on to the next bed. “You’re not still here? I thought I discharged you yesterday. You stick around here much longer and we’ll have to start charging you rent.”

Blackbeard’s bedside manner differs considerably from that practised by Doctor Eradlik and I think how coarse he is. Definitely not like most of the young doctors I have noticed at Queen Adelaide’s. They tend to be rather smooth and wear striped ties underneath their white coats. Blackbeard’s white coat makes its owner look as if he helps out in a fish-and-chip shop on his evenings off. I am very surprised to find that he is some kind of doctor.

After the Arkwright botch-up Sister Bradley must decide that I am totally useless because she gives me the job of re-doing the labels that cover most of the surfaces of the sluice, linen-room and kitchen. These are neatly printed in biro and protected by sellotape which is now beginning to peel and turn yellow with age.

Halfway through the afternoon I have to copy out “No unlabelled specimens will be left standing” four times before I get it right and it occurs to me that I am becoming more exhausted than a blackleg in a prostitutes’ strike. I can hardly keep my eyes open.

“Hi, there.” The voice is upper class but deep and warm. I look up and my heart skips a couple of beats as I see Doctor Fishlock smiling down at me. “I wondered where I was going to find you.” He says it like he has been looking since puberty.

“Hello,” I simper, “I’m doing the labels.” He would have to have his eyes closed not to know that, but I never find it easy to chat to dishy men. I always imagine that they must be thinking what a fool I am. Of course, while I am thinking that, I am behaving like a fool and they soon become perfectly entitled to their opinion.

“How’s it going?” Doctor Fishlock pulls up a chair and settles down on the other side of the table. “I know just how tough these first days can be.”

I warm to him immediately because that is just the kind of kind, considerate thing that Doctor Eradlik would have said. He even stretches out an arm and pats the back of my hand. Surely this can’t be the man that Penny was talking about? He seems too gentle, too refined for those acts of wild animal passion. Sometimes I think her excitable imagination gets the better of the truth.

“It’s not too bad,” I say. “No worse than I expected.”

“That’s the girl.” Robert’s eyes glow like the embers of a cherished fire. You see how my imagination is calling him Robert already. There is something about the man that makes me feel I have known him all my life—well, not all my life. I don’t want to sound unhealthy about it. “I have the feeling that this isn’t the first job you’ve done. There’s a poise, a style about you that makes me certain that I’ve seen you somewhere before. Weren’t you on the cover of Vogue?” I cut through the oilcloth that covers the table and drop my sellotape on the floor. We both dive down to pick it up and our heads clash. Funny how Ali McGraw never does that.

“Crazy,” says Fishlock, gazing into my eyes until I can feel them going soggy at the edges. “You make me feel all fingers and thumbs. You’re like a feather dancing in the sunlight.”

What a fantastic bloke! Nobody has ever talked to me like that outside my imagination and there you have to knock before you can come in.

“My name’s Robert Fishlock,” he purrs. “Do you think you’re going to be fit enough to have a little drink with me, this evening?”

“Oh, Doctor Flashcock! I’d—” I break off in horror when I realize what I have said. Penny called him that and it must have stuck in my mind. Robert’s eyebrows shoot up towards the ceiling. “My name’s Rosie Dixon,” I say hurriedly. “And I’d love to if I get finished in time and Sister Tutor doesn’t need us, and—”

“Splendid,” drawls Dreamboat, patting my wrist again. “Why don’t you come round to Bedside Manor. It’s only just round the corner from The Virgins’ Retreat.”

“That’s where you live, is it?”

“In congenial squalor. Twenty-three Prendergast Villas. Eight till late—anytime you can make it.” He turns on that hundred watt smile and my heart turns to toasted cheese.

“Keep your pecker up. The first few weeks are always the worst.” He brushes his index finger along my lip and stands up. “I’d better be going. There’s a chronic polycythaemia with multiple scattered thrombi that I want to keep an eye on.”

“I hope it’s all right,” I say.

“I think he’ll come through.” One more smile and I am left alone with my labels. But what a difference in the way I feel! I amaze Sister by finishing the labels without a single mistake and skim round the ward with the teas as if on wings. Mr Arkwright has a trolley across his bed and I find that by seizing this, putting his tea on it and pushing it towards him I can avoid actual bodily contact. Mr Sunshine leans back against his propped-up pillows and watches me like an aged lion waiting for a schoolgirl to stick her hand through the bars of the cage.

When I come off duty I am tired but happy. I helped to take the temperatures and Staff Wood called me “Nurse Dixon” instead of just plain “Nurse.” Sister Bradley has not learned my name yet but it is early days.

When I get back to the room, Penny is lying stretched out on the bed still wearing her uniform.

“How did it go?” I say.

“Ghastly! I feel absolutely shattered. I never knew human beings could go to the lavatory so often. Some of them don’t seem to be fitted with washers. It goes in one end and straight out the other.”

“What are the other nurses like?” I am cheered to find that Penny and I seem to have shared the same experience.

“Pretty frightful. Trying to boss you around the whole time. The place is like a women’s prison. I can’t stand being told what to do by a woman.”

“I suppose they have to have a system.” Since Doctor Fishlock appeared I am feeling far more favourably disposed towards everybody.

“Did you say ‘system’ or ‘cistern’?” Penny holds up a hand in front of her face. “Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this crap clean from my hand?”

“Um-yes,” I say nervously. Penny does talk in a very funny way sometimes. “Are you going to have any supper?”

“I couldn’t face it. I’m not going anywhere unless Mark rings. I don’t suppose that pin-pricked little freak downstairs would pass on a message if he had one. Do you know, he actually had the cheek to wink at me this morning. I’m surprised his eyeball didn’t fall out under the strain.”

“I’m going out tonight,” I say, trying to sound very offhand about it. “You’ll never guess who with.”

“Doctor Flashcock?”

“How did you know that?”

“He was asking me questions about you last night. It was obvious that he had a yen for you.”

“You never told me.”

“Oh, didn’t I? Well, there was no point in raising your hopes, was there? I hope you’ve taken your pill to-day.”

“I’m not going to bed with him!” I say firmly. “We’re just having a drink.”

“I don’t see why you have to be so terribly coy,” sighs Penny. “It happens all the time, you know.”

“I wouldn’t go to bed with a boy on the first day,” I say indignantly.

“Not unless you were really in love—yes, I know. I had a friend like you once. She used to believe that she was a virgin until she had ten orgasms in one evening. She never got further than eight.”

“I’m not like that.”

“What are you like, then? You’re not a virgin?”

It is such a difficult question to answer, isn’t it? I suppose technically I am not a virgin but that is such a soulless way of looking at it. In my mind I have never consciously done anything to lose my virginity.

“Yes and no,” I say.

Penny groans. “Thank God I’m too tired to argue with you. I can tell you that it’s going to be more ‘yes’ than ‘no’ before the evening is over.” She dangles her arms over the edge of the bed and closes her eyes.

I am slightly disappointed that she seems so relaxed about me going out with Robert but, then, she seems so relaxed about lots of things. Whatever I do I must get away from her because she is making me feel so tired. Every time she yawns, I yawn and when I lie down on the bed for an instant I can hardly get up again.

It is a hospital rule that the nurses eat the same food as the patients and when I look at what appear to be teeth marks on my piece of gristly beef I wonder if someone is applying the instruction literally. The pros, or probationers, all sit at the same table and it is noticeable that there is much less conversation amongst us than at the tables occupied by the more senior nurses. Senior inmates also seem to have much heartier appetites. Perhaps they have got used to the food.

There is no sign of Robert and I am glad that I don’t have to exchange any words with him before our date. I rest my head on my hand and gaze across the room. Gosh, but I do feel tired.

“Wake up, Nurse.”

I jerk my eyes open to find that the table is half empty and that someone is collecting the plates. I must have dropped off to sleep. I scuttle away feeling embarrassed and return to The Virgins’ Retreat. Penny is now fast asleep and I am able to get ready in peace. I never like having to make myself up with somebody else around and it used to be agony at home with Natalie always trying to make funny remarks. I wonder how she is, little baggage. Probably rifling my drawers to see if I have left any make-up behind. Well, she will be unlucky. I took great care to bring everything with me. I have sent Mum and Dad a postcard showing the statue on the lawn outside the hospital and I hope Dad will not get the wrong idea. It features a man wearing a bowler hat brim and wings and his willy wonker is very much to the fore. I believe there were a lot of complaints when it first went up—I mean, when the statue first went up, of course.

I pop a few drops of ‘Passion’s Plaything’ behind my ears—just to cheer myself up, of course—and close the door softly on Penny’s snores. My bath I took before supper just in case I came up in a red flush. It was my neck I was worried about, naturally. I need not have bothered because the water was colder than an eskimo’s jolly lolly. Probably just as well otherwise I would have fallen asleep in it.

G.B.H. peers at me through his peep-hole as I go out and I shudder to think of Penny being forced to submit to him. I am certain she must have exaggerated as usual. I would rather have been dragged before Matron by white horses than let him so much as touch me.

23 Prendergast Villas is a semi-detached house in a street facing the common and my finger trembles as I press the door bell. I do hope my lipstick has not started matting. A shadow swims up behind the stained glass and the door opens.

“Rosie. How super to see you.”

Robert is wearing a green velvet smoking jacket with gold piping and a white frilly shirt. He looks as if he is about to compere Come Dancing.

“I hope I’m not too early,” I simper.

“You could never be too early. Are you going to wear that jacket or shall I take it?”

“Um, well, it is nice and warm, perhaps I can take it off.”

Careful, Dixon. You’re yawning already. Robert slides my jacket from my shoulders and, holds it up to the light.

“It’s beautiful,” he says. “What is it? Worth?”

“About four pounds,” I say. “I got it at C & A. It’s not real.”

It is only then that I realise he did not say “What’s it worth?” Oh dear.

“Amazing.” Robert looks faintly disturbed. “Come upstairs and have a drink. I’ve mixed us a teeny-weeny dry martini.”

He leads the way upstairs and I am impressed at how well furnished the place is. Lots of cream coloured carpet and white walls. Not like our semi where everything is scuffed brown and the shiniest thing is the threadbare hair-cord on the stairs.

“Is this all yours?” I ask.

“I own it but I share with a chappie in advertising—you know, we take the hippocratic oath, they take the hypocritic oath.” He looks at me expectantly and I am quick to smother a yawn and try to smile. I can never remember being so tired. Maybe it is because the house is so warm.

Robert steps to one side at the top of the stairs and waves me into a room containing comfortable leather backed chairs and a sofa. There is a sheepskin rug in front of the roaring fire and on the walls coloured drawings of people fox hunting. “Sit down and I’ll get you that drink. I know just how tired you can feel when you’re not used to it.”

He pokes the fire as if he has a grudge against it and I notice a hairy wrist protruding from his frilly white cuff. How sexy! I can see why Penny responded.

“Tell me if it’s not right.”

He hands me a small glass which has an olive on a stick protruding from it and I wonder what to do with the olive.

“I’m certain it’s lovely,” I say.

In fact, the first sip tastes like cough medicine and I can hardly swallow it. The only Martini I can remember having was red but I am certain that Doctor Fishlock knows what he is doing.

“Bung ho!”

“Cheers.”

It is very difficult to keep the olive in the glass when one is drinking and I look carefully to see what Robert is doing with his. He does not have one.

“If you don’t like olives you can always chuck it in the fire.”

“Oh no. I think they’re delicious.” I sink my teeth into the firm flesh and— “Ouch!”

“The stones are a damn nuisance, aren’t they?” sympathises Robert. “Now tell me. Where do you come from?”

“Woodford,” I say. Actually it is Chingford but I think Woodford sounds better.

“Oh. Winnie’s old seat.”

I try a small laugh but Robert is swift to realise that I have no idea what he is talking about. “Winston Churchill. It used to be his seat when he was in the House of Commons. Do you know the Wrights?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I used to play squash with the eldest son. I think they lived at Woodford. It’s on the way to Epping, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It’s er-um very nice.”

We nod enthusiastically and it is clear that we both think that Woodford is a very nice place. I stare into the glowing heart of the fire and realise that I am tipping my drink onto the rug. I expect that by this time Robert’s love truncheon was racing in and out of Penny’s spasm chasm like an express train with hiccups. Not, of course, that I am envious. Oh dear me, no. I am far too tired for one thing. Apart from my natural reluctance to get stuck into the pudding before I have had my soup.

Robert takes my empty glass and smiles at me. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say, wondering what he is talking about and wishing I didn’t drink so fast when I was so nervous.

“I’ve invited you round here because I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve seen in ages and here we are talking about Woodford.”

I wonder how Penny got round here. She was obviously best at something. This sofa is so comfortable that I don’t think I will ever be able to get out of it. If only I could stretch out and go to sleep.

“You look gorgeous when you half close your eyes like that.” Stick around, Doll, I think to myself. You could go out of your mind when you get the full treatment. I look down and find there is another drink in my hand. It must be strong to taste like that. I could get drunk on the olives.

“I’m afraid I’m not saying very much,” I say. Good old Dixon! Slow on chat but strong on honesty.

“Don’t worry your beautiful head about it,” purrs Robert, “it’s a delight just to sit here and feast my eyes on you.”

“You are nice,” I say. I hope he likes the inside of girls’ mouths because he gets a perfect view of mine as I release my forty-fifth yawn of the evening.

“You poor girl. I can see you’re exhausted. Let me try something.”

The words “no” and “not yet” are framed on my lips but it is my temples that he caresses lightly. “Massage,” he murmurs. “Tell me if it helps.”

“Uuuhm. That’s nice.” It is too.

“Close your eyes.” Never has a request been easier to comply with. My peepers are jammed shut faster than a spinster’s legs at a Congolese bachelor party. “Tell me if it feels better.”

“Uuuuhm.”

“Put your feet up on the sofa. Here, let me.” My legs are gently lifted onto the settee and the delicious pressure on my breasts continues—my breasts? Oh well, I suppose he knows what he is doing. The room is so warm that I can barely keep awake. And talking of “barely”, don’t I feel supple fingers tweaking my naked flesh? If I was not certain that I would never allow such a thing to happen 1 would swear that my nipples had been exposed.

“That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Uuuuuuuuhhhhmm.”

Amazing the tricks that your imagination can play when you are practically asleep. I can actually hear the sound of clothing being removed. I stretch out my hand and feel—oh, yes. Now I know I must be dreaming.

“Is that nice?” murmurs Robert from somewhere inches deep in my subconscious.

“Uuuuuuuuhhhmm!” I murmur. “Absolutely uuuuu uuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmm ! ! ! !”




CHAPTER 6 (#uc4d3158f-0f8c-5859-9924-f50062ecc567)


I must have been very tired because it is twenty to eleven before I wake up again. I hardly have time to thank Robert for his hospitality and the comfortable settee before I am racing back to the nurses home. Whatever happens I must get there before the door is locked. The thought of having to endure what Penny went through is too horrible to dwell on.

“Your friend still out?” G.B.H.’s ugly mug settles into an expectant leer as he leaps towards the door.

“She had an early night,” I say, savouring the look of misery that spreads across the dirty old devil’s face.

To my surprise, Penny is awake when I pant into our room. She looks me up and down and smiles. “Is that display of exhaustion solely as a result of climbing up the stairs?”

I smile sheepishly. “You probably won’t believe this but I fell asleep.”

“I find that very easy to believe. After the tonk-bonking I took from that white spade I felt pretty tired myself.”

I shake my head and start getting ready for bed. “You don’t understand, Penny. I fell asleep before anything happened. I must have been completely exhausted.”

Penny continues to smile and gazes pointedly at my panties. “Interesting. How come your knickers are on inside out?”

“What?”

“When you went out they said ‘Chase me Charley, I’m the last bus home’ or something like that. I noticed particularly. Now they say ‘YADSENDEW’.”

What is she talking about? “Yadsendew”? I don’t have any Chinese panties. I have the ones with the days of the week on them that Geoffrey gave me but— then it dawns on me: ‘yadsendew’ is Wednesday spelt backwards. Oh dear, I do have my panties on inside out. How could that have happened? I must have gone to the loo in my sleep—I mean, I must have gone to the toilet and forgotten all about it because I was so sleepy.

“Oh yes,” I say casually. “I expect it happened while I was spending a penny.”

Penny looked puzzled. “Do you usually take your knickers off when you spend a penny?”

“It depends on what kind of mood I’m in,” I say. “Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.”

Penny shakes her head. “Thank you, and goodnight. I’m going back to sleep. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Penny turns her back on me and burrows into the pillows and I finish undressing and get into bed. It is as I am switching off the lamp that an unpleasant thought occurs to me. Is it possible that I could have been tampered with while I was asleep? I hardly like to think about it but the opportunity was there for someone unscrupulous enough to take it. Robert seemed such a gentleman but he had made love to Penny the previous evening. Perhaps he thought I was the same kind of girl. We did not have a lot of time to talk to each other.

Anyhow, it can’t be helped and the main thing is that if anything happened it did so without my knowledge or consent. My virtue is still intact. Cheered by this thought, I fall into a deep and contented sleep.

In the following days we divide our time between ward service and attending lectures.

The lectures include such subjects as Anatomy, Hygiene, Nursing and Physiology and I soon realise that any State Registered Nurse must know as much about sewage and activated sludge as the average plumber. Certainly a knowledge of sewers would be a help when looking into the minds of some of the patients on Everard Hornbeam but I would have expected this to be covered under the heading of psychology. Our nursing lectures take the form of winding hundreds of miles of bandages round each other and Sister. Tutor goes spare when we successfully lash one of the class to a chair so that she cannot move.

Some of the girls take it very seriously but Penny breezes through as if she does not have a care in the world—which of course she hasn’t. She calls us “The Bistoury Kids” and when asked by Sister Tutor why she is late for a lecture says that she got stuck in the service lift. She is also completely nuts. When S.T.—this is Penny’s name for Sister Tutor and stands for—well, you can guess what it stands for—starts talking about cells, Penny says “Stone walls do not a prison make nor iron bars a minute living organism consisting of a nucleus and protoplasm enclosed in a stroma or envelope.” She is mad, I tell you. Stark raving mad. Despite all the technical knowledge I am being exposed to, I still spend my time on Everard Hornbeam preparing diabetic feeds and checking the linen cupboard. I have yet to pluck a patient from the brink of death in typical Doctor Eradlik fashion. Mr Arkwright continues to try and play “naughty nanas” with me and I make tactful inquiries concerning his longevity. I am told that he is as well as can be expected which does not help very much.

Taking Mr Arkwright’s pulse is always a problem unless you hold both wrists at once and this can prove confusing. I can also think of places other than his mouth in which I would like to stick a thermometer. Not that he is a bad old stick and it is nice to know that someone fancies you. I am very choked that Doctor Flash—I mean, Fishlock does not follow up our first meeting. He is probably frightened that I am going to fall asleep again. If only I had not been so tired. He does not keep in touch with Penny either and she says that he only makes a play for pros. I am a bit unhappy about this until I realise that she means probationers.

My favourite times on the ward are visiting hours, both because they provide a breathing space and because I like matching the crowds milling outside the wards to the patients they have come to visit. Sister Bradley hates visiting hours because they make her ward untidy. I feel that she would like to be dashing around with a tin of furniture polish removing each scuff mark as it occurs.

At five to six you can stand in the ward and see the faces pressed against the glass potholes in the closed doors like gold fish waiting for ants eggs. Sticky babies are being held up and tiny hands wave aimlessly.

“Stand by for the stampede” says Nurse Wilson, grimly.

“Spittoon mugs away, please, Mr Chapman,” says Nurse Martin sweetly.

“Will somebody please wipe this locker. It’s got orange juice all over it,” says Sister, severely. “Sit up straight, Mr Homer. You don’t want your daughter to think there’s something wrong with you, do you?”

“Bless the lord for sparing me for this day,” says Mr Buchanan who is being discharged on Monday. “It just proves that faith can move mountains.”

“So can Senokot,” says Staff Wood who is not big on sentiment.

“Have a wine gum, Nurse,” whispers Mr Evans. “They’re not habit forming.”

“You are naughty, Mr Evans. You know you’re not allowed sweets.” I do not have time to say any more before Sister looks at her watch and nods at Staff Wood. Staff Wood raises an eyebrow to Nurse Wilson and Nurse Wilson inclines her head towards Nurse Martin. Now comes Nurse Martin’s biggest moment of the day. “Open the doors, Nurse,” she says to me.

There is a ripple of excitement and I step forward and release the bolt. Nurse Wilson has suggested running a book on the first three patients to be touched by a relative but I think you would need a camera to separate them. They come through the door like the Grand National field and I am nearly squashed against the wall.

Mr Chapman is a thin old man whose skin is stretched over his bones like paper over the fuselage of a model aeroplane and I am surprised to see him approached by a big-busted beauty wearing a suit that looks as if it was borrowed from her kid sister.

I had thought that she must be the property of Jim North the ward wit. Jim is the youngest patient on the ward by ten years and spends his time combing his hair and making scandalous jokes. Nurse Wilson is rumoured to be bonkers about an Indian houseman called Singh and Jim is determined to squeeze every last ounce of amusement out of the situation. “Do you know what Nurse Wilson’s favourite song is?” He says. “‘Singh went the strings of my heart.’ She can’t help singhing it everywhere she goes. Do you get it? ‘Singhing it.’” Mr Chapman usually nods slowly and reaches for his head phones.

Jim once confided to me that he had an audition for Opportunity Knocks. “It was won by a soprano from Leeds with big tits” he says. “Opportunity Knockers, that’s what I called her.”

Mr Chapman’s visitor turns out to be his daughter who is a dancer. Nobody ever finds out what kind and when Nurse Martin suggests ballet, Staff Wood sniffs and says that she thinks it is bally unlikely. It is the first joke that any one can remember her making.

Jim North has to make do with his Mum and Dad and a younger sister who brings a bunch of grapes every time she comes and leaves with a bag full of pips. I don’t think Jim ever has one of them.

Sweet-toothed Mr Evans always has too many visitors round his bed and all of them are passing him boxes of Maltesers and bars of chocolate. Whether they do it because they love him or they want to kill him, I don’t know.

Mr Buchanan only has one visitor. An enormous woman who seems to surround him as she sits beside his bed and listens to him twittering on. “Funny how it’s going to be Guy Fawkes night, soon. I never thought I’d be spared to see another firework. I remember when I had that turn on the Summer Bank Holiday. I said to myself, Ernest, I said—”

“I’ll bring your suit in on Monday morning.” The woman’s voice does not contain a hint of enthusiasm. I think she believes, like the rest of us, that Mr Buchanan is going to live for ever.

Whether he does or not I never begin to find out because he is discharged on Monday as planned. He insists on shaking hands with everyone and winces at every squeeze. “Never thought I’d go out of here on my pins,” he says. “Still, I expect they need the beds. When you get to my age you can’t expect people to have a lot of time for you. It’s all youth these days, isn’t it? I just hope I won’t be back here too soon, getting under everyone’s feet.”

“So do I,” mutters Staff Wood. “He won’t last long if he gets under mine.” Staff Wood has very large feet and I know what she means.

My month’s probation is up almost before I have realised it and when I am told that Matron wants to see me, I wonder what she can want.

“Well, Nixon,” she says when I knock timidly and obey her bark to go in. “Reports I have received suggest that you are a willing gel. Not exactly one of the brightest stars in the infirmament—” she pauses and looks at me hopefully. What does she expect me to do? “—but no matter, there’s plenty of time. Sign here.”

She pushes a piece of paper towards me and I suddenly realise that I am on the permanent staff. Now it is a month’s notice on either side. I am so chuffed at having been accepted that I sign without seriously considering whether or not I want to continue.

“I believe you share a room with my niece,” says Matron as I turn to go out. “Delightfully high spirited gel.”

“Yes.” I nod briefly and go out. So that was how Penny got into Queen Adelaide’s. I did not think that daddy’s insistence could have been enough and I had often wondered what Penny said at her interview. “Delightfully high spirited gel”, yes, that just about sums it up.

“Don’t tell anyone else. They’ll lynch me,” begs Penny when I report my conversation with Matron. “It was stupid of the old bag to tell you. She must have had some ulterior motive. She probably wanted everyone to lynch me. I expect my father put her up to it. He’s been wanting to get rid of me for years. Oh, Sphincters! !”

Penny has been developing a strong line in medical exasperation and abuse. Sly, devious G.B.H. who scuttles in and out of his office like a hermit crab, she calls a Lateral Epicondyle while anyone who annoys her—e.g. most Sisters—is a Pyloric Sphincter.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “Your secret is safe with me. I’m only illegitimate myself.”

Penny has been a bit down in the dumps lately which I think is due to not seeing Mark. Apparently he went up to Scotland for the weekend and she is pretty certain that he has met someone else.

“Quantity is no substitute for quality,” she says. “Still, I suppose one must try and keep one’s end up—or, more realistically, somebody else’s end up.”

She is so coarse sometimes that I don’t know where to put my face.

I am not feeling very happy on the man front either because, although Doctor Fishlock winks at me like a lighthouse he makes no move to invite me out. I think that what Penny said about him is true. He obviously preys on young, innocent nurses. Thank goodness he did not get anywhere with me.

Geoffrey writes me a letter saying that he got to the semi-finals of the Buckhurst Hill Tennis Tournament and I am quite glad to hear his news. Of course, what he did with Natalie was unforgivable but one can’t bear a grudge for ever. I am on the point of writing back and suggesting that we meet up in town on one of my evenings off when Jake Fletcher comes in to my life.

I get a shock when I come on duty and see him sitting up in bed because he looks just like one of the doctors on Emergency Ward Ten —I used to love that when I was a kid. I later find out that he is an actor and was on the programme although he didn’t play any of the doctors. Quite what he did do he does not say, but there were so many characters in the series, weren’t there?

Jake has a great craggy face with bushy eyebrows and piercing blue eyes that are always glinting from behind half closed lids. He looks like one of those dishy men in the cigarette advertisements and I am not surprised to learn that he has starred in the Elsinore cigar ads on the telly, “Denmark’s favourite whiff.” He also swam ashore with the dog biscuits in his mouth in the “Doggies, say goodbye to soggies” commercial and dived through the sheet glass window in the “Because the lady was crackers about Quackers” ad. Quackers are “the duck flavoured cocktail snacks you can eat with a cup of tea and a wad” in case you had forgotten. It was during the shooting of the last film that the release mechanism on his belt did not work and the helicopter pulled him out of the window and off over the rooftops carrying a chimney stack.

As he himself says, he was lucky to get away with a couple of badly broken ribs and a strained groin. He is being kept in for observation as much as anything else and there are an awful lot of female eyes observing him.

I do what I can to make him more comfortable and I think he takes a fancy to me. “I hope you’ll come out with me when I get this plaster off,” he says one day when I am giving him a blanket bath.

“We’ll see,” I say, thinking that he has probably invited out all the nurses on the ward. “Can you turn over on your other side?”

“If my screams won’t disturb you too much. There, is that better?”

One of the things you can’t help noticing about the man is that he has the most enormous “thing”, tonk, love truncheon—whatever you like to call it. With most patients you can calm their embarrassment by saying “Don’t worry Mr Trubshawe, we’ve seen it all before” but with Jake this just would not be true. Even Staff Wood comments on it. “I didn’t think he was going to get it into the bottle,” she says.

“He told me he couldn’t get it out,” sniffs Nurse Wilson.

“Like a rock python,” says Nurse Martin wistfully.

“I didn’t know you were interested in snakes, Nurse,” says Staff Wood.

“I’m not,” sighs Nurse Martin and goes off to change a drip.

Jake himself is not shy about discussing his equipment.

“Watch out for the old purple headed bed snake,” he says. “He’s feeling a bit snappy today. Hasn’t been out for walkies for a long time.”

“Can you turn over on your side?” I say, trying to look over his shoulder into space while I perform the necessary manoeuvres at crutch level—mind you, there are a lot of men on the ward to whom I would be much less willing to give a blanket bath. I would not touch Mr Arkwright with a sponge on the end of a barge pole.

“It’s the curse of my life, actually,” sighs Jake. “I’d give anything to be like other men.”

“What, you mean, your—”

“Yes. It’s a terrible impediment.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “I think it’s rather nice. I mean—”

“You’re very kind but you don’t know the half of it.”

If that is true, I think to myself, the possibilities are enormous. For some strange reason a slight thrill of excitement runs through my body and I take immediate steps to bring myself under control.

“Ouch!”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I should hope so. You’re not squeezing the last fag end out of a tube of toothpaste, you know. Just because it’s brutally large it doesn’t mean it has no feelings.”

“Uuhm,” I say, giving a last pat with the towel—none too soon, either. Down in the forest something seems to be stirring.

“If you knew how my love life has suffered because of that thing.”

“Really,” I say.

“Women get so disappointed when they find that they can’t—that we can’t—that it’s impossible.”

“Because of the—”

“Size. That’s right,” Jake nods sadly. “It’s terrible, isn’t it? I remember a girl called Ondine. I was crazy about her. We were practically engaged. We went down to Henley for the weekend—there was nothing cheap or dirty about it.”

“Of course not,” I say.

“She took one look at it and ran out of the room screaming. We had to check out of the hotel immediately. I mean, they don’t like that kind of thing at Henley.”

“I’ve heard it’s very stuffy,” I say.

“She sobbed all the way back to London. I dropped her off at Putney Bridge and never saw her again.”

“How terrible,” I say.

“It happens to me all the time. Oh! Why? Why? Why did it have to be me?” He throws back his head and stares at the ceiling as if hoping to read the answer to his problem. Poor man.

“Calm yourself,” I say. “There must be some girls with whom you’re compatible.”

“A few,” he sighs. “I have enjoyed moments of breathtaking ecstasy—quite, quite, unbelievable. But they are few and far between. This ravenous brute dozing between my thighs usually sees to that.” He stretches out a hand and squeezes my arm: “You probably think it unforgivable of me to talk to you like this after I’ve asked you out. But we live in the seventies and I think that we have to face up to the implications of sexual freedom. Who knows what may happen when we get to know each other better? I think it only fair to tell you now that we will probably be denied a relationship in the richest, fullest meaning of the word.”

“Thank you,” I say sincerely. “Thank you.” There may be a few tears at the back of my eyes, I am not certain.

“I suppose, now I’ve said that, you probably don’t want to come out with me?”

“Jake,” I say firmly. “I’d be proud to come out with you.”

“You’re supposed to be giving a blanket bath, not gossiping,” snaps Staff Wood who has glided up behind us undetected. “Finish what you’re doing and help Nurse Martin with the teas.”

After that conversation I do not reply to Geoffrey’s letter. He suddenly seems a much smaller person than Jake. Deceiving me behind my back with my own sister. Jake was totally frank and honest with me about his problem.

I consider chatting the whole thing over with Penny and then decide against it. Her excitable nature is liable to inflate things out of all proportion. Jake’s problem is something I will have to handle by myself.

To my relief Jake improves rapidly and X-rays reveal that there are no complications.

“Have you heard the wonderful news?” he says to me one morning after I have come back on duty after a half day off. “I’m getting out on Thursday. That great, shaggy sawbones said I was going to be stronger than when I came in.”

“Oh, Doctor Quint,” I say—for this is indeed Blackbeard’s name.

Something in my tone must suggest that I rate Dr Quint a couple of heart beats behind Dr Barnard.

“What’s the matter with him—” says Jake suspiciously.

“Nothing,” I say. “He’s supposed to be one of the best doctors in the hospital.” It would be nice to be lying for ethical purposes but in fact Blackbeard does have a first class reputation. Even Sister Bradley approves and she would fault sunlight for picking out specs of duSt I wish I could like him but he is such a scruffy bloke. Even the patients on the Doctor Eradlik Show were smarter than that.

“Anyway, I’m out on Thursday, love. And on Friday I’d like you to have dinner with me. Can do?”

“I’d love to,” I say, looking round nervously to see who is listening. “I’ll be off a bit late, though.”

“No sweat. I’ll pick you up outside the nurses home. There’s a nice little trat I’d like to take you to.”

“I’m supposed to be back by eleven,” I say. “I mean, I don’t want to sound ungrateful but are we going to have time to eat as well? Anyway, what is ‘a trat’?”

“Don’t worry, beautiful. Jakey knows how to look after the Cinderella people.” He snaps his fingers a couple of times and I think how cool he is. All that and a—no I won’t think about it. That is not why I am going out with him, anyway. It does not even figure amongst the first five reasons. There’s his good looks, his charm, his star appeal, his, his— what shall I wear? Something sophisticated but not too revealing. I wonder if Penny has anything? I don’t think I’m going to feel sophisticated in anything I’ve worn before. Revealing maybe but only in the sense of being shown up. Of course, I could buy something, but on my nurse’s pay I would be pushed to open a budget account at Milletts.

In the end I borrow one of Penny’s long plaid skirts and team it up with a white lace blouse. Since all my white bras are in the wash I am faced with the difficult decision of wearing a black bra or nothing. Normally I would have plumped for any colour of bra rather than nothing but I recall how Natalie looked when she ‘borrowed’ my ‘coal black mammary’—as she called it—to wear under her see-through T-shirt and I decide that it is better to reveal myself in the natural rather than the supernatural. At half-past eight I am ready to repel boarders and at eighty-thirty-five I learn that Jake Fletcher is without—I mean, outside the building, not declustered. G.B.H. sucks in his breath sharply as I scuttle past him and I sense that my outfit has won one fan.

I don’t know much about cars but the heap of gleaming metal nestling against the kerb makes me glad that a couple of my fellow nurses are standing by admiringly as I slide into it. Jake kisses me on the cheek and we rocket away as if separated from the nurses home by an explosion. Jake is wearing those gloves that don’t have any back and as I watch the muscles rippling on his hairy wrists when he changes gear I come up in goose pimples.

“Is this yours?” I ask him.

“No, it’s the gear lever,” he says.

“I meant the car,” I say, moving my legs slightly.

“No. It belongs to a friend. I’m thinking of getting one, though. Do you like it?”

“It’s fantastic. What is it?”

“It’s a Citroen Maserati. I had to drive one in a little epic I made.”

I think hard and then it comes to me. “Clunk Click. You were the bloke who was flung through the windscreen?”

Jake looks slightly hurt. “It was Firelop tyres actually,” he says.

“I know. When the hands come out of the tyres and start grabbing the road. My Dad likes that one. You’ve been in them all, haven’t you? Have you ever done a proper film?”

An expression of pain darts across Jake’s face and he wrenches the wheel viciously as we drift round a corner. “Let’s talk about it later, sweetie,” he says. “I hope you’re going to like this place we’re going to.”

In fact I love the place. It is called the Bisto something, I think—probably because of the brown sauce they serve with everything. It has a very continental atmosphere and the menu is written on a piece of slate with most of it rubbed off. Jake orders a carafe of red wine which he says is very unpretentious and sticks match sticks in the candle wax which is dripping all over the table. I can see that there is something on his mind. “It’s the same old trouble,” he says.

“What is?”

“The movie business. You were talking about it earlier. You know what it’s like?”

“Of course,” I lie.

“You never get anywhere unless you sleep with the right people. And what chance have I got with this bloody great brute dangling between my legs?”

“Quite.” I wish he would not talk so loudly. The couple next to us have stopped their conversation about the Chinese art treasures and are listening to every word.

“I’ve had some disastrous experiences and all I’ve ended up with is bit parts.”

“I’d have thought that with your talent you’d have been ideal for large parts,” I say.

Jake looks at me strangely and it occurs to me that I may have said the wrong thing. “I mean, I think you could be very big if the right opening presented itself,” I gulp.

Jake wrinkles up his eyes and squeezes my hand. “You’re a very understanding girl,” he says. “Let’s have some more wine.”

He is so generous compared with Geoffrey. With Mr Wilkes you were lucky if you got a glass of wine and half a bottle on birthdays. He always said he could not indulge because he was in training. Training to be a miser, I used to think to myself.

I am not used to drinking and by the end of the meal I am feeling quite light headed. Jake seems to knock back a tremendous amount of alcohol but I expect this is because he is in the film business.

“How about coffee at my place?” he says, snapping his fingers for the bill.

“I’d love to,” I say. “But I can’t stay very long.”

“Don’t worry. I’d just like to show you where I live. I’ve enjoyed your hospitality, now I’d like you to sample some of mine.”

He pick up my hand and kisses the palm. It is a very sexy gesture and it is a pity that he knocks over the wine bottle. While the waitress clears up he gazes into my eyes and an expression of great sadness comes over his face. “What a shame,” he says slowly.

“Don’t worry there wasn’t much left in it,” I say trying to cheer him up.

“I wasn’t talking about the bottle,” he says—it is so sexy the way he grits his teeth when he gets serious—“I was talking about us. If I didn’t have this—this damned impediment our relationship wouldn’t be doomed before it’s even started.”

“You mustn’t jump to conclusions, Jake,” I tell him. “Nothing is impossible. You’ve had relations with other girls. Who knows, maybe—in the fullness of time—”

Jake looks at his watch. “You’re a marvellous girl, Rosie. You really know how to give a fellow a lift.”

I must do because the table suddenly starts rising in the air.

“I think we’d better go,” says Jake hurriedly. “You lead the way.”

I don’t usually look at the front of men’s trousers but a glance at Jake’s crotch gives me some idea of the size of his problem.

Of course, I feel embarrassed but at the same time strangely aroused. A mood not unlike excitement accompanies me to the car. Jake has been wonderfully restrained but I am asking myself whether it might not be a kind gesture to confront him with his problem. If I could persuade him that it was possible for us to have a relationship—when the right moment arrived, naturally—then he might not worry so much. Of course, a lot of my inhibitions have disappeared with the wine but I think that I am speaking from reason rather than emotion.

Jake’s flat is fantastic. Very bare and modern but dominated by a great open fireplace in front of which is a huge furry rug. I think it is made of sheepskins but Jake tells me that the hides are those of Peruvian llamas. At first I get a nasty feeling when I think of that nice young man the Chinese were so unpleasant to but then I remember that the llamas with two l’s are mountain goats. Silly me!

“I picked it up when I was shooting a movie,” says Jake as he puts the coffee on and helps himself to a large brandy.

“Inca Bars!” I say getting all excited. “You were the high priest, weren’t you? You spared the sacrifice when he gave you an Inca Bar—’crunchy, nutty goodness covered in sinful plain chocolate—the reason the Spaniards conquered Peru’.”

“You’ve seen them all, haven’t you?” Jake sounds almost bitter.

“I’m your biggest fan,” I say.

“Come and sit down.” It is only when he speaks that I realise there are no chairs. Just a couple of half-filled leather sacks by the fire. Big pouffes I suppose you would call them. Jake settles onto one of them and pulls me down beside him. It is all very romantic.

“Do you find this smokeless fuel gives off a good heat?” I say. Usually I am tongue-tied with boys on a first date but tonight the words just seem to flow.

“It’s all right.” Jake takes a big swig at his brandy and runs his fingers through my hair. “Don’t think I wouldn’t like to make love to you,” he says.

“You’re very nice,” I say, trying not to look at the front of his trousers.

“I’m not nice,” he says. “I’m just a man. If only I wasn’t the way I am.”

“That nearly rhymes,” I say.

Jake ignores me and looks deep into the fire. “It’s not just the straightforward physical aspect. Even if you could—if we could—oh God! I hate having to go on about it.”

“Don’t worry. I can take it,” I say.

Jake turns to me quickly. “You mean—?”

“Of course. I want to hear all about your problem. There’s no need to feel shy.”

Jake closes his eyes and shakes his head. “There’s the emotional factor,” he says slowly.

“The emotional factor?”

“I’ve been very worried by the reaction of some of the girls I have been able to make love to. Their response has been so, so overwhelming, so total that I have been disturbed for their mental equilibrium.”

“You mean, they liked it?”

“Liked it? They were in a state of ecstasy that defies description. I don’t want to sound conceited, because it’s nothing to do with me—this thing is bigger than I am.”

“Quite,” I say.

“But there was no controlling them. One girl said she felt like a rose garden bursting into flower. I felt awful when we split up because, in a way, the experience had spoilt her for anything else.”

“She probably remembered it every time she saw a rose,” I say, trying to look on the bright side.

“So there you see the extent of my problem,” says Jake. I shoot a fleeting glance at the wherefore of his Y-fronts but there is less activity than during an Egyptian productivity drive. “Not only the physical aspect but the question of what the experience might do to you emotionally—I mean, do to a girl emotionally. I coudn’t live with myself if I thought I’d driven someone out of their mind with ecstasy.”

He is such a thoughtful man, isn’t he? When I think of some of the crude, pushy fellas who have tried to maul their way into my panties, I am quite touched. Such honesty deserves a reward.

I am also the teeniest bit intrigued. I am not a flighty sort of girl but I am interested in sexual matters and in many ways Jake is like a patient with a problem. Maybe, if I could learn to live with his problem I would be able to help him. A nurse has no right to be a prude. I know Doctor Eradlik would approve.

“I can hear the percolator bubbling,” I say.

Jake draws himself up and smiles down at me. “Don’t go away now.”

“Don’t worry.” I watch him stalk across the room towards the kitchen and by the time he has disappeared I have arrived at a decision. Poor Jake is so screwed up that he is obviously never going to make the running. I must do something positive to stop his spending the rest of his life brooding about something that is not his fault. A little physical and emotional turmoil is not too high a price to pay to ease the lot of a fellow human being.

As soon as I hear the chink of coffee cups I start unpopping my blouse and kick off my shoes. Down comes my skirt and I peel off my panties and tights. Thank goodness the room is nice and warm. I have just slipped my naked body under the ilama skin rug when Jake comes into the room carrying a tray. I see his eyes widen as they travel from me to my discarded clothes and back again.

“What—”

“Don’t say anything, Jake,” I say. “Come and join me. Que sera, sera.” I never quite know what that means but I remember somebody in an old movie saying it in a similar situation.

“What about the coffee?” says Jake. He kicks over his brandy glass but luckily there is nothing in it.

“Afterwards.” I stretch out an arm and notice that the rug has slipped down to my waiSt What does it matter? In the shameless ecstasy that is to come nobody is going to care about a little nudity.

“But I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Don’t worry about me. Think about yourself for a change. I don’t mind.” I lie back on the carpet and close my eyes. Soon the great, brute animal mass of the thing will be straining inside me but I am ready for it. I grit my teeth in brave anticipation. No matter what tidal waves of lustful pleasure break through my body in long shivering spasms I will not complain.

I open my eyes and Jake has not moved. “Are you sure?” he says.

“Don’t look so worried, Jake,” I tell him. “Let it all hang out.” Perhaps I could have expressed it better but at the time I am only thinking of making Jake more relaxed. The poor man is obviously going through a period of great strain as his thoughtfulness makes him resist his natural inclinations.

“I can’t,” he says.

“Don’t be silly.” Now it is my turn to seize his hand and pull him down beside me. “I want you to do it.” I could add “for medical reasons” but of course I don’t. I have already decided that my virginity will not be threatened by an association with Jake because of the therapeutic implications of the act. It is both a practical experiment and an act of mercy.

Jake lies beside me and I drink in the smell of his aftershave lotion. Now I come to think of it I remember the advertisement he did for the stuff. Sitting naked on a white horse in the middle of a forest fire—well, it might have been mist, the reproduction was not very good. And talking of reproduction—I snuggle against Jake’s neck and send down some nervous but expectant fingers to inspect the action. Having seen his loin in repose I can imagine the terrifying hugeness of the beast when gorged and ready to spring.

“I think there was something in the wine,” groans Jake. His words coincide with my discovery of what appears to be one and a half pounds of uncooked sausages down the front of his trousers. Surely—no, it is not possible. It is not possible that it is not possible. In desperation I tug down his zip and close my fingers around what seems like a couple of feet of water-logged fire hose. I wiggle it about a bit but nothing happens. The fire is well and truly out. This is terrible! Not, of course, for any purely sexual reasons but because I will be denied the opportunity of helping someone with a problem.

“Do you think it would help to settle your stomach if you had another drop of brandy?” I say.

I wish I had not said that. I do hate to see a grown man cry.




CHAPTER 7 (#uc4d3158f-0f8c-5859-9924-f50062ecc567)


“Brewer’s droop,” says Penny. “Nobody spiked his drink. He was too sloshed that’s all. You felt all right, didn’t you?”

“I felt fine,” I say. “But I didn’t drink as much as him.”

“Exactly. It’s rotten luck but it happens all the time. You tried the kiss of life, did you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, blushing.

“I was afraid you mightn’t.” Penny shakes her head. “I won’t go into details, I might shock you,” she sighs. “Really, I think it’s a rotten job being a man. I wouldn’t have it if you paid me. I mean, you’ve always got to come up to scratch, haven’t you? If you’re a woman you can just lie there and make a shopping list on the ceiling but a man has got to deliver the goods. If he’s drunk too much or he’s worried about the dry rot in the attic that can present the most tremendous problems. And the poor things are starved of orgasms, you know. Two or three an hour if they’re lucky—and if you’re lucky too. I go off like a fire cracker and ‘Emancipated Woman’ says that a healthy woman can have up to twenty orgasms in a minute.”

“How do they know?” I ask. “I mean, if what you say about men is true a normal woman would get through about a hundred and twenty men in ten minutes.”

“I don’t know how they worked it out,” says Penny. “I think it was a controlled experiment in the States. They fastened electrodes to a couple and told them to make love. Everything was recorded on a seismograph or something like that.”

“I don’t like the idea of that.”

“No, it must take away a bit of the glamour, mustn’t it?”

“I never knew any of this,” I say. “I mean, about orgasms and all that.”

“It’s done more harm than good if you ask me,” sniffs Penny. “A lot of men are getting very worried. It’s bad enough when they get tiddly but when they start worrying about whether they’re going to come up to scratch, that’s even worse. Some of them get so nervous they have a drink to calm themselves down and then they’re twice as badly off. In the old days they used to get on with it without a care in the world and at least you could get something out of them. Now they’re all reading Cosmopolitan and having nervous breakdowns. The only men it’s worth going out with are illiterates—or horsemen like Mark. He never reads anything except Horse and Hound, and they haven’t got on to sex yet—at least, not for humans.”

Poor Jake, I think to myself. I never realised he had so many problems. I wish I could help him with some of them but when he dropped me at the nurses home he said that he did not think he would be able to face me again. I told him to try and keep his pecker up but he started sobbing again and drove off so fast he nearly hit an ambulance.

If the course of true love is not running smoothly for me, there are others who are more fortunate. Old Mr Chapman’s sexy daughter and Jim North the ward wit seem to have struck up an understanding which began when Sonia, that is the daughter’s name, filled up Jim’s stricken fruit bowl with some grapes her old man did not fancy. From this small beginning true love blossoms until Sonia spends more time turning round and talking to Jim than she does rabbiting to her Dad. Not that he notices a lot of difference, poor old devil. He talked to an oxygen cylinder for half an hour on Monday night.

Daily contact with this breathtaking romance is denied me because I find that my name has gone up on the board for night duty. I have been dreading this moment because I fancy staying up all night less than featuring in a marathon dance contest with General Amin. It is not only staying up all night but having to sleep during the day. I can only sleep during the day if I am supposed to be working. Five minutes from Sister Tutor on how to fix up a saline drip for a perforated ulcer and I am drifting off like it is a bedtime story. But, put me in a room with sunlight streaming through the transparent curtains and tell me to sleep and I find it impossible to shut my eyes.

It is not only the daylight. Although there are special rooms provided for Night Nurses to sleep in undisturbed these are always situated above the spot where navvies test their pneumatic drills, maids practise to be the first female town crier and the plumbing makes a noise like a depth charge attack on a submarine.

On the day I am supposed to be preparing to go on night duty, I wish I had gone to a piano smashing festival rather than try and get some sleep.

I am on night duty with a nurse called Cilla Bias and it is not until I see her name written down that I wake up to the fact that her parents could have chosen better. She is far more experienced than me—and has also done a lot more nursing. We are on Fanny Utting which as the name suggests is a women’s ward.

One good thing about nights is that most of the patients have the decency to sleep and you have the chance to write to your Mum and Dad or knit a pair of woolly bedsocks. For the first few nights Cilla chatters on about her life and loves and I try and keep my eyes open. There is a period at about three o’clock every morning when my body feels as if it is leaking away through the floor boards. I don’t think I will ever be closer to death until I am in a coffin. After that the system seems to pick up a bit and soon one is plunged into a whirlwind of activity as one prepares to hand over the patients to the day nurses.

Once one goes on night duty one has joined the enemy. Everything that goes wrong is blamed on the night nurses. All those warning labels I copied out for Sister Bradley were intended to be read by night nurses who would otherwise plunge the whole system into chaos. Every broken thermometer or cracked teacup is blamed on the night nurses. The day sister who takes over from us practically runs into the sluice as if she expects to find the place knee deep in vulture droppings.

Cilla and I are alone on the ward and expected to shout for help if something serious crops up. There is a night sister who is attached to a number of wards and our one reminds me of the ladies in that Wagner music you hear on Two Way Family Favourites—The Ride Of The Val Doonicans or whatever it is. She is a big lady and though she tries to be stealthy her size ten beetle crushers can be heard a couple of wards away. In full flight she looks like a How the West Was Won wagon carried away by the wind.

There are also a number of house surgeons who apportion their presence according to the needs of the patients under their control—e.g. they go to the wards where the nurses are prettiest and provide tea and biscuits. Cilla has a number of admirers and when they are not hurriedly taking their feet off the table in the middle of the ward as night sister crashes into view, she goes and visits them.

Nurse Cilla Bias—or Labby as I find she is called—is no prude when it comes to chucking out details of her love affairs and confides to me that she has indulged in what she calls ‘a stand up quickie’ in one of the private patients’ rooms—when it was unoccupied, I hasten to add. The fortunate recipient of her favours appears to be a houseman called Tom Richmond who plays for the hospital rugby team. He weighs about three tons and I can see why Labby does not want him on top of her—I wonder if she would have been the way she is if she had been called Enid Bias?

The hospital is mad keen on rugby and brain surgeons are second class citizens compared to the likes of Tom Richmond. Medical students are selected more for the size of their muscles than their grey matter and the senior surgeons are more interested in Queen Adelaide’s carrying off the inter-hospital knock-out cup than performing the first underwater heart transplant.

Cilla says that she used to think it was called the knock-out cup because it went to the hospital that knocked out most of the opposition. She says that there is blood everywhere and that before the game everybody parades mascots and pelts each other with bags of soot. It seems pretty daft to me but Cilla says that it is ‘absolutely soopah!’

When Cilla and Tom Richmond start staring into each other’s eyes across the patients’ records I feel about as welcome as honeymoon cystitis and slink away to check the diabetic specimens or perform some other totally unriveting chore. It is even worse when Cilla slips away on one of her little visits because I find it very spooky when I am alone. The only light comes from above the table in the middle of the ward and shines in from the corridor and it is easy to confuse the figures turning in their sleep with somebody moving amongst the beds. Often I have been nearly asleep and woken with a start convinced that there is someone coming towards me. A cold chill will make me turn round quickly to discover—nothing.

Once, when Cilla comes tip-toeing back from one of her trips and rests her hand on my shoulder I nearly jump out of my skin.

Two patients who do not sleep all through the night are Mrs Tiger and Mrs Black. Mrs Black is white and Mrs Tiger is black as Christmas Eve in the coal shed. Mrs Tiger has a bed at the end of the ward by the French windows and Mrs Black sleeps next to her—or rather she does not sleep next to her. Mrs Tiger is a very restless sleeper and mumbles and talks all through the night. To hear her going on sometimes you would think there was actually someone there with her.

“I can’t stand it,” complains Mrs Black, who must be about eighty and not exactly Bamber Gascoyne when it comes to getting it together. “It’s all Black Magic, you know.”

“Giving her an upset tummy, you mean?” I say. “I didn’t think she was allowed chocolates anyway. I’ll tell—”

“No, no, no, silly girl. I mean witchcraft. She’s talking to the spirits of her ancestors. Sometimes they answer her back.”

“Can’t you tell her to talk more quietly?”

“She can’t do anything about it. She’s not in control. She says she’s been taken over.”

“I’ll see if we can give her a tablet,” I say soothingly. “Now you must try and get some sleep.”

“I hope the man doesn’t come tonight.”

“She talks about a man, does she?” I say tucking in the sheets.

“She talks to a man. I saw him once, at the end of the bed.”

Poor old thing, I think to myself. Definitely going soft in the nut. “I’ll give you a tablet, too,” I say.

The next evening, when we come on duty, Sister Belter, the day sister, is bristling like a jelly pincushion. “I don’t know what you two were up to last night,” she says. “But I don’t expect my nurses to have to clear up your litter.”

I don’t know what she is talking about. Perhaps Cilla left a tea cup unwashed. I can see Cilla looking at me and thinking the same thing.

“Bones under the beds,” says Sister Belter. It sounds like the title of a detective story.

“Bones?”

“Chicken bones.” Sister looks us up and down disdainfully.

“I suppose those large frames need some filling.” Sister Belter is a small pinched woman and whoever pinched her could take her back again without any fear of prosecution from me.

“It must have been one of the patients having a midnight snack,” says Cilla. “It wasn’t us.”

“Surely, if you were doing your jobs properly you would be aware of a patient munching chicken. Anyway, the patients all denied that they had eaten anything.”

‘Where did you find the bones, sister?” I ask.

“Underneath Mrs Tiger’s bed. What’s so funny, Nurse?”

“I was just thinking about tigers and bones,” I say trying to keep a straight face.

“I don’t find it a laughing matter, and neither will you if I find any more litter tomorrow morning.”

“I hope she cuts herself shaving,” mutters Cilla as Sister flounces off. “You didn’t have any chicken, did you?” Labby returned flushed and glowing from an hour with Doctor Richmond the previous night and so was not in the best position to keep abreast of all my movements.

“Of course not! I’d hardly be likely to bung the remains under the bed, would I? Sister must be nuts.”

Labby settles down to tell me what happened in the maids’ room on the third floor and I soon forget about chicken bones.

“Aren’t you frightened of someone coming in?” I ask.

Labby giggles. “I was last night. The floor polisher was still plugged in and Tom stood on the control. He said I nearly ruptured him when I jumped in the air. For a moment I thought that great whirring noise was him.”

“How sexy,” I say. “What happened?”

“I had to turn the light on in the end. Tom’s trousers were round his ankles so he couldn’t move and the cleaner knocked him on the floor. The buffing pads ripped his Y-fronts to pieces, so you can see what a good job it was that he was somewhere else at the time. I kicked over half the brooms in the place before I found the light.”

What a boring life I lead, I think to myself. Sometimes I wish I could be footloose and fancy free like some of the other girls in the hospital. Staying up all night would be so much easier if I thought that someone cared for me. At the moment I feel like the female lead’s best friend in an American musical.

It comes as no surprise when Labby asks if I would be an “absolute sweetie” and hold the fort while she pops off to share a few stolen moments with Tom Richmond. Sometimes I wonder who suffers most from their relationship, the patients or the rugby team.

She gets a call at about two in the morning and pads off eagerly leaving me to the gloom and the stirring bodies. I try to read a book but I can’t take in the words and decide to make a tour of the ward.

Mrs Tiger’s mumbling can be heard three beds away. “Oh man, oh man, oh man. Take it away.” She pants as if in a fever. “Take it away!”

Her eyes are closed but her hands are moving down the bedclothes as if pushing something from her. It is all rather spooky and a bit kinky.

I can see Mrs Black’s eye glinting so I go over to her and ask if she is all right. Her back is turned towards Mrs Tiger’s bed and she nods very gently as if not wanting to draw attention to herself. “Always the same. Always talking, they are.”

I imagine that the “they” refers to all the Mrs Tigers in the world but Mrs Black’s next words make me change my mind. “He was here again last night. All the mumbo jumbo. I don’t like it. This is a women’s ward. Why should he come out of visiting hours?”

I should have done something about those pills, I think to myself. I wonder if I dare give her something without consulting anybody?

“It’s very trying,” I say. “But you must try and get some sleep.”

“I’m not going to sleep until the man’s been.”

“There’s no man, Mrs Black. You probably saw one of the house surgeons doing his rounds.”

“We don’t have any blackies. Black as your hat, this one. Scraping away with his sticks.”

Her voice dwindles away but the eye that I can see remains defiantly open. There is no point in talking further so I go back to the circle of light in the middle of the ward. How menacing it suddenly seems. An undefended camp surrounded by darkness. I wonder what the sticks were that Mrs Black was talking about. I can’t think of— and then it comes to me. Bones are like sticks.

I look down the ward and wish that Labby would come back. Even Night Sister would be a welcome visitor at the moment. I feel angry that I should be left alone to shoulder all the responsibility, but most of all I feel afraid.

From where I am sitting I can see Mrs Tiger thrashing in her bed and as I watch, the curtains over the French windows seem to have picked up the motion. I must be dreaming because—no, it can’t be. For an instant I think I can make out a figure standing at the bottom of Mrs Tiger’s bed. I close my eyes and when I open them the figure has gone. The curtains are still moving, though. Funny, because the windows can’t be open although that is what it looks like.

Without really wanting to I leave the imagined safety of the light and walk down the ward. A cold draught meets my face and I can see that the curtains are moving. It must be the wind—unless there is someone standing behind them. The latter thought does nothing to make me quicken my pace and it is in something approaching a panic that I stick out a hand and press the rippling fabric. The French windows are open.

Holding my breath, I go out onto the balcony. It is raining and I can see the drops picked out in the street lamp opposite. There is no sign of anyone. The windows must have been left open when the day nurses went off duty, although it is strange that I did not notice anything when I was talking to Mrs Black.

Feeling relieved and a little foolish, I shut the windows and draw the curtains tight. Mrs Tiger has stopped thrashing about and appears to be sleeping peacefully. She is lying on her back with her hands outside the sheets and resting on her lap.

I turn to go back to my table when my foot strikes something. I know what it is before I look down. A bone. One of a pair lying crossed at the foot of the bed. At the moment my foot touches it Mrs Tiger cries out and begins to stir. I pick up the bones and immediately her movements become more pronounced. The bones look exactly like the ones Sister waved under our noses. I don’t like touching them and drop them on the end of the bed. Immediately Mrs Tiger’s movements become less jerky and her mood calmer. It is as if her actions are governed by the position of the bones and that to interfere with them is to cause her discomfort. Her hands are still moving restlessly up and down her body so I take the bones and my courage in both hands and return the thin splinters to their original position on the floor.

Immediately Mrs Tiger sinks back like a deflated balloon and her hands stop moving. I breath a sigh of relief and see that Mrs Black is watching me.

“Did you see him?” she hisses. “He shouldn’t be here. I don’t want no blackie putting spells on me when I’m sleeping. It’s not nice.”

“I didn’t see anybody,” I lie. “Try and get some sleep. Mrs Tiger is quiet as a mouse.’

“It’s not right, he should come at the same time as the other visitors.”

I leave her muttering about the loopholes in the National Health Service and return to my table just as a ruffled Labby hurries into sight.

“Rosie, guess what happened?” she trills.

“Tom caught his prick in the driving band of a vacuum cleaner?”

I know it is not a very nice thing to say but I am feeling rather overwrought and eager to release tension.

“He asked me to marry him!”

“That’s fabulous but you ought to hear what happened while you were away.”

“I said yes, I thought about waiting until he got a registrar’s job but—”

“Mrs Tiger is being treated by black magic.”

“I didn’t think she was allowed chocolates. What is it? Some new kind of—”

“I’ve been through all that,” I shriek “I mean voodoo, obiah—that kind of black magic. There’s a witch doctor who slips into the hospital and leaves crossed chicken bones at the end of Mrs Tiger’s bed.”

Labby takes a step backwards and puts a hand on my forehead. “Have you been at the brandy again?” Her expression becomes menacing. “Or are you just trying to upstage my greatest moment?”

“Come and see for yourself,” I beg her. “I think it’s smashing about you and Tom and I hope you’ll be very happy,” I give her a kiss on the cheek. “Now come and see these bones. They’re just like the ones Sister found.”

Labby pads along behind me and I can tell that she thinks I am mad or playing a joke. “There you are.”

Labby stares at them sceptically. “I suppose I get an electric shock when I pick them up?”

“You won’t,” I say.

“Well, whatever they are, we can’t leave them there. Sister will go off her teeny rocker.”

Before I can stop her Labby bends down and picks up the bones. Immediately Mrs Tiger gives a yelp and rises up in bed as if hauled by a rope. Labby is so shocked that she drops the bones on the floor and I hurriedly rearrange them in a crossed position. Mrs Tiger sinks back onto her bed.

“Now do you believe me?” I say.

“It’s uncanny,” says Labby. “You’re sure you’re not joking?”

“Don’t be daft. How could I be?”

“I’ll fetch Tom. He’ll know what to do.”

Labby’s faith is touching but Doctor Richmond is reputed to be as thick as a lorryload of sanitary towels and I do not reckon that he is the man to deal with a problem of this delicacy.

“Don’t do that,” I say. “I know exactly what to do: leave the bones where they are.”

“What’s Sister going to say tomorrow morning?”

Labby has a point. I can see the cold light of dawn getting even colder when I start explaining to Sister about rustling curtains and the black man that nutty Mrs Black has seen. Sister will chuck the bones straight into the trash can—probably followed by us. And tomorrow night—Stop! I don’t want to think about it. The witch doctor, or whatever he is, will probably get fed up with people messing around with his chicken bones and turn Labby and me into frogs. Tom is not going to like that—I am not going to like it much, either.

Luckily I have a great idea. “We’ll put them under the floorboards,” I say.

Labby looks from me to the bones to Mrs Tiger and back to me again. “And I thought this was going to be the happiest night of my life,” she says. “You certainly know how to spoil things, don’t you?”

This is a very unkind thing to say but I control myself with difficulty and go and get a teaspoon to prise up the floorboards. Somebody has got to keep cool in this situation.

Ten minutes later I have learned something very useful about hospital cutlery: it is absolutely useless for prising up floorboards. If anyone doubts me I have a collection of mangled knives, forks and spoons to prove it.

“Sister is going to go mad when she sees this lot,” groans Libby. “Let me go and find Tom.”

“Hang on a minute. There must be something we can use.”

Luckily we find a screwdriver that must have been left behind by one of the electricians and, with a crack like my nerves snapping, the floorboard eventually springs into the air.

“Is there room down there?”

“Yes, quick, give me the bones.”

“I don’t want to touch them.”

At that point I say something very unpleasant to Nurse Bias and snatch up the bones. It is as if they are attached to the strings of a puppet because Mrs Tiger immediately starts twitching and groaning. I don’t waste any time but arrange them neatly on a pile of mouse droppings and prepare to replace the board. As I look up I see to my horror that a twenty foot shadow is approaching faSt The shadow is being thrown by Night Sister.

I have already worked out what she is going to say before she looms above me.

“And what do you think you’re doing, Nurse Dixon?”

“I dropped my ring down a crack in the floor, Sister.” I am not usually very good in emergencies and it just shows what a couple of months of hospital life has done for my reflexes.

“You’re not supposed to be wearing jewellery, Nurse.”

“I know, Sister, but I have a great sentimental attachment for this piece. I carry it everywhere with me.”

“Not very securely, obviously.”

“Yes, Sister,” I say meekly. It is always a good idea to give those in authority the opportunity for a sarcastic joke because they can never resist it and it makes them feel much better.

“They were burying the voodoo bones,” pipes up Mrs Black helpfully.

Labby is swift to tap her head and smile sympathetically. “Quite ga ga,” she says.

“Probably as a result of being kept up all night by you two,” sniffs Night Sister. “Hurry up and put that floorboard back and get on with your duties. I don’t know what Sister Belter is going to say when she sees that cutlery.”

Fortunately, Sister Belter never does see the cutlery. Labby and I spend the rest of our spell of duty taking it in turns to race round the hospital replacing individual items so that half the wards end up with a battered memento of the night’s activities.

As regards to Mrs Tiger, she never gives any more trouble and is discharged two weeks later. “Amazing, quite amazing,” I overhear one of the consultants saying. “I never thought she was going to pull through.”

Of course, I am not saying that the chicken bones had anything to do with it but it makes you think doesn’t it?

With Mrs Tiger gone, Mrs Black is entitled to the favoured corner position and I am interested to see what the bones will do for her. The trouble is that she positively refuses to budge.

“I’ll die before I move into that bed,” she says.

Unfortunately, that is exactly what happens.




CHAPTER 8 (#uc4d3158f-0f8c-5859-9924-f50062ecc567)


As I have already illustrated, being on night duty does give the opportunity for hanky panky—for those who like that kind of thing of course—and many of the medics make their rounds with a twinkle in their eye and a twitch in their finger tips. It is amazing how many hands slide round the backs of chairs while patients’ notes are being examined under that shrouded light in the middle of the ward and how close to you the average doctor has to get to be sure that you can both study the same line of print. They are so considerate too, once night falls. It is almost impossible to visit the linen closet without a white-coated attendant eager to suggest new ways of checking that the bedding is soft enough for the patients’ comfort.

In this respect the most persistent character is Doctor Seamus MacSweeney, known as Shameless. He goes around the wards as if permanently pissed out of his mind and is not slow in making his feelings felt—both by hand and mouth.

“Oh Rosie,” he grunts. “You’re like a bowl of shiny cherries and I want to suck you down to the stones. I dream about you, I can’t sleep because of you.”

“How can you dream if you can’t sleep?” I say, trying to avoid his hands.

“Rosie, big, little Rosie. Don’t drown me in semantics. I can’t stand being mocked. I’m tearing my heart out and offering it to you. How long can you go on spurning me?”

“I think you ought to have a look at Mrs Wheeler. She’s been coughing a lot tonight.”

“What about me? I’m dying. Have you no compassion? I’m not asking much. Just the benediction of your body. You can withhold your mind to a future date.”

“Doctor MacSweeney. Please!”

“You don’t have to beg me. I can’t bear to see a beautiful woman go down on her knees. Take me! I know you’re battling with yourself. Surrender to your natural instincts. Your heavenly body was made for the act of love and I to be the instrument of your ecstasy!”

You may not care for the style but five minutes with Doctor MacSweeney has more action than ten episodes of Crossroads. And all delivered in an accent which would have Dave Allen reaching for his throat spray.

“I’m serious about Mrs Wheeler.”

“She’s stronger than the dray horse that brings my breakfaSt Come on, Nurse. You know my heart’s in the right place.”

“I know that. It’s the rest of you I’m worried about. Let me go!”

“And so witty, too! Jasus, but it’s a delight to try and shove my hand up your uniform. Tell you what, I’ll make a bargain with you. I’ll look at your terrible patient if you make love to me afterwards.”

“I’ll make you a cup of tea. That’s all you’re getting.”

“You heartless hussy.” Shameless shakes his head. “I suppose I’ll have to agree to your terms. But make no mistake.” He wags his finger at me and screws up his eyes. “I intend to eat my lust off your alabaster body before we move into the vernal equinox or the new medical school.”

Shameless’s nose is spread across his face like a pat of butter and he looks as if he spends his time opening doors with his head. Despite that and his non-stop groping I can’t help liking the bloke. It is always nice to be fancied by anyone and I often find the things he says amusing—when I can understand them.

Now that Labby and Tom Richmond are unofficially engaged I see even less of my help-mate and it is on one of the many occasions that she is away from the ward that I have my most explosive brush with Doctor MacSweeney.

I am sitting by myself studying for my prelims and wondering why the parts of the body can’t simply be numbered when I hear the strains of When Irish Eyes are Smiling approaching down the corridor. The voice is unmistakeably MacSweeney’s and he appears to be in a good mood. When he slumps down on the other side of the table and blinks at me through bleary eyes it occurs to me that, this time, he really is drunk.

“I came as soon as I could, which is much earlier than it might have been in the circumstances, my alabaster princess.”

“What were the circumstances?” I ask.

“The Patron’s Dinner. Jasus, I’ve never seen such a geriatrics’ picnic. Most of the old buggers who give money to this outfit must be lining themselves up with a place to die in. I only stayed because it would have been insulting to leave so much liquor.”

“You can’t have left much by the look of you.”

“Oh, Rosie. You’re a sharp tongued wench and that’s no mistake. I creep away for a little succour and you treat me like this.”

“You should have crept back to bed. You’re not fit to be on duty. You could be struck off if Sister came along.”

“I can’t let the lads down. They’ve stood up for me—I mean, stood in for me for long enough as it is.”

“It looks as if they will have to stand up for you.” Shameless staggers to his feet and for a moment I think he is going to keel over. He shakes his head a couple of times and sits down again—at least, one half of his bottom does.

“There you go again. I come to lay my fevered brow on your milk-white breasts and you’re all petulant with me. It’s your duty as a nurse to respond to my demands. Come and make love to me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t leave the patients.”

“Don’t worry about them. They’re all chronic malingerers.”

“All the more reason why I shouldn’t leave them.” I must read the patients’ records more carefully. I can’t remember anything about Malingerer.

Shameless lays his head on the table and stares up at me. “If I told you I was hopelessly and madly in love with you, you probably wouldn’t believe me?”

“No.”

“Well I am. I want to bury myself in you until I feel myself running away like bath water. I want to pull your tight little buttocks to me until I feel them fluttering like imprisoned wrens.” What a way to go on! I have never heard such language. Certainly, Geoffrey never said things like that. “I’d sentence each rosebud nipple to a thousand snake-tongued jabs. I’d ride you through the night like a wild mare fleeing through a forest fire, pink tongues of flame licking your gleaming flanks, the night owl’s shrieks shriving your broken moans.”

It is awful. I am shivering with embarrassment. If all Irishmen are like this it is a wonder that any of the motorways ever get built. “Shameless! You must go. Supposing someone comes?”

“Don’t say things like that. You inflame me.” He makes a grab at me and my reading lamp clatters to the floor.

“Don’t be a fool, Shameless. Go to bed. I’ll ring the senior house surgeon.”

“I want your body, Nurse.”

MacSweeney’s voice is rising and already a couple of patients are beginning to stir. I walk out of the ward into the imagined safety of the hall that leads to the corridor.

“You’re waking the patients, Doctor MacSweeney. If you don’t go I’ll have to call someone.”

“There’s only the consultants and you’re not allowed to call them unless Matron is being raped which is impossible.”

Shameless seizes me by the shoulders and I realise how strong he is. If he wanted to he could probably take me by force. Crikey! How horrible.

“How can you send me away when you know how I feel about you? Have you no heart? Jasus, a man could drown on those lips.” Shameless presses me back against a door and we are suddenly inside one of the private rooms. Fortunately it is empty—cancel that statement! Unfortunately it is empty. “This is where we belong,” husks the great drunken mick. “Let me assist you to remove those drab threads of neutered cotton that bar the natural expression of my feelings.”

I realise he means my panties when his hands disappear up my uniform. Thank goodness I am proof against his wild Irish blarney and rough celtic romanticism. Some girls might not be so firm. Some might even respond to his powerful, hairy wrists scuffing the inside of their thighs, the raw drink-sodden warmth of his lips invading their mouths, the hard—“Take that obscenity off. I want to see your tits.”

He is so coarse! Breasts would be bad enough, or even boobs—but, “tits”. Really! “Take it off, I said!” He reaches out and rips my blouse open so that my watch flies across the room and my apron flops down to my waiSt “You fantastic mammal!” His hands plunder my breasts and push me back onto the bed.

This is terrible! I am going to be raped—and by a doctor, too. At any second he is going to tear open his flies and attack me with his purple-headed bed snake. I will scream and fight until there is not a breath left in my body but it will do no good. He will rip aside the thin curtain of material that shields my reception area and thrust his hideous weapon deep into my defenceless body! It is too horrible to think about.

“Rosie! Quick! Matron’s coming!”

“Uuuuurgh.” No sooner has Labby stuck her head round the door than Shameless slumps to the floor, out like a light—or, more appropriately, a case of light.

“He was drunk. It was awful,” I explain.

“It’s going to be even more awful when Matron gets here.”

“What are we going to do?”

In the circumstance it is not surprising that there is a slight edge to my voice. My uniform torn down to my waist and a large heap of doctor at my feet.

“Get him under the bed.”

I don’t know if you have ever attempted to move a paralytically drunk fourteen stone Irishman but it is like trying to push a rolled up Persian carpet through a letter box. It is only when Labby accidentally squeezes Shameless’s balls and he cracks his head sharply on the edge of the bed that our job gets easier.

He has just disappeared from sight when I hear footsteps approaching down the corridor. I look around desperately for somewhere to hide but the only place is that occupied by Doctor MacSweeney.

“Get under the bed!”

“There isn’t room.”

“Hurry up!”

“Help me move the bed.”

We tug the bed away from the wall and it is possible for me to slide under it until I am jammed face to face against the boozed Shameless. He smells like a smash and grab raid in a distillery. No sooner am I uncomfortably wedged against his body than I hear the door open.

“Good evening, Nurse – hic.”

“Good evening, Matron.” The degree of surprise that Labby manages to get into her voice is well up to Chingford Rep. standards.

“I thought I’d have a look round on my way back from the—hic dinner. Oh dear, I seem to have got the hiccups. Could you get me a glass of water?”

“Of course, Matron. Would you like to come into Sister’s office?” Yes, push off into Sister’s office, fatso, my nerves can’t take much more.

“No, I think I’ll sit down here for a—hic minute. It’s been a very exhausting evening.” It hasn’t been so great for the rest of us I think to myself. There is a disturbing chatty edge to Matron’s voice that I have not heard before. She does not sound drunk as much as relaxed and expansive. Her ample weight descends on the springs, and my head is dangerously close to becoming sandwich filling. I have just dared to start breathing again when I feel a hand gently running up the inside of my leg. Oh no! This is too awful. I can’t move my arms which are folded up against my chest and I dare not make a noise. Surely no man could be so debased as to take advantage of a girl in this situation. Before me, one of Shameless’s eyes opens and remains open long enough to become a wink. The swine! Unfortunately I am not wearing tights and the dirty beast has no difficulty in slipping his fingers under my panties and tugging the fuzz at the entrance to my love cave.

I have half a mind to shout the place down and say hang the consequences but as usual there are other people to consider. My parents would be horrified if it came out—I mean, if it was revealed that I had been forced to shelter in a semi-naked state under a bed even though it was not my fault. I don’t want to cause them any heartache. Even the wretched MacSweeney merits some consideration. He is so drunk that he does not really know what he is doing and if he is discovered under the bed his career will be over. I suppose I will have to put up with it.

Shameless wriggles even closer and to my disgust I feel his love truncheon following the trail blazed by his exploring fingers. This is too much! I would not have thought it possible but with a twist of his hips he presents himself beside my front door and slides into my silently protesting body. It is rape, brutal rape! If he had hit me over the head with a sandbag he could not have taken me more against my will.

Very slowly he eases his pussy pummeller backwards and forward and I clench my fingers so tightly that my nails dig into the palms of my hands. The sensations of disgust that sweep through my body like mighty ocean breakers are almost too overpowering to describe.

“Here you are, Matron.” Labby has come back into the room.

“Thank you—hic, Nurse. Oh dear, this is most unusual. I don’t think I’ve had hic-hiccups for years. Who are you on duty with?”

I hold my breath and even Shameless stops moving for a moment. “Nurse Dixon, Matron. She’s in the toilet. She’s got a bit of an upset tummy.”

“I think I’m going to have one after the meal we had tonight—hic. So much rich food.” She starts rabbiting on about the Patrons’ Dinner and it becomes clear that she is settling down for a good chat. “I like keeping up the old customs.” Shameless nods vigorously and gives a thrust of the hips and I close my eyes. The man is no more than a beaSt “Of course, it was different when I was a gel …” Oh my gawd! Another trip down memory lane. This should be good for half an hour. Supposing Night Sister rolls up?

No sooner has the thought occurred to me than the door bursts open. “Nurse, what do you think—! Oh, Matron. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“That’s all right, Sister. We were just having a little chat. I thought I’d have a look round on my way back from the Patron’s Dinner.”

“We’re very glad to see you, Matron. Was it a good dinner?” It is all I can do to groan silently. I never reckoned Night Sister as a grade one crawler.

“Very nice, thank you, Sister. We had turtle soup and …” … fried fillet of plaice and roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. I could repeat the whole menu out loud. How long can they go on for? My right leg has gone to sleep and I only wish that a particular part of Doctor MacSweeney’s anatomy would drop off—permanently!

In fact it is another ten minutes before Matron says that she had better be getting back to bed and another ten minutes before she actually goes. I wait for the door to close on the three of them but it is only Matron who toddles off, still burbling about the good old days.

“What were you doing in here?” Sister’s voice sounds colder than a game of strip poker in a cold storage unit.

“I was doing a stock check in the linen cupboard and I wanted to see whether the beds were made up, Sister.”

“Humpf. You’re getting very conscientious all of a sudden, Nurse.”

“It helps to pass the time, Sister.”

“Where’s Nurse Dixon?”

“I think she’s picked up a bug, Sister. She’s gone to the loo. Matron knows about it.”

“If she’s not feeling up to the mark she’d better go back to the nurses home. A sick nurse is no good to anyone. I can stand in for her.”

“I’ll ask her when she comes back, Sister.”

As Night Sister prepares to leave the disgusting MacSweeney gives a few last wriggles and his mouth pops open in an exclamation of happy release. How revolting! I have really had a bellyful of the man.

“Goodnight, Nurse, I expect to find you on the ward in future.”

“Yes, Sister.”

The door opens and closes and I wait a few moments before pulling down my uniform and scrambling to my feet.

“You were marvellous,” I say to Labby. “You handled everything brilliantly. That creature handled everything, too. I’d like to kill him.”

We peer under the bed but Doctor Seamus MacSweeney appears to be sleeping peacefully. There is a smile on his face.




CHAPTER 9 (#uc4d3158f-0f8c-5859-9924-f50062ecc567)


I am very distressed by my experience with Seamus MacSweeney—especially when the dirty brute shambles off into the night with no more than a belch in my direction. Even when he sobers up he does not apologise. “Like a velvet fox glove,” he husks, settling his hand on my mons venus. “Let’s probe for pollen.” It really is too bad when you consider that my silence probably saved his career.

I am also getting increasingly choked by the extent to which my virginity is becoming threatened. Like most girls I want to be delivered in mint condition on my wedding day and at the moment some of the post marks are gettting dangerously near to spoiling the issue.

Of course, once again, to all intents and purposes, I was raped, so my mental condition is in no way threatened. This is by far the most important factor but I do worry sometimes about the effect these unwelcome pussy pummellers are having on my spasm chasm—I don’t want it to be turned into alley valley before my wedding day. The man I marry will no doubt be sophisticated and have had lots of experiences with girls freer than myself and I would hate him to get the wrong impression.

Thank goodness I am on the Pill in these free and easy times, when no girl is safe from attack.

Christmas is approaching fast and the white trimming on the robe of the Father Christmas in the local department store has already turned grey. I had been expecting to go home on the day, but there are so many nurses who come from faraway parts of the country that I quite understand when I am asked if I will stay on duty and take some leave afterwards. Geoffrey has asked me to the New Year’s Eve Dance at the tennis club and so this will fit in very well.

Christmas at home is always the same anyway. Natalie and I agree not to give each other anything, Dad gets three pairs of Marks and Sparks socks and Mum a jar of bath salts she never uses. We all make excited noises as we open the presents we have helped each other wrap up and Natalie starts eating glacé fruits before breakfast Dad goes off to the boozer and gets paralytic and Natalie watches the carol service on the telly and says which of the blokes in the choir she fancies moSt Mum gets on with the cooking and has “a little glass of something to keep herself company.” By the time Dad gets back from the pub covered in lipstick, she is as pissed as he is and Natalie has started on the chocolates filled with Babycham. We all sit down to dinner at about three o’clock and Dad says a few words about family unity, before tearing Mum off a strip because he reckons the turkey has not been in long enough. Natalie has to go upstairs after three mouthfuls and we find out that we have just missed the Queen’s speech. We get the telly on in time for the national anthem and Dad insists on us all standing up—he gets very patriotic when he is pissed. The Christmas pudding won’t light because Mum has poured olive oil over it instead of brandy and Dad breaks his dentures on one of the lucky threepenny bits that have been used for so many years they have a coating of green mould on them. After dinner we decide to go for a walk but by the time Natalie has come out of the toilet it is dark so we spend the rest of the day in front of the telly. Dad falls asleep with his hands down the front of his trousers and Mum nods off over The Stars’ Christmas Party which was recorded in July.

The whole occasion is not something I am going to miss very much.

Not, of course, that Christmas is anything less than a big deal at Queen Adelaide’s. All the wards are decorated and Father Christmas, played by a senior consultant in one of his sober moments, tours the children’s wards and grapples enthusiastically with any nurse he can get his hands on. “A time of grope and good cheer” is how Penny describes it and there are few male patients who don’t seem to have found a sprig of mistletoe. Mr Arkwright’s invitations to play “naughty nanas” take on a seasonal ring and everybody tells me what “tremendous fun” the staff lunch is going to be. Apparently the doctors and sisters serve the nurses and everybody pulls crackers and drinks wine. It sounds almost as exciting as being at home.

In fact, Christmas in a hospital is fun. There is always a great deal of work to do and time never hangs on your hands as it can do at home when you just sit around waiting for the next eating session.

I arrive for the staff lunch, late, exhausted and ravenously hungry and it is clear that most of my fellow nurses have benefited from a few drops of Christmas cheer during the course of the morning.

“Over here, Rosie, we’ve kept you a place.”

Penny has not gone home for Christmas, either. She is nuts about one of her patients and does not reckon that festive high jinks with Daddy would be much cop anyway: “His idea of Christmas is to go out and shoot something—preferably my mother, but he’ll have to settle for pheasants until he buys an elephant gun. I’ve laid every man in the parish under sixty apart from the vicar’s son and apparently he’s useless—his sister told me—so what is there to go home for? Anyway, staying here is the best Christmas present I can give them.”

I push in beside Penny and notice that Tom Richmond is giving Nurse Wilson’s lips the vacuum cleaner treatment under what looks like a human toe with an arrow through it. From the arrow hangs a sign saying “MISSILETOE”. Really! These medical school jokes go too far sometimes. That is the kind of thing that MacSweeney would think was funny. I look round and see him carving a huge turkey with Robert Fishlock. He does something very unnecessary with a sausage and winks at me. I know he is going to say “breast or leg” and leer at me when it comes to my turn.

“Did you hear about the great romance on your old ward?” asks Penny, arranging a paper hat on the back of her head so that her breasts are shown off to the best advantage in the process.

“Jim North and old Mr Chapman’s daughter. They’re going to get spliced. They wanted to haye the ceremony in the ward but Matron said, over her dead body. I thought it was quite a good idea, myself. I mean, they probably wouldn’t have been able to see each other over her dead body but—”

“Oh, do stop being such a fool and pass your plate up.” The girl on Penny’s right knocks her glass over and in the confusion the subject is changed. I feel a slight pang of envy when I think about Jim North and the Chapman girl. I did not fancy him myself but it means that there is one less male left in the pool of available talent. The numbers are being whittled away before my thighs—I mean, eyes.

“I thought we were getting champagne,” sniffs Penny, holding up one of the bottles on the table. “‘Portuguese Graves’. I think the body was still warm when it went into this one.”

“Do you think I could squeeze in between you when I’ve finished my duties?” Dishy Doctor Fishlock flashes his pearlies at us and distributes a couple of plates of turkey.

“Please do.” Penny turns on her breathless “come and get me” voice and I can practically see dotted lines building up between their eyes.

“What time have you got to be back on duty?” I ask Penny.

“Just as soon as I’ve gobbled this lot down and allowed Flashcock to lure me back to his pad for a cup of coffee we won’t have time to make.”

“You’re so cold blooded about it.” I don’t mean to sound jealous, it just comes out that way.

“Rubbish! My blood is as warm as this plonk. You’re the one with the deep frozen knickers.”

Further discussion is prevented by the arrival of Robert who settles in between us and proceeds to direct a non-stop stream of rabbit at my room-mate. This does not please me very much and I am not over-thrilled when Adam “Blackbeard” Quint’s enormous bulk settles down opposite me. “Would you like my belly on the table or underneath it?” he asks. He is not kidding either, because he has a paunch like a couple of sofa cushions shoved up his jumper. Penny says that she finds him “sexy in a revolting sort of way” and I wish she would prove it and leave me to chat up Doctor Fastcock—I mean Fishlock. Why do I keep making those silly mistakes? It would be so easy for someone to get the wrong idea.

“If this turkey is a typical example of our surgeons’ work I hope I never come under the knife.” Quint examines a scrap of meat on the end of his fork and smiles at me. He is an irritating man because nothing you say or do seems to affect him. He goes his own way. “Hey, boy.” The big, black Labrador that has been stretched out by one of the radiators pricks up its ears and sidles over to receive the meat.

“Who looks after him when you’re on duty?” I ask.

“My landlady. She likes dogs and she has a son who takes him for walks …”

He should take you as well, I think as I watch Quint’s belly half obscuring his plate. I can see hairs peeping out of the front of his shirt. So repulsive, I mean, I like hairy men but he is like an animal. I shudder to think of what he must look like without any clothes on.

“Have some more wine. It tastes like gnat’s piss but there’s nothing else.” Quint fills my glass to the brim before I can say anything and puts half a sausage in his mouth. “Cheers.”

I remove the piece of sausage from the front of my uniform and raise my glass. He is so uncouth but it is Christmas and I don’t want to be unkind.

On my right, Fatcock—I mean, Fishlock is telling Penny about this book where they had a dinner party and the man put blobs of cream on the girl’s breasts and licked them off. It does not take them long to get down to brass tacks, does it? Penny is saying that brandy butter would be even better. She does ask for trouble, that girl.

“I was thinking of going for a walk after lunch,” says Robert. “Would you like to come?”

“I’m not so sure about the walk,” says Penny. “But the rest of it sounds delicious.”

Robert takes a swig of wine and I can see his nostrils quivering. “Would you care to pull my cracker?” he drawls.

“Love to.”

They grapple under the table for a few minutes where there is a tired crack—I hasten to add that this comes from the cracker they have just pulled.

“What have you got?”

“Another hat.” Robert picks up the motto and starts reading: “What is eight inches long, two inches thick and has two balls?”

“A twin compartment, swivel lid pencil box.”

“That’s right. It could hardly be anything else, could it?”

“It could have been my cock if it had been a couple of inches longer,” says Quint crudely. “Anybody fancy any more turkey?”

“No, thank you,” I say coldly.

“Go on. You don’t look like a girl who has to worry about her figure.”

The blooming cheek of the man! He looks like an advertisement for Michelin tyres and he dares to talk about figures. By the time I have thought of something cutting enough to say, he has taken my plate and shambled off.

“I think he quite fancies you,” says Penny.

“I wouldn’t go for him if he was the last man on earth,” I say furiously.

“You wouldn’t get the chance, darling. I’d be standing over him with a shotgun. How much longer do we have to stay here, Robert?”

“The consultants will carry the flaming Christmas pudding round the flaming room a couple of flaming times and then Matron will say a few flaming words and we’ll give her three flaming cheers and piss off—those of us who can still flaming well stand, that is.”

Robert is quite right about the standing up bit. Everybody around me seems to be well away. Thank goodness poor Labby is not here to see the way her fiancé is behaving with Nurse Wilson. I would not have thought she was like that. Still waters run deep, obviously. And look at Sister Bradley with Shameless. I always thought there was something a bit funny about her. The way he is fiddling with the berries on her holly suggests that they might know each other a bit better than the average doctor and sister in the hospital. Of course, if she pins it there she is asking for trouble.

“Here you are. The turkey was finished so I brought you some Christmas pudding. Do you like it flambé?”

Quint dumps a large helping of flaming pudding in front of me.

“It’s a bit large,” I say.

“Then leave it for a few minutes, it will have burnt away to nothing.”

“I thought you said the consultants were going to carry the pudding round the room?” says Penny.

“Probably the plate was too hot or they cut themselves during the last operation,” says Quint, spraying us with beard-shredded Christmas pudding.

“Or they didn’t want to run the gauntlet of that lot,” Robert nods towards a group of housemen armed with roast potatoes and sprouts who are shouting and booing.

“Oh what fun,” squeals Penny. “Just like Dublin.”

In a few moments it is more like Belfast as a hail of missiles fills the air and people start taking shelter under the tables. I would expect the senior staff to go spare but I see Mr Hockey, one of the top surgeons, hurling rolls with the best of them while Matron is carefully filling her glass below table level.

“I’d love to stay for Matron’s speech,” murmurs Penny into my ear, “but Robert thinks it will be safer at his place. See you.” She gives me a broad wink and the dirty duo scamper towards the door. It’s all right for some, I think bitterly. Of course, I don’t envy them the sex. That isn’t my scene anyway. But I would like a little companionship—especially at Christmas time. At the moment I have nothing except the uncouth Quint, who eats like an extra in an Elizabethan banquet scene. I look across the table and even he seems to have disappeared. The dying embers of his Christmas pudding are extinguished by a direct hit from a dollop of mashed potato. He must be cowering under the table.

“Fellow Adelaideans.” The old geezer sitting next to Matron is trying to make himself heard by banging a bottle on the table. Unfortunately the one he has chosen still has quite a lot of wine in it. “Fellow Adelaideans. We’ve all had a lot of fun and I’m glad to see that your healthy high spirits don’t diminish with the years. But now it’s time to be serious for a minute—” He ducks just in time as a piece of Christmas pudding spatters harmlessly against the wall behind him. There is a shout of “Let the stupid old fart finish what he’s saying.” This is acknowledged with a gracious nod from the head table and a few seconds later Matron rises to her feet still brushing the Graves from her bemedalled bosom. At the same instant I become aware of something rubbing against my knee. What is happening below the table? Is that crude brute, Quint, trying some clumsy pass? I am feeling about as Christmassy as a pair of punctured water wings and in no mood for high jinks. I am fed up with octogenarians molesting me and being exposed to every time I go down the street. Now is the time to take a stand!

An opportunity is not slow to present itself. As Matron starts droning on about the debt we owe to Christian ideals and the kitchen staff I feel something firm, moist and hairy pressing between my legs. This is too much! Quint has chosen the wrong moment to force his unwelcome attentions on me. Gritting my teeth, I draw back a foot and lash out with all my might.

The yelp that follows is impressive, as is the way the table rises a couple of feet into the air. Those Labradors are strong—especially when you kick one of them in the balls. I spring back so fast that the bench I am sitting on collapses and Boy seizes the table cloth and pulls everything on to the floor for twenty feet. It is only the return of his master from the toilet that prevents him from mauling one of the senior consultants who is trying to climb onto a serving trolley.

“Why the hell did you do that?” snarls Quint, when some kind of order has been restored and it is explained to him what happened.

“I thought he was you,” I mutter.

Quint’s laugh is short and insulting. “You flatter yourself, don’t you, woman? You must live in some kind of fantasy world if you honestly believe I’d be likely to make a pass at you.”

It is at that moment that I decide I hate Adam Quint more than any other living thing in the world. There is nothing more infuriating than being spurned by a man you would not touch with a bargepole.

After Christmas everybody is in a filthy mood and good cheer is spread thinner than the marge on the dining hall bread. The patients all behave like kids who have been told that they can’t have any more sweets and the medical staff are liverish and hungover.

In the circumstances, the Eastwood Tennis Club New Year’s Eve Ball suddenly looms like Cinderella’s big night and this is probably one of the reasons why it is such a disaster. That and the fact that Geoffrey does not tell me it is fancy dress—and the fact that nobody realises I am not wearing fancy dress. When the secretary’s wife compliments me on my Carmen Miranda costume I could kill her. The live band is not a success—in fact it is arguable whether some of them are alive and it is the worst possible night for the central heating to break down. I had not realised that we were going with Geoffrey’s mother and father and Mrs Wilkes keeps looking at me and pursing her mouth. When I ask for a vodka and orange I think her lips are going to disappear for good. “Are you sure that’s not too strong, dear?” she says.

“Don’t worry, Mumsie,” says Geoffrey cheerfully. “Rosie drinks like a fish.”

Mrs Wilkes smiles like she believes it and I wish I had a cigar to light up. Why does he have to call her Mumsie? It makes me want to throw up.

“Care to take a turn round the floor?” says Mr W. rising to his feet. “I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.”

Probably going to ask me if my intentions are honourable, I think to myself as Dadsie draws me to him like a life jacket and sets off on an energetic quickstep—the band are playing a waltz but I am not fussy as long as I can keep my feet out of the way; it would help if we danced in the same direction as everyone else, though.

“It’s my feet,” says Mr W. “You see I get this strange twitching sensation every time I go on the escalator.” I stifle a groan with difficulty. Once people know you are a nurse they start asking all the questions they would never have the cheek to ask a doctor unless they were one of his patients.

“I haven’t got on to feet yet,” I say, wishing I could say the same for the bloke who has just given me flat toes. “You’d better see a doctor.”

Over Dad’s shoulder I can see Mumsie watching us as if she expects me to start coaxing the old man’s cock out at any minute. I know she does not think I am good enough to whiten Geoffrey’s tennis shoes but I wish she would not make it so obvious. If she knew about her precious son and Natalie maybe she would not continue to think that the sun shone through the slit in his Y-fronts. Little Madam said a few typically unnecessary things when I mentioned I was going out with Geoffrey. I suppose it must have been jealousy but there was no need for her to repeat the lies told by those horrible ton-up boys. She should never have seen Ted again, let alone believed all that rubbish about me loving every moment of my horrible ordeal in mum’s bedroom. Just shows you what family loyalty means when you have a rotten little slut for a sister.

“How’s your mother keeping?” says Mrs Wilkes when I hobble back to the table.

“How is she keeping what?” I say. I don’t like her, you see. Mrs W. gives a tinkling laugh like a piano going over the edge of a cliff. “I meant, of course, is she well? I never seem to see her these days.”

Nor will you, I think to myself. Not if she sees you firSt Mum is terrified of Mrs W. and will go to any lengths to avoid her. I tell her not to be stupid and that the Wilkes are just as common as we are really, but it does no good. Old man Wilkes owns an electrical goods shop and is a Rotarian. My old man is a builder’s foreman and a Sagittarian. They might come from two different worlds as far as Mum is concerned.

“Your father doesn’t play golf, does he?” says Mr W.

He knows bloody well that my old man does not know a brassie from a brassiere.

“He used to watch Leyton Orient till they put the prices up,” I say. “I think you’re drinking my vodka, Mrs Wilkes.”

“Oh. Was that yours? I thought it was my orange juice. I’ll have to be careful, won’t I? I don’t want to get tiddly.”

I force myself to smile and look round for Geoffrey. He is dancing with the girl who is his mixed doubles partner. She has very protruding teeth and I reckon she has to be careful not to stand too near the net.

“They move well, don’t they?” drones Mrs W. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re going to be partners for life. Linda’s such a lovely girl, isn’t she?”

Linda Allcock’s dad has a Rover 2000 so it is no surprise that she is favourite with Ma Wilkes. “Lovely,” I echo.

“And how’s your sister? She’s such a gay little thing, isn’t she?”

Mrs W. manages to say “gay little thing” like she means raving nymphomaniac. She is right of course but blood is thicker than water.

“She’s doing very well,” I say.

“I always see her with a new boy. She knows how to do the rounds, doesn’t she? Not like you, you’ve stuck to our Geoffrey for years, haven’t you?”

“You make me sound like a burr,” I say acidly. “Will you excuse me for a moment? I’ve just seen someone I don’t know over the other side of the room.”

Mrs Wilkes gets further up my bracket than a slim inhaler and I would love to do the dance of the seven veils in the middle of the floor. The trouble is that this is exactly what she would like me to do. Anything that turned Geoffrey off would make her evening. If I wanted to give her a coronary I would get Geoffrey to announce our engagement just before the last waltz. There are limits, though.

In the end I content myself with ordering two double vodkas at the bar and telling the upper class twit behind it to get Geoffrey to pay for them. I knock them back like a female Humphrey Bogart and hardly remember anything that happens during the rest of the evening. Mrs W. says something pointed about me leading the conga into the gents but I expect that she was exaggerating as usual.

When I get back to the nurses home it is to find the place in an uproar. Apparently, Penny is with Matron and it is rumoured that she is going to be sacked.

“What happened?” I say to Labby who, like me, is now off night duty.

“She attacked a patient,” says Labby.

“Attacked a patient?” I know the girl has a wild streak but I would have thought that she would have attacked one of the medical staff firSt Most of the rest of us would have done. “Why?”

“She was trying to rape him.”

“Rape him!?” I sit down on my bed and try and keep calm. “How can a woman rape a man?” I mean, I know that Penny is no slouch when it comes to flinging woo but this is ridiculous. Most of the patients are not in a fit state to be raped anyway.

“It was a man called Julian Mayfair. He’s in a plaster cast from the waist up.”

“What did she do to him!” I shriek. I mean, it’s awful, isn’t it?

“Calm yourself, Rosie. He was in a plaster cast to begin with. That’s how she managed to rape him.”

Julian Mayfair? It does ring a bell. I remember Penny mentioning some patient she had a crush on. A crush? It hardly bears thinking about.

“What happened?”

“She was potty about the chap but apparently he didn’t want to know. He was only interested in birds. I remember Penny saying that he was repressed and that she was going to liberate him. I heard him crying once when she gave him a blanket bath. Then came night duty.” I suck in my breath sharply. I was wondering what was going to happen when Penny went on nights. “Penny was able to resist him for a couple of nights and then—”

“Yes, yes.” It is not like Labby to hold back on any dirty details. I already know more about Tom Richmond’s body than he does.

“I can hardly bring myself to say it.”

“Force yourself,” I say grimly.

“I don’t know if I should.”

“Labby, I’m your friend.”

“You promise you won’t tell anybody? I don’t want it to get around.”

I have to fight hard to stop myself from laughing out loud. People tell Cilla Bias things because she is cheaper than Radio Luxembourg.

“You can rely on me.” If the girl does not spill the beans soon I am going to tear off her arm and beat the truth out of her with it.

“Of course, quite a lot of people know already so I suppose it won’t matter if I tell you.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Labby sits down on the bed beside me and takes a deep drag at her cigarette. “Well, you see, what happened is this …” I am expecting to hear the Archers theme music when the door opens and Penny comes in. Labby looks disappointed. “Oh,” she says. “Well, I suppose Penny can tell your herself, now.”

“Back to Daddy,” says Penny. “Oh dear. He is going to be disappointed.”

“Did you get the sack?” Labby sounds almost joyful.

“Yup,” Penny nods. “Matron told me to go and never darken her surgical swabs again.”

“How awful!” Labby rushes off to tell everybody.

“Penny! What have you done?” I gush, once we are alone.

“I’ve struck the first great blow for Women’s Lib. How many girls do you know that have raped a man? Whilst Greer writes, Green acts. From now on no man is safe. For every one of us that is raped, I’ll rape ten of them.”

“Penny, how did you do it?”

“Everybody asks me that. Nobody asks me why I did it.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Because I fancied him rotten and I felt sorry for him. I thought he was all shy and uptight. The product of thousands of years of sheltered upbringing and rubber sheets. In fact he was a fink. I realised that when he started screaming. I should have gagged him firSt”

“Or given him an anaesthetic.”

“Fat lot of good that would have been. There’s another example of discrimination for you. They can chloroform us and work their filthy wiles, we can’t chloroform them and work their filthy willies.”

“When did he start screaming?”

“Soon after I’d mounted him.”

“Mounted him!?”

“How did you think I was going to do it? Bore a hole in the bottom of the bed?”

“But how—I mean—”

“Darling, don’t be coy. It doesn’t suit you. Robert Flashcock said a few things about you that you wouldn’t like to see pinned up on Matron’s notice board.”

“I don’t know what he’s talking about. I fell asleep when I went round to his place.”

“Really? Well, I’ve heard of sleep walking but this was something else by all accounts.”

Typical, I think to myself. Why must men always justify their unpleasant actions by making up lies? First, those greasers with Natalie and now Flashlot—I mean, Fishcock—I mean, Oh! You know who I mean, with Penny. It really is not fair. Still, there is no point in making a fuss about it. Nobody ever believes you. “I’m more interested in hearing what you got up to,” I say.

“I realised how highly sexed he was when I gave him a blanket bath. He came up like a rocket launcher. Terribly embarrassed, too. I was really touched—so was he, actually.”

“I can imagine,” I say.

“When I was on nights I found myself thinking about him all the time. I was like a child left alone with a bag of sweets.”

“And he couldn’t move?”

“Only below the waiSt The rest of him was in plaster. He couldn’t move his arms. You can imagine how my heart went out to him. I thought I must be doing him a favour.”

“What did you do?”

“Careful, darling. You’re drooling. I held myself in check for a couple of nights and then I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. My oppo went off to see a chum and I could see this divine hunk flexing his toes in an agony of frustration. What am I here for? I asked myself. I must bring balm in whatever shape seems to be handiest at the time. I stole down the ward and got cracking with the screens. He had stopped moving around by then but I thought he was being discreet.”

“Uum,” I say.

“Tenderly I slid back the sheets and caressed him to a state of passive enthusiasm.”

“‘Passive enthusiasm’?”

“He was doing a marvellous imitation of the Eiffel Tower but his eyes were closed. I thought he was pretending to be asleep.”

“Then what happened?”

“When I saw the goodies it was right back to the sweets again. I always preferred hard centres. Never could stand strawberry whips, nothing kinky about me.”

“Yes,” I breathe. “Then what?”

“The floodgate broke. You know me, I was born to the saddle. When I saw his pommel I just had to pummel. I had my knicks off before you could say Tally Ho! and vaulted across his thighs. I’d only cantered a few hundred yards when he started screaming the place down. You know, I think he might really have been asleep all the time.”

“That might explain the screams.”

“That’s what I thought. After that, things became a bit sordid. Night Sister came along and all the screens fell down.”

“And you had to get off?”

“Well, I couldn’t stand the noise. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to rape a man but they make the most awful row. I don’t know what they’d be like if they had to have babies.”

“And they’re going to kick you out?”

“They have kicked me out. Matron was terribly cut up about it. I told her she was making a mountain out of a molehill—I don’t mean anything disrespectful by that, Julian was quite well endowed really—but it didn’t do any good. I think it was knowing the family that made it so difficult for her.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Right away. I’m just going to pack my things and chalk ‘G.B.H. is the worst poke in the hospital’ on the old bastard’s door and I’ll be off. Keep in touch. I don’t reckon you’re going to be able to stick this place much longer.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Go home until Daddy gives me some money to clear off and do something else. I’ll send you a postcard.” Twenty minutes later she had gone. Of course, she was very free in her ways, but I know I am going to miss her.




CHAPTER 10 (#uc4d3158f-0f8c-5859-9924-f50062ecc567)


“Did you hear what someone wrote on G.B.H.’s door?” giggles Labby the next morning.

“‘G.B.H. is the worst poke in Queen Adelaide’s’?” I reply smugly.

“It didn’t say ‘poke’.”

“Well, it was Penny and you don’t have to tell me what it did say.”

Penny’s departure is big news and by the time the rumours have stopped flying around most people believe that she was engaged in a gang bang featuring half the walking wounded in the hospital. Poor Julian Mayfair has to be moved to another hospital and there seems little doubt that a good deal of his distress can be attributed to the fact that his most frequent visitor was called Cecil and had yellow streaks in his hair. Impulsive Penny was fouling up the Gay Liberation Front—or Gay Liberation Behind as I think they ought to be called.

It is funny, but shortly after she leaves, Mark rings up. I happen to be in the hall at the time and I hear G.B.H. in the act of putting the receiver down. Mark has rather a toffee nosed voice and stutters a bit but he seems very nice. It is difficult to hear him because there are a lot of dogs yapping in the background. He seems relieved to find that Penny has gone back to the country and rings off soon afterwards.

Fortunately, perhaps, there are always lots of scandals going on and, by the time everybody has finished discussing the dirty deeds committed over the Christmas period, the Penny incident is just one amongst many.

As winter grudgingly gives way to spring (nice that, isn’t it? I’m not just a pretty face, you know) the subject that increasingly forces itself into people’s conversations is The Inter-Hospital Rugby Union Football Knock-Out Cup. This would normally interest me less than an underwater pipe lighting contest but I am now sharing a room with Cilla Bias. Labby knows the score behind every bruise on Tom Richmond’s battered face and as Queen Adelaide trample their way towards the final her enthusiasm becomes contagious. It is like when England won the World Cup. I remember throwing my framed portrait of Troy Donahue through the front room window when Alf Ramsey scored the winning goal in the final.

“If only we can beat Northminster then we’ll be in the final against St Swithin’s,” sighs Labby. “I do hope MacSweeney doesn’t have to have his cartilage out.”

Fortunately, Queen Adelaide’s has a large medical staff otherwise some of the patients would never see a doctor. Those doctors who are not playing rugger are either training to play rugger or recovering from the injuries received when they did play rugger. It is rumoured that interviews with the head of the medical school are held at Twickenham with applicants expected to attend wearing shorts and scrum caps.

“If we get into the final, will you be one of the cheer leaders?” says Labby. “Like I said, it’s tremendous fun.”

“I remember,” I say, trying to control my enthusiasm.

“Everybody throwing bags of soot.”

“Not just soot,” says Labby enthusiastically. “Flour, custard pies, fire extinguishers. Last year St Swithin’s had a tank on the pitch. It got out of control and ran over an invalid car. God, it was funny.”

“Sounds a riot,” I murmur. “What about the bloke in the invalid car?”

“Oh, he got out in time. Caught the chap standing up in the tank behind the ear with his crutch. I thought I’d die laughing.”

“Like the geezer in the invalid car.”

“Don’t be so serious, Rosie. It’s only a bit of fun.”

Two weeks later, Labby is in raptures and Tom is practically ruptured. Nurse Bias’s beloved has received his injury plunging over the line for the winning try against Northminster Hospital in the semi-final.

“Dirty swines did it out of sheer spite,” hisses a furious Labby. “He’d already grounded the ball.”

“Looks as if his balls are going to be grounded for a bit, doesn’t it?” I say cheerfully. “What are you going to do?”

Labby does not find this amusing. “I’m thinking of the team,” she sniffs. “They’re going to need his thrust in the middle.” There must be an answer to that but I am too refined to consider it.

“He certainly has a good eye for an opening,” I say, thinking of Christmas and Nurse Wilson.

I have forgotten about being a cheer leader when Labby produces a black mini skirt and a matching jumper with a big gold A and a snake embroidered on it.

“We’re the Adders,” she says. “Adder-laide. Get it?”

“If I think about it for fifteen minutes,” I say. “Blimey, do you want me to wear that? It’s a bit short, isn’t it?”

“You’ll have to get used to the remarks. They’re always going on about ‘I’ve adder’ and ‘she’s been layed’.”

“Sounds just like University Challenge, I can’t wait. By the way, have we got any chance of winning this game?”

Labby looks glum. “We got thrashed last year. They take it so seriously, you see?”

What the hell do we do? I think to myself. Apart from moving all the patients into the grounds and turning the wards into gyms I can’t imagine what more can be done.

Comes the great day and Labby has not slept a wink the previous night. I know because her tossing and turning has meant that I have not slept a wink either. I go through my morning on the ward in a daze and am so absent minded that I allow myself to wander within grabbing distance of Britain’s sexiest octogenarian. The dirty old basket is suggesting a game of “naughty nanas” before you can say “straitjacket”. At least it is nice to know that I have one fan. Groper Arkwright may not be God’s gift to women but he is loyal.

There are three coaches to take supporters to the ground and I feel a right twit sitting there in my cheer leader uniform. We have had one rehearsal and it was disastrous. I don’t think I will ever be able to put my heart into any song that ends “Right up, Queens!” The whole thing is not calculated to make your blood turn into red steam:

“Adder, Adder, Adder, Adder,

Adelaide’s! ! !

Come on Queens, give them beans!

Right up, Queens!”

I was furious because Adam Quint walked past as we were prancing about. He stopped and watched us with his hands on his hips and the expression on his face made me want to punch him in the mouth. It was like Einstein watching a group of monkeys trying to thread beads on a piece of string. I don’t think I will ever be able to find the words to describe how much I loathe that man.

The match is to be played at Richmond and I tell Labby that this is a good omen because of Tom’s name. She tells me that Tom was playing there last year when the hospital lost 32–0.

“Better close the windows,” says someone, and I see why when a bag of soot bursts against one of them as we drive through the gates of the ground. There are long red and white scarves everywhere and these must obviously belong to the St Swithin’s people. I can hear shouts and screams coming from behind the stand and a man walks past me covered in bog paper with a toilet seat round his neck.

“It’s a scream, isn’t it?” yodels Labby. “Olly, Olly, Adders! !” Everybody surges out of the coach and I am grateful to the medical student who passes me a hip flask and urges me to take a swig. I am feeling about as nervous as a sword swallower with hiccups. My last public performance was in a Butlin’s Holiday Princess Contest and my bra fell off. The girl who won the heat was the one who had hooked me up. Just a coincidence, of course.

“How long do we have to stay out there?” I ask.

“Until the game is over.”

“What!? I though we just did our little song and that was that.”

“Oh no. We go behind the goalposts and enthuse the team.”

I wish someone would enthuse me. It is a freezing cold afternoon with a hint of snow in the air. My reception area is like a cold storage unit and I have still got my coat on. Where is that medic with the hip flask?

Out on the field, rival gangs of supporters are pelting each other with paper bags full of soot and flour and parading banners with slogans like “St Swithin’s for Cuppers” or, the brilliantly original, “Queens are Kings!” The main idea seems to be to destroy as much of the opposition’s material as possible and the spectators beginning to fill the stands rehearse their cheering as the battle rages below them.

I try and keep out of trouble and wrap my arms round myself to stop my nipples becoming petrified prune stones. If I brushed against something hard they might snap off.

“We’ll get going just before the team comes out,” says Labby. “Oh look! The boys have got a fire engine. Isn’t that brilliant?”

She is right. There is a fire engine carrying the black and gold Queen Adelaide’s’ colours circling the pitch. It looks quite a new one too. I don’t suppose—I look towards the gates and there is a man in a fireman’s hat struggling with a group of medical students. Oh dear. This is becoming a bit like the Christmas Dinner. At least the fireman seems to have been separated from his chopper.

The extending ladder on the fire engine swings out and two rows of St Swithin’s supporters in the stand collect a faceful of foam as a Queen Adelaide’s medic unleashes a fire extinguisher from the, top rung.

“Fantastic!” Labby’s ecstasy is short-lived. The tip of the ladder strikes the end wall of the stand and spins round nearly catapulting the Queen Adelaide’s marksman into the standing spectators. He dangles for a moment and then drops onto the grass.

“Is he all right?” We sprint towards the prostrate body with a crowd of Queen Adelaide’s supporters but are beaten there by an ambulance that appears from nowhere. The authorities are obviously well prepared for this game. The back doors swing open and—ooooow!! Four St Swithin’s swine leap out and start spraying us with their own fire extinguishers. A tremendous pitched battle takes place and reinforcements converge from all sides. Another ambulance screeches up, but this time we are ready for it. Almost before the doors are open the driver and his mate are covered from head to toe in flour and soot. It is only then that we realise they are on the level. Labby tries to say something but I don’t think they are very pleased. Especially when the bloke they came to pick up, walks off whistling.

“I think we’d better go and do our thing,” says Labby. “It sometimes gets a little out of hand about now.”

I can see what she means when they break the banner over the man’s head. As I recall it, the motto of Queen Adelaide’s is “Cure by faith and dedication.” It must be referring to bacon.

Whatever anyone may say about our performance of the Queen Adelaide’s’ song—and most people seem to say “get ’em orf!” (referring, I believe, to our knickers and not the performers themselves)—it does seem to divert attention from the violence on the field—that and a loudspeaker announcement saying that the fire brigade want their fire engine back and that the police have been called. By the time we have got to the “Right up, Queens!” bit and swung our snakes—I didn’t tell you about those, did I? I was too embarrassed—we are actually being cheered by both groups of supporters. It just shows what fourteen legs, fourteen tits, seven cloth adders and one lousy song can do to restore international understanding. Maybe the United Nations would like to employ us. The wail of police sirens coincides with the last notes of the song and the Queen Adelaide’s team runs out onto the pitch. It must be whatever was in that hip flask, or the reception to our song, but I actually find myself cheering.

They all look so big and strong and healthy and the whiff of embrocation would kill the editorial board of Jeremy at forty paces. Even when Shameless MacSweeney squeezes my pussy as he canters past I am not annoyed. “Just a touch of the magic minge to bring me luck,” he husks. “The Irish are very superstitious, you know.”

“Hurrah!” shouts Labby. “Doesn’t he look fantastic?” She means Tom but my attention is seized by the large, hairy figure shambling out onto the pitch behind the rest of the team. It is Adam Quint wearing rugby kit. He looks like Clement Freud with elephantiasis.

“He’s not playing, is he?” I gasp. I mean, with the gut he has on him it is easy to see why his socks are round his ankles: he can’t bend down to pull them up.

“John Hockey had to drop out at the last moment,” says Labby sadly. “I believe Quint used to be very good when he was at school.”

“He must have been the boy who first picked up the ball and ran with it,” I say, gazing at the flesh mountain ambling paSt I must have spoken too loud.

“If you think I look ridiculous you should take a look at yourself in the mirror. I’ve seen Christmas tree fairies with more chic.”

As usual he is gone before I can think of anything to say. God but I hate that man. He spoils the look of the whole team. The rest of them are all whirling their arms in the air and running on the spot with their knees slamming against their chests. He is peering down the front of his shorts. It does not inspire a lot of confidence.

The St Swithin’s team run out and it is obvious that they are much bigger than us. Bigger and uglier. No, honestly. They really are repulsive, some of them. Our team look much nicer. Even Quint looks cuddly compared to some of the bruisers on the other side.

The two teams are presented to an old man in a white fur coat—at least I think it is a white fur coat until I realise that someone has tipped a bag of flour over him—and then it is time for the kick-off.

The ball is placed on its end in the middle of the field and one of the St Swithin’s men kicks it towards where all the Queen Adelaide’s men are standing. I think it would have been much cleverer to kick it over to the other side of the field but I suppose he knows what he is doing. The ball is caught by one of the Queen Adelaide’s team and then everybody starts punching each other and the referee blows his whistle. It is just like the scene before the game.

When the players break up I see that Quint has the ball and a bleeding nose. I would have backed myself to start a whip round for anyone who gave Quint a bloody nose but to my surprise I feel quite angry. When he puts a giant mitt over the face of one of the St Swithin’s men and pushes him flat on his back I am thrilled. “Belt him one!” I shout.

Labby looks horrified. “You don’t say things like that at rugger matches,” she says.

“I do,” I tell her. “Smash his face in!”

If anyone had told me that rugby was just like the wrestling on the telly I would have been a fan years ago. Mick McManus would really have to watch himself with this lot. Fists, elbows and boots flail away, interrupted only by dull moments when the ball is kicked in the air or people try and run with it.

“I think we’re holding them up front,” says Labby, breathlessly.

“Is that why that man is lying on his back clutching his balls?” I ask.

“Our back row is up very faSt”

“Given half a chance,” I think she is talking about MacSweeney.

“You mean the ref? He is a swine, isn’t he?”

There is no doubt that the referee favours St Swithin’s and this is proved after ten minutes when he awards them what Labby tells me is an easy penalty kick.

“What a swizz,” she says as the stretcher goes paSt “I’m certain Tom never meant to stand on his face.”

“Don’t worry. Maybe he’ll miss it. Does the ball have to go over or under the bar?”

I start booing the minute the St Swithin’s man runs up to kick, but again, Labby is horrified. Apparently, you don’t do that kind of thing either. It is so confusing. Throwing bags of soot and punching lumps out of each other on the field is O.K. but a bit of verbal agro is out of the question.

The kick is successful and we are three points down. All the St Swithin’s supporters go wild and I would like to scratch their stupid eyes out.

“Let’s go behind the posts they’re attacking,” says Labby. We move off along the edge of the field and I give a V sign to the jeering St Swithin’s mob. Labby shudders. Of course I am not usually like that but I do get worked up sometimes.

Quint is standing on the touchline and his vast tummy is quivering. His hair is bedraggled and blood mats his beard. I feel almost sorry for him. Queen Adelaide’s kick off and Quint shambles forward and flattens the man who is about to catch the ball. Immediately there is a shrill blast on the referee’s whistle and the St Swithin’s supporters start shouting ‘Off! Off! Off!’ I think they are referring to Adam but it is the St Swithin’s man who leaves on another stretcher.

“Come on, boys! Only another thirteen to go,” I shout. Labby winces.

In fact it is soon thirteen–fourteen because one of our team has to go off with a cut head. He collects a boot that is intended for Quint.

“A certain amount of feeling is creeping into the game,” says Labby.

“Is that why that other man is lying on his back clutching his balls?” I ask.

Labby does not have a chance to reply because sickening St Swithin’s score a try.

Tom Richmond cleverly kicks the ball in an opponent’s face but it bounces over our line and a St Swithin’s man falls on it. Quint falls on him but too late to do more than make him the third stretcher case of the day. Another four points to St Swithin’s. It is absolutely sickening. A couple of minutes later I feel even worse when St Swithin’s convert their try and make the half-time score 9–0 in their favour.

“If we can knock out another three men we’ve got a chance,” I say. “They’re already down to twelve.”

“I expect that’s what Mac is telling them,” says Labby.

Shameless is pounding his fist against the palm of his hand and making faces like he wants to go to the toilet very badly. Five minutes after half-time, he gets his chance when he is helped off the field clutching his collar bone and saying that he does not want to go—off the field of course.

“That’s terrible,” says Labby. “He’s one of our best players.”

“Olly! Olly! Adders!” I scream, “Let them have it, boys!” We do another little dance and a chorus of “Right Up, Queens!” but it looks more like “All up, Queens” out on the field.

Both sides have slowed down a lot and poor Quint looks exhausted as he struggles from one side of the field to the other. The St Swithin’s supporters are doing all the shouting and with twenty minutes to go we are still trailing by nine points.

Then something amazing happens. Queen Adelaide’s score! Somebody kicks the ball down the edge of the pitch and the St Swithin’s man who is running after it slips over—he says later that he was tripped but of course he is a rotten fibber. I may have stretched out my foot and wriggled my toes because I was getting pins and needles but there was definitely no intention to trip him up. He falls into the crowd and a Queen Adelaide’s man picks the ball up and runs under the posts. It is so exciting and we all cheer like mad.

The St Swithin’s supporters reveal what lousy sports they are because they all shout and boo and wave their fists. It is all so petty. Tom Richmond kicks the ball over the bar and we are only three points behind.

“A try will do it,” squeals Labby. “Oh, come on, Queen Adelaide’s.”

Now that we have scored the boys throw everything that they have got into the game and I notice what a tower of strength Adam Quint is in the touchline queues—or lines out as they call them. He is the biggest man in our team and he leaps into the air and catches the ball like a great seal. Of course everybody has to wait a couple of minutes for him to get to each line out but I expect that they are glad of the reSt

“How much longer?” I say to Labby.

“Three minutes. But there must be some injury time.”

“About half an hour, I should think.”

Even as I speak another St Swithin’s man goes down clutching his face and his team-mates start throwing punches at Adam. It is so unfair. They are always picking on him!

“Pick on someone your own size, you apes!” I scream.

“But he’s twice as big as anyone else on the field,” protests Labby.

“Exactly.” It occurs to me that for some stupid reason I care about the big rude ape. It must be hospital spirit.

A free kick is given against the Adders and immediately St Swithin’s nearly score again. One of their gorillas grabs the ball and runs away with it after he has punched Tom Richmond in the face. It is an obvious foul and the referee must be bent not to blow his whistle. Fortunately, a brilliant tackle by one of our players stops the horrible little jerk just short of our line.

“Why is he going off?” I ask. “Has he hurt his arm?”

“He’s been sent off, you stupid bitch!” snaps a St Swithin’s supporter with a face like a frog’s death mask. “Even this ref draws the line at short arm tackles. You’ve got the dirtiest team I’ve ever seen in this competition.” I do not want to get involved in unpleasantness so I wave a couple of lady-like fingers at the foul-mouthed fink and prepare to watch St Swithin’s make the game safe with a simple penalty kick. Maybe their kicker gets cold waiting for his fourth team-mate to be carried off the field because he makes a balls-up and hits one of the uprights. The ball bounces back and Adam catches it. He moves with the speed of treacle flowing down a fly paper but manages to give the ball a most terrific kick just before all the St Swithin’s swine leap on him. The ball soars through the air and, helped by the wind, lands deep in the St Swithin’s half. Everybody chases after it but just before Tom Richmond can get a boot to it some snivelling little St Swithin’s rat kicks it off the pitch by the corner flag.

As Adam struggles to his feet I see the referee looking at his watch.

“This must be our last chance,” croaks Labby. “Oh, come on, Adders!”

Adam Quint shakes his head and runs towards the line out and I find myself responding to the look of grim endeavour that blazes in his eyes. He brushes aside the referee who comes up to ask him if he is all right and shoulders his opposite number three feet out of the line as he takes up his position. He bends forward so that his right hand is resting on his knee and his great belly quivers menacingly. “Come on, Adam!” I murmur the words under my breath but I couldn’t feel them more strongly if I was shouting them at the top of my voice.

The ball curves through the air and Adam leaps, one arm soaring higher than anyone else in the line. He hooks the ball down and seizes it with both hands. What a man.

“Give it!”

Adam makes as if to pass and then hunches his shoulders and halves his height. With an explosive yell he hurls his whole weight against the wall of flesh between him and the line. There is a landslide of bodies and the referee’s hand shoots in the air. We have scored! Everybody is going mad and Labby runs on to the field to embrace Tom. For two pins I would do the same to Adam. Adam Quint. Suddenly the name trips off the tongue like Mark Phillips.

My hero stumbles back to the centre line wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and Tom prepares to take the conversion. He misses but it does not matter. The final whistle goes immediately afterwards and Queen Adelaide’s have won 10–9 and 13–11 if you include the number of people left on the field at the end. I can hardly believe it has really happened.

A crowd of Adelaide’s medics pour on to the field and try to chair Adam off but he shrugs them aside and runs from the pitch. It is the fastest I have seen him move all afternoon.

“There’ll be the most fantastic party, this evening,” trills Labby. “Oh, I’m so excited I think I’m going to burst”

The two teams clap each other off the field and the cup is presented to Tom Richmond. Feeling rather sad, I start walking towards the bus. Labby is staying behind to be with Tom and I wish I had a boy-friend in the team. I can still see Adam Quint poised to spring … the moment when he burst over the line with half the St Swithin’s team on his back … the agonising seconds before the referee raised his— “Hey, Nurse, can you give us a hand? I think this bloke’s in a bit of a mess.”

The speaker is standing at the back of an ambulance. The doors are open and I can see someone bending over a stretcher.

“What do you want?” I say, going over.

“You, darling!”

Before I can cry out or make a run for it the figure bending over the stretcher grabs my arm and yanks me into the ambulance. A blanket is flung over me and by the time I get it off, the doors are closing behind me and the ambulance is drawing away. On the floor is a St Swithin’s scarf. I have been kidnapped!

I batter on the sides but I make less impression than Enoch Powell singing “That coal black mammie of mine,” at the Brixton Civic Centre. There is a babble of voices, and then my cries are swallowed up in the mighty roar of London’s traffic. I am not frightened—just furious. Everybody else wil be having a great time back at the hospital while I am stuck with a load of twits from St Swithin’s.

A long half hour later, the ambulance stops and the engine is turned off. We must have arrived. The doors open and the creep who first called to me bows low.

“Welcome to London’s number one hospital,” he says.

“That doesn’t mean much coming from London’s number one twit,” I snarl. “How long do you intend to keep me here? I get bored easily in the company of jerks.”

“Sticks and stones may break my bones,” says the drip. “But words will never hurt me.”

“O.K. Give me some sticks and stones,” I say. “And get a move on. I have millions of better things to do than hang around swopping B movie dialogue with you.”

“You’re going to stay here till Queen Adelaide’s hand over our cup. You won it by cheating.”

“Can I use the telephone?” I say, “I’d like to call a child psychiatrist to have a look at you two.”

I have been brought to what looks like the back entrance to a block of flats and I imagine that it must be a hall of residence for the medical staff of St Swithin’s.

“Come with us and don’t try anything clever,” says the one who does all the talking.

“You wouldn’t be able to follow me if I did,” I say.

“Why don’t you let me go now instead of a couple of hours later? I know your evening has been ruined. Why spoil mine?”

Good sense gets me nowhere with these creeps and I am led to a lift and taken up to the fourth floor. I would not mind so much if my captors were a teeny bit attractive but they make Julian Orchard look like Charlton Heston. I am led along the corridor to room 302 and ushered inside. It smells of Old Spice and old socks—like most bachelor’s rooms. Not, of course, that I am an authority on the subject.

“Would you like a glass of sherry?” says my first captor.

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried one.” This is not true because I had some at Aunty Lil’s wedding. I can remember that I did not like it much—I did not like the wedding much either. The best man flashed his nasty at me while they were signing the register. Of course, he and the bridegroom had been drinking since the pubs opened—if you had seen my Aunty Lil you would know why.

“It’s on the bookcase if you feel like some. We’ll bring you some food later.”

The door closes behind me and I hear a key turning in the lock. “Give my love to the Commandant,” I shout.

What a waste of time. Just my luck to get stuck with Norman and Henry Bones, the boy defectives. Well, they won’t hold me for long. I cross to the window and look out. The street seems a long way below but the window ledge is wide enough to take a pram. All I have to do is crawl along it until I come to a staircase and—Bob’s your uncle. Super Dixon lives again.

I don’t hang about but force up the window and edge out onto the ledge. The minute the wind whistles round me the whole idea seems a lot less appealing—more like Cold Tits than Colditz. I must come down to earth after the escapism of the rugby match. A glance at the street below makes me wish I had lit upon a better choice of words. It seems an awfully long way away. I look in towards the wall and have passed two rooms with the windows firmly bolted before I come to a third which has the light on and the curtains drawn. How much further will I have to go? I must have rubbed holes in the knees of my tights and I am colder than a landlady’s smile.

I have just come level with the centre of the window when the curtains spring apart and a man gawps out at me. We both start back in surprise—in my case a very dangerous thing to do.

“My Gad!” I hear his voice through the window before he wrenches it up and drags me inside. “What are you doing out there, honey? Trying to give me a heart attack?” He has an American accent and looks me up and down like I am some kind of Martian. I suppose that with my Adder costume on I must seem a bit funny.

“Your fellow medics thought it would be a good idea to kidnap me after the Cuppers Final,” I say. “Not unnaturally, I was trying to escape.”

“That’s terrible,” says the yank. “You might have been killed.” He takes one of my hands in his. “And you’re so cold.” He has a soft voice and silvery grey hair. He must be about forty but he is very attractive. Lovely teeth and piercing blue eyes like Paul Newman.

“I suppose you’re one of them,” I say.

The yank looks hurt. “You mean I’m a fag? No, honey. I’m conspicuously heterosexual.”

“I meant, I suppose you’re attached to the hospital.” He is obviously too old to be a student.

“That’s right, honey. I’m on an exchange visit.” He looks at me tenderly. “I don’t know anything about these Cuppers. I know your coppers are wonderful.”

“They’re something else,” I say.

“Exactly. Look. I’m most distressed to hear what has happened to you and you can rest assured that I’m going to do everything in my power to get you out of here.”

“Thank you,” I say. He has such beautiful eyes.

“Don’t mention it. It’s the least I can do. Now, the first thing is to give you a drink and the second is to find you some new clothes. You can’t go out like that. I was just fixing myself a mint julep. Would you care to participate? It’s a little cool for your condition but it’s a powerful pick-me-up.”

How could I refuse? After all my exertions I feel like a drink, even if it is something I have never heard of before.

“My name’s Hank Fieldman,” says my saviour as he pours something out of a jug. “Try this for size.”

“Rosie Dixon. Thanks.” I receive a tumbler full of green liquid with a rime of sugar round the top and sprigs of mint floating on the surface. It tastes like cough mixture. Oh well, you can’t have everything.

“Now if you slip out of that sweater and skirt I’ll mosey across the street and pick up some new dudes for you. It’s late night shopping.” Hank misunderstands my hesitation. “Don’t worry about your body, honey. We’re in the same business. I’ve seen millions of naked dames.”

“It wasn’t that. It’s the fact that I don’t have any money. I can’t let you buy me clothes.”

“Don’t give it a thought. I’ll charge it to the football club. Now, come on. Hand over your things and I’ll be able to pick up the right sizes.”

When he puts it like that I find it difficult to say no. I would like to have an outfit paid for by the St Swithin’s Rugby Club. It would serve them right.

“All right,” I say. “You’re on.”

I peel off my sweater and step out of my skirt and you could warm your hands on the glint of approval in Hank’s eyes.

“Speaking purely professionally,” he drawls, “that’s a beautiful piece of machinery you’ve got there.”

“Thank you,” I say. For a moment we stand facing each other and then Hank shakes his head and grabs my threads.

“Don’t go away now,” he husks.

“Don’t forget my tights.”

Hank shudders. “I could never forget your tights.”

I bet he has a wonderful bedside manner, I think to myself. The door closes and I take another sip of my drink. It certainly does taste strange. Strong too.

The minute I am left alone I feel an overwhelming desire to spend a penny—more like 10p in fact. I know it is unsafe to venture outside into the corridor but what else can I do? There is only a wash basin in the room and it does not look as if it is very firmly attached to the wall. Anyway it would be awful if Hank came back for his cheque book and found—no, I refuse to think about it.

I open a cupboard and grab the first long garment that comes to hand. It is a plastic mac. Oh well, it is better than nothing. I slip it on and peep out into the corridor. There is no one about. I start walking and have covered about a dozen paces when I hear someone coming towards me round the bend in the corridor. I start to turn back but it is too late.

“Nurse Dixon!”

“Ad-Doctor Quint!” There, looking only slightly less dishevelled than he did on the pitch, is Adam Quint flanked by two other Queen Adelaide’s players. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re trying to get into the St Swithin’s Medical School. What are you doing here?”

“I thought this was the medical school.”

“No, you fool. That’s next door. This is the Y.M.C.A.”

“Oh my goodness.”

“Why are you wandering about in your underclothes and a see-through mac?”

“I was going to spend a penny. This man said he was a doctor and gave me a mint dewlap.”

Adam hits his hand against the side of his head. “A dewlap is a fold of loose flesh.”

“I thought it tasted funny.”

“I think you’re a bit funny,” says Adam grimly. “They took your clothes, did they?”

“No. I gave them to the man who was getting me some new ones.”

Adam turns to the other two medics. “Have you any idea what the stupid bitch is talking about?”

“There he is,” I squeal. “That’s the man.”

Hank had appeared at the end of the corridor but he is carrying a bottle of champagne. No clothes. An expression resembling uneasiness spreads across his face.

“I’d leave that young lady alone if I were you,” he says. “She’s under my protection.”

“You tricked me into taking my clothes off,” I shout. “You said you were a doctor.”

“I am a doctor. I’m a doctor of—”

I never get the chance to find out what Hank Fieldman was a doctor of, because Adam knocks him down. “Don’t leave the champagne,” he says. “It’s very bad for a man in his condition.” He steps over the prostrate body and strides on down the corridor.

“I’m sorry,” I say, directing the words towards the floor. “Really I am. I’ll send back the mac.”

Poor Hank groans. I can’t even take a last look into his dishy eyes because they are closed.

Two minutes later, I get a good look at the doorman’s eyes because they nearly pop out of their sockets when they collide with my breastwork.

“Well may you stare, my good man,” says Quint. “But for my intervention, this innocent child might have been in Port Said this time tomorrow evening. I had no conception that Y.M.C.A. stood for Young Maidens Criminally Assaulted. You will be hearing from your deaf aid in the morning.”

He sweeps out and the doorman’s mouth opens wider than Britain’s trade gap.

A car is parked round the corner and the champagne is opened before the doors are closed.

“Bloody lucky to find her like that,” says one of Adam’s sidekicks.

“Fortune favours the fortunate,” says Adam. “And now, on to the celebration party.”

“I can’t go like this,” I squeak. “I’ll have to change.”

“You’re positively overdressed as it is,” says Adam. “I spent a lot of time and trouble finding you because I wanted to take you to the party and I like you very well just the way you are. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Adam,” I say. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

“Stop snivelling. I can’t stand women who snivel.”

Oh dear. He is such a difficult man. So strong minded and sure of himself. Fancy him bothering to come and look for me. I should be very flattered.

“You should be bloody flattered that I bothered to find you,” rasps the hero of Queen Adelaide’s. “Don’t spoil everything by becoming a sniveller.”

The celebration party is at the medical school and by the time I have got on to the dance floor I am very grateful for my plastic mac. I have never seen so much booze flowing in my life and it is quite obvious that while I was kidnapped everybody else in the hospital, not on duty, was getting smashed out of their minds.

“Where have you been, darling?” shrieks Labby, coming apart from Tom like a sticky sweet in a toddler’s pocket. “You’ve missed so much fun!”

She is wearing shortie pyjamas so I don’t feel too under-dressed—especially as the top half is being worn on her head. She disappears into the crowd before I can say anything and I have a chance to see Nurse Martin wearing a scrum cap. I don’t think it suits her and I am surprised she can get her legs through the slits.

“I’d like you to dance with my stomach,” says Adam. “The rest of me will follow a respectful distance behind.”

He is not kidding, but after a few steps I begin to like the feeling of his great hairy gut against my body. “It’s nature’s contraceptive measure,” breathes Quint. “The men in my family have got flat feet through walking the world looking for women with concave bellies.”

I think he must be joking because my pelvis is being propped up by something that feels like a raised drawbridge. Maybe it is the drink. I don’t usually notice things like that.

I think I must have fallen asleep because, suddenly, there are far fewer people about and I become conscious that soft fingers are gently massaging my reception area as if it is a piece of dough.

“I want you,” breathes Quint.

Fortunately the real me has passed out hours before and is being spared the wild permissive sensations that now invade my body.

“Not here,” says a voice which, I suppose, could belong to me.

“I know the place.” Adam’s fingers suggest that his lips do not lie. “In the attic.”

“But I must get back to the nurses home.” That sounded more like the real me.

“That presents no problem. The attic stretches over the nurses home as well. I think there’s a trap door in the ceiling of the television room.”

“You’ve taken other girls up there, you brute.”

“Hundreds of years ago when I was a student. They used to give anaesthetics with hammers in those days.”

“How are we going to see?” It must be the champagne. This forward behaviour is so unlike me.

“I’ve got some matches.”

We take a lift to the top floor and walk down a corridor.

“This is it. Stand on my stomach.”

Above us is a trapdoor and Adam picks me up like a packet of cornflakes. He is so strong. I am tingling like a bruised funny bone—or humerus as we call it in the business. If I was not too drunk to know what I was doing I might be on the brink of losing my virginity.

“It’s so dark,” I say.

“Of course it’s dark, you stupid bitch. What do you expect—floodlights? Take these matches and start striking them.”

He pushes me through the opening and heaves himself up beside me. “I’m getting too old for this caper. Damn you for being irresistible.”

“Adam, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Stop snivelling. I can’t stand it! And mind where you’re walking. I don’t want to go through the ceiling.”

He takes me by the arm and guides me into the enveloping darkness. “Are there rats up here?” I ask.

“Millions of ’em. They’d have your leg off if you gave them half a chance.”

“Adam. Don’t!”

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“I mean, don’t go on like that about the rats.”

“All right. There aren’t any rats up here. The spiders have seen off most of them.”

“Why are you such a cruel, crude bastard?”

“Because I wouldn’t appeal to you if I was anything else.” Quint’s arms encircle my body and his very personal smell—like a compost heap in spring time—sweeps over me. I had imagined that to kiss him would be like kissing the inside of a sheep shearer’s dust bin but his lips come through with the minimum of tickle.

“You’re so hairy,” I murmur.

“I am a foreSt” Adam’s hands disappear inside my plastic mac and slip under the elastic of my panties. I should cry out but how can I with his mouth firmly wedged against mine? He presses me to him and I feel something large and firm like a nuclear submarine breaking the surface. I know things feel bigger in the dark when you can’t see them but this is ridiculous. “Oh Adam, you mustn’t,” I murmur.

“If that’s all you’ve got to say you might as well keep your mouth shut. Come over here. Where are those matches?”

“I’ve dropped them.”

“Typical. You’d lose your fanny if it wasn’t fastened to the rest of your body.”

“You’re so crude,” I whisper enthusiastically. It must be the champagne.

Adam leads me across the attic and pushes me against something that rings out in the darkness.

“What is it?” I say anxiously.

“It’s the cistern. Attics are full of them—and you, my ravishing Florence Nightingale, are soon going to be full of me, Adam Quint.”

“Oh, Adam—”

“Don’t start any snivelling, wailing or whining or I may think better of my generous offer.”

Adam Quint hurls his mouth against mine and his brutal hands rip off my panties like they are a strip of ElastoplaSt Almost in the same moment he explodes the front of his trousers and I feel a rush of hot air like an oven door opening. He plucks me against his body and I come into the presence of the terrifying beast lurking against his great hairy belly. Thank goodness I am not fully in command of my senses. Surely Monster Quint cannot expect my delicate female mechanism to absorb his enormous piston? Has he no pity?

“Aaaaarrgh!!!”

The answer is no as I realise when I have first hand experience of what a sausage skin must feel like at the moment of truth. Quint’s battering ram body belabours me from belly to knee and the cistern rings out like the gong at the start of an old J. Arthur Rank movie.

My body cries out in ecstasy—and, of course, revulsion at the terrible things that are happening to it. Will I ever be able to look our vicar in the surplice again?

Quint is bellowing at the top of his voice and the noise must be enough to raise the roof.

“Ooh Adam, please!”

Whether he hears me or not I never know. He changes his position and there is a crack like a pistol shot. Light floods up through the floor and Quint drops as if into a hole. In fact it is not a hole. It is Sister Belter’s bedroom. I discover this when I plummet past him and land on the bed midst a shower of plaster. Above us Quint dangles with his trousers round his ankles. I will always remember the expression on Sister Belter’s cold creamed face as she stares up at Quint’s cluster hanging below the dark foliage of his belly like a bunch of grapes with a boa constrictor peering out of them.

Something tells me that she does not like what she sees.




CHAPTER 11 (#ulink_f06cdd45-7093-56c7-b4c7-0276f00b821d)


“And so, in the circumstances, I have no alternative but to ask for your resignation.” Matron looks at me severely. “I fully appreciate that my—that Nurse Green may have proved an evil influence but I cannot allow bad apples to go on spoiling the barrel indiscriminately. There is no place for bruised fruit at Queen Adelaide’s.” I can’t think of anything to say to that so I keep my mouth shut. “I realise that you were not alone in this sorry incident and Doctor Quint’s decision to leave the hospital and study Sleeping Sickness in the Congo is, I think, a wise one. If you could have your room cleared by …”

She need not worry. I have already packed my bags. Just time to say goodbye to a few friends and I will be ready for Adam Quint when he calls to take me out to lunch. Of course, there will be no repetition of the unsavoury scenes of the previous night. Champagne and virginity obviously do not mix as far as I am concerned. In days to come I must take good care of the merchandise if I am to avoid presenting my future Mr Right with shop-soiled goods. It is only by a hairsbreadth that I have so far avoided compromising my principles.

As I leave Matron’s office I am not as downcast as I might be. Of course, I am sad about leaving Queen Adelaide’s but I have in my pocket a letter from Penny Green which could lead to even more interesting and stimulating employment.

The writing paper is headed “St Rodence Private Boarding School For Girls, Little Rogering, Nr. Southmouth, Hants.” It reads: Dear Rosie, I hope you still remember me. I am now working as Sports Mistress at St Rodence. It is a crummy dump and most of the staff are nearer the grave than anything Queen A’s has to offer but the countryside is nice and there are lots of sailors and things like that at Southmouth. Some of the masters at the local boys schools are not bad either and desperate(!) for female company.

“I am writing because there is a vacancy for a gym mistress to assist me and I thought it might be rather a jape if we teamed up. Get in touch if you are getting a bit bored with hospital life. Tons of love, Penny.”

Of course, Penny is rather free but I like the idea of working with young people. Perhaps I might meet some clean-limbed young schoolmaster. I believe they are very dedicated. I am still thinking about the possibilities when the lift doors open.

There, all by himself in a wheelchair, is Mr Arkwright. “I gave my gaoler the slip,” he says evilly. “Now, how about that game of ‘Naughty Nanas’?”

He jabs at the “basement” button and clutches at my leg. Something inside me snaps. I am tired of being pushed around by dirty old men of all ages. The time has come to take a leaf out of Penny’s book.

“I prefer ‘Furry Quoits’, “ I say.

“What’s that?” There is a nervous flutter in the old wart hog’s voice.

“Whip out your peg and I’ll show you.”

“Get away from me!” Arkwright cowers in his wheelchair.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?” I lift my skirt and give him a flash of the full frontals.

“No! No!”

“Scared of this!” Down come my panties.

The lift doors slide open and there is Sister Belter. Her eyes widen in horror as she takes in the hideous scene: the crumpled heap in the wheel chair; me, skirt up, knickers down.

“ I have this thing about older men,” I explain.

THE END










Confessions of a Gym Mistress

BY ROSIE DIXON










CONTENTS


Title Page (#u201dd782-ba41-5d46-88f6-2d1b0a072de6)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10




CHAPTER 1 (#u71fe29b3-4f79-5a6e-b78d-0726783d0026)


“I can remember when you were sent back from Brownies’ Camp,” says Dad.

“That’s unkind, dear,” says Mum. “It was a day trip to Hampton Court and she had a nose bleed.”

“I wasn’t sent back from Queen Adelaide’s, Dad,” I say. “I resigned. I didn’t think that hospital life was going to agree with me.”

“That was sensible of her, Dad. You have to admit that. The longer she stayed the more difficult it would have been to make the break.”

“Humpf.” Dad is obviously not impressed. That does not surprise me. I would have to come back disguised as my sister Natalie to get a smile out of him.

In many ways I was sad to leave the hospital but when the ceiling gave way and Dr Quint and I fell on Sister Belter’s bed I knew, in my heart of hearts, that it was time to move on. People can be very quick to jump to conclusions and the fact that Adam and I were both semi-naked could have led a suggestable mind to imagine that we had been indulging in more than frivolous horseplay.

“What’s she going to do, now?” says Dad. “They won’t have her back at the Tech, you know.”

I really hate Dad when he talks about me as if I was not in the room. “I’m thinking of going into teaching,” I say.

“Teaching!?” If I had said bronco-busting, Dad could not have sounded more surprised.

“You haven’t got the qualifications.”

“I’ve got my ‘O’ levels,” I say.

“Art and needlework?”

“It may surprise you to know that qualifications are not all important in the private sector,” I say loftily. “The character of the applicant is what counts.”

“Then you’re out before you start,” says Dad unkindly. “Anyway, what do you mean, ‘the private sector’?”

“I mean a school that isn’t state controlled. A school where the parents pay fees.”

“I wouldn’t pay fees to have my kids taught by you.”

“I know you wouldn’t, Dad. You gave me a satchel as a combined Christmas and birthday present, didn’t you?”

Dad does not take kindly to this remark. “You’ve never wanted for anything from me, my girl. Just a darn good thrashing. That’s where I went wrong.”

“Dad, please! There’s no need to talk to the girl like that.” Mum silences Dad with a look and turns to me. “Are you really saying it’s easier to become a teacher at some posh public school than it is to get a job at the comprehensive down the road?”

“You have to have qualifications to teach at a state school, Mum. At a private school the head mistress can hire who she likes.”

Mum shakes her head. “No wonder you read some of those things in the paper.”

“You’re going to read a few more if she starts,” snorts Dad. “What are you going to teach, then? Sloth?”

“A vacancy exists for an assistant gym mistress,” I say, steeling myself for the inevitable.

“Gym mistress!? I’ve never known you take a spot of exercise in your life. You get dizzy if you get out of bed too quickly.”

“I used to play hockey at school,” I say.

“You used to play hookey from school,” says Dad triumphantly.

Oh dear. I wish he would not make jokes like that. They are so embarrassingly unfunny.

“How did you hear about this job, dear?” says Mum, changing the subject tactfully.

“One of my friends at the hospital went to teach at the school.”

“She got chucked out as well, did she?” says Dad.

I am not happy about answering this question because Penny Green was, in fact, the only nurse in the history of Queen Adelaide’s sacked for raping a patient. (For disgusting details see Confessions of a Night Nurse by Rosie Dixon.) Fortunately, Mum comes to the rescue again.

“Oh, do stop going on at the girl! I think it’s very good that she should have thought about things. Where is the school, dear?”

“It’s at a place called Little Rogering, not far from Southmouth.”

“Hampshire. That’s nice. That’s where your uncle lives, isn’t it, Harry?”

“He lives near Newcastle,” says Dad shortly. “What’s this school called?”

“St Rodence.”

“Sounds like a rat poison.”

“You’d better not come down, then,” I say. The moment the words have passed my lips I wish I could suck them in again but it is too late.

“How dare you speak to me like that!” bellows Dad. “You go to your room immediately. And stay there until you’re prepared to come down and apologise.”

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

“It’s no good saying you’re sorry now. You go to your room, miss.”

“But you said—”

“Don’t argue with me!”

Considering that I am nineteen it is shocking the way Dad treats me. My younger sister, Natalie, does not have to put up with half of the things that I do. If it was not for the fact that I knew he would take it out on Mum, I would tell the mean old basket what he could do with himself. The only thing I can do is get a job away from home as quickly as possible. St Rodence would be ideal but I wonder if I am good enough to get in. I expect their standards are pretty exacting. Penny’s morals may have been a bit on the easygoing side but I have no doubt that she was quite brainy. She said she was going to send me a prospectus so I will have to wait and see what it says. I will also have to find out what a prospectus is.

I have just gone out into the hall when Natalie comes in wearing her après-school uniform—half a tin of eye shadow and a quart of Californian poppy behind the ears. There are red patches on her throat and it is obvious that she has been snogging. I don’t know why Dad worries about me, really I don’t.

“Oh you’re back,” she says. “I hear there was some trouble.” Hardly through the door and she is on at me. She is her father’s daughter all right.

“Your lipstick is smudged, sister dear,” I say. “Been chasing the grammar school boys on the way home, have you?”

“I’d have brought one home for you if I’d have known you were that interested.” Raquel Welchlet chucks her vanity case on the floor and goes into the front room. “I’m home, Dadsy.”

“Dadsy”! It makes you cringe, doesn’t it? She can wind him round her little finger.

I am halfway up the stairs when the phone rings. I pick it up and put on my most inviting voice. “Hello, Chingford two, three, two, eight.”

“Oh, Mrs Dixon. Is that you?”

I recognise the voice immediately. It is my long time and semi-faithful boyfriend, Geoffrey Wilkes.

“It’s Miss Dixon, actually,” I say coldly. “Is that you, Geoffrey?”

“Natalie? Oh, I’m glad it’s you. I was wondering if you were doing anything tonight? I’ve got a couple of tickets for the professional tennis at the indoor pool.”

I am tempted to suggest that he should dive into the centre of the court from the top board but I control myself. After all, he may be a two-timing creep but he is my boyfriend—when I need him.

“I hate to be a cause of disappointment to you, Geoffrey,” I say, the acid dripping from my fangs. “But this is Rose. Do you remember me? You used to say that I was everything to you.”

I could count to ten while Geoffrey splutters on the other end of the line.

“Rosie? That’s marvellous. Oh—of course—well—I hope you can come—I mean, you can come. I was only asking for Natalie because I thought she’d be able to tell me how you were getting on. I’m always doing it.”

“Always taking Natalie out?”

“No, no, well, there was that once—or it might have been twice, I can’t really remember. We just talked about you and the old times.”

“Like when you made love to her at that party?”

There is more spluttering from the mouthpiece. “Don’t bring that up again. I didn’t know what I was doing.” I can believe that!

“I’ve only just got home,” I say coldly. “I don’t know if I really feel like going out so soon. It seems a bit unkind to the family.”

Dad appears at the door of the front room and waves an arm at me. “I won’t tell you again, my girl. Get up those stairs!”

“Hello? Hello? Are you still there?” Geoffrey is sounding quite worried. Good!

“Sorry, Geoffrey,” I say, calmly. “That was the telly: ‘Family At War’.” Dad looks as if he is going to say something but settles for slamming the door.

“Please come out with me, Rosie. We could have something to eat, as well.”

“I don’t fancy a Wimpy, tonight,” I say. Talk about last of the big spenders. Geoffrey’s idea of giving a girl a good time is to let her have first nibble at his choc ice—he wipes it on his handkerchief afterwards, can you imagine? I don’t want to sound like a gold digger but Geoffrey is tighter than a new roll-on and after asking for Natalie he deserves to suffer a bit.

“I wasn’t meaning a Wimpy,” he says. “I thought we might have a bite up West.”

“The West End?” I say. You have to be careful with Geoffrey. He could be talking about West Chingford.

“Of course. Oh Rosie. Do say you’ll come. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you.”

“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather take out Natalie—or my mother?” Sometimes I am so nasty I amaze myself.

“Rosie! Don’t be like that. We’ll have a great evening. I know we will.”

I don’t mean to be unkind to poor Geoffrey but he is so easy to push around that I can’t stop myself. I am much better with the mean, moody and magnificent types—at least, I would be if I could ever find one. I have not got any nearer than the mean type, so far, which brings me neatly back to Geoffrey.

“Oh, all right, Geoffrey,” I say graciously. “You’ll be round about seven, will you?”

“If that’s all right. Then I can show you my new car.”

“A new, new car?” I ask.

“Oh yes. It’s one of these new Japanese jobs. Goes like a bomb.”

I can remember the last car of Geoffrey’s that went like a bomb—it disintegrated on impact with the road.

“Sounds great, Geoffrey,” I say. “See you later. ’Bye!” I ring off as Natalie comes out of the front room.

“Who was that?” she says.

“Just Geoffrey,” I say, stifling a yawn. “He wants to take me out to dinner and the Wembley tennis.”

“Should be very nice if you don’t mind eating off your knees,” says my revolting little sister. “I had to pack him in. He’s so mean and he only thinks about one thing.”

I ignore her bitchy remarks but at the same time I can’t help thinking about the sex angle. Natalie has suggested before that Geoffrey is a bit of a handful passion-wise. With me he has always acted as if weaned on Horlicks tablets. Could it be that he finds me less desirable than Natalie? Of course, she does behave like a little trollop and wear the most obvious clothes—I will never understand why Mum lets her get away with it—but I would have expected Geoffrey to see through that. Still, he is a man—I think—and they can be very stupid sometimes.

I stick my head round the front room door. “Sorry, Dad,” I say.

Geoffrey arrives just when I knew he would. At ten to seven while I am still in the bath. This is not a great hardship because he goes into the kitchen and helps Mum with the potatoes—I can tell by the peel down the front of his Eastwood Tennis Club blazer. Mum thinks that Geoffrey is the greatest thing to happen to a girl’s marriage prospects since Artie Shaw. She is always telling me what a gentleman he is and what good prospects he has. I think she fancies him a bit, herself.

“Sorry I was a bit early,” he says when I come down at twenty past seven. “Gosh, you do look nice.”

“She’s not a bad looking girl, is she?” says Mum, almost swinging up and down on the bell rope.

“Mum, please!” I say. “Geoffrey, will you look after these, for me?”

Geoffrey pockets my lipstick and compact and leads me out to the car. I must say, it does look snappy. Pillar box red with white wall tyres.

“I can let the seat back a bit if you find it cramped,” says Geoffrey.

“That’s all right,” I say. “Just give me a shoe horn to get in.”

I am not kidding. With both Geoffrey and me inside we have to open one of the windows before the door will shut properly.

“Precision engineering,” explains Geoffrey. “No draughts.”

“You mean, if we have all the windows closed, we suffocate?”

“Not if you remember to switch on the air conditioning.”

“That’s reassuring,” I say. “This wasn’t made by the same firm as the kamikaze planes, was it?”

“I don’t know,” says Geoffrey seriously. “I’ll have to look at the handbook.” Poor Geoffrey. He doesn’t cause Jimmy Tarbuck any sleepless nights.

“I heard a rumour you were giving up nursing,” he says.

“Natalie told you?”

“Well, she sort of mentioned it.”

Typical, I think to myself. I’ll have to wait until Friday to see if she has put an advertisement in the local paper.

“I decided I couldn’t make it my life work,” I say.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I haven’t really made up my mind. I might go into teaching.”

“I hear there’s a big shortage.” Geoffrey makes it sound as if that is my only hope. I think he said the same thing when I told him I was going to become a nurse.

“I think it could be stimulating,” I say.

“I think you’re stimulating.” Geoffreys hand drops onto my knee like a lead spider.

“Keep your hands on the wheel,” I scold, secretly glad that there is asign of red blood coursing through the Wilkes veins.

“It’s not easy,” pants Geoffrey. “It’s been so long.”

I am not quite certain what he is talking about so I don’t pursue the matter.

“We’re going to the tennis first, are we?” I ask.

“I’ve booked a table for ten.”

“But there’s only two of us.”

“I meant ten o’clock,” says Geoffrey.

“I knew you did!” I nearly scream at him. “I was making a little joke.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, very good.”

“Where are we eating, Geoffrey?” I say patiently.

“This new place I was telling you about.”

“I remember that, Geoffrey,” I say grimly. “What is it called?”

“Oh, um, Star of—no. The White—no. It’s somewhere near Goodge Street.”

“You’ve been there?”

“No. A bloke I know told me about it.”

“Can you remember what his name was?” I say sarcastically.

“I think it was Reg Gadney. No, wait a minute, it was—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Honestly, Geoffrey is impossible. I can think of people I have seen on the party political broadcasts who inspire more confidence.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll recognise it when I see it.”

Unfortunately, Geoffrey reckons without the fiery Latin temperament of one of Stanley Kramer’s tennis stars. He hits a ball at a line judge and it catches Geoffrey smack in the eye. I am furious—Geoffrey’s choc ice goes all over my new skirt—and poor Geoffrey can hardly see anything. His eye swells up and he sits there for the rest of the match with his handkerchief over his face. The officials offer him a free ticket but I can’t see what good it is going to be if he can’t see anything.

Some of these lithe, superbly muscled tennis stars with their film star good looks and brown hairy legs ought to make more effort to control themselves. They may think that they can get away with murder but as far as I am concerned, they are absolutely right. When I look at them and I look at the star of Eastwood Tennis Club I think that Geoffrey would be better off strapping both his tennis rackets to his feet and emigrating to Alaska.

I keep hoping that the player who zapped Geoffrey will come over and apologise so that I can ask for his autograph, but at the end of the game he vaults over the net, punches his opponent senseless and disappears—goodness knows what would have happened if he had lost.

“It’s over now, Geoffrey,” I say. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to see to drive to the restaurant?”

“I think so,” he says. “You may have to help me get the food in my mouth, though.” Geoffrey is very English because he only makes jokes when he is suffering.

The journey to the West End is a nightmare because I can’t drive and Geoffrey has to control the car with one hand over his injured eye and the other changing gear and holding the wheel. I start off by trying to help but when we have driven over the flowerbeds outside the town hall I leave it to Geoffrey. I feel such a fool because he has to cock his head to one side to see properly and I notice the other drivers nudging each other at the lights. They must think I have just socked him one for getting fresh. Fat chance of that!

When we get near Goodge Street it is absolutely hopeless. Geoffrey can’t see anything and can’t remember anything and we drive up endless streets full of parked cars and dustbins.

“You call out the names and I’ll see if any of them rings a bell,” says Geoffrey. “What’s that place over there? ‘Felice’? That rings a bell.”

“Is it a vegetarian restaurant?” I ask.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Well it can’t be that one. That’s a florist.”

We go on for another ten minutes and I decide I can’t stand it any longer. “Let’s stop anywhere,” I plead. “If I don’t get something to eat in a minute I’m going to start chewing your plastic banana.”

“What?” says Geoffrey, hopefully.

“The thing you’ve got hanging from the rear view mirror.” I tell him. “Come on, this place will do: ‘Borrman’s German Restaurant.’ I’ve never had any German food.”

Well, I can tell you right away. This is not one of my best ideas. The minute the waiter overhears Geoffrey saying that he reminds him of Hitler I know we are going to have problems.

“Ze var is over,” he screams. “Whole generations ov nazis have grown up who av never eard ov concentration camps.”

“Exactly,” I say. “You’re absolutely right. Now, what would you recommend?” You can’t fault me on the humble meter, can you?

Unfortunately, the waiter clearly feels he has an axe to grind. I have noticed before how Geoffrey manages to rub people up the wrong way.

“Recommend?” he shouts. “Vott, you zink zere is something wrong with some ov it? Gott in Himmel, that the Führer should be alive today.” He throws down the menu and we don’t see him again for twenty-five minutes.

“The decor is nice,” says Geoffrey.

“How much longer are you prepared to sit there?” I hiss. “Are you a man or a mouse?”

“Which do you prefer?” says Geoffrey. You know, I really think he means it.

“Tell him we want some food or we’re getting out,” I say. “There’s no excuse for the delay. We’re the only people in the place.”

At first I think that Geoffrey has developed a cold in the throat. Then I realise that his nervous cough is attempting to attract the waiter’s attention. Honestly, talk about an evening with Steve McQueen. I am not surprised that Geoffrey once missed the mixed doubles final because he shut his fingers in his racket press. I am just on the point of taking matters into my own hands when two enormous plates of sausage and red cabbage arrive on the table.

“We didn’t order this,” says Geoffrey.

“‘Order’!? You don’t know ze meaning ov ze vord order,” screams our waiter, fingering his duelling scar. “Ze Panzers, ze knew vot an order vos!” Before we can say anything he sweeps the plates onto the floor and dives behind one of the tables.

“This definitely isn’t the place my friend told me about,” says Geoffrey.

“Don’t be so defensive!” I tell him. “We all make mistakes.”

“Ze died vere ze lay!” screams the waiter. He starts pulling the side plates off the tables and hurling them towards the kitchen.

“Boumf! Boumph!”

“Do you want to stay?” says Geoffrey.

“Are you mad?” I say.

“No, but I’m a bit worried about him.” Geoffrey stands up and clears his throat. “We are leaving now,” he says. He might be repeating “How now brown cow”.

The waiter picks up a knife.

“Come on, Geoffrey!”

“Egon Ronay will hear of this.”

“Geoffrey!” I will remember that terrible man standing at the door and shouting “Schweinhunds!” after us till my dying day—in fact, I thought it was going to be my dying day.

“That was a bit thick,” says Geoffrey as we drive away. “Did you hear what that chap said?”

“Yes. He said ‘Schweinhunds!’”

“No. I mean about reporting us to the Race Relations Board.”

Marvellous, isn’t it? Unless you watched television all the time you could be excused for wondering who won the war.

“I need a drink after that,” I say.

As it turns out, this is my second foolish suggestion of the evening. Spirits play havoc with me on an empty stomach and Geoffrey makes me bolt back a second enormous scotch in order to “get it in before closing time” as he puts it.

“Do you fancy a packet of nuts with it?” he says. “They have eighteen times the protein value of steak, you know?” Something tells me that I can say goodbye to my supper.

“You need a bit of steak for that eye, don’t you?” I say.

“It’s much better now,” says my lark-tongued cavalier. “It’s no hardship looking at you through one eye.”

“You mean, it would be even better if you couldn’t see anything?”

“No! Rosie, why do you have to take everything I say the wrong way?”

“Because that’s the way it comes out,” I say. “Ooooh! I felt quite funny then. I think I’d better sit down.” It must be the scotch.

“I felt funny when you touched my arm like that,” breathes Geoffrey, sinking onto the moquette beside me. “Oh Rosie. I fancy you, rotten.”

“Well, that’s the way I feel at the moment,” I tell him. “I think I’d better go outside.”

“If you want to use the toilet, there’s one in the passage. I saw it as we came in.”

“Thank you, Hawkeye,” I say. “But I don’t think that will be necessary. You’d better take me home.”

We get outside to the car and, thank goodness, Geoffrey’s eye does seem to be a lot better. Just as well because the cool air hits me like a slap in the face and I hardly know what I’m doing.

“Comfy?” says Geoffrey as he shuts the door. “You wait till I turn the heater on. Then you’ll be really snug.”

He is not kidding! After about five minutes I feel as if I am sitting in a microwave oven. Geoffrey is talking to me about teaching but I just can’t keep my eyes open—I believe that lots of people have this trouble with Geoffrey. When I wake up it is because the engine has been turned off.

“Are we home?” I ask drowsily.

“Not quite,” says Geoffrey. “I brought you up to the common because it’s such a beautiful night.”

A glance out of the window shows that Geoffrey is not the only nature lover in North West London. Cars are parked all round us and inside them I can see the shadowy outlines of struggling figures—no doubt fighting to get a better view of the pitch darkness.

“It’s raining,” I say.

“I like rain,” says Geoffrey. “I think it’s very romantic. Water turns me on.” He proves it by trying to slide his hands up my skirt.

“Stop, cock!” I say wittily. “What are you trying to do? I thought you were taking me home?”

Geoffrey transfers his attentions to my breasts and one of my blouse buttons hits the windscreen.

“If you start teaching down in the country I won’t see you,” he pants. “I want you to know how I feel about you.”

“I’ve no problem knowing that,” I say, wishing he could be a bit gentler with his hands.

“Do you remember that time up the tennis club? Let’s do that again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. Of course, I do remember but I don’t like to think about it. I mean, there was something funny in the fruit cup and Geoffrey took advantage of me—at least, he tried to. I’m still not certain what happened before he was sick behind the roller. As anybody who has read Confessions of a Night Nurse must know I am not a girl of easy virtue who bandies her charms about. I have a romantic nature but I try not to let it go to my head—or anywhere else.

“Just kissing you isn’t going to do any harm.”

Geoffrey is right, of course. There is no sense in being ridiculously prudish. We have known each other for some time and after Natalie’s remarks I am glad to find that I can arouse some feelings in the man. Also, the whisky is making it difficult for me to say no—that and the fact that Geoffrey’s mouth is firmly clamped over mine.

Oh! I wonder where he learned to do that? I always remember Geoffrey as a rather useless kisser. Perhaps Raquel Welchlet has been giving him lessons? The thought makes me determined to demonstrate that big sister knows best.

“Oh, Rosie!” The inside of the windows is beginning to steam up.

“Geoffrey! Please!” Without me realising what was happening he has raided my reception area. How awful that I am so befuddled with drink and hunger that I am practically powerless to resist him.

“That’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Geoffrey!” Now the condensation is running down the windows in rivulets.

“Feel how much I want you.” Geoffrey takes my hand and guides it to—OH! This is too much! Can this be the boy who shyly pressed a cucumber sandwich into my fingers at the Eastwood Tennis Club Novices’ Competition?

“Geoffrey!!”

“I must have you!” Geoffrey presses something between my legs—I mean, presses something situated between my legs—I mean, presses a lever situated on the floor between my legs—and the back of my seat drops down to the horizontal position. Hardly have I realised what is happening than Geoffrey is trying to scramble on top of me. I have never known such a change come over a man. It must have been that German giving him ideas.

“Are you mad, Geoffrey!?” I screech.

“Mad with love!” Somehow—don’t ask me how he manages to do it—the great idiot gets his foot hooked in the driving wheel. The horn lets out a high-pitched shriek—and then refuses to stop.

“Get your foot away!” I shout.

“I have!”

One of the good things about a nurse’s training is that it teaches you how to handle yourself in an emergency: take a long, critical look at the situation and then—panic.

“You’ve turned the ignition on!”

Geoffrey turns off the ignition and immediately the horn stops and smoke starts billowing out of the front of the car. He turns on the ignition and the smoke dies down while the horn starts again.

“Do something!” I scream. All around us I can see people reacting to the noise and one or two cars switch on their lights and start to pull away.

“You’d better get out!” shouts Geoffrey. He is pressing every switch and knob on the dashboard and I hear something making a spluttering noise like a fuse burning down. “The wiring must have shorted,” he yells.

I don’t wait to hear any more but start scrambling out of the car. Unfortunately, for some reason that escapes me, my tights are round my ankles and I am blinded by the headlights of a car that is pulling away. How embarrassing! I try to pull my skirt over my knees and fall down as I hobble towards the protection of some bushes. This is the last time I will ever let Geoffrey Wilkes take me out to dinner.

I have just found myself face to face with a middle-aged man wearing a plastic mac—and, as far as I can make out, nothing else—when I hear a familiar wailing noise. A police car, with light flashing, is bowling over the pot holes. I had only intended to pull up my tights and then return to help Geoffrey but, maybe, I had better wait and see what happens. The police car screeches to a halt beside Geoffrey’s car and two men jump out. The noise of the horn is still deafening and the smoke like that on a Red Indian party line.

Oh dear! One of the policemen has a breathalyser in his hand. I recognise it because I thought it was something else for a minute.

“Don’t do that!” I whisper to the man in the plastic mac. What a disappointing evening this has been. It just shows what happens when you look forward to something too much.




CHAPTER 2 (#u71fe29b3-4f79-5a6e-b78d-0726783d0026)


“What time did you get in last night?” says Mum.

“Two o’clock,” says Natalie.

Needless to say, the question was addressed to me.

“We had a bit of trouble with the car,” I say truthfully. “I thought I’d better see it out with Geoffrey.”

“Oooh. You saw it out, did you?” says Natalie.

I ignore this piece of tasteless crudity and pop another piece of Ryvita into my mouth. For all I know the car may still be there. At least, the police silenced the horn before they took Geoffrey away. I remember how upset he sounded when they pulled all the wires out from underneath the bonnet.

That was at midnight. It took me two hours to get away from that horrible man and walk home. I have heard about people like him but I never thought I would be chased through a cemetery by one of them. I never thought people got up to tricks like that in cemeteries, either. Some of the things that were going on you would not believe if you were warned about them in the Sunday papers.

“The post is here,” says Dad. “There’s a big one for you, my girl. It must be your cards.” He drops a large buff envelope in front of me.

“I expect it’s the prospectus,” I say, trying not to let my excitement show as I slip my knife under the flap.

It is indeed. ‘St Rodence Private School For Girls, Little Rogering, Nr. Southmouth, Hants.’ There is a picture of a big house set amongst trees and rolling countryside, and an embossed coat of arms.

“Looks like a lunatic asylum,” says Dad.

Natalie laughs like he is Jack Benny.

“You recognise it?” I say. Once again, I can see that Dad is on the point of revealing that he has no sense of humour and it is as well that Mum steps in.

“Nice countryside, dear.”

“That’s one of the things that appeals to me,” I say truthfully.

“And having Southmouth so near,” says Natalie snidely.

“Perhaps you would care to elaborate on that remark?” I say grandly.

“Eeeoh I seeay,” minces Junior Nausea. “Fraytfully sorry and all that. Actually, you know, I was referring to the proximity of all those jolly jack tars. Do I make myself plain?”

“You don’t have to bother,” I say. “Somebody beat you to it.”

“Now, girls. Let’s have none of that.” Mum intervenes again. “If Rosie wants to go into teaching it’s up to us to give her all the support we can. Right, Harry?”

“Uum.” Dad sounds about as happy as Ted Heath finding that someone has locked up his organ and thrown away the key.

“There’s fourteen teachers,” I say. “And a broadly based curriculum.”

“That’s nice,” says Mum. “Your Aunt Enid used to play one of them.”

“What’s all this Oxon business after their names?” says Dad.

“Probably means they’re stupid,” says my pathetic sister.

“Don’t be an idiot,” I say. “B.A. Oxon means they’ve got an agricultural degree.”

“What’s the point of that at a girl’s school?” says Dad.

“It is in the country,” says Mum.

“They teach them to be milkmaids,” says Natalie.

I shut out their voices and read on about the acres of playing fields and the entrance scholarships won to Cheltenham Ladies College and Benenden. There is also a note from Penny:

“Dear Rosie,

Here is the official story. Don’t believe a word of it. The prospectus has not been reprinted for years. Half the playing fields have been sold as a building site and the left wing of the school—you can’t see it in the photograph—was blown down in the last gale. Luckily it had been evacuated after the school inspector fell through the floor—or ceiling—or both, dependent on which way you look at it.

But don’t let me put you off. The staff aren’t as bad as the sisters at Queen Adelaide’s and though the pupils are worse than the patients I’ve found a few very acceptable compensations—details when I see you! After receiving your letter I told Miss Grimshaw that you might be interested in the job and she is expecting a call. Hope this is O.K.? Must go now as I have a man hanging on for me—to the window sill, actually. Ho, ho, just my little joke—write soon. Love, Penny.”

“What does the letter say, dear?” asks Mum.

“Says I’ve got to get in touch with the headmistress,” I say.

“Gym mistress,” says Dad, shaking his head. “I just can’t see it somehow.”

I think Dad may be right but I don’t let on, of course. By a strange coincidence, I am on the point of picking up the telephone to call Miss Grimshaw when it starts ringing.

“Hello, it’s me,” says Geoffrey. “Are you all right?”

“No thanks to you and your Japanese wacky racer” I say coolly. “You know I had to walk all the way home?” I am expecting a profuse apology from the Chingford amateur rapist but I don’t get it.

“You were lucky,” says Geoffrey. “They’ve only just let me go.”

“It’s your own fault,” I say. “You should have zipped yourself up before you got out of the car.”

“It wasn’t only that,” groans Geoffrey. “They found your lipstick and compact in my blazer pocket. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. They thought—they thought I was some kind of pervert.”

I have never heard it put as strongly as that before. Poor Geoffrey, how very unpleasant.

“You should have told them about me,” I say. I am always ready with any offer of help short of actual assistance

“I did,” says Geoffrey. “But you weren’t there, were you? That made it even worse. Apparently there’s been some sex maniac up there, terrorising courting couples.”

“You don’t have to tell me that!” I scream. “Who do you think chased me through Chingford Mount Cemetery?”

“That’s terrible!” Geoffrey sounds comfortingly horror-struck. “Why didn’t you call a policeman?”

“Because there wasn’t one! They must all have been helping drag you back to the cells.”

“Oh dear. It had been quite a nice evening up until then, hadn’t it?”

“How did the breathalyser test go?” I ask.

“Positive.” Geoffrey shudders. “That was horrible too. They take your blood, you know. It’s not just a question of blowing into that bag. I took one look at the hypodermic and passed clean out. When I woke up I was covered in blood.”

“Geoffrey!”

“I’d banged my nose on the counter as I went down.”

“That’s terrible, Geoffrey. Are you all right, now?”

“My nose has stopped bleeding, yes. Now it’s just the charges.”

“Charges?”

“Drunken driving, gross indecency and causing a public disturbance. I think they might drop the last two if I buy them a new mat. I bled all over the last one.”

I am speechless. Geoffrey deserved some reprimand for leaving me alone at the mercy of that terrible man in a plastic mac—he kept telling me he was a bank manager, I wonder why?—but this is surely too much.

“What did your mother say?” I ask.

“She’s terribly upset. She’s been to see a solicitor and made me an appointment with a psychiatrist.”

Typical, I think. With Mrs Wilkes everyone is guilty until they are proved innocent. After that they are guilty again.

“I don’t know what to say, Geoffrey,” I bleat. “If there’s anything I can do to help you must let me know—send you a cake, that kind of thing.”

“Well, I—er—I don’t really know how to ask you this but I was hoping you might give evidence at the trial, if it comes to that.”

“Geoffrey, you know I’m in the middle of trying to get a job as a school teacher.”

“Yes, but—”

“And at a private school, too. It might be different if it was a comprehensive.”

“But without you, Rosie, there’s no one to prove that I wasn’t—that I’m not—”

“It’s not the end of the world,” I say soothingly. “People are much more broad-minded about sexual abnormality these days. Of course, there may be a few eyebrows raised at the tennis club but they’ll soon get used to the idea. You may even find that it takes the pressure off your tennis. You won’t be worrying about your game so much.”

“But, Rosie—”

“I must go, Geoffrey. I’ve got to ring the headmistress about this job. You know how important it is to me. Good luck with the—with everything. Give my regards to your mother.”

“She’d like to have a word—”

“I wouldn’t bother to ring up in the next few days because we’re having the house rewired and the phone is being disconnected.”

“But you don’t—”

“Goodbye, Geoffrey. Thanks for taking me out.” I put the phone down quickly and start dialling the St Rodence number. Whatever happens, I must not let Geoffrey’s misfortunes undermine my confidence.

The number rings for a long time and I am just beginning to wonder if I have the right one when the dialling tone stops and a fruity voice says,

“Geood morning. St Rodence School. Headmistress’ secretary speaking.”

“Good morning. My name is Rose Dixon. I think Miss Grimshaw is expecting me to get in touch with her regarding a j—a position she needs filling.” “Job” doesn’t sound very posh, does it?

“Heold eon, please.” There is a rustling of papers followed by what sounds like a bottle falling over and a muffled oath. “I’m seorry to keep you waiting. You’ve caught us in the middle of elevenses.” I hear a belch and a burst of uncontrolled laughter.

“I’m sorry. Would it be better if I rang back?”

“Neo, it’s quite all right. I’m just looking for the appointments book. Ah, here it is. Underneath this—” The voice exhibits signs of strain and there is a sound like a heavy body falling to the floor “—pile. Neow, where are we? Ah, yes. How does tomorrow suit you?”

And that is how, the next day, I find myself sitting on the 10.32 out of Waterloo. It was originally the 9.12 but that had to be combined with the 7.37 when the driver went off on a cheap day trip to Clacton. It must be very difficult running the railways.

Little Rogering does not have a station and to get there you have to catch a bus from Pokeham which does not have a station either but is where the bus from Fudgely drops you. I am glad that Penny is meeting me with a car.

The journey down is uneventful and I am not attacked by anyone. You may think that I am being fanciful but it is amazing how often men expose themselves to me. I think I must throw out some kind of electrical impulse that activates the front of their trousers. It is just like garage doors sliding open sometimes.

The countryside outside the window is rolling and wooded and I get quite excited as I see all those exotic names I have only read about in divorce actions: Guildford, Godalming, Haslemere. I can’t really believe that a posh school like St Rodence will accept a simple girl from Chingford—or West Woodford as Mum prefers to call it. The whole thing is probably just a dream. Anyway, it will make a nice day in the country.

“Fudgely. Change here for Milldrew and all stations to Rotting Parva.”

Here already? It seemed only a second ago we were pulling out of Petersfield. I grab my bag and stumble out into the corridor. Beside me are two girls wearing gymslips. It is funny but they look just like the two girls wearing tank tops and sequined hot pants who were waiting outside the toilet when I wanted to get in. Not quite as much eye make-up, though.

“Oh, well, back to the crummy old dump,” sighs one of them. “Still, at least we’ve got a few memories.”

“You bet,” sighs the other one. “You can’t beat the Yanks when it comes to lobbing the lolly about.” They push in front of me and jump off the train while it is still moving. I can hear them shouting for a taxi as they run out of the station.

“Rosie, darling!” Penny comes out of the refreshment room with a glass of gin and tonic in her hands and kisses me on both cheeks. She is very upper class like that. “I never expected the train to be on time. Let me look at you. You look ghastly! Where did you get that suit from? You don’t look old enough to have been in the land army.”

“I got it specially,” I say, feeling hurt. “I thought I’d better turn up in something fairly sober.”

“Sober!?” Penny knocks back her drink and hands the glass to a surprised porter. “That’s enough to put you off the stuff for life. You could be mistaken for a member of the staff wearing that.”

“That’s the idea,” I say.

“I know, I know. I was only teasing. Grimmers will love you—if she can see you. She’s been knocking it back a bit lately.”

“She drinks?” I say.

“Like a fish. You can’t blame her though. My God, I’d drink if I didn’t have sex to keep me going.” Penny smiles at the man on the barrier and pushes me towards a battered sports car. “You kept your ticket, didn’t you? Good. You can use it again next time.”

“If there is a next time,” I say.

“Don’t worry, darling. At this place you usually get the job by bothering to telephone. There’s a chronic shortage of teachers you know. Most of them have got more sense than to work at Dothegirls Hall.”

“Dothegirls Hall?”

“You remember Dotheboys Hall? It was in Nicholas Nickleby or Great Expectations or Biggles Flies East—I can’t remember which. I’ve stopped taking English this term.”

“English? I thought you were games mistress.”

“Oh I am, but you have to be flexible here. When Miss Carstairs ran off with the man who came to mend the boiler I had to fill the gap that he was filling—if you know what I mean.” Penny turns to me and winks and we narrowly miss a furniture van.

“Is there a large turnover of staff here?” I ask.

“Yes and no,” says Penny. “There are the elderly dead beats who stay here because they know they will never get a job anywhere else—and can’t be bothered anyway—and the dynamic young graduates who want to turn the educational system upside down and leave, disillusioned after two weeks.”

“Which lot do you fit into?” I ask.

“Oh, there’s a third category of escaped convicts, murderers and retired female impersonators—nice countryside, isn’t it?”

“Lovely,” I say. “I gathered from your letter that you’ve met a few locals?”

“Yes, the area isn’t badly equipped hunk-wise. One of my little chums hangs out over there. Do you want to pop in and say hello?” Penny indicates a collection of low, ramshackle buildings with a sign outside saying Branwell Riding Stables.

“I don’t think I’ve got time,” I say. “Miss Grimshaw is expecting me at twelve.”

“Don’t worry about that,” says Penny swinging the wheel over. “She’ll expect the train to be half an hour late. Anyway, I bet she’s already started glugging down her lunch. You don’t usually get much sense out of her after ten o’clock.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry, darling. This isn’t Queen Adelaide’s. We live life at a slower pace down here—oops! Did I get it?” I watch the chicken dive under the barn door and shake my head.

“This guy is called Guy Hark-Bach,” continues Penny, unperturbed, “I met him at the hunter trials.”

“Did they get off?” I ask.

“You’re terribly unspoilt, aren’t you?” muses Penny after a moments silence. “Come on, let’s squeeze a quick G. and T. out of the old horse dropping.”

I don’t know what she is talking about but I meekly follow her into a building that looks like a good pull-in for tennis court marking machines—like primitive.

“Penelope, mon ange, what scented zephyr wafts you into my aegis?”

For a moment I think that the fella must be speaking manx. Then I grab the peakless cap pulled low over the nose and the hounds-tooth hacking jacket and I realise it must be Penny’s mate.

“Guy, if I didn’t know you well I’d think you were an idiot. And if I did know you well I’d be ashamed of myself.” Penny smiles sweetly. “While you think about that I’d like to introduce you to someone I used to nurse with at Queen Adelaide’s. Rose Dixon.”

“Not another outbreak of food poisoning, I hope?” murmurs Guy, brushing the back of my hand with his lips.

“Rosie has come to teach, not nurse,” says Penny. “There’s no need to be unkind about the school cuisine. Just because you found a fly in your soup when you had supper with us.”

“It wasn’t the fly I was worried about,” says Guy. “It was the cockroach that was eating it.”

“Guy has an exquisite sense of humour as you can see,” purrs Penny.

“‘Sense of humour’ nothing!” spits Guy. “The farmers round here haven’t forgiven your girls for the last outbreak of Foot and Mouth Disease.”

“They were carriers?” I ask.

“They were originators.”

“Absolute nonsense!” snaps Penny. “Foot and Mouth Disease can’t be transmitted by human beings.”

“You want further proof?” says Guy.

“Guy, don’t be ridiculous. These stories about the school are totally without foundation. The minute the Health Inspector came out of the maximum care unit he said that reports of a smallpox epidemic were vastly exaggerated.”

“Yes, but he was delirious at the time.”

“That’s a lovely horse,” I say. Shrewd readers will observe that I am trying to do a mum and steer the conversation into less controversial waters.

“What? Oh yes. Yes, he is a handsome beast, isn’t he? Served a few mares right in his time, I can tell you.”

“Uuuhm,” says Penny. She sucks in her breath. “I always find gees very sexy, don’t you? Steaming flanks, all that sort of thing? Guy can tell you some fascinating stories about his time with the R.H.G., can’t you Guy?”

“I’d love to hear them,” I say, wondering what the R.H.G. is or are. “But I do think I ought to be getting along to the school.”

“Rosie is incredibly conscientious,” says Penny.

“Yes.” Guy studies me thoughtfully through cornflower blue eyes. He is a very tall man with strong features and a fuzz of down on his cheeks. I don’t usually go for upper class types but there is something reassuring and rather sexy about his riding breeches and highly polished boots. I can see what Penny saw in Mark What’s-his-name. I wonder if he is still around? She has not mentioned him. Probably better not to ask.

“Why don’t you drop in for a drink this evening?” says Guy. “A few of the locals are popping round for a quick noggin.” That must be some kind of game, I think to myself. I hope it’s not like skittles. I was useless when Geoffrey took me ten pin bowling. I even managed to get one of the balls on someone else’s lane.

“Not one of your rowdy evenings, I hope?” says Penny, raising an eyebrow.

“I sincerely hope not,” says Guy. “Do you remember how long it took us to catch the horses last time?”

“And Fanny Scutterbuck fell in the cow byre—in every sense of the word.” They both laugh lightly.

“Well, it’s here if you want it,” says Guy.

Penny touches his arm. “I know. And it’s a great source of comfort to me.”

“He’s nice, isn’t he?” says Penny as we speed on our way. “We might drop in there later.”

“Yes,” I say. “Tell me, Penny. All that talk about food poisoning and epidemics. That was just a joke, wasn’t it?”

“Of course,” says Penny. “You have been immunised against the Black Death, haven’t you?” She sees the expression on my face and laughs. “No, seriously. Reports of creaking tumbrils bearing the dead away from the school gates have been vastly exaggerated. There was a spot of bother with the cook, but once he stopped doubling up as biology master that soon resolved itself. I always wondered why the frogs legs tasted of formalin. And as for the school cat, well, I hated the bloody thing anyway, so—what’s the matter?”

“Just trying to get a window open,” I say, struggling desperately. “I find it a bit stuffy in here.”

“Yes, it is a bit niffy, isn’t it? I think we must have stood in something at the stables.”

I gulp in a few mouthfuls of fresh air and try to think of any topic of conversation that will get us away from the school cuisine. Luckily, a large barrack-shaped building looms up in front of us.

“There it is,” says Penny. “It used to be a lunatic asylum, you know.”

“Really,” I say, thinking back to Dad’s remark. “It doesn’t look a bit like it does in the photograph.”

“That was taken from the other side,” says Penny. “The side you see when you’re in the head mistress’s garden—which you are on Commemoration Day and Sports Day if you’re lucky.”

“What are they doing?” I say, pointing to a group of girls engaged in sawing up a tree.

“Activities. It’s part of Grimmer’s ‘Survival In The Seventies’ programme. She’ll tell you all about it.”

We swing through a gate and past a sign which says “Girls drive carefully” and I feel butterflies invading my tummy. What will Miss Grimshaw be like? Will I be able to make the right impression? Despite what Guy and Penny have said about the school, its sheer size takes my breath away. Everywhere I look there are acres of playing fields. It is like Epping forest with fewer trees.

“Who was that?” I say. We have just passed an elderly, brawny looking man with mutton chop whiskers and a sun bronzed complexion. He is wearing a pair of dungarees and an ear to ear leer. Some women might find him attractive in a rather brutish way but I prefer something more sensitive.

“That’s Ruben Hardakre. He and his son, Seth look after the playing fields. You can tell when the girls are maturing. They start prefering Ruben to Seth.”

“Which do you prefer?” I ask.

“I like them both,” smiles Penny.

The drive seems like an extension of the A3 and I don’t envy the milkman. At the top there is a large circle of gravel and a doorway like the entrance to Westminster Abbey.

“I’ll drop you here,” says Penny. “You can have a chat with Grimmers and pop over to the East wing. I’ll wait for you there. You can gobble a spot of entro vioform before we have lunch.”

I do wish I knew when Penny was joking.

I go into the dark hallway and up an even darker flight of stairs. The last house like this I saw had Count Dracula’s slippers beside the front door. Penny might have shown me the way before she scooted off.

I get to the top of the stairs and listen for sounds of life. Nothing. Maybe everybody has gone to dinner, it is twelve thirty. I should never have listened to Penny. She means well but she causes more trouble than Muhammad Ali at a Peace Corps cocktail party. I am considering tip-toeing away when I hear the sound of heavy breathing—in fact, it is not so much heavy breathing as snoring.

I peer into an office and see a large woman asleep with her head in a filing tray. Every time she breathes out, the corners of the papers vibrate. There is a typewriter nearby, and also, a bottle of whisky which has slightly less scotch in it than the glass it is standing next to. Who is this woman? Is it Miss Grimshaw’s secretary or could it be—?

“Miss Grimshaw?” I murmur.

“Just a small one.” The answer comes back immediately but the head does not move. The lady must obviously be very tired.

“You wanted to see me,” I say, apologetically.

“Put it down on my account.” A thin trickle of spittle leaks from the corner of the mouth like syrup from a spoon.

“I’ve come about the job of assistant sports mistress.”

“WHAT!!?” The woman’s head jerks up and I nearly jump out of my skin. “Do you usually creep into people’s rooms like that?”

“I’m sorry,” I gulp.

“I should think so.” The speaker wipes her mouth with a piece of carbon paper and knocks over the whisky bottle. “Cold tea,” she says.

“What?”

“I said ‘cold tea’.”

“No thank you. I had something on the train.”

The woman looks at me as if I am mad. “I meant, it’s cold tea in this bottle. A prop for the school play we’re going to do one day.” She picks up the bottle, bangs home the stopper with the flat of her hand and drops it into a drawer. There is a loud clink suggesting that other props have found a home there. “You were supposed to be here at twelve, weren’t you?”

“The train was a bit late,” I lie.

Miss Grimshaw takes a swig of her cold tea and allows a long shudder to pass through her large frame. “The service is appalling. The whole country is going to the dogs. It’s institutions such as our own which represent the only alternative to a descent into barbarism.”

I am murmuring my agreement when I hear the sound of shrill, girlish voices outside the window. They seem to be excited and the volume is rising fast. Miss Grimshaw says something I can’t quite catch and strides purposefully to the window. I fall in respectfully at her elbow. Below us, the figure of a man can be seen staggering across the circle of gravel. He is wearing a T-shirt—or rather, was wearing a T-shirt. The tattered rag streaming from his broad sun-bronzed shoulders could have been nothing else. The man must be in his early twenties and is definitely a bit of all right in the fanciable stakes. As we watch he darts a glance over his shoulder and the look of haunted terror in his eyes is plain to see. He takes another step forward and collapses on the gravel.

“Blast!” says Miss Grimshaw.

Round a corner of the building stream about twenty girls wearing shorts and blouses. There is a collective shout of triumph and the prostrate man rises on his elbows and starts trying to crawl towards the house we are standing in. Miss Grimshaw throws herself at the window and wrenches up the sash.

“GET BACK!!” she bellows. “BACK! I say.”

The leading girls have now nearly closed with the man who has stopped crawling and curled himself up like a hedgehog. They stumble to a halt and stare up at the window resentfully.

“Back to your rooms!”

There is a moment’s hesitation and then the girls begin to split up into groups and file away. The man picks himself up and raises an accusing finger towards our window.

“I want to see ’ee, Miss Grimshaw.”

“Later, Hardakre.” Miss Grimshaw slams the window down and shakes her head. “Sport plays an important part in our lives here,” she says. “That was the Hare and Hounds Club simulating a kill.” She takes another swig of cold tea. “What was I talking about?”

“About the railways,” I say.

“Erosion of modern values … duty to uphold law and order … Capital Gains Tax …” Miss Grimshaw sways and collapses into her chair. “It’s those pills I have to take for my hay fever.”

“They’re terrible, aren’t they?” I say sympathetically.

Miss Grimshaw shakes her head and picks up a letter with “final demand” typed across the top of it. “Was Geography your only subject at Mingehampton?”

“I think there must be some mistake,” I say. “I came about the job of gym mistress.”

Miss Grimshaw waves a hand at my words as if they are distracting insects. “We can’t have you incarcerated in the gym all the time—anyway, we don’t have one. These days, during the grave shortage of teachers and—er, money considerations prompt us to double up as much as we can. I don’t think you’ll have any problem teaching Geography. After all, you did find your way here.” Miss Grimshaw laughs at her little joke and stretches out a hand to where the bottle of cold tea used to be.

“Well, if you really think—I don’t have any qualifications.”

Miss Grimshaw smiles knowingly. “Don’t worry too much about that. Many of our longest serving members of the staff don’t have any qualifications.”

It all seems too good to be true. Miss Grimshaw is talking as if I already have the job. I must appear keen.

“Pen—Miss Green mentioned the ‘Survival In The Seventies’ Course.”

“Ah yes.” Miss Grimshaw leans forward and places the palms of her hands together. “That’s a project very dear to my heart.”

I flash on my “tell me more” expression but it is unnecessary.

“I think it absolutely vital that we prepare our gels for the world that they are going to have to live in. A world in which oil, coal and even food are going to be in increasingly short supply. Here at St Rodence we bring our gels face to face with these realities from the earliest possible moment. Sometimes a meal is dropped without notice and I have discontinued the oil deliveries so that we can use the raw materials existing in the grounds.”

“I saw some girls sawing up trees,” I say.

“Exactly. And then there’s Miss Bondage’s Open Cast Coal Mining Class. At all levels we’re trying to back up the government’s economy measures.”

“It must save a lot of money, too,” I say.

Miss Grimshaw looks up sharply. “Money. Yes, I suppose that must be a consideration to some people.” The way she says it makes me feel ashamed. How could I have been so clumsy?

“I didn’t mean—” I say hurriedly.

“Don’t.” Miss Grimshaw fans herself with a letter from a firm called Humpbach, Straynes and Croucher. “We live in venal times. It’s understandable that the thought should occur to you. For somebody of my ascetic temperament money hardly enters into the scheme of things.” I nod, wishing that I could understand. Maybe, after exposure to this remarkable woman—“I believe you’ve worked with Miss Green before?”

“Yes, we nursed together.”

“Splendid gel. Her pupils worship her stud marks. I think we’ve got all the makings of a great hockey team this year. Probably our best since the palmy days of Mabel Atherstone-Hinkmore. A big girl but so light on her feet. She moved like a great fairy.” Dad often says the same thing when he is watching the telly. “I think we’re really going to give St Belters a game, this year.”

I nod vigorously and try and make my eyes glow with enthusiasm. Miss Grimshaw’s eyes are glowing with enthusiasm—or something.

“I’d certainly like to help.” I say.

“Good gel!” Miss Grimshaw tries to rise to her feet and then falls back into her chair. “You cut along and take tiffin with Miss Green. She’ll show you the ropes. I must get on with preparing my weekly jaw on current affairs.” Her hand stretches out towards a copy of Sporting Life. “Goodbye, Miss Nixon. Nixon—” Miss G. shakes her head quizzically “—it’s funny, I’m certain I’ve heard that name before somewhere.” Miss Grimshaw obviously has a very dry sense of humour. I have read about people like her.

“How did it go?” says Penny, when I eventually find my way to her room.

“Jolly—I mean, very well,” I say. “I think I’m in.”

“What did I tell you? This place would employ the Boston Strangler if he kept his nails short.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me,” I say. “And, talking of flattery, Miss Grimshaw spoke very highly of you.”

“I suppose she was pissed out of her mind, was she? In that mood she loves everybody.”

I like Penny but she can be very cynical sometimes.

“Are you going to take the job?” she says.

“You bet.”

“Right, let’s go out and eat.”

“Go out?”

“Yes. I don’t want you to change your mind.”

“Don’t you have to eat here?”

“I’ve got a free afternoon. Come on, we’ll go down to the village. I feel like a good natter.”

She also feels like four large gin and tonics as I find by the time I am on my second cider—it is strong, too. Not like the stuff Dad gets in at Christimas.

“I feel I should have spent more time at the school,” I say.

“You’ve got plenty of time to do that,” says Penny. “There’s nothing else to see that wouldn’t depress you. Did you notice my room? Like the inside of a coffin only the wood isn’t such good quality.”

“If it’s so awful, why do you stay here?”

“That’s one reason.” Penny indicates a tall, dark-haired man of about thirty who has just come into the bar. “Rex Harrington, the vet. I wouldn’t mind him vetting me, I can tell you.”

The man turns round immediately and I do wish Penny did not have such a loud voice. “Penny, my sweet,” he says coming towards us. “I bumped into Guy a few moments ago. He said you might be popping in for a drink later on?”

“It’s on the cards,” says Penny.

“And your charming companion, I hope?”

“I’ve got to be going back to London,” I say, thinking what sexy eyes the man has. “I’ve already missed the train I was going on.”

“Miss the next one.”

“Rosie, this is Rex,” says Penny. “Rex Harrington, Rosie Dixon.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I say.

“Likewise. What are you both having to drink?”

“I mustn’t have another one,” I say.

“Nonsense. I’ll be offended. What is it, cider?”

Upper class men always seem so sure of themselves. I find it difficult to refuse any suggestion they make. “Just a small one,” I say.

“And a large gin and tonic,” says Penny, holding out her glass.

“Does this pub ever close?” I ask. “It’s half past three now.”

“We operate continental licensing hours around here,” says Penny. “Now we’re in the Common Market it seems the least we can do.”

Rex Harrington is thoughtfully tapping two coins together at the bar and there is something about the way he is looking at my legs that makes me cross them immediately—what a good job he is not looking into my eyes.

“When is the next train?” I ask.

“You might as well wait for the six-thirty, now. It’s a fast train and it will mean that you can have that drink with Guy. It’s a good idea to keep in with the locals.”

I am feeling so exhausted that I don’t argue with her. I suppose it was all the nervous tension I burned up worrying about the interview.

“Here we are, girls. Chin, chin.” Rex raises his glass and I am off again.

An hour later—give or take a couple of hours—I am not quite certain where I am. Although it is still daylight, a strange dark haze hangs over everything and I move as if in a dream. In fact, I am not moving. I am in a car. The countryside stops pelting past the window and reassembles itself in the shape of Branwell Riding Stables.

“Good,” I hear myself say, “I feel like a drink.”

“Capital girl,” says Rex who is driving. “A chip off the old block, eh Penners?”

“Absolutely,” says Penny. “Don’t do that, Rex. You’ll ladder my tights.”

“I wonder who else is going to be there?” says Rex. “Do you reckon there’s a chance of a game of ‘Hunt the Horseshoe’?”

“What’s that?” I ask in my fresh, girlish innocence.

Rex winks. “It’s like ‘Hunt the Thimble’ only more energetic. Just the thing if you feel like a spot of horseplay.”

“I like games,” I say. I do, too. It is probably rather childish of me but I think they help make things go with a swing. I believe lots of people feel like that only they are ashamed to admit it. Once they get stuck in and lose their inhibitions they really enjoy themselves.

When we go through the door it is obvious that we are by no means the first to arrive. There is a great buzz of conversation and about a dozen people are standing around with drinks in their hands.

“Rosie, I’d like you to meet Buffie and Tillie and …’ I don’t remember any of the names but they all seem to have something to do with the land, except for one man who is a solicitor.

“Do you hunt?” says a man with a complexion like a frost-bitten strawberry. “You know, wearing the pink?”

“Are you?” I say. “I suppose it’s the air.” I think he says “we’re in the pink”, you see. It is all very confusing, especially when one has had a tiny bit too much to drink. If this has been a typical day, they certainly know how to knock it back.

“Do take something off if you’re feeling hot.” Guy is the perfect gentleman and helps slide my jacket off my shoulders. After Penny’s remark I am glad to say goodbye to it.

“You’re going to be a very pleasant addition to the scenery, Rosie,” Rex pours some more champagne into my glass. I can see why Penny likes the place so much. And they are all such gentlemen. Geoffrey could learn a thing or two from them after his crude approaches.

“Thank you,” I say. “I feel I’m going to be very happy here.”

“I’m sure you will.” Rex takes my hand and presses it to his lips. How romantic Chingford was never like this. Even the dances at Woodford Rugby Club never achieved quite this level of magic.

“Come on, Guy. I fancy a flutter on the gees, what?” The speaker’s moustache looks as if it was cut out of a de Soutter advertisement and he is jerking his head towards the stables.

“Yes! ‘Hunt the Horseshoe’!” The shout goes up on all sides.

“What is this game?” I whisper to Penny.

“You’ll find out,” she says.

“Oh, come on! I hate surprises.”

“Well,” Penny looks doubtful. “The horses are driven out of the stables, somebody throws a horseshoe inside, and everybody tries to find it.”

“Is that all?”

Penny looks as if she is searching for words. “Not quite all. There is room for manoeuvre.” She looks at her watch. “Maybe you could just catch the seven thirty.”

“No, no. I’ll stay for the game. Perhaps you don’t get it until you play it.”

“I think that’s about it,” says Penny. “You certainly don’t get it if you don’t play it.”

“O.K. everybody. Let’s go. Ciggies out please. Who wants to heave the horseshoe?”

“Me, me.” The volunteer has front teeth that protrude so far they nearly cover her front buffers—and that is some feat, I can tell you. This lady’s bust development makes Jane Russell look like Twiggy’s kid brother.

“Any tips?” I say to Penny.

“The men usually supply their own,” she says. What is she talking about?

I am feeling so dozy that I can hardly steer a straight course to the stables. I usually go flat out to win but I think that, today, I may have to set my sights a bit lower.

“Look out!” Penny pulls me to one side just in time. The horses are streaming out of the stable and one of them misses me by a hare’s breath—or is it a hair’s breadth? Either way it comes very close.

“Stand back, everybody! Let the dog see the rabbit—or should it be the rare bit?”

“Shut up and get on with it, Guy!”

“Are you ready, Melissa?”

“Ready!”

“Right! One! Two! Three! They’re orf!!”

I see a horseshoe go sailing into the air and everyone makes a bolt for the barn. Honestly! I have never heard a noise like it. Grown men squealing and hallooing like kids at a birthday party. It is the drink, I suppose, and I must say, I feel in fairly high spirits myself.

I am the last through the barn door and the sight that greets my eyes makes me realise how seriously they take the game. Hay is flying in all directions and there are couples literally grappling with each other to be first to the key. I even see one girl taking her clothes off. I suppose she is frightened of getting her dress dirty. Penny has taken Rex by the hand and is drawing him towards a rickety ladder that leads to the loft.

“Are you supposed to have a partner?” I ask.

Penny nods. “It helps.”

When I look round the stable I see what she means. Lots of couples are working very closely together and some of them are looking in the most amazing places. Surely you couldn’t get a horseshoe—? Oh well, it doesn’t matter.

“Tally Ho!” Major Phipps runs past me in his underpants and dives on top of Melissa Big Boobs. They are taking it seriously! I look towards the loft to see if Penny and Rex have had any luck and—OH! An enormous bale of hay is plunging down towards me. I stretch out my arms instinctively and stagger back under its weight. Penny and Rex must have dislodged something. Not just something! Another bale comes down and I go sprawling over some sacks of grain. My feet are waving in the air but the upper part of my body is pinned down as if someone is sitting on my chest.

“Help!” I splutter. “Get these things off me!” I wondered afterwards if that was the right thing to say. I mean, what other explanation can there be for someone sliding their hands up my skirt and tugging down my panties and tights?

“Stop it!” I scream. “What do you think you’re doing?” I can’t see who it is, and he doesn’t answer my question, but there is no doubt that he knows what he is doing. While I struggle helplessly, his spam ram pays an unexpected call on my spasm chasm. “You brute!” I sob. “You’re supposed to be looking for a horseshoe.”

“I don’t need any more luck,” says the filthy swine.




CHAPTER 3 (#u71fe29b3-4f79-5a6e-b78d-0726783d0026)


“Eleven!?” says Penny.

“And big ones, too,” I say.

“But there were only seven of them, there.”

“Some of them must have had seconds.”

“Greedy little devils!” I am referring to the way a tray of doughnuts disappeared after junior school swimming practice.

It is two weeks after my introduction to life at St Rodence and I am now happily settled in under Penny’s protective wing—and, talking of protectives, what a good job that I am a little girl scout when it comes to such matters. Without the Pill that unpleasant incident in the stable could have had even more serious repercussions.

I never found out who my attacker was. There was a wild cry of “Wacko the froggies!” and I felt myself encumbered so to speak. When I struggled out from under the bales there was nice Rex Harrington picking pieces of straw from the knees of his cavalry twills and offering me his hand. I didn’t like to say anything, it would have been too embarrassing.

On the whole, I would prefer not to know. That way, I find it easier to put this latest assault on my virginity into perspective. As I have stated on many occasions, virginity is very much a state of mind with me and I am comforted to think that I was attacked without my consent by someone I did not see. In this way I feel no sense of loss or even of temporary removal. I am still free to offer the man I eventually marry the precious gift of my Maidenhead without Staines—I mean, my maidenhead without stains. But to return to the present.

“Mind you, I can’t say I blame them,” says Penny. “I’d be pretty hungry if I had to swim two lengths of the hockey field on an empty stomach.”

“And a tin tray,” I say. “Sometimes I think it’s a bit thick, charging extra for swimming lessons when we don’t have a pool.”

“We used to go to the pool in Pokeham,” says Penny. But they banned us after the attendant had a heart attack.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, some of the girls cornered him in the showers. It was just a bit of harmless horseplay that got out of hand.”

“There are so many extras, aren’t there?” I say.

“It’s the only way to keep a place like this going. You charge a fortune to begin with and everything else is an extra. The parents jump at the chance to make sure that their brat has more extras than anyone else.”

“But I don’t call sawing up logs, carpentry.”

“I don’t know. The wood’s got to come from somewhere, hasn’t it? Miss Bondage calls that backward integration.”

“I call it sharp practice. And what about ‘Vehicle Maintenance’?”

“It saves Miss Grimshaw a bomb on garage bills. I’m not grumbling, either. Last week I had a complete oil change and—”

“It’s not that so much,” I interrupt, “It’s the fact that the school charges the parents fifteen guineas and enrols the kids in the Village College Evening Classes for 60p.”

“That’s good business,” says Penny. “Miss Keynes frequently cites it in her ‘Business Studies’ course.”

Maybe I am too soft but it does seem a bit unfair, somehow. The spirit of “Survival in the Seventies” runs right through the school.

“I’ll see you at supper,” says Penny. “I want to talk to Ruben about some linseed oil for the hockey sticks.”

She goes off towards the pavillion and I think what a pillar of strength Seth and Ruben Hardakre are in the school community. Always hard at it. No sooner has the thought flashed across my mind than young Seth comes out of the bushes with Mademoiselle Dubois, the French mistress.

“We ’ave been laying in ze trail for ze cross cunt—country,” she says in her charming accent.

No wonder they both look so flushed and exhausted. How typical of the Hardakres that Seth should be prepared to give up his spare time in this fashion. Only the evening before I had found Ruben helping Mlle Dubois plan the route of a nature ramble.

I go on my way to the school, past the group of fourth formers picking edible toadstools for supper, and think of all the satisfactions there are to be derived from the life of a teacher. If only I found the rest of the staff, Penny excepted, more sympathetic. I always dread going into the mistresses’ common room. It seems like the reading room of the British Museum—not that I have ever been there but you know what I mean. If you open your mouth, people have complained about the draught before you have time to say anything. In fact, you soon get the feeling that you are not expected to say anything until you have been in the place for ten years. The person who does most of the talking is Miss Bondage, the assistant head mistress. She has a face like a boiled calf’s head and is always reading the newspapers and making “humf!” noises.

“Damn sex maniacs need a dose of their own medicine. I’d like to get my hands on some filthy pervert!” She looks round the room challengingly but nobody disagrees with her. Penny has certainly confided to me that she thinks Miss Bondage would like to get her hands on a sex maniac and that it would probably be her only chance.

“There’s rather an interesting article in the New Scientist on pre-post-revisionary repression factors in deprived adolescents—”

“Communist propaganda,” interrupts Miss Bondage. “Put them up against the wall and shoot them. Bang! Bang! Bang!”

Miss Marjoribanks who is young and sensitive runs from the room in tears closely followed by her inseparable friend, Miss Wilton. They have only been at the school slightly longer than me. I have tried to be friendly to both of them but if I talk to one of them the other becomes all moody and petulant. They are a funny couple.

“No stomach for the realities of life,” snaps Miss Bondage, stuffing tobacco into her pipe. “No wonder the world is in such a damn mess!” I make the mistake of catching her eye. “What do you think, Nixon?”

“Well, I—er think it’s very difficult,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

I wish she wouldn’t ask questions like that. “Well, you know, I think—er—of course, it’s only a personal opinion, but, I suppose for lots of young people today, it’s a question of finding it very difficult to know exactly what they do think.”

Miss Bondage stares at me. “And that’s what you think?”

“In a manner of speaking,” I say.

“Ridiculous! There’s only one answer: Martial law and a strong hand on the helm. I’d advocate Enoch Powell if he wasn’t too liberal.”

“Oh fiddle!” says Miss Honeycomb. “You’ll have to stand up everybody, the grass snake has got out again.”

“It’s ridiculous keeping the thing in here,” storms Miss Bondage. “Next time you confiscate something, keep it in your own room.”

“I daren’t. It’s too cold. Do you remember what happened to the hampster? It froze to death.”

“How do the girls keep them, then?”

“They take them into bed with them.”

“How very unhealthy!”

“None of the animals seems to have caught anything yet,” says Miss Honeycomb.

“It’s only a matter of time, mark my words. The R.S.P.C.A. streaming through the gates is just what we need.”

I am grateful that Miss Honeycomb has diverted Miss Bondage’s attention and even more so when Penny comes in to announce that we must pick the hockey team for the key match against St Belters.

“It’s a jolly swizz,” she says when we have retired to the snug at the Vole and Ratchet. “St Belters is a co-ed and their girls get a lot of practice playing with boys. They’re going to be a tough nut to crack.”

“Are we playing home or away?” I ask.

“Away. Not a lot of teams are prepared to come here. St Belters nearly cancelled the fixture when one of their girls was attacked by cockroaches.”

“How awful!” I trill. “Where did this happen?”

“In the dining hall, of course,” says Penny. “They only go where there’s food.” She shakes her head sadly. “Poor deluded creatures.”

“Is it just the food the other schools don’t like?” I ask.

Penny nods. “In the main. Several teams have been unable to take the field after lunching with us and there was one netball game when we ended up playing against two girls.”

“How awful!” I say.

“It was. We still lost. Really, Rosie, the standard of sporting achievement at St Rodence stands navel high to a prostrate garden gnome. If one of the girl’s got athlete’s foot it would be a breakthrough.”

“So we’re going to get thrashed by St Belters?”

Penny looks round carefully before replying. “Not necessarily. We have a secret weapon.”

I suck in my breath sharply. “Not drugs?”

Penny shakes her head. “Most of the First Nine are immune to any kind of stimulant.”

“The First Nine? But, Penny. Surely there are eleven people in a hockey team?”

“There are. Now do you see the kind of problems I have? We can’t field a team unless I threaten a couple of girls with extra forestry.”

“So what’s the secret weapon?” I say. “Are you lashing hypodermics to the hockey sticks?”

Penny looks at me thoughtfully. “Damn. I wish you’d come up with that earlier. We’ll have to save it for the cricket, now.”

“What’s the idea?” I squeal.

Penny lowers her voice and leans closer. “The Saranjit sisters. Have you seen them?”

“You mean, the two Indian girls? What about them?”

“They both played hockey for the Indian youth team. Rumna was right inner and Napum, goalkeeper. You see what that means?”

“One of them keeps St Belters out while the other bashes the ball in?”

“Precisely! And the beauty of it is that St Belters know nothing about them. They’ll be expecting another 14—0 win like last year.”

“14—0! What a thrashing.”

“Yes. And they only played twenty minutes of the first half. Apparently Miss Grimshaw abandoned the match because of the light.”

“It was too dark?”

“No she’d been drinking light all the morning and swallowed her whistle.”

“Penny, you are a tease!” I know what she says can’t be true because Miss Grimshaw only drinks cold tea. Penny does like her little joke.

“All right, you don’t have to believe me. It’s all in the past anyway. All I’m worried about is next Saturday.”

I knew the Indians were good at hockey but it is not until I see the Saranjit sisters having a work out that I realise just how good.

“The ball might be glued to their sticks,” I say to Penny, admiringly.

Penny snaps her fingers in irritation. “Why do you keep having these ideas when it’s too late?”

“Never mind about that,” I say, “have you got a full team together?”

Penny looks glum. “Yes, but at a price. The only two girls who don’t brandish a medical certificate the moment you step near them are the terrible twins.”

“The terrible twins?”

“Roxane and Eliza. Don’t say you haven’t come across them?” Penny shudders. “I suppose it’s feasible. They might have been out on a bender when you came.”

Something clicks at the back of my mind. “A couple of rather pretty girls who can look a lot older than their age? I think they were on the train that first day I arrived. Funny, I haven’t seen them since.”

“It’s not at all funny,” snaps Penny. “The American Sixth Fleet has only just pulled out of Southmouth. I’m amazed they didn’t go with it.”

“You mean, they went to Southmouth?”

“Rosie, those girls spend more time out of the school than in it. They only look in occasionally to change their underwear and pick up some more pocket money.”

“But how do they get away with it?” I say. “Why aren’t they expelled?”

“Expelled!?” Penny laughs hollowly. “The only thing you can get expelled from St Rodence for is non-payment of school fees. The school specialises in what it calls ‘difficult cases’. If your child has been chucked out of every school in the country for arson you can always let it weather out its days at St R’s.”

“I know a lot of the children come from broken homes,” I say.

“Yes. And they broke them up personally. We had one girl who ran off a mail order catalogue on the school printing press and sold the contents of her father’s country house while he was abroad.”

“Roxane and Eliza don’t sound the kind of girls who will want to play hockey.”

“They aren’t,” says Penny, grimly. “There’s only one thing that makes a trip to St Belters an interesting proposition as far as they are concerned: Men!”

“Men?”

“It’s co-ed, remember. If you see anything you like—watch it! We had a lay preacher who came to the school to preach on ‘The Joys of Self Denial’. Those two damn nearly layed him before he got through the gates.”

I watch the lithe, muscular Saranjit girls sprinting up and down the hockey field. “Sounds as if it could be quite a game,” I say.

By the time Saturday arrives I am in a state of rare excitement. It is a filthy day with rain bucketing down but Penny is not worried.

“It’ll hurt St Belters much more than us,” she says. “Napum and Rumna could play hockey on a river bed and the rest of them can’t play on any surface.”

I am surprised that we have a coach to take us to the game and say so.

“It’s the only way we can be sure of keeping tabs on them,” says Penny. “If we travel by public transport it’s too easy for them to sneak off. I remember when we played Seaford. I found half the team in the queue outside Confessions of a Window Cleaner five minutes before bully off.”

I look round the coach full of girls quietly reading Forum and swopping gatefolds of Viva. They seem harmless enough. I can’t see why the driver is padlocking himself inside the cab.

“Are we going to stop on the way, Miss Green?”

“Only for calls of nature.”

“Oh, Miss Green! Miss Oliphant always used to let us stop for a drink.”

“I remember the incident well, Letitia. The saloon bar of The British Queen was gutted and the coach burnt out. There will be no stopping!”

“But Miss Green!”

“No buts—and put that cigar out, Roxane! You’re supposed to be in training.”

There are cries of “rotten shame!” and “jolly swizz!” from all round the coach.

“Why are you crying, Fiona?”

“Dunnalot stole my eye shadow!”

“Eliza! Hand it back this instant!”

“It was a fair swop, Miss Green. She’s got my foundation cream!”

“I haven’t!”

“You have!”

“I haven’t!”

“You have! Victoria Bevan saw you polishing your grass snake with it!”

“She’s lying!”

“Quiet, girls!!” Penny has to shout to make herself heard above the noise. “Is this the way for us to go into battle? Bitter and divided? Of course not! Remember, we’re a team. The St Rodence First Eleven! Let your breasts swell with pride. Feel yourselves grow in stature as you prepare to hurl yourself at the throats of the enemy!”

“Hare krishnan!” says one of the Saranjit girls enthusiastically.

“When you grip the curved wand between your hands, let one thought run through your minds: Glory to St Rodence. Let there be no one of whom it can be said ‘She did not try her hardest on this day’. When that first whistle sounds, cry ‘God for Harry, England, and St Rodence!’”

There is a hushed silence as the words sink in. Then Eliza Dunnalot raises a hand. “You’ll have to stop the coach. I feel sick already.”

“You can see what we’re up against,” says Penny as we settle down with a pile of magazines confiscated from the girls. She points to one of the photographs, “I wouldn’t mind being up against that, either.”

“Penny! How could you. I think male nudes are disgusting. Don’t let the girls see you looking at it.”

“I think they’ve done a bit of retouching there.” Penny holds the magazine up to the light while I cringe.

We get to St Belters without further incident and my heart sinks when I see how large the school is. There are a lot of new buildings, too. So different to St Rodence where the science laboratory is situated in a prefabricated shed.

“Right, girls,” says Penny as the door slides open and the driver starts running towards the nearest building. “Good luck, and remember to control yourself at tea. I don’t want to see anyone filling their knickers with eclairs.” She steps to one side and I feel a thrill of excitement as our charges stumble out into a stiff north-easter. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten—Ten?

“I was waiting for this,” says Penny grimly. “Sometimes, one of them tries to stay behind in the coach and slope off when everybody has gone. No school spirit.”

This time, Penny is wrong. When we find Roxane slumped in the corner of the back seat there is plentiful evidence of spirit. An empty hip flask is in her hand and she is snoring loudly.

“Greedy little swine!” hisses Penny. “She never passes it round.” She starts to shake Roxane viciously. “Wake up! Wake up! You’ve got a game of hockey to play!”

“That was dreamy, Hank,” murmurs the girl.

“She’s never going to be able to play!” I say.

Penny sniffs the empty flask. “I think you’re right. This stuff would rot the elastic in your knickers. They’ve obviously been distilling gym shoes, again.”

“What are we going to do!?” I say desperately.

Penny stands back and looks me straight in the eye. “There’s only one thing we can do.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll have to play.”

“Me!? I’m useless at hockey. It’s dangerous.”

“Stop snivelling, Dixon. You sound just like one of the girls.” Penny bristles angrily. “You look young enough and none of the staff of St Belters have ever seen you before. What are you worrying about?”

“But the girls will know.”

“They won’t say anything. If we promise to let them stop at a pub on the way back they’ll play ball.”

“But, Penny—”

“No buts. I’ve got to go now. You get Roxane’s clobber on and I’ll tell the rest of the team.”

Penny disappears and I see her striding across the quad to be greeted by a man and woman both wearing academic gowns. Oh dear. What am I going to do? There seems to be nothing for it but to follow Penny’s instructions. After her stirring address I can hardly let the school down.

It is much easier to get Roxane’s clothes off than I would have imagined. I wish she would not keep calling me Hank, though. I drape my coat over her and scramble down the steps of the coach.

“Hello, darling. What are you doing after the game, then?”

The speaker barely comes up to the tip of one of my boobs and is wearing a scruffy blazer and a crop of what look like last year’s spots. “Fancy a suck of my lolly?” The odious little creep can’t be more than fifteen and has clearly mistaken me for one of the team. Maybe I should be flattered.

“Miss Gleen doesn’t like us talking to stlange boys,” I lisp.

“Don’t listen to her. I can show you a good time. Come up to my study and I’ll sport the oak.”

The very idea! I don’t know what he is talking about but it doesn’t sound very nice. Probably one of those Australian slang expressions.

“Let me pass!” I practically have to walk over him to get to the pavilion. What with that and him trying to put his hand up my gym slip I am in a state of nervous exhaustion before I get over the threshold.

“Are you all right?” asks Penny.

I tell her what happened and she takes my hockey stick and goes outside without a word. There is a shrill scream and when I look out of the window my erstwhile attacker is coiled up like a spring. Penny comes in and hands me back my stick. “It’s not just for playing hockey with,” she says.

“You struck him?” I say, horrified.

“A little something I picked up at Miss Bondage’s Kung Fu classes.”

“Kung Fu?”

“They were marvellous. Up to the time they stopped not one of our girls had been assaulted.”

“Why were they stopped?”

“Complaints from the headmaster of the local grammar school. Six of his boys had been raped.”

I hardly have time to consider the full implications of what Penny was saying before the umpire comes in with the captain of the St Belter’s team. “Shall we toss up in here?” she says. “It’s absolutely beastly, outside.”

She is not kidding. From the window I can see that puddles are beginning to form on the pitch. Only a handful of spectators are huddled under the surrounding trees. What a lousy day to make my comeback. When I left school I vowed that I would never touch a hockey stick again.

“Heads,” says Rumna who is captain of the team.

The umpire throws the coin in the air and it rolls under one of the benches. Quick as a flash, Fiona Fladger has retrieved it and put it in her purse. “Heads it was,” she says calmly.

“Oh,” says the umpire.

“We’ll choose ends when we get out there,” says Rumna, signalling that the tossing up ceremony has been completed. “Come on, team. Let’s get stuck into it.”

When I get to the pitch I assume that she must be referring to the mud. I stand on the ball while I am trying to stop it and it all but disappears.

“Good luck,” says Penny as I take the field for the bully off. “I’m just off to talk to James about next year’s fixture.” She is accompanied by a man with crinkly blond hair, flashing white teeth and a broad smile. I wish I had something to smile about.

“I should be back by half term—I mean, time.”

They go off, practically arm in arm, and I can’t help feeling jealous. When I entered the teaching profession it was with the hope of enjoying a meaningful relationship with an intelligent male teacher of the opposite sex. All I seem to have ended up with is a spotty little boy shouting “Wack it one for me, Big Knockers!” while he is carried away on a stretcher. It is all very disappointing.

“We’re playing downhill,” says Rumna. “Give it everything you’ve got!”

“Don’t start yet! My nail polish hasn’t dried.” Eliza Dunnalot waves her arms in the air and the whistle blows.

I was always a useless hockey player and it does not take me long to find out that time has not improved my performance. I take a giant swing at the first ball that comes my way and end up with a cold botty while the umpire blows for “sticks”.

“Hard luck, Knickers!” shouts Fiona Fladger and I realise that I have earned myself a nick-name.

Fiona is not the only person shouting. The St Belter’s coach stalks the far touch line screaming helpful comments such as “Smash them to a shapeless pulp, Belters!” or “Trample them into the ground, they’re useless!”—craggy profile, Ronald Colman moustache and parachute smock. She is really one of the most unattractive women I have ever seen.

Nothing is capable of making the St Rodence team play better but at least the flow of insults from the touchline makes them try harder. Fay Gosling stops asking for a tissue because her eye make-up is running and leaves the opposition right outer in an untidy heap on the ground.

“I’m frightfully sorry,” she says. “I was raising my wrist to see what the time was.”

Pheeeep! “Free hit!” Fay returns the ball hard to the umpire’s shins and there is a time lag of five minutes while a new official is found.

“Well played, Roders!” enthuses Rumna. “Keep at it! We’ve got them rattled!”

Rumna and Napum are fantastic and the only thing that keeps us in the game. In the first few moments Rumna intercepts a cross ball and streaks half the length of the field to side-step the goalie and sweep the ball into the net. At the other end Napum twice picks the ball out of the air while I am looking for it in the back of the net. Despite this and the increasingly determined efforts of the rest of the team we are still only drawing one all at half time. This is not bad but in the second half we have to play uphill and against a gale of almost hurricane proportions. The only thing in our favour is that the goal area we are now defending has collected a lot of water and is going to become increasingly difficult to play in.

“Fantastic effort, girls!” enthuses Penny who appears at half time. “I feel quite overcome.” She certainly looks very flushed and excited and it occurs to me, not for the first time, that she can get quite worked up when she really cares about something.

“Ollie! Ollie! Roders! Come on, girls. We can still do it.” Penny collects the powder compacts and the whistle goes for the second half. It has already been the most successful game in the school’s history—0–7 was their previous best half-time score—but St Belters start the half as if they intend to change all that. Urged on by their coach who is adding to the amount of liquid in the air by foaming at the mouth they come at us—very appropriately—in waves.

Napum is fantastic, but how long can we hold out? Fiona pretends to lose a contact lens she does not wear and Eliza twice collapses dramatically on the only dry patch of field but these are merely delaying tactics. The umpire warns us grimly that she intends to add on all time for stoppages. Penny appreciates the danger because I see her move closer to the touch line near the goal we are defending. As I watch she seems to be dragging a hose pipe out of the way.

“Watch it, Knickers!” I wake up only just in time to trip the St Belters left inner who is on the point of flashing past me.

“Foul!”

“Play the game, St Rodence!”

“Well played,” says Rumna as she trots past me. “Keep pressuring them.”

I drop back into our goal area and realise just how unplayable the pitch is becoming. It does have a steep slope and the rain is still pouring down but it is amazing how the water is collecting. The free hit fizzes into a small lake and everybody slashes at it as if frolicking in the waves at Frinton.

“Aaaargh!” Another St Belters player goes down clutching her head and their coach rushes onto the field.

“This is ridiculous!” she storms. “The game will have to be moved to another field. This pitch is giving these—these savages an unfair advantage. My girls’ superior skills are being blunted.”

“Absolute nonsense!!” shrieks Penny who appears on the scene with Elliot Ness swiftness. “My girls had to play into this goal. You didn’t hear us complain.”

“It wasn’t as bad, then.”

“Really! How feeble can you get? Perhaps you’d like to surrender the game?”

“Never! St Belters doesn’t know the meaning of the word surrender.”

“Just as I thought. A load of illiterates,” whispers Eliza, loud enough for everybody to hear. A mild scuffle has to be broken up before the umpire decides that the game will continue on the same pitch.

The whole of the goal area is now a lake and it is this that helps the game enter a telling phase. A group of players are hacking at each other and—occasionally—the ball when I suddenly feel something under my foot. I bend down and—there it is! A solid round object with a few lumps bashed out of it. In the sea of spray that surrounds me it is difficult to see what anybody is doing and I quickly pick the ball up and slip it down the front of my tunic—Ooh! It is cold. I have half a mind to leave it there until the match is abandoned but my sporting instinct gets the better of me—also the realization that a school as large as St Belters must have another ball.

Rumna is just coming back on the field having replaced the stick which she broke over the head of the once tricky left inner and I quickly retrieve the ball and throw it to her. Rumna is no slouch and before St Belters realise what is happening she is streaking up the field. She dribbles past one girl, two girls, enters the goal area and—WACK! The board at the back of the goal snaps like a broken toothpick. I try and jump in the air but it is difficult when you are standing ankle deep in muddy water. It is an amazing thing but although it has stopped raining the water still seems to be rising. I wonder if the goal area is situated over a spring? I look over to the touch line to see Penny’s reaction to our goal but she has retired into the trees. Overcome with emotion, I suppose.

“Come on, Roders! We’ve got to keep them out!”

“How much longer is there, ma’am?”

The umpire looks at her watch. “Twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes! We will never be able to last that long. Most of our team are already on their knees. We wouldn’t be able to hold out if the rest of the game was played in a swimming pool. When I look around me I think it is going to be played in a swimming pool. The water is creeping up towards the half way line.

“There’s only one thing for it,” says Eliza. “Number forty-nine.”

“Right,” says Fiona.

I don’t have time to ask them what they’re talking about because St Belters sweep back to the attack. Minutes pass with us holding on desperately and then—“AAArrgh!!”

“Gosh! I am sorry, umpire. Are you all right?” Fiona’s hockey stick has nearly taken off the umpire’s left hand.

“You’d better have a look at it, Liza.” Liza takes the umpire’s wrist in her hands and feels it tenderly.

“Liza’s our first aid expert,” says Fiona comfortingly.

“I don’t think there’s anything broken,” says Eliza. “You didn’t get biffed on the head, did you? You look a bit dazed.”

“I’m all right.” The umpire flexes her stiff upper lip. “Come on, let’s get on with the game.”

“How jolly brave,” says Rumna. “St Rodence. Three cheers for the umpire. Hip. hip—”

“Pheeeep!” The umpire drops the ball and we’re off again.

“I can’t go on,” I gasp. “I’ve had it. I’m all in.”

“Hang on, Miss Dixon—I mean, Knickers. There’s only another couple of minutes.”

“A couple of minutes!?” I wheeze. “There’s nearly twenty!”

“No. Liza altered the umpire’s watch. Didn’t you see?”

Fiona skips off to flatten the St Belters right wing and I am left standing in amazement.

There is hardly time for an ugly brawl to break out in the deepest part of the goal area before Fiona’s penetrating voice is heard again. “How much longer, umpire?” The umpire tells Rumna to get off the girl she is standing on, and looks at her watch. Then she looks at her watch again. And again.

“Good heavens.” She shakes her head and an expression of great peace and contentment spreads over her face. Raising her whistle to her lips, she gives a long blast.

St Rodencc has won!!!

“Fantastic!” We all chuck ourselves into each other’s arms while the St Belters coach races on to the field in a cloud of spray.

“Are you mad, Miss Garth?” she screams. “There’s another twenty minutes, not including injury time!”

“Not on my watch there isn’t,” says the umpire curtly.

I can still hear the coach’s voice when I get over to Penny.

“Nice work,” she says. “Give me a hand with this tap, it’s a bit stiff.”

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Turning off the water. Brilliant wheeze, wasn’t it? I suddenly saw this hose by the pitch and—”

“You flooded the pitch!?”

“Keep your voice down! We don’t want everybody to know. It will destroy the girls’ confidence.”

“Penny, you’re absolutely amazing. I—”

Penny is not listening to me. “Oh dear,” she says. “I see Roxane has come round.” I follow her eyes to the sight of the coach driver being pursued across the hockey pitch by an excited Roxane.

“I do wish she’d put some clothes on first,” sighs Penny.




CHAPTER 4 (#u71fe29b3-4f79-5a6e-b78d-0726783d0026)


“Well done, ladies.” I can hear the crackle of Miss Grimshaw’s stays as she leans forward.

“Thank you, Headmistress.” Penny and I bow our heads modestly.

“This was undoubtedly the finest victory in the school’s history—hic!” Miss Grimshaw closes her desk drawer and I hear the familiar chink of cold tea bottles. “However—hic! It was achieved at a cost.”

“We’ll be able to pay for the coach,” says Penny hurriedly. “It’s not as badly damaged as was first thought.”

“What I can’t understand.” Miss Grimshaw speaks slowly. “Is—hic! Why Fiona Fladger was driving?”

“Well, when the coach driver ran away we had to find someone. Fiona said she’d driven her father’s mini-moke.”

“More like mini-amok,” I say.

Miss Grimshaw winces. “Did the driver get away before—before they got him?” she asks. Penny nods.

“Thank God. We don’t want any more lawsuits. Did you say you were going to pay for the damage?”

“The girls had a whip round.”

Miss Grimshaw smiles. “You mean they whipped round the St Belters’ cloakrooms in search of booty?” Penny nods again. Miss Grimshaw’s smile becomes a beam. “Good. I’m glad to see that the buccaneer spirit is not quite dead. Were there any injuries in the crash?”

“Hermione Spragg sprained her ankle when one of the crates of light ale fell off a rack.”

“The light ale was all right?”

“Oh yes. A bit fizzy, but drinkable.”

Miss Grimshaw’s face clears. “Good, good. It’s terrible when disaster strikes twice.” She swallows another hiccup and reaches towards the drawer before restraining herself. “The police aren’t going to bring charges?”

“I think they’ll want to forget the matter,” I say. Penny casts her eyes down bashfully.

“It must have been a terrible experience for you,” says Miss Grimshaw. “I can’t think what came over the creature. Constable Dumpling has been a happily married man for as long as I can remember.”

“It was harrowing,” agrees Penny. “And totally unexpected. But from the school’s point of view …” Her voice fades away, tortured by memory.

Miss Grimshaw nods grimly. “Yes it was fortunate that the Inspector came by at that moment. Catching the bounder in the act. It certainly diverted attention from the coach.”

“Quite an achievement when you think it was sticking out of the wall of the Baptist chapel,” I say, brightly.

“So very good of him not to press charges,” continues Miss Grimshaw.

“I think the man has suffered enough,” says Penny. “I hear he’s being transferred to Royston.”

A silence falls on the room broken only by the sound of a long, low belch. Miss Grimshaw pats her stomach. “Ah, well. Time for tiffin. The inner woman must be served.” Miss Grimshaw catches Penny’s eye and blushes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“That’s quite all right,” says Penny.

News of our famous victory over St Belters is as nothing compared with details of Miss Green’s brush with the fuzz and it is that more than anything that serves to create a new wave of enthusiasm for athletic pursuits. Perhaps “new” is the wrong word. It suggests the existence of an enthusiasm in the past. Nothing could be further from the truth. Most of the girls at St Rodence get their only exercise when they cough through smoking too much. That or chasing Seth and Ruben Hardakre.

As the weeks go by I find that I think more and more about Seth. His firm, brown body seems to be everywhere I go. Sweeping up piles of leaves or standing, arms folded beside a smouldering bonfire, his dark eyes glowing with an equal fire—you can see how the atmosphere in this temple of learning is beginning to rub off on me, can’t you?

Geoffrey writes to me a couple of times but I find it difficult to scrape together the enthusiasm to reply. I learn that he has been fined £50 and banned from driving for a year. The police dropped the other charges. Poor Geoffrey! What a pity he did not have Penny with him when he was charged. He would probably have been given £50.

I am walking towards the pavilion because I want to have my tennis racket regutted. I know it is the middle of winter but one must be prepared. Mlle Dubois is coming out of the woods with a man I have not seen before. One of her pupils, I suppose. Mlle Dubois gives French lessons in her spare time. I saw her advertisement in the window of the village post office. The man has tears in his eyes. I expect he found the lesson very affecting. Miss Dubois tucks a wad of notes into the top of one of her black stockings and waves gaily. “Ooh la la!” she says. “A nize day for eet!”

I agree with her as I skip along the tree-lined path past the war memorial—the large crater made by a short-sighted German bomb aimer who was trying to hit Southmouth docks. There is a lark on the wing, and possibly one in the pavilion. Ruben Hardakre is a flirtatious old man as you would soon find out if he ever oiled your hockey stick.

“Morning, young missy,” he sings out as I cross the threshold. “It’s a fine day for swadging your gonjins.”

“It is indeed,” I agree with him. “I wonder if you could help me out.”

“But you’ve only just been and come in,” says the jovial yokel. His simple country wit is not much to my liking but at least it is better than some of the things you see on T.V.

“Ho, ho. Very good,” I say. “What I meant was, can you mend this for me?”

“Expecting snow, are you?” he asks.

“It’s a tennis racket.” I explain. Knowing St Rodence he has probably never seen one before.

“Dang my withers. I thought it was a snow shoe.”

“It is a bit old,” I say. “It used to belong to my aunt.”

“Use it for catching butterflies, did she?”

“You’re in good form today, Mr Hardakre,” I say soothingly. “Do you think you can still do something with it?”

Ruben looks at me in a funny sort of way. “You want to ask your friend, Miss Green, that question.”

“What did you do for Miss Green?” I ask.

“Ah! That’ud be telling, that would.” Ruben laughs like someone clearing a blocked up drain.

“I haven’t got time to play guessing games,” I say. “Can you restring this thing for me, or not?”

Ruben strokes his whiskers. “I can do. But it’s going to cost ’ee summat.”

“How much?”

Ruben beckons me closer. “Have a glass of molderberry wine and we’ll haggle over it.”

“I haven’t got time to haggle,” I say.

“Then just have the wine.”

“About how much?” I say.

“A couple of glasses should be enough.” An evil grin flickers across Ruben’s face.

“I didn’t mean that,” I say, trying to keep patient. “About how much is it going to cost to repair the racket?”

“Well, to anyone else it would be best part of three sovereigns. But to you—if you’ll take a glass of wine with me—it’ll be done for less than two, and there’s my hand on it.”

“Please take your hand off it, Mr Hardakre!” I say. Really he is the most incredible old man! Give him an inch and he takes a liberty. Not that he isn’t attractive in a funny sort of way. I have always had a soft spot for the outdoor type.

“Just a glass. It’ll put some flute into your snaffers. You need something after your walk.”

I know I shouldn’t, but it seems the easiest way of escaping from the old rogue. One doesn’t want to give offence, does one?

“Just a drop, then,” I say.

“Right you are, young missee.” He scuttles across the room and shakes a couple of wood lice out of a glass before wiping it against his sleeve. “Can’t be too careful, can ’ee?” he says. I smile weakly and watch him prising the top off a battered oil can. “The old Molderberry sticks a bit when it’s maturing,” he explains. At first I think he says “stinks a bit”. I have never been exposed to anything like it since Mum shut the next door’s tom in our kitchen overnight.

The smell is bad enough but the green fumes are the things that really turn me off.

“Are you sure it’s all right?” I ask.

“Course it is. Lovely drop of molderberry, this. It’ll put hairs on your chest.”

At the risk of sounding ungrateful it seems necessary to point out that I do not want hairs on my chest. My one day Mr Right will hardly be overjoyed if our wedding night reveals a pair of shaggy boobs.

“Just a taste,” I say.

“That’s what your Miss Green said,” sniggers the rustic Romeo. “It were amazin’ how she found a hankering for it.”

“Penny has always been partial to a stiff drink,” I say.

“Not just a stiff drink,” says Ruben. I have no idea what he is talking about but it is very strange how his eyes glisten.

“Here we are, my dear.” Ruben hands me half a tumbler full of the steaming brew and I notice that there were in fact three wood lice in the glass. The one now floating on top is lying on its back and has turned white. It is not moving. I remove it, hoping that this does not give offence, and raise the tumbler to my lips—

“Stop!!” Seth Hardakre towers in the doorway, his giant frame blocking out the light. “Are you trying to wimble her gwinnies, Father?” The old man starts to mumble but is cut short by his son’s furious onslaught. “You can’t give a young maid that! You might scradge her nadgepoles! I told you about that after the floddymoddling. Spat my fibes but you’re a contrary old grummock!”

“Don’t ’ee talk to me like that, my lad, or I’ll take my guzzyprodder to you!” Father and son collide in the middle of the floor and I can sense that unpleasantness is in the air. Ruben is trying to strike his offspring with an instrument that I later learn is used to despatch moles and I take the opportunity to make for the door. I do hate family scenes. I have taken about a dozen paces into the autumn sunshine when Seth appears at my elbow.

“Sorry about that, ma’am.” he says, doffing the corduroy cap that sits jauntily atop his forest of curls. “Come Micklemucking, and he becomes fair fazed by the lady-kind.”

“Think nothing of it,” I say. “No harm was done. Perhaps, when he’s feeling himself—”

“He’s always doing that,” says Seth, shaking his head. “Dirty old goatstuffer!”

“I meant, when he’s calmed down, perhaps he could do something with my tennis racket?” I say, blushing.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” says Seth. “He’s done things with most things.”

This is obviously not a very profitable topic of conversation and I am glad when I think of a way of changing it.

“What are you doing now?” I ask.

“I’m going up to Spangler’s Copse to chop logs. You want to take a stroll up there?”

It is a lovely day and I jump at the chance of a little light exercise. Especially in the company of bluff, honest Seth. Strange how a son can be so unlike his father.

“We have a hut up there,” says Seth as we trudge through the drifts of leaves. “I go there sometimes when I want to be alone with my fidgets.”

I nod understandingly. I have no idea what he is talking about but I love this old country language that he and Ruben share. It sounds as if they are making up each word as they go along but it must be some rustic tongue handed down over hundreds of years from father to son—or Gitfodder to Nastrel as they put it.

“It’s beautiful,” I say as we enter the thick woods. “All these trees.”

Seth looks at me and there is respect in his eyes. “You notice things, don’t you, Miss Dixon?”

I blush. I am pleased that he noticed that I noticed. “I’m a country girl at heart,” I say, demurely.

“Would you like to see inside the little house?” he says. “It’s very simple.” He looks at me again in that special way of his.

“I understand simple things,” I say.

Seth nods sympathetically. “We’re two of a kind, you and me, Miss Dixon.” He leads the way through the trees and I see ahead what looks like a small log cabin. There is a great pile of logs by its side and an axe sticking up from a stump.

“What a big chopper,” I say.

Seth is clearly glad that I noticed his equipment. “Thank you,” he says. “But it’s how you handle it that counts.”

“I don’t think I could lift it,” I say.

“It’s just a knack,” says Seth. “It comes.” He opened the door of the hut and steps to one side.

“It’s charming,” I say. “And what a big bed you’ve got.” It is the first thing I see and seems to cover half the floor area. “I was expecting a little bunk.”

“Were you, now?” says Seth, his face splitting into a friendly smile. “We’ll have to try not to disappoint you.” I look around but I can’t see anything that looks like a bunk. It must be folded away somewhere. Either that or Seth misunderstood me.

“It’s very nice,” I say. “I like the chintz curtains. You can see the place has benefited from a woman’s touch.”

“There’s been a bit of that,” agrees Seth. “I expect you’d be grateful for a glass of lemonade after your walk?”

“That’s more my scene,” I say gaily. “I’m not a girl for the hard stuff.” Seth looks disappointed and I hope I haven’t offended him. Perhaps he was going to offer me another local brew to accompany the cooling draught.

“A few sips of this will see you all right.” Seth hands me a glass and I raise it to my lips.

“Don’t touch that!” Ruben hobbles in with one hand raised in warning and the other clutching the area in which his fly buttons spend most of their lives.

“Get out of here, you old stoatnangler!” Seth springs forward.

“It’s only lemonade,” I explain, trying to make everybody calm down. I take a sip to prove the point and—urgh! I wish I hadn’t. It tastes sharper than any lemon.

“Now you’ve done it!” scolds Ruben. “You’ve durvilled her divots.”

“No more than what you were trying to do.”

“I would never have used girdjuice.”

“Rubbish! I’ve seen you spattleharness a wench, in my time. And her with only one flobby.”

I wish I could keep pace with what they are saying but suddenly I am feeling very sleepy. It must be all the fresh air. I just have time to put the glass down before it falls from my fingers. I have not felt like this since I last watched Crossroads. I stagger back and feel my shoulders press against the soft down.

“She be fainting, poor little mite.”

“Loosen her crossthwaites.” I am dimly conscious of horny hands tugging down my underclothes.

“She’s still-trolled, you dummock! We’ll have to mudjer her chuff pennies.” It must be my imagination but I suddenly feel as if my blouse buttons are being popped open.

“Champfer her cherygourds.” A delicious tingling warmth spreads through my breasts. It is almost as if they are being—

“Do ’ee fancy first lob of the twatty cudgel?”

“Age before beauty, father. I know ’ee won’t tarry too long.”

“Impertinent young cub. I’ll show you that an old thigh-scuffer still has a few tricks up his smock.”

These strange voices ring in my ears and I hear them as if under an anaesthetic. Ah! Surely that was a booster jab? I feel the drowsy drops sliding into me and my whole system is agitated by the size of the dose. I am being shaken about like a marble on a tin tray. Half asleep yet at the same time, deliciously aware of a hundred strange sensations not unconnected with size and vigour.

“Unhitch yourself, you old prat strangler. It’s my turn with the maypole.”

“Hold hard, son!”

“I’ve tried, father and ’tis not the same.”

I hear the sound of blows being struck, and a groan as a heavy body slumps to the ground. My distress is heightened by a sudden loss of sensation—as if a drinking straw had been dashed from my lips.

“Worry ’ee not, little goosey parts. Succour be at hand.”

The speaker is absolutely right, although I have no idea where he gets his information from. The ecstasy leak is plugged and new waves of sensation bathe me from head to toe.

“Frap your own father would you, you gruntsnitch!”

“Stop your pooking and get the camera!”

“Be we going to need the tripod?”

“Course we be! Don’t ’ee say it be used for hanging vermin, again, or I’ll smite thee with my thonk! Fine art photography, that’s what those fine city gennilmen say they want and that’s a what they be going to get.”

I don’t know what they are talking about but it is good to know that someone cares about quality control these days. I keep my eyes tight closed and continue my journey into hitherto uncharted realms of physical ecstasy. It is difficult to be certain of the reasons for my present happy condition but I suspect that the drink I was given contained some mild form of stimulant.




CHAPTER 5 (#u71fe29b3-4f79-5a6e-b78d-0726783d0026)


Miss Bondage flings down her newspaper. “Bring back the cat!” she snarls.

“Must we?” says Miss Honeycomb, wearily. “It did do poos all over the place.”

“I wasn’t referring to Tiddles,” snaps Miss Bondage. “He must have gone to the happy hunting ground terms ago. I was referring to the wave of delinquency that is sweeping through the country. There are no moral standards left. There aren’t even any immoral standards!”

“Yes, it is sad,” says Miss Honeycomb, adjusting her pince nez and leaning over her petit point.

“It’s more than sad. It’s disgraceful! I ask myself the question: what are we at St Rodence doing about it?”

“And what reply do you give yourself?” says Miss Murdstone.

“‘Not enough!’ The Kung Fu classes were a step in the right direction but since that snivelling little man at the grammar school put a stop to them we have done nothing. I for one am not going to take things lying down.” There is no rush to disagree with her.

“I’m not so certain that the Oriental Martial Arts were a good idea,” says Miss Murdstone bravely. “Nobody bargained for the number of girls who got samurai swords for Christmas.”

“Or stole them from museums,” murmurs Miss Honeycomb. “The Wallace Collection was denuded of its Japanese armour. You could hardly hear yourself speak above the clank of breast plates.”

“It just shows you how much the gels enjoyed it,” says Miss Bondage. “It was the most popular activity we’ve run since ‘The Spottiest Girl In The School’ Competition.”

“The girls certainly have a violent streak,” murmurs Miss Honeycomb.

“‘Streak’!?” thundered Miss Murdstone. “They’re steeped in violence from head to toe.”

“Healthy high spirits, I prefer to call it,” says Miss Bondage, firmly. “All they need is their energy channelled into a public spirited activity.”

“Such as?” challenges Miss Murdstone.

“Such as a Combined Cadet Force,” says Miss Bondage triumphantly.

“You mean, soldiers?”

“Eventually. I think our proximity to Southmouth dictates that we start off with a naval section. The St Rodence Wrens. It trips off the tongue rather appealingly, doesn’t it?” “Knotty”, as the girls call her, has obviously been giving the idea a lot of thought.

“‘Trips’ is the right word,” says Miss Murdstone. I like Miss Murdstone. She is the only member of the common room who will stand up to Miss Bondage. Miss Marjoribanks and Miss Wilton run out of the door whimpering every time Knotty appears.

“The headmistress is enthusiastic about the idea,” steamrollers Miss Bondage. “I have been given authority to take the necessary steps.”

My heart sinks. Miss Grimshaw has been very over-tired lately and there have been fears about her health. The attacks of hiccupping and falling down in a dead faint have become more frequent. We are all terrified that she may have to retire and be replaced by Miss Bondage.

“What are you going to do?” says Miss Honeycomb. The hint of hysteria in her voice is not completely hidden.

“I have already done.” Miss Bondage sits back as smug as a moggy with a small, thin tail hanging out of its mouth. “I have been in touch with Naval Command at Southmouth and organised a trip round one of their destroyers. The Admiralty are enthusiastic about my initiative.”

“You’re not suggesting we take the girls?” Now Miss Murdstone sounds worried.

“Of course I am! What better way to fan the sparks of enthusiasm already kindled into a blazing fire?”

“I don’t think you can kindle sparks,” says Miss Honeycomb.

“Don’t quibble over semantics, Honeycomb!” warns Miss Bondage. “The world is full of hungry young English teachers.”

Miss Honeycomb yelps in terror and because she has shoved her needle into her thumb. “Do the Admiralty really understand what they are letting themselves in for? I mean the last school outing was hardly a raging success, was it.”

“Winchester Cathedral lost its right to be taken seriously once it became subject matter for that ghastly pop song,” sniffs Miss Bondage. “Anyway, most of the alms boxes were returned. I accept that it was unfortunate about the candlesticks being melted down but—girls will be girls.”

“That’s not what the magistrate said. He said it was the greatest single act of religious desecration since Henry the Eighth sacked the monasteries.”

“Fiddle faddle! Why do you always have to dwell in the past, Murdstone? Once we get these girls enthused, unchannelled violence will become as outmoded at St Rodence as your reactionary ideas. I can see them now, splicing the belaying pins and shivering their timbers.”

“My timbers are shivering already,” says Miss Murdstone. “You can take the girls on that boat if you like. I’d rather take a spin round the Pacific with a Kamikaze pilot.”

“Have no fear, Murdstone,” scoffs Miss B. “I had no intention of calling upon your fast dwindling reserves of energy. This project needs young blood.” She looks round the room and both Penny and I nearly lock shoulders in the doorway.

“Come back, gels!” booms Miss Bondage. “Your country needs you.”

“I’m frightfully sorry,” says Penny. “But I only have to look at a sailor to start feeling seasick. My mother once had a very distressing experience with an assistant purser on the way back from India. It was a choppy night in the Bay of Biscay and—”

“I’m not interested in that!” snaps Miss Bondage.

“Oh I am!” says Miss Honeycomb—putting down her petit point. “I like a bit of romance. I always think there’s too much violence and suffering in the world.”

“There’s going to be a little more if everybody doesn’t pull themselves together!” snarls Miss Bondage. “With the authority vested in me by Miss Grimshaw, I am telling you, Green and Dixon, that you have been seconded to the St Rodence Wrens!”

Of course, Miss Bondage is getting a bit carried away as usual, and when we depart for Southmouth dock we are still in civilian clothes. The trip is intended to give everyone an idea of life afloat with the tempting prospect of a naval section being set up when we come ashore. Knotty’s predictions about the popularity of the visit are more than borne out but it does not seem to be the martial aspects of the trip that are pulling them in. The girls sitting three to a seat and coquettishly trying to tip the Securicor men’s helmets over their eyes are wearing enough make-up to keep the Folies Bergères going for a year. As for the smell of perfume, it would be enough to kill the pong in a burning tyre factory. These girls are dressed to kill all right but it is our jolly jack tars they are aiming at.

“They’re always at their most dangerous when there are men about,” murmurs Penny. “And you know what sailors are like. This could be the greatest naval disaster since the sinking of the Titanic.” I don’t feel inclined to disagree with her but at least we have Miss Bondage with us. Responsibility for whatever happens will not be totally ours.

“Wave goodbye to Miss Grimshaw, girls,” says Penny loyally as the coach pulls away. Miss Grimshaw has not come down to the quad but is waving to us from the window of her room. It is unfortunate that the bottle of cold tea slips from her fingers and shatters in the courtyard below.

“Gosh! I hope none of the girls can lip read,” says Penny. “Miss Grimshaw must have been in the services, too. The Pioneer Corps, I should imagine.”

“Most of the girls can’t read books let alone lips,” I say. “Judy, leave that man’s truncheon alone, this instant!”

With Miss Bondage and the four armed Securicor men present, order is maintained until we get to the docks and I am almost looking forward to the visit by the time H.M.S. Trueheart hoves in sight. I have always had a soft spot for the Senior Service—and Players Naval Cut for that matter. It must have something to do with the names. Nelson, Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher, Byng—and Frank Sinatra in On The Town. What girl has not responded to those great names of the sea? I remember how I cried when my first starfish began to curl at the edges.

“Look, girls! Sea gulls!” I say, seeking to awake in them the feelings of excitement that twist and turn through my own eager body.

“I think they saw us first,” says Fiona Fladger, indicating Roxane.

“Use your handkerchief! Don’t pick at it!” I tell her. Oh dear, filthy birds!

“Crumbs! He’s a bit of all right.” Hermione Spragg is referring to a clean-cut young man with a couple of gold rings on the sleeve of his naval uniform. He is striding towards us purposefully—poor fool.

“Lieutenant Bland,” he says in a very upper class accent. “At your service, ladies.” He is talking to Penny and myself but we are quickly brushed aside by Miss Bondage.

“I am in command here,” booms Big B. “Kindly address your remarks to me, young man.”

“Captain Truscott is delighted to welcome you aboard, Ma’am. Please follow me.” Lieutenant Bland’s smile does not lose a watt of its intensity. I hear a desiring sigh and there is an ugly rush for the gangway.

“Back girls! Back! Remember who you are. The flower of English womenhood in bud.” Miss Bondage is no slouch when it comes to treating the lash with cold cream.

“Some of the sailors look awfully young, don’t they?” I say to Penny.

“It’s probably the healthy outdoor life,” says Penny, trying to raise her voice above the wolf whistles—some of the sailors are whistling too.

“Funny you should come today,” says Lieutenant Bland, “We’ve got the Bogsdown Sea Cadets here as well.” Bogsdown is the famous boy’s public school on the other side of the downs and I realise that what I thought were sailors with acne are really schoolboys. A faint feeling of alarm begins to creep over me.

“I didn’t know we were actually putting to sea,” says Miss Bondage.

“What!?” Lieutenant Bland looks about him and then rushes to the rail. The ship is quite clearly drifting away from the quay. As we watch, the gangplank drops into the water and sinks in a stream of bubbles.

At the sharp end, a hawser snakes out like a boa constrictor abandoning the ship and follows the gangplank into the water. Roxane and Eliza are staring intently at something on the other side of the harbour.

Everybody starts running all over the place and there is a loud crunch which I later learn is a small fishing smack—the crew escape with superficial injuries. Quite where your superficial is, I never find out. These medical terms are a dead loss outside University Challenge.

“Steady, girls!” shouts Miss Bondage. “No panic! Come out of that lifeboat, Fiona.”

“Spoil sport,” sniffs Fiona as she scrambles out with three boys. “I thought it was supposed to be women and children first?”

“Where are the children?” asks Penny.

“Give me time.” Fiona tosses a shoulder and disappears round a corner with one of the boys.

“That gel will come to a sticky end,” observes Miss Bondage.

“Or vice versa,” murmurs Penny.

“I’d like you to meet Sub-Lieutenant Brown,” says Lieutenant Bland, introducing a small eager-looking man.

“You work on submarines, do you?” I say.

Sub-Lieutenant Brown looks worried. “No. I’m under Lieutenant Bland.”

“Below decks?”

“I’m talking about rank. Lieutenant Bland has two rings, I only have one. Lieutenant Bland is senior to me.”

“Life is terribly unfair, isn’t it?” I say. “A little thing like that can make all the difference. I remember my Aunt—”

“You’re being over eager,” hisses Penny. “That’s terribly uncool.” Penny is right. I always talk too much when I am nervous. My mother is the same.

“This way, ladies.” Bland and Brown lead the way and we start to climb our first flight of narrow steps. I say first because, by the end of the visit, I feel as if I have been up and down the Eiffel Tower a couple of times. Eventually we approach what is clearly the Captain’s cabin. I am looking forward to seeing inside it but, unfortunately, I never get the chance.

“You two, marshall the troops,” says Miss Bondage firmly. “I’ll handle Captain Truscott.” Leaving our imaginations to grapple with every disturbing implication of that statement she sweeps into the cabin.

“Charming,” says Penny. “Oh well—” She turns round but there is no sign of a single troop waiting to be marshalled.

Just at that moment an attractive but harassed-looking man in a harassed tweed jacket comes round the corner. “Oh my God!” he says. “They’ve barricaded themselves in the engine room.”

“Who has?” I say, knowing the answer.

“Are you from St Rodence? I’m Patterson, Bogsdown. We’ve got to do something.”

“The ship is moving again,” says Penny.

“Who’s driving it?” I ask.

“Yoo hoo! Miss Green!” Hermione Spragg is calling to us from the deck above. “Is starboard, right or left?”

“Right,” says Penny.

“What did I tell you!? Now give me that wheel or I’ll scratch your eyes out!” Hermione disappears from view and I hear thumps and shouts of pain and rage. The ship veers hard to port.

“What are the crew doing?” I shriek.

“Most of them are in the brig, or under armed guard.”

“Armed!?”

“Yes. They broke into the armoury.” He ducks just in time as a twelve-inch gun sweeps over his head and trains on the town.

“Are those depth charges?” asks Penny. She is no doubt referring to the large underwater explosions that are sending tidal waves towards the fast disappearing shore.

“I think so. And it’s the anti-aircraft guns that have just shot down that biplane.”

No sooner has the parachute opened than the door of the Captain’s cabin bursts open and a large red-faced man and Miss Bondage and the two lieutenants fall in a heap at our feet. By the time they get up, the plane has crashed into an oil refinery and flames are leaping towards the sky.

“What is this!? A mutiny or subversion?” sobs the Captain. I notice that he is holding a telephone receiver and three inches of flex in his hand.

“I think the children have become a little over-excited,” says Miss Bondage calmly. “Miss Green, will you pop up and tell whoever is in that gun turret to stop sweeping the barrels around like that. Someone could get hurt.”

“My God! The aircraft carrier!” The Captain’s eyes are hanging out on stalks as we zoom towards an enormous wall of grey metal. This must be the end. Goodbye Mum! At the last second the destroyer swerves to one side and we scrape under that curved bit at the front. There is a horrible grinding noise as one of the anchor chains rubs against the ship.

“Oh, no! Get up to the bridge!!” The Captain scrambles to his feet and all three officers start running towards a flight of steps.

“Is nobody going to show us round the ship?” says Miss Bondage. “How very cavalier.” From above our heads we can hear shouts and excited squeals as the destroyer charges towards the harbour wall. “I don’t know what those fools are panicking about,” sniffs Miss Bondage. “The girls are only practising their slalom turns round those buoys.”

“Amazing how the rail sometimes touches the water,” pants Penny as we cling to the door of the captain’s cabin and watch a filing cabinet marked “Top Secret” slide past us and topple over the side.

“I’m going to be sick,” says Mr Patterson.

“Hold on,” says Penny. “We’re swinging over to the other side now.” Suddenly we find ourselves pressed flat against one of the metal studded walls. Ooh, it is uncomfortable!

“Are we out of the harbour yet?” Nobody has to answer my question because I turn my head just in time to see a man in a small lighthouse standing with his hands over his eyes. The image is suspended before me for a fraction of a second and then whipped away as the destroyer charges into the open sea. Behind us, a grisly funeral pyre of black smoke has obliterated the town.

“What are we going to do?” I ask desperately.

“I don’t know,” says Penny. “Would you recognise the Russian flag if you saw it?”

“I think so. Why?”

“I believe there’s one ahead of us.”

“No!” I follow her pointing finger and there is an enormous boat flying the hammer and sickle. We are heading straight for it.

“That’s the Slobovitch,” groans Patterson. “One of their new Brezhnev class atomic cruisers. You realise what this means?”

“World War Three?” says Penny grimly. Patterson nods and turns his face towards the rivets.

“At least we’re not going to know much about it,” I say, trying to be cheerful.

“If only it wasn’t a courtesy visit,” groans Patterson.

Miss Bondage has slid down the deck and is now forty feet away. “I think the Admiralty are going to get a bit sticky about this,” she shouts. “We may have to approach the R.A.F.”

“Stupid old bag!” hisses Penny. “She got us into this mess, and now listen to her.”

Just at that moment, H.M.S. Trueheart veers sharply to the side and I see the crew of the Slobovitch gazing down at us in amazement as we scoot paSt. I look back to where Miss Bondage was hanging on and—she has disappeared!

“Crumbs! She’s fallen overboard,” says Penny.

“We’d better go back for her.”

“Are you mad? This thing isn’t going to stop until it hits France.”

“Poor Miss Bondage. She was very conscientious.”

“I know, I know,” soothes Penny. “I expect there will be a collection for her.”

“It isn’t going to do her much good,” I say, brushing away a tear.

“I meant a collection to set up a memorial,” says Penny. “Every year someone will throw a wreath into the bomb crater, or something like that.”

The destroyer has now righted itself and seems to be trying to catch up with the horizon. On the deck, Patterson groans.

“We’d better get him inside the cabin,” says Penny. “You minister to him and I’ll try and round up the girls.”

All round us there are shouts and screams and a pair of knickers comes fluttering down from above. They look rather big for a girl and they have a slit up the front. I do hope—

“I think they’re playing forfeits,” says Penny. “I’d better get up there before things get out of hand.” She helps me drag Patterson into the cabin and darts off with a light wave—it splashes her heels as she reaches the companion way.

“Uuuuurh. Are we all right?” Patterson grips my arm like a vice and I can see that he is in an advanced state of shock. The hair at his temples has been bleached white by the sun and the skin is stretched tight over his strong features. He smells of pipe smoke and I take an instant liking to him. This was the kind of clean-cut young Englishman I secretly dreamed of meeting when I entered the teaching profession.

“Relax,” I say. “Everything is going to be all right. Do you want to loosen your trousers—I mean, your collar?”

Oh dear! How embarrassing! Why did I have to say that? I wasn’t thinking about his trousers. It must have just slipped out. Fortunately he does not seem to have heard me.

“I can’t take much more,” he says. “It’s the upper third. They’re driving me insane.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” I say. “It’s lower remove B with me. They’re all trouble makers. I caught one of them trying to saw through a rope in the gym.”

“That’s nothing. One of ours tried to saw through his housemaster’s neck with a bread knife.”

“How ghastly!” I say—it’s an expression I have picked up from the girls. “Was he all right?”

“He sprained his thumb a bit. The knife was so blunt, you see.”

“I meant, the housemaster!” I say. Really, how dim can you get? It must be shock.

“Oh, Rumbelow. Yes he was all right.” Patterson sits bolt upright and his eyes open wide. “Don’t send me back there! I can’t take any more. I survived for fourteen days in the Libyan desert without water—”

“Package holiday?” I inquire.

“No. Plane crash.” Patterson buries his face in his hands. “That was horrible but-but-but Bog-Bog-Bogsdown makes it seem like heaven on earth.” A strange expression comes over his face. “I think perhaps I will take my trousers off.” He starts to fiddle with the catch at the top of his flies.

“I didn’t think you’d heard,” I say. “It was a slip of the tongue.”

“If you like,” says Patterson. “Alistair’s the name. Do what you like but I’m not going back.”

The poor man is definitely deranged. What shall I do? He is now pulling down his underpants and revealing a love truncheon of heroic proportions. It is amazing the effect fear can have on people.

“Lie back and I’ll put this blanket over you,” I say soothingly. “Forty winks, that’s what you need.”

“Forty what!?”

“Winks,” I say, sculpting the word with my tongue and lips. Alistair Patterson lies back. “Oh,” he says, relieved, “I thought you said ‘winks’.”

I try and drape the blanket over him but it is very difficult. It is like trying to throw a tarpaulin over a tent pole.

“You know what my old nanny used to do to send me to sleep?” says Alistair.

“How old was she?” I ask.

“Not all that old, really,” says Alistair obviously thinking about it seriously for the first time.

“I think I can guess,” I say, trying to move away. The hand clamps on my wrist like a handcuff.

“She used to shake down her thermometer at the same time.”

“She must have been a very efficient woman,” I say.

“She was a very compassionate woman.” Alistair looks up at me like an Old English sheepdog—I mean, like he is an Old English sheepdog. Oh dear. What should I do? I would hate to compromise my principles but I do feel that I may be in the presence of a special case. There are so many around these days. To use one’s body as a medicament in a predicament is not the same as indulging in the sex act for mere lustful gratification. I have had this discussion with myself, before. There is no need to feel that my virginity is being compromised. What I am about to perform is an act of the mind. The man now stretched out on the bunk is in an advanced stage of shock. He needs sleep. For deep relaxing sleep he needs the remedial balm of a physical relationship. The kind of relationship he once enjoyed with his nanny. I believe I can do better than that.

Smoothing his fevered brow with my right hand I begin to pop open my buttons with my left. Outside I hear a man’s voice screaming for mercy and a shriek of girlish laughter. I cross to the door and lock it.

“Burnham Scale,” murmurs the figure on the bed. He is obviously delirious. I slip out of my dress and peel down my panties and tights. Poor devil, there is not a moment to lose. Unpopping the catch of my bra, I feel myself swing free and easy and clamber up on to the bunk. For a moment doubts assail me. Am I doing the right thing? I peel back the blanket and indulge in a quick game of grab the zabb. The merchandise under control, I take a swift look round the room and tuck it away out of sight. No point in being untidy.

“Uuuuuuuuuurh!” Mr Patterson is making those groaning noises again.

“Are you all right?” I say. I try bouncing up and down to see if he can still feel anything. When his shoulders come off the sheets I realise that he probably can.

“Aaaaargh!!!” There is a much more positive note to his voice that I find very encouraging. When one is going to this amount of trouble to ease the lot of a fellow human being one needs to know that one’s efforts are being appreciated.

“Is that better?” I ask. A slow smile spreads over Alistair Patterson’s face and he stretches up his hands to fondle my boobs.

“Alistair like nanny.” he says. What a remarkable woman she must have been. One of the old school obviously but not without a few fairly modern ideas.

“Rosie? Is he still in there?” The voice belongs to Penny and is accompanied by a sharp tap on the door.

“Yes,” I say truthfully.

“Well, hang on to him, I think we’re going to land in a minute. You haven’t seen Fiona Fladger, have you.”

“No. What’s happened to her?”

“I don’t know. Nobody has seen her since they broke into the liquor store. I think she—Rachel! Put that sailor down this instant! You’ve no idea where he’s been!” Her voice dies away and I return to the job in hand—or somewhere.

“Are you feeling sleepy?” I ask.

“Nearly!” breathes Alistair. He is biting his lip and his head is straining back against the pillow. Ah well. The darkest hour is always just before the dawn. I grab the brass curtain rail and joggle my hips up and down. It is quite nice really—not of course that I think about that. This is strictly therapeutic. I will never be able to give myself in any union not sanctioned by the nuptial knot—ooooooooh! Control yourself, Dixon.

Below me I can sense that the danger has passed. Alistair is lying back with his eyes closed in peaceful sleep and the tension seems to have left his body—it has certainly left one part of it.

I descend to the floor, cover Alistair with a blanket, and start to get my clothes on. I have just climbed into my pants and bra when I decide to see what is happening outside—a foolish decision as it turns out. No sooner have I opened the door a couple of inches than there is the most terrifying crashing noise and the ship seems to leap about twenty feet in the air. I am hurled out of the cabin and end up sprawled in an untidy heap against the rail. The sky tears by above me and is then filled by a large wooden structure like a giant framework of Meccano. As I gaze up in amazement, a carload of gawping people sweep down a long incline and disappear from view. I am looking at a roller coaster. Where are we? We can’t be—no!—can we? I look over the side and—we are! Slap bang in the middle of a fairground! Oh my goodness. How very inconvenient. I can see that there is going to be trouble about this. Fortunately, we have come to rest against the side of a helter skelter so it will not be too much of a problem to reach the ground.

I return to the Captain’s cabin and pick up the great man’s rubber cushion. Poor fellow. He must have problems, sitting at that desk all day.

All around me I can hear shouts and screams and there are men, boys and schoolgirls running about everywhere—one might be back at St Rodence. I walk across to the helter skelter and climb over the rail. Down goes the cushion and down goes my botty. Let go of the side and—whoosh! Off we go. Almost before I have got used to going round and round I am at the bottom. The coconut matting rubs against my thighs and I am reminded that I am only wearing my bra and panties. Ah well, the French are very understanding about such things.

“Bonjour, Monsieur,” I say. “Je suis très heureuse etre ici dans votre beau pays. Je pense que vos gendarmes sont magnifiques.” The fat man in the striped T-shirt stares down at me.

“Where’s your ticket?” he says.




CHAPTER 6 (#u71fe29b3-4f79-5a6e-b78d-0726783d0026)


“I can’t see what all the fuss was about,” says Miss Murdstone. “People seem to have lost their sense of humour, these days.”

“I think it was the oil refinery that really upset everybody,” says Penny. “Eleven million pounds is quite a lot to laugh off.”

“It must have been, I suppose,” sighs Miss Murdstone. “But there was no need for those people to try and burn down the school as a reprisal. Goodness gracious me! Hardly any of the houses on the estate were really badly damaged. I never liked those houses anyway. Nasty little cardboard boxes!”

“They have so little time to be children these days, do they?” muses Miss Honeycomb, putting down her embroidery. “All these pressures on them to become adults. It’s a shame, really.”

“I think that while schools like ours are allowed to exist we can bridge the gap between childhood and womanhood with a sense of style and purpose,” says Miss Murdstone solemnly. “Our girls’ innocence will never be corrupted.”

Somewhere in the distance can be heard the rattle of small arms fire.

“The upper fourth beating a few coveys,” says Miss Batson indulgently. “I thought we’d confiscated all the sten guns?”

“It’s virtually impossible to lay hands on everything that disappeared,” says Penny calmly. “I was on the telephone to the armourer yesterday when we sent back the torpedo—”

“But surely, destroyers don’t carry torpedoes?” interrupted Miss Murdstone.

“That’s what he told me. I don’t know where they got it from. Anyway, he told me that about half the stuff had been recovered.”

“Just as well that the girls had the foresight to retain a few weapons,” says Miss Murdstone. “We soon put those yahoos from the town in their place.”

“Yes, I’m glad that’s over,” says Penny thoughtfully. “What about those Bogsdown boys?”

“The last truck load went back yesterday.” Miss Batson shakes her head. “I don’t think some of them would have lasted another night.”

“That’s their own damn fool fault for tangling with our girls,” snorts Miss Murdstone. “Personally, I think they were responsible for most of our problems on the boat.”

“Ship,” says Penny.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Green?” Miss Murdstone has taken over as 2 i.c. from Miss Bondage and she bristles convincingly.

“You call them ships,” says Penny calmly.

“Oh, I see.” Miss M. sounds almost disappointed.

“The Admiralty have been very good about the affair, haven’t they?” says Miss Honeycomb.

“And so they should be,” says Miss Murdstone firmly. “Selling the ship to Southmouth Council for that sum of money. It must have given them ideas. I wouldn’t be surprised if they beached every boat in the navy. It saves putting them in moth balls and the return is fantastic. I hear that the fairground takings have doubled, and they must be on a percentage.”

“That only leaves the tragedy of Miss Bondage,” says Miss Natson.

Miss Honeycomb jabs herself with her needle. “You mean, she’s been found alive?”

“Really!” We all wince at such lack of feeling.

“I read about a body being washed up covered in lobsters,” says Miss Batson with grim relish.

“Sell lobsters and return bait,” murmurs Penny.

“There’s been no sign of her yet,” says Miss Murdstone.

“Perhaps the Russians recovered the body,” says Miss Batson.

“They’d need a couple of tugs, wouldn’t they?” says Penny callously.

Sometimes I think that is why she gets on so well with the girls. She is just like one of them.

“Funny you should mention Russia,” says Miss Murdstone, picking up the pile of buff envelopes and solicitors’ letters that comprise the mail at St Rodence. “There’s one here with a Russian stamp on it.”

“Oh, bags I!” screeches Miss Batson, snatching it. With her pig tails, long legs, knock knees and protruding teeth, she makes Joyce Grenfell seem like a Dior model.

“Pull yourself together, Batson!” Miss Murdstone snatches back the letter. “The envelope is addressed to Miss Grimshaw, so I will open it.”

Miss Grimshaw seems to be taking less and less part in school affairs and there are fears about her health. Her fainting fits are becoming more frequent and she seldom ventures from her room except to attend wine tastings.

“It looks like Miss Bondage’s writing,” says Miss Honeycomb, adjusting her pince nez. “Oh dear, oh dear. I knew something like this would happen.”

“It is from her!” says Miss Murdstone. “Listen:

‘Dear Head Mistress, I am writing to tender my resignation on the occasion of my engagement to Serge Rogerov, Hero Of The Soviet Union Extraordinary.’”

“Quite extraordinary,” says Penny. “Is she really going to get married?”

“That’s what she says.” Miss Murdstone runs her eye over the letter. “Yes. ‘Serge finishes his tour of duty on this voyage after twenty years and we will return to Omsk.’”

“Imagine,” says Miss Batson. “Twenty years and he meets Bonders on his last trip.”

“Fate can be cruel, can’t it?” observes Penny.

“Omsk is along way away, isn’t it?” says Miss Honeycomb, sounding more cheerful.

“What are they going to do?” I ask.

“Apparently they’re going to work on Serge’s father’s potato farm. Look. Here’s a photograph of the crop.”

“I think that’s the happy couple,” says Penny. “Though it’s a very understandable mistake. What a fantastic romance. If you read about it in a book you wouldn’t believe it, would you? ‘Washed into the arms of the man she loved’. It sounds like the synopsis of a detergent commercial.”

“She says the key to the medicine cupboard is under the Victor Ludo plaque.”

“Don’t you mean ‘Victor Ludorum’?” I ask.

“Not at St Rodence,” explaines Penny. “Ludo is the only game we can get the whole school to play.”

“And then only if we allow gambling,” says Miss Batson. “It causes so many problems.”

“Last year we had outside intervention from gangsters. There were attempts at extortion and threats of violence,” says Penny.

“How awful! What happened?”

“In the end the gangsters paid up. But it was pretty nasty while it lasted.”

“There’s going to be none of that, this year!” snaps Miss Murdstone. “This year we’re going to have a proper sports day.”

It is amazing how quickly people can change. Miss Murdstone used to be the only member of the common room prepared to stand up to Miss Bondage. Now she sounds just like her.

“You mean running and all that?” says Miss Batson.

“Yes ‘running and all that’, with an invitation going out to the parents. Have you got any objections?”

Miss Batson wriggles defensively. “No, of course not. I was just remembering the cross country, that’s all. Of the hundred and five girls that passed the medical, eighty three went through the gates and the first girl back came in five weeks later.”

“In a Black Maria,” adds Penny. “Thirty eight of them were never seen again.”

“We did get that postcard from Port Said,” says Miss Honeycomb. “Very pretty it looked with the palm trees and—”

“Fiddle faddle!” Miss Murdstone brings her fist down smartly on Jill Batson’s crumpet. “I’m not talking about a cross country. I’m talking about a properly organised sports day, Green, Dixon, that’s your province.”

Penny sucks in breath. “It’s not going to be easy to arouse enthusiasm whatever we organise. If you remember our last sports day, the only event that attracted any interest was throwing the javelin.”

Miss Honeycomb winces. “Poor Miss Marrow. Is she out of plaster yet?”

“I believe she’s doing as well as can be expected,” says Miss Murdstone. “No, I don’t think we’ll include the javelin in this year’s programme. And that goes for the other field events as well. Anything that can be thrown is out.”

“Long jump is all right, though,” says Miss Batson.

“Provided we can find someone who can reach the pit. It was pathetic last year.”

“How about the high jump?” I ask.

“First prize went to the first girl who was able to clear one of the hurdles without assistance.”

Penny shudders. “That was terrible, wasn’t it? The race took twenty-two minutes and in the end we had to lay all the hurdles flat. Even then, half the field failed to finish.”

“And the winner was disqualified for taking stimulants—”

“—During the race.”

“Are you sure you want to go ahead with this?” says Penny levelly.

Miss Murdstone swallows hard. “I have made a decision and there is no going back on it. There is a good deal of untapped vigour in the school. Since Miss Bondage’s departure and the decision not to proceed with the Commando Training Group it needs an outlet.”

Her words are interrupted by another burst of small arms fire which removes three panes of glass at the top of the window. Miss Murdstone moves swiftly and courageously to the shattered casement. Below us, a small girl with a smoking sten gun is picking up the remains of a wood pigeon.

“Right, Deidre! You will write out fifty times ‘I must not fire at birds flying across the face of the school buildings’.” Miss Murdstone turns to the rest of us triumphantly. “There, ladies! I think that makes my point more tellingly than any words. The girls need an outlet for their surplus supplies of physical energy and a sports day will provide it. I will draft a letter to the parents today.”

There is no arguing with her and I secretly curse Deidre Hoareflooting for discharging her weapon at such an inopportune moment. Shooting is forbidden during chapel, anyway.

“We’ll have to run heats and make it compulsory for every girl to go in for three events,” says Penny. “We’ll never get anybody to enter if we ask for volunteers.”

“Are parents likely to turn up?” I ask.

“I’m afraid so,” says Penny. “It’s one of their few chances to be snubbed and insulted by Miss Grimshaw in person. And, when you pay over a thousand a year for the privilege you don’t want to miss it.”

“Do you think she’ll be all right?” I ask.

“She has a marvellous sense of self preservation. If she smells a governor or a school inspector she can sober up in a moment. Parents have almost the same effect.” Penny is so unkind. She is always pretending that Miss Grimshaw is an alcoholic. I don’t think it is nice to make jokes about people who are sick.

“What are the parents like?” I ask.

“All sorts,” says Penny. “They only have one thing in common. They’re very stupid. You’d have to be to send your child here, wouldn’t you?”

“Penny, you’re so cynical!”

“Not a bit of it. I’m realistic, that’s all. They’re also inclined to be rich and lecherous. I’ve known girls in the school who can boast three different fathers on Commemoration Day. Some of the parents get confused and find themselves taking last year’s wife’s children out to tea. I remember Lavinia Pope-Drooley. She went out with the wrong Daddy and married him.”

Really! It is amazing how the other half live, isn’t it? I find all this a bit shocking but Penny comes from that kind of home so she can take it in her stride.

As Sports Day approaches a feeling of tremendous apathy falls over the school. The only people showing any enthusiasm are Penny and myself, for obvious reasons, and the two Saranjit girls who reckon that they are going to clean up everything between them. This supposition is proved untrue when some joker reverses the spikes in Rumna’s running shoes so that they stick up through the soles. This is not a very nice thing to do but there is no need for her to release a hooded cobra in the showers—such a pointless gesture, too, because none of the girls ever use them—the showers, I mean. The only person to go in there is Mr Chaney, the school caretaker, who is trying to grow edible toadstools. Prayers were offered up for him in the school chapel and he is said to be as well as can be expected. The hooded cobra died.

“Obviously the work of a race gang,” says Penny when she hears about the spiking.

“You mean, because she’s Indian?” I say, horrified.

“Not that kind of race,” says Penny contemptuously. “Everyone hates everyone else here, regardless of race, colour or creed. I was referring to the girls who run the gambling syndicates. If a lot of girls back Rumna and she doesn’t run the bookies will keep the stake money.”

“That’s awful,” I say.

“It certainly is,” says Penny. “Thank goodness I’ve got my money on her sister.”

I ignore the implications of this unsavoury remark and concentrate on learning more about the organisation of this most important event in the school calendar.

“Do the parents have tea?” I ask.

“Very few of them. A cup of lukewarm gin is more their scene. Usually it’s a quick look round the school and back to the hamper. The more thoughtful parents know that the more they eat the less their children will have in the weeks to come.”

“When you put it like that I don’t know why anyone should want to send their child to a school like St Rodence.”

“It’s in the blood,” says Penny. “The ancient Spartans used to leave new born babies on the side of a mountain. If they survived they were reckoned to be Spartan material. The English private school system is based on the same lack of principle. Then of course there is the English literary tradition. Schools like Dotheboys Hall and Lowood have persuaded parents that such founts of misery are part of a child’s cultural heritage.”

“Yes,” I say. I don’t really understand what she is talking about but I don’t want to appear dim. “So the parents don’t play any part in the proceedings? There isn’t a fathers’ race or anything like that?”

Penny shudders. “Even worse: there is a parents’ obstacle race. Everybody loathes it but it is a school tradition—about the only one the school has, apart from not paying the fees.”

“Who sets it all up?”

“Oh, Seth and Ruben. They could do it in their sleep.”

“Yes,” I say thoughtfully. Her words remind me that I have not been back to the pav. to pick up my tennis racket. There is something about the old man that I don’t completely trust. He keeps asking me if I would like a glass of Molderberry wine whenever I see him and flexes his elbow in a very strange fashion—at the same time striking his forearm. Sometimes I think I will never understand their country ways.

There is another distressing incident on the eve of sports day when Napum, now a firm favourite for every event in her sister’s absence, withdraws with a pulled muscle. There are rumours that an anonymous letter saying that she would be shot if she appeared at the starting line aggravated the injury. In the interests of preserving peace and quiet it is decided to ignore the rumours.

Two senior girls are attacked with hockey sticks when returning from a wood-collecting exercise and Penny prophesies that we are in for trouble.

“I think tomorrow will throw up some very interesting winners,” she says. “It was stupid of me to back a favourite. I should have guessed they would be taken out before they tucked their gym slips in their knickers.”

“You suspect foul play?” I ask.

Penny looks at me with contempt. “What other kind of play do they know?”

I suppose she is right and, of course, I had the chance to see St Rodence in action when we played St Belters at hockey, but everything is so much more out in the open at a sports meeting, isn’t it? I mean, how can anyone interfere with people when they’re running in the middle of a field? I get the chance to find out during the first event.

It is a fine afternoon by St Rodence standards and only a thin net rain is undermining the proven drying qualities of the slightly sub-hurricane force west wind. The finalists for the hundred yards are at their marks and waiting only for Miss Barton who is wrestling with an umbrella which has blown inside out. Quite a few parents have turned out and can be seen swigging eagerly at their daughters’ hip flasks.

Favourite for the race is Molly McBride, a big-boned girl from the bogs—which is possibly why she runs so fast. In the absence of the Saranjit sisters there seems no one to touch her. She certainly takes it seriously enough and has hammered in starting blocks, something quite unheard of at St Rodence where you are considered hearty if you own a pair of gym shoes.

“On your marks, get set.”—BANG!

The girl next to McBride collapses clutching her shoulder and Penny blows her whistle for a false start.

“I told you we should have got some blanks,” she says. “The trouble is that it’s so difficult to find them for a Luger. Do point the gun up in the air next time, Batters. We’re going to get behind schedule if we go on like this.”

“Stop snivelling, Pelham!” snaps Miss Batson. “It’s only a flesh wound. Goodness gracious me. I’ll have to disqualify you in a minute.”

Pelham refuses to stop crying and is led off to find matron.

“Damn,” says Penny. “I had her down for a place. There goes my each way double.”

“On your marks, get set—” McBride’s great muscular legs knot like worm casts and her shoulders lunge foward menacingly—BANG! Four of the remaining five finalists spring into action but McBride remains rooted to her blocks. She struggles gamely and then collapses flat on her face.

“What on earth!?”

We spring forward to the prostrate McBride and Penny picks up a piece of wire that is running from the starting blocks.

“Cunning little swines!” she hisses.

“Why? What happened?”

“Don’t you see? A current was passed through this wire to set up an electro-magnetic field that held the steel spikes in the girl’s running shoes to the starting blocks. She was like an iron filing picked up by a magnet.”

“Crumbs! You mean we’ve got girls who are intelligent enough to organise something like that?” I ask, amazed.

“It’s incredible what they can do when there’s money at stake.” Penny pats the sobbing McBride on the shoulder. “There, there, Molly. There’s always the high jump.”

Ten minutes later we are waiting for McBride to make the first jump. “Nothing can stop her here,” says Penny smugly. “Hey, wait a minute!” She steps forward and checks that the bar can be lifted. “Just thought I’d make sure that no joker had welded the bar to the uprights,” she says. “There’s a lot of money riding on this one and you can’t afford to be too careful. All right, McBride!”

McBride starts her high, prancing run and then suddenly twists and soars into the air. The Fosberry Flop, I believe you call it. Up, up, up and down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, DOWN!—so far down that she disappears from view. Her scream seems to be dying away in the bowels of the earth.

“Oh my God!” says Penny. We rush to the landing pit and find ourselves looking into a deep hole. At the bottom of it is McBride. Penny’s eyes probe the darkness. “Thank heavens there aren’t any sharpened bamboo canes,” she says. “Sometimes, things get a bit out of hand.”

McBride is hauled out and retires immediately. Poor kid. Her nerve has gone and she wants to be around to count the candles on her next birthday cake.

After the high jump there are no more incidents. Five of the finalists in the egg and spoon race are found to have china eggs nailed to their spoons, and the fifth—an Irish girl—has the spoon tied to her hand, but this is small stuff compared to the serious fixing that has been going on.

With McBride gone there is no point in betting on any event because the contestants are so poor. The quarter mile race is awarded to the girl who got furthest before collapsing and the pole vault is even more embarrassing. The first competitor runs up and throws the pole over the bar. What is worse, most of the parents and girls cheer like mad.

“We daren’t run a dope test at this place,” says Penny. “Every single one would be positive.”

What puzzles me is that although the standard of athletics is abysmal, none of the parents seem to mind. In fact, the longer the afternoon goes on the happier they seem to be. Mr and Mrs Pelham, whose daughter was carried off to the san, seem particularly relaxed.

“Better get the trophies out,” says Penny. “I was hoping the Securicor boys would show up but I think they had enough after last year. Three of them emigrated to Austria and joined the Vienna Boys Choir.”

“You think the girls might steal them?” I ask.

“Not now. It’s got to be real men or nothing with these—”

“I meant the cups!” I say, trying to control my exasperation.

“Oh them! No I reckon you’re pretty safe. Most of the best stuff has already gone. The Securicor men are just here to impress the parents.”

I toddle off on my errand and am amazed at the crowd of parents around the trophy table. They are all talking away animatedly, and when I snatch a glance at the medicine cabinet I appreciate why. Even after the bashing it has had from the parents, it is still full of booze. There is one small bottle of T.C.P., a packet of corn plasters and eighteen bottles of brandy. It is amazing that the cupboard can stay on the wall.

“Hello, darling!” says a large florid man in a city slicker suit who I have noticed looking at me before. “Come for a little drinky, have you?”

“I’ve come to fetch the cups,” I say, picking up the victor ludo shield and reaching out for the other trophies.

“Hey! Hang on a minute, sweetheart. That cup’s in use.” The man snatches back a large rose bowl and I see that it is filled to the brim with a colourless liquid. My nostrils tell me that it is not Adam’s ale.

“That’s gin,” I say.

“With the merest hint of vermouth to prevent it becoming lonely. Tell me, my dear. What form are you in, apart from excellent?”

“I’m a teacher,” I say, absolutely amazed that anyone should think I was a pupil. I mean, it’s so flattering, isn’t it? Even when one considers the average girl at St Rodence.

“A teacher!? ’Pon my soul. Teachers have changed since I was a young whipper snapper. We didn’t have any teachers like you when I was at school.”

“Hardly surprising considering that you were at Dartmouth Naval College, Henry,” says a tall, thin lady with finger nails like sticks of melting sealing wax. She looks me up and down as if measuring me for a coffin. “You’re not trying to take our drink away, are you? It’s the first time I’ve been given one in the ten years I’ve been coming here.”

“Ten years!?” I say. “What form is your daughter in?”

“2E. She’s a slow developer.”

“Captain of Open Cast Coal Mining, though,” says her father, proudly.

“She’s wonderful with horses,” says Mummy.

“Indistinguishable, too,” says Daddy. Mummy taps him playfully with her shooting stick. Daddy screams and falls on the floor. Oh dear. I can see that this is going to be one of those difficult occasions. I do hate unpleasantness. I bend down to give assistance and notice Matron’s feet sticking out from underneath the hall stand. I recognise her by the scarlet bloomers with ‘I love Robin Day’ embroidered on them. She is snoring and clutching a half empty brandy bottle with a baby’s teat on it. It occurs to me that she must have uncovered the booze when attempting to treat Felicity Pelham. How awful! What can I do? I pull her skirt over her knees and try to think.

Suddenly, I have an idea. “Time for the obstacle race,” I croon. “We mustn’t disappoint everybody.” Of course, I don’t intend to go in for it but I feel it will be easier to jolly people along if I make it sound as if I am.

“I’ll follow you, my dear,” says Henry.

“And I’ll follow you,” says Mrs Henry. She is talking to her old man.

“Never missed a race yet,” says another civilised gent, raising the rose bowl to his lips. “By Jove, but this is a damn fine martini. It’s the vermouth, y’know.”

I take a look at the bottle and get a nasty shock. There, amongst the angels and coats of arms on the label it says: “Ruben and Seth Hardakre’s fine old genuine Italian Vermouth—just like momma used to make.” I hope it does not have the same effect as the girdjuice. I don’t like to think about it too closely but I sometimes have a nasty feeling that Seth and his father might have tampered with me in the thicket. It was finding my panties in my shoulder bag that first made me suspicious.

“Off we go!” I say, trying to cloak my worries in gaiety. “Good luck everybody.” I skip out of the front door and they bundle after me like patients escaping from a fire in an old people’s home. This race should be the biggest shambles yet.

“Where on earth have you been?” asks Penny when I get back to the sports field. “It’s time for the parents’ obstacle race.”

“So what do you think they are?” I say, pointing to the jostling crowd of drunks shambling towards us. “Lemmings?”

“They’re supposed to change first.” Penny jerks her head towards a group of men and women wearing overalls and embarrassed expressions.

“It gets a bit messy, does it?” I ask. It is a question I think about a lot in the months to come.

“No ratting! You come with me, my gel.” Henry grabs me by the arm and drags me towards the start line. He is obviously very much the worse for wear and I am almost relieved that Miss Grimshaw appears to have succumbed to one of her periodic fainting fits and is not looking at us. As I watch, a bottle of smelling salts is passed to and fro under her nose. She seizes it and attempts to drink greedily. What a wonderful sense of humour the woman has.

“On your marks!” The first thing I can see is six tyres dangling from ropes. They can’t expect us to go through those!

“Get set!” I try and edge towards the crowd of booing and shouting girls. Henry yanks me back.

BANG! “Tally Ho!” Henry nearly pulls my arm out of my socket as he lurches forward. “Dive!” he shouts.

By the time I realise that he means “through the hoops” it is too late to tell him what I think of the idea. Henry takes off and his features flatten against the side of the tyre so hard that the word “Dunlop” is printed on his forehead. I don’t know which is vibrating more, him or the tyre.

“Help me Henry!” Mrs H. is not a woman who is likely to drown her husband in sympathy. She tries to scramble through the tyre and her skirt splits with a noise like an elephant celebrating its win in a prune eating contest.

“Through the barrels!” howls Henry. He seems to have forgotten about the tyre and his wife. She is now hopping up and down astride a Michelin 380/180—very uncomfortable it must be, too. The barrels are in fact those crinkly oil drums and they are very hard on your knees. Almost as uncomfortable as having Henry behind you when you try and crawl through one. He does not seem to mind what he does with his hands, naughty old man!

“Along the greasy pole. Keep it up! We’re winning!”

Only just, though. It is amazing how keen these parents are. Mrs Henry’s hat has tipped over her eyes and she has abandoned her shooting stick but she is still coming on gamely. The rest of the party I picked up by the medicine cabinet are literally hanging in rags. Beautifully cut Savile Row suits are crumpled and covered in mud and one of the lady competitors has lost her skirt—mainly because Henry helped her out of the oil drum. Beside the course the spectators shout and cheer and throw empty gin bottles. It is just like one of those old sporting prints you see in other peoples houses.

The greasy pole stretches across a deep, muddy ditch and I sense immediately that it is going to cause problems—so do the hundreds of people who are clustered round it. Henry is first to try his luck and makes a brave run. He gets half way across and then his legs start moving very fast without touching anything. The column of water that rises in the air would fill a couple of barrels.

Mrs Henry is next to have a go and soon reveals what a great competitor she is. Hanging like a monkey and totally unruffled by the fact that her black frilly knickers and scarlet suspender belt are revealed for all to see she starts to pull herself across. Alas! The pole is very greasy and Mrs H. loses contact at the same point as her husband. A host of competitors now hurl themselves at the pole and there are a number of regrettable incidents as impatience gives way to outbursts of petulance. I can see where some of the girls get their aggression from. What I can’t understand is why they should be so apathetic when their parents radiate enthusiasm and will to win. I suppose that they must be reactions against all the zeal that was flying about at home.

“Take that, you swine!”

“Strike a lady, would you?”

“If you can show me one.”

“How dare you! I have never been so insulted in my life!”

“With a face like that I don’t believe you.”

In no time at all most of the competitors are struggling in the water and the race has been forgotten. Fortunately, Penny comes to the rescue.

“Forget the pole!” she shouts. “Just get to the other side and carry on.”

I know what she means by “carry on” but it is clear that Henry has ideas of his own. No sooner am I trying to scramble up the steep bank than his hands plunder my body as if trying to find pieces to take home as souvenirs.

“Please!” I say. “Everybody is looking!”

“I don’t give a damn about them. I must have you!”

If I was running fast before, now I really start moving. If the Hardakres’ Italian Vermouth had any girdjuice in it all kinds of unpleasantness could occur. The last obstacle looms up before me. It is an enormous tarpaulin under which the field have to crawl. I have half a mind to give it a miss but the old competitive spirit and the cheers of the crowd will me on. “Knickers! Knickers! Knickers!” they shout.

Unfortunately, this particular chant is as great an incentive to Henry as it is to me. I slide under the sheet which is pegged down at four corners and—“Oooh!” It is not only Henry’s hand probing under the band of my panties that causes me distress. Somebody, it must be the Hardakres who prepared the course, has treated the ground underneath the tarpaulin with the grease that was left over from the slippery pole. It is virtually impossible to move. I struggle desperately but make no progress. Blast it! Why did I ever allow myself to be dragged into this stupid race?

The rest of the competitors pile under the sheet and in a few seconds it is impossible to know who is doing what and with which and to whom. I am touched more times than a mink coat in a jumble sale and so exhausted that I am powerless to resist the brutally crude assaults that are made upon my person. I suppose there are some girls who might thrill to the imagined pleasures of being ravaged by a band of drink-crazed stockbrokers but I am not one of them. More by luck than judgement I struggle to the edge of the tarpaulin and pop out at the feet of Ruben and Seth.

“How do, Miss Nixon,” says Seth touching his forelock and politely moving his straw to the side of his mouth furthest away from me. “I’m very much afeared that you will have to start the obstacle again. We can’t have anyone nangling the vole pelts.”

“Shut up, you fool!” I snap. “If you think I’m going back under that thing, you’re mad. Stark raving bonkers!”

“No need to get your furbelows in a tangle-wurzle,” says Ruben. “They be having a bit of fun that be all.” A glance at the tarpaulin suggests that he may be right. It is rising in the air like a handkerchief held over a group of excited frogs.

“They’re never going to get out,” I say. “You’ve got to stop it!”

“It baint really started yet,” says the elder Hardakre, winking at his son. “What say you we go and help sought them out, eh, son?”

“It ud be favourite, father.” Seth slowly unfastens the huge buckle on his enormously thick brown belt and scrambles under the tarpaulin.

“Scuse I.” Old Ruben nods to me. “See you come Thrap Moultling.”

He too disappears from view and the tarpaulin starts leaping into the air as if lashed by gale force winds. I listen to the happy gurgle and the shouts of the crowd and shake my head. Surely, sports day at Benenden can’t be like this?




CHAPTER 7 (#u71fe29b3-4f79-5a6e-b78d-0726783d0026)


“What a disaster,” says Penny.

“Yes. It was terrible,” I agree with her. “All that cheating and those terrible goings on under the tarpaulin. I didn’t know where to look.”

“Don’t be wet!” snaps Penny. “I was referring to the amount of money I lost on the eight by one hundred yards relay.”

“It was astonishing when that baton blew up, wasn’t it?”

“Astounding,” sneers Penny. “I was expecting that. What I didn’t expect was that the other batons would turn out to be leather pouches filled with frozen water. When they melted and started drooping it took some girls half a minute to effect a change over. That kind of twisted thinking defeats the whole concept of cheating.”

“Don’t worry,” I say soothingly. “It’s all over now. The last parent has been released from the san. and life can return to normal.”

“The ransom money was paid, was it? That’s good. I hate unpleasantness.”

I thought that Sports Day was a terrible flop but, apparently, it was one of the most successful in the school’s history. It was the first time ever that neither the police nor the fire brigade had to be called. Miss Murdstone is swift to take all the credit and to consider new fields to conquer.

“I think we need more occasions in which parents can play an active part in school life,” she says. “They do enjoy themselves so and it helps to give them a sense of belonging. They can actually see where their money is going.”

“Down the drain,” murmurs Penny.

“I find that the ability to lip read is one that can stand a member of the teaching profession in very good stead,” sniffs Miss Murdstone. “You would do well to remember that, Miss Green.”

“Yes, Miss Murdstone.”

Miss M. folds her arms and sweeps her eyes round everyone in the common room. “It is a matter of continuing regret to us all that Miss Grimshaw continues to be in poor health. Her finger on the helm is sorely missed.”

“Amen,” says Miss Honeycomb.

“However, the life of the school must go on and I find it incumbent upon myself to make such decisions as seem to be in the best interests of staff and pupils.”

“We’re all jolly pleased that we now only have to have semolina twice a week,” says Miss Batson, eagerly.

“Thank you, Batson.” A slight frown plucks at the corners of Miss Murdstone’s mouth. “I was in fact referring to matters of slightly greater import.”

“Oh, gosh, yes. How stupid of me.” Batson is becoming Super Crawler. “It was just that the girls were so grateful and I thought that—”

“I think that the Amateur Dramatic Society should be reconstituted.”

A gasp of amazement goes up from around the room. “Do you really think so?” Says Miss Honeycomb. “I mean, after last time—”

“I think we are all agreed that Oh Calcutta was the wrong choice of play,” says Miss Murdstone evenly. “We can’t rely on the good offices of the misters Hardakre in every production.”

“But, Miss Murdstone. So many parents complained.”

“Only because they had to stand. When I say that Oh Calcutta was the wrong production, you must not misunderstand me. I was referring to the size of the parts.” Miss Honeycomb sticks her needle in her thumb again.

“Our girls need large parts.” Miss Murdstone beams round the room. “I like a good role myself and I’m certain that our pupils are exactly the same.”

“What did you have in mind?” says Penny at the end of a long silence.

“Well.” Miss Murdstone attempts to look bashful. “In the absence of finding anything satisfactory, I’ve fallen back on trying to fill the gap myself.”

“You’ve written a play?” says Miss Honeycomb.

Miss Murdstone touches her finger tips together lightly. “In a word ‘yes’. ’Tis a humble effort but all mine own.”

“What’s it about?” asks Penny.

“It’s a whodunnit set in a girl’s school.”

“What a brilliant idea,” says Miss Batson.

Miss Murdstone looks at her sharply before deciding that she probably means it. “Yes,” she says. “That way there will be no trouble making sure that all the girls get satisfactory roles.”

“Quite brilliant,” says Crawler Batson.

“What’s it called?” says Penny.

“The Rat Trap,” says Miss Murdstone proudly.

Penny shakes her head. “It’s amazing but that name rings a bell, somehow.”

“Me too.” I say. “It doesn’t feature a police inspector who arrives on skis?”

“Water skis.” says Miss Murdstone, firmly. “The school is built on stilts in the middle of the Indian Ocean.”

“Oh,” I say. “I made a mistake. This school was nothing like that. In fact it was a hotel.”

“Vole Trap? Guinea Pig Trap? Hampster Trap?” Penny snaps her fingers. “I know it will come to me in a minute.”

“You may possibly be thinking of The Mouse Trap by Miss Agatha Christie.” Miss Murdstone’s voice has more than a hint of scorn in it. “I can assure you that my piece owes nothing to that work. The similarity of title is purely coincidental—and I say that out of deference to Miss Christie. I was thinking of my play years before she first dashed pen to paper.”

“You mean she stole your idea?” says Miss Batson.

Miss Murdstone waves her arms about airily. “I would never dream of saying that,” she says. “It was just one of those occasions on which, unbeknownst to each other, two great artists were waking—I mean, working on the same idea.”

“Fascinating!” exploded Miss Batson. She looks round the room for support but everyone is gazing out of the window.

“I think it would probably be overweaning of me to play a role myself,” says Miss Murdstone.

“Yes,” says Miss Batson.

Miss Murdstone frowns. “On the other hand it could be said that, as the writer of the play, I am the best person to understand the motivations of the principal characters.”

Miss Batson grabs the drift just in time. “Of course, of course. That probably outweighs the other consideration.”

“I think it does,” says Miss Murdstone firmly. “I will have to play Inspector Braithwaite.”

“Does that mean you’re playing a man?” I ask.

“Of course not!” snaps Miss Murdstone. “They have female inspectors.”

“All the men I know are female inspectors,” whispers Penny.

Miss Murdstone looks up sharply. “I find that kind of remark in very bad taste,” she says. “Any more of it and I’ll put you down for an extra week’s art class supervision.”

“I wanted to mention that, Miss Murdstone,” says Miss Honeycomb. “A lot of the girls are complaining about having to work in the quarry.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” storms Miss Murdstone. “We bought them new picks, didn’t we? How do they think we’re going to get the stone for the sculpture classes?”

“But we don’t have any sculpture classes.”

Miss Murdstone claps her hands together in exasperation. “That’s because we haven’t unearthed the right stone yet, isn’t it? Those lorries the girls load are taking the stone away to be tested.”

“Oh, I see,” says Miss Honeycomb. “I’ll tell the girls that. And I suppose the gravel and sand are being removed to clear the way for the mining operation?”

“Exactly!” says Miss Murdstone. “Don’t give any credence to these wild stories that are going around. The girls are only chained together to prevent them slipping down the side of the quarry.”

“Parents are going to be invited to the play, are they?” asks Penny.

“I thought I’d made that crystal clear,” says Miss Murdstone comtemptuously. “Furthermore I think it would be a good idea if we got some famous thespian who was a former pupil of the school to present a prize for the most promising actress.”

Miss Batson claps her hand to her mouth. “Ooh, wouldn’t it be funny if you won it, Headmistress—Oooh! Did you hear what I said? I’m sorry but with poor Miss Grimshaw still so poorly, I can’t help thinking of you as her natural successor.”

It is all I can do to stop bringing up my puffed rice but Miss Murdstone purrs like an armchair-bound moggy. “Thank you, Batson,” she says. “Your faith is touching. Now, can anyone think of an old girl who has made a name for herself on the stage?”

“Dame Sybil Thorndyke,” says Miss Batson eagerly.

“I meant an old girl of the school!” hisses Miss Murdstone.

There is a long silence before Miss Honeycomb puts down her petit point and speaks. “I can remember Muriel Chills.”

“Muriel Chills? That doesn’t ring a bell.”

“I think she’s now called Gloria Van de Bust. I read about her in the paper.”

“The striptease dancer who was prosecuted for causing unnecessary suffering to a boa constrictor!?” Miss Murdstone looks appropriately horrified. “We don’t want her!”

“There must be someone else,” says Miss Batson. “I can’t believe that in a school of this size—”

“Robin Brentford!” says Miss Marjoribanks, who has been helping Miss Wilton with her collection of pressed ferns.

“He wasn’t here, was he?” says Miss Batson.

“No, but Syllabub Brentford is his daughter, isn’t she?”

The thought makes me go all dithery. Robin Brentford whose gorgeous moustachioed mug has had pride of place in the drawer of my bedside table ever since I arrived at St Rodence. The man who made me forget Dr Eradlik of Casualty Ward, my favourite T.V. star. Can his flesh and blood actually reside under the same roof? I feel like rushing round and asking for an autograph.

“Who is Robin Brentford?” asks Miss Murdstone.

Stupid old crone! I could scratch her eyes out sometimes. “He’s the star of The Implausibles,” I say.

“There’s no need to shout!” Miss Murdstone dabs at her eye with a handkerchief. “I’m not deaf, you know. What is The Implausibles? Some kind of television programme?” The poor, deluded old fool does not realise that Robin Brentford is a star. He has opened more supermarkets than she has had hot dinners.

“I believe it attracts a large following,” says Miss Honeycomb. “The girls were most distressed when the television broke down just before last night’s show.”

“So that’s what the flames were,” says Miss Murdstone. “I thought one of the stills had gone up again.”

“Do you think we can get him down here?” says Miss Batson.

“I should think that there can be little doubt of that,” sniffs Miss Murdstone. “The question is, do we want him? He’s not exactly Sir John Geilgud.”

“On the other hand, he’s more like Sir John Gielgud than any one else we have,” says Miss Honeycomb.

“Uuum.” Miss Murdstone looks thoughtful. “I had never considered my work in terms of television. I suppose it could translate.”

“Oh yes. Provided the language is simple enough. I mean, look at—oh dear, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. The man who wrote all those plays. Now what was it? Er—Hamlet. That was one of them. His name began with S. He was very well known. It’ll come to me in a minute. Anyway, his plays are translated into lots of languages.”

When you think that Miss Batson is the senior English mistress you can understand why nobody passed their ‘O’ Level examination. Apparently, only two girls spelt their name right at the top of the answer paper.

“I was not referring to a translation into another language but into another medium,” says Miss Murdstone patiently.

“Strindberg,” says Miss Honeycomb, suddenly.

Miss Batson shakes her head slowly. “No, I don’t think so. It’s no good. I’ll get confused if I go on thinking about it.”

One great advantage of Miss Murdstone ressurrecting the school dramatics society is that she takes over responsibility for everything. Not only does she write the play and star in it but she also casts and directs the actresses. The rest of us run around in the background and try and render all assistance short of actual help. One thing that can be said about Miss Murdstone is that she is very professional. “A real pro” is how Miss Batson describes her, although I would not go as far as that.

“A real pain in the arse” is how Penny describes her and I think that this is nearer the truth. Most actresses, asked to appear on stage as if they had just water skied across the Indian Ocean, would be content to walk on carrying a pair of water skis—not Millicent Murdstone. Uh, uh! For this baby it has to be the real thing. Despite the fact that she has never been on a pair of skis in her life, Miss M. wants to glide onto the stage as if deposited by the fag end of a giant breaker.

After a lot of discussion, it is agreed that she will be towed on by an invisible rope and that a bucket of water will be swilled across the stage, coincident with her appearance, to simulate the wave. It works remarkably well in practice and I, personally, am grateful for any action to break up the unrelieved deadliness of the dialogue. Despite Miss Murdstone’s insistence on large parts for the girls there is little sign of this being carried through into the final draft of the play.

“But, Inspector!”, “Inspector, you don’t mean—?” “Can you explain what you mean, Inspector?” “I don’t think I quite understand what you mean, Inspector.” All these are examples of some of the more demanding roles made available by the educated pen of Miss Murdstone when not writing for herself. The rest of the piece is taken up with long monologues in which Inspector Braithwaite describes her feelings upon first looking into Chapman’s Homer, spending the winter in Italy or hearing the first cuckoo of spring. I keep feeling that I have heard it all before somewhere, but this is probably a subconscious tribute to Miss Murdstone’s ability to engage the ear of the listener.

Penny and I are given the job of helping behind the scenes and persuading Robin Brentford to attend the production. We decide that the best way of attaining the latter end is through the good offices of his doting daughter and it is with this in mind that we troop round to see Syllabub Brentford.

“Stupid old poof!” she says when we acquaint her with the reason for our visit. “It makes me want to puke just to think about him.”

“Syllabub! What a terrible thing to say about your father.”

“He’s not my real father. I shouldn’t think he’s anyone’s real father. He’s Mummy’s number four, that’s all. Why she chose him when she could have had the pick of any broken down alcoholic lecher in London, I’ll never know.”

“Perhaps she loved him,” says Penny.

“‘Loved him’? Mummy loved my father and maybe the one after that but she’s not going to be stupid enough to go on believing in eternal happiness for ever.” Syllabub laughs a hollow laugh. “Did you hear that? It was quite funny, really: you can’t go on believing in eternity for ever.”

“How old are you?” asks Penny.

“Fourteen.”

“Goodness me, but you’re cynical,” says Penny.

“It saves a lot of disappointment. Anyhow, you want me to get the old fink down here for the play? It’s no skin off my nose. He’ll probably fall asleep but that will be nothing new.”

Listening to Syllabub makes me feel old, apart from anything else. I had always thought of dishy Robin as being my own age, not dragging one foot in the grave. Still, these days you are practically qualifying for a pension if you reach sixteen without having a stroke.

Syllabub writes to her stepfather as promised and I am astonished when a letter comes back virtually by return of post—e.g. about three weeks later. It is addressed to me and enclosed in a lilac envelope that smells like the perfume counter of Boots. The handwriting has more swirls and squiggles than half a pound of pigs’ tails. I tear open the envelope and withdraw a sheet of thick blotting paper—at least, that is what it feels like. In fact it is notepaper with the address embossed about half an inch off the paper. “4111 Hollywood Drive, Surbiton, Northern Europe”. A photograph of my hero flutters to the floor as does a lock of hair and a slip of paper. I pick up the piece of paper. On it is scrawled “send the stupid bitch a lock of hair from one of my old toupees and a photograph—preferably mine”. Nice to know that the personal touch still survives in these rough and ready times.

“Dear Miss Nixon” says the letter—I do wish people would get my name right. It’s bad enough finding “Dixon can’t keep her Nixon” scrawled on all the walls without this kind of thing—“I will be delighted to come down and judge your knobbly knees contest. Because I am doing this at the request of my stepdaughter, whose name I have momentarily forgotten, I will waive my normal fee of one hundred guineas, paid in used pound notes while I am pretending to gaze into the middle distance, and content myself with charging travelling expenses which should come to a sum approximately twice that amount. Please do not embarrass me by writing a gushing letter of gratitude. Prompt reimbursement of the sum involved will serve as a far more permanent symbol of your understandable appreciation which it would probably be difficult to convey in mere words anyway. I will arrive at Fudgely Station at 1800 hours with friend. Please inform national newspapers if crowd likely to exceed several thousand. Your humble servant, Robin Brentford (SUPER STAR)”

“He writes a nice letter, doesn’t he?” I say to Penny.

“Yes. It’s good to see that success hasn’t spoiled him. So many of them get big-headed, you know.”

I nod understandingly. “Uum. I suppose we’d better go and pick them up?”

“Definitely. We want to get in there first, don’t we? No point in telling the girls. They’d tear him limb from limb before he had handed in his ticket.”

“It’s a pity about his friend. Some glamorous starlet, I suppose.”

“Certain to be. I know he’s separated from Syllabub’s mother. She left him during the honeymoon.”

I know it is very wicked of me but I can’t help feeling glad that Syllabub’s mummy and daddy are no longer together. It means that Super Hunk is free. I can work my womanly wiles on him without experiencing those twinges of guilt that would accompany every action were the nuptial knot still firmly tied.

On the day of the play every mistress in the school is in some kind of tizzy. Miss Grimshaw is being walked round and round the grounds in an attempt to perk her up after a prolonged bout of over-tiredness. Miss Murdstone is flapping because she thinks that something may go wrong with her precious production. Most of the other staff are involved in the play, and Penny and I are thinking about our appointment with Robin and his lady.

“You don’t think I’ve overdone the eye make-up, do you?” says Penny.

“Not if you can remember the words of Way down upon the Swanee River” I say cattily.

“That’s a lovely jumper,” says Penny. “Which of the fourth form lent it to you?”

“Are you trying to suggest that I’m flaunting my figure?” I say coldly.

“No. I just think it’s a pity that you can’t find some clothes that aren’t three sizes too small for you. I expect Robin has seen breasts before.” Relations between Penny and I become rather chilly after that exchange and the journey to Fudgely is made in silence as well as Penny’s battered sports car.

“I think we should have hired something,” I say. “This crate is not only tiny but it’s nearly clapped out.”

“You can always walk behind it with a red flag,” hisses Penny.

“Don’t you mean walk in front of it?” I correct her.

“I wouldn’t trust myself if you were walking in front of it.”

“Charming!”

It just shows how much friendship means when there is an attractive man at stake, doesn’t it? Penny parks the car between two sets of double yellow lines and we go onto the platform. There are still fifteen minutes to kill before the train is due to arrive so we go into the buffet and watch the bluebottles chasing each other round the curling sandwiches.

“Some of them have been here for months,” says Penny.

“You mean, the bluebottles?” I ask.

“No! The sandwiches. They change the bluebottles every week. They get complaints if they don’t.”

“From the passengers?”

“No. From the bluebottles.”

Half an hour later the train has still not arrived and I am getting nervous. It reminds me of the time the St Rodence Supporters Club Special came back from Guildford. It was nine hours late and only three of the carriages still had their doors on—only four of the girls still had their drawer on, but that is another story.

“It’s not another go slow, is it?” Penny asks the kindly station master, Mr Ahkmed.

“Indeed to goodness, no. If it was a go slow we would be pushing the trains back up the line. I believe that it is merely a natural disaster, look you.” Mr Ahkmed went to Wales for his holidays and found himself much in sympathy with the speech patterns of the locals. Since then he has taken to sticking a leek in his turban and singing “Land Of Our Fathers” as the commuters special pulls in every evening—or every other evening if relations with the Railways Board are strained.

“It is coming. Allah and Carwyn James be praised.”

We look up the line and my heart thumps inside my body like a mechanical gong. This is it! The moment I have been waiting for. I hope he has not missed the train. I think I would leave the platform with me under it if he had. I crane my head forward as the doors begin to swing open and a collection of men carrying umbrellas and briefcases start to push each other out of the way, saying “Do you mind!?” in indignant voices. It seems a silly thing to say because they obviously do mind.

“There he is!” Penny sees him first. A mane of shaggy black hair encircled by a yoke of astrakhan, pokes out of one of the windows and then withdraws. He must be getting his case. A minute passes and the guard blows his whistle.

“What’s the matter with him?”

Penny and I charge up the platform and come level with the appropriate compartment as the train starts to move. Inside, Robin Brentford is sitting calmly, reading a copy of Variety. Beside him sits a blonde youth wearing a green velvet suit and reading a copy of Gay News.

“Mr. Brentford! Mr Brentford!”

Super Star switches on a thousand watt smile and waves a hand indulgently. “Sorry, girls. I never sign autographs while the train is in motion. I might jar my wrist.”

“This is it!” I screech. “We’re from St Rodence. You get off here!” Robin Brentford pales and then springs into action. A few seconds later, he and his friend have arrived in an untidy heap on the platform.

“Oh my God!” says the blonde youth clutching the lapels of his suit. “My nerves have all gone to pieces.”

“Calm yourself, Jeremy,” says Robin. “Worse things happen at sea, as my old wardrobe mistress used to say.”

“She never had to put up with this!” sniffs Jeremy. “If I’d known what I was letting myself in for I’d have stayed at home and tilled the window box. It’s looking like a wasteland!”

“‘Let us go then, when the evening is spread out against the sky.’” Robin takes our hands in both of his and looks up and down the platform. “Where are the crowds?”

I am still wondering about the evening but Penny is swift to answer.

“We thought you’d prefer to travel incognito so we didn’t tell anybody,’ she says.

“Oh.” Robin looks disappointed. “That’s why I nearly went past the station, you know. When I saw that there was no one here, I thought ‘this can’t be the place.’ Are you all right?” His remark is addressed to me. With his long curling moustache and dark mournful eyes he is exactly like his photographs and I am finding it difficult to keep control of myself. I have never been so close to a famous person before.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m sorry Syllabub isn’t here to meet you but she was doing the pools.”

“The football pools?” asks Jeremy.

“No. She was spraying the swimming pools against tsetse fly.”

“Syllabub? Syllabub?” Robin looks puzzled.

“Your daughter.”

“Do I have a daughter called Syllabub? That’s amazing. You don’t know who her mother was, do you? It doesn’t matter. I expect I’ll recognise her when I see her. Come, Jeremy.” He turns to me. “If you can drop us off at the hotel. We’ll only take a few minutes to freshen up.”

“We haven’t booked a hotel,” I say, feeling awful. “We didn’t know you were going to stay the night.”

Robin looks horrified. “One couldn’t possibly bury oneself in the wilds of the country and disinter oneself, all in one day. Provision must be made, my dear.”

“I suppose we could find something at The Lamb and Cuspidor,” I say. “It’s not very grand, but—”

“The village pub. How does that appeal to you, Jeremy?”

Jeremy shudders. “I find the idea positively sick-making. You know I get a bilious attack just looking at the facade of The Hilton.”

I can’t quite make up my mind about Jeremy. He is too old to be Robin’s son and yet they obviously have a very close relationship. At least he does not represent the same threat as a woman. I don’t know what it is but there seems something faintly effeminate about him. I ask Penny what she thinks as we stagger along behind, carrying the suitcases.

“Robin and batman,” she says. It takes me a little while to realise what she means and then I get it. She is making a joke. By the time I get around to asking her what she really thinks, we are at the car.

“We’re not all supposed to get in this, are we?” says Robin irritably. “Remember, I’m a star, not a midget act. Brentford is an easier way of spelling charisma.”

“I told you,” I hiss to Penny. “If you’d listened to me—”

“Shut up!” Penny stops speaking out of the corner of her mouth and we watch the last taxi pull out of the station forecourt. “I’m afraid it’s all there is,” she says, smiling sweetly.

Robin groans. “To think I cancelled a masonic dinner to come here. Come on, let’s get it over with.” He scrambles into the car and then has to scramble out again so that Jeremy and I can get in the back seat. Really! It is so blush-making. We are jammed closer together than a couple of pilchards and my skirt rides up my thighs. I suppose Penny was right about my clothes. They are a bit tight and revealing.

“It’s an awful squash, isn’t it?” I say.

“Uuuum.” Jeremy is a good-looking boy but he seems terribly shy. When I think what liberties some people would take in a situation like this, the mind boggles. Not, of course, that I want Jeremy to behave like that. It is just that a girl likes to know that men find her attractive. Jeremy must be getting a crick in the neck the way he is trying to peer out of the window.

“Do watch where you’re going!” snaps Robin. Penny does not seem to be making a lot of progress in the front seat. “How does this safety belt work?”

“You have to untwist it first. Here, let me.” Of course I do not intend to dangle my boobs in front of Robin’s face as I lean over his shoulder. It just happens that way. Some men might count themselves fortunate, my bust is one of my best features, but Brentford sheers away like I am some kind of tarantella. What is the matter with my fatal allure? Maybe it really is fatal.

“Please drive more slowly!” gasps Super Star. “Remember, you have a million dollars worth of dream fodder to nurture.”

“I’m sorry. We’re going to be late for the play if I don’t get a move on.”

Robin leans forward nervously. “I’d rather catch the second act than the first act up there.” He jerks his eyes heavenwards.”

“The act of the apostles,” says Penny brightly, overtaking a furniture van on the inside—practically on the inside of the furniture van.

“Precisely,” groans Brentford. “Be a love and pass me my pills, Jeremy.”

“I’ve just eaten them all.”

“Drat! How typically thoughtless of you. You’re so inconsiderate I could spit!”

“Sticks and stones!” Jeremy flicks his hand as if trying to jerk it off his wrist.

“Here we are,” I say cheerfully. “The Lamb and Cuspidor.”

Robin looks out of the window and shudders. “Have we got to stay there? It looks like a public urinal.”

“It is a public urinal. The pub is next door.”

Robin shifts his gaze. “I think I’d prefer the public urinal,” he says after a pause.

“You’ll probably have to share a room,” says Penny. “Will that be all right?”

“I expect we’ll make out,” says Robin gruffly. Jeremy does not say anything.

I know it is silly but I feel quite upset at the thought of Jeremy and Robin sharing a room. Of course I have no intention of becoming physically involved with Robin, the whole idea is too stupid for words, but I do like the romantic feeling of him being alone in his room. I can see him in a velvet smoking jacket standing by the open window and puffing his pipe across the moors—or, in this case, the allotment—the shadows from the log fire flickering against the half-timbered walls. …

“Penny, my love. What a marvellous surprise—and you, Rose. Our good fortune knows no bounds.”

I turn to see Guy Hark-Bach and Rex Harrington watching us from the doorway of the snug. I have not seen them since my unfortunate experience during the game of ‘Hunt The Horseshoe’ although I know that Penny still plays regularly. How typical that we should bump into them when we are already committed.

“Have a swift snort, girls,” says Rex.

“No time, I’m afraid,” sings out Penny. “We’ve got to go to the school play.”

“Who are those two queer-looking fellows?” says Guy, lowering his voice so that only people standing within fifty yards can hear him.

“Robin Brentford and his friend,” I say. “You know, the famous actor.”

“His friend is the famous actor?” says Rex.

“Jokes like that aren’t funny,” I say stiffly. “Everybody knows Robin Brentford. You name it, he’s opened it.”

“Oh yes. He’s on the telly when he’s not appearing on the Co-op advertisements, isn’t he? How frightfully amusing. Is he appearing in the school play?”

“Of course not! He’s the guest of honour.”

Robin and Jeremy have gone upstairs and, before I can reply to Rex, there is a scuffling noise and a sharp slap. Jeremy runs down the stairs clutching his cheek and Robin follows hot on his heels.

“Oh God!” sighs Penny.

“Jeremy, Jeremy! I’m sorry! I don’t know what came over me,” squeals Robin.

“You struck me! You struck me!” Jeremy rolls out the words like a carpet.

“Time to be off,” I say heartily. “Room all right?” I don’t have to wait for a reply because Jeremy storms into the street with Robin after him.

“Have a good evening,” says Guy, raising his glass. “If you feel like a change of scene later, pop round to the stables. We’re having a few people in for a drink.” He winks at Penny and nods at me which I find rather irritating. I am not all that much of a wet blanket. I have petted up to the heavyweight division in my time.

“We’ll see,” says Penny. “Toodle pip.”

When we get outside there is no sign of either Robin or Jeremy and it is five minutes before we run them to earth at the back of the gents. Jeremy is in an awful mood and refuses point blank to come to the play. In the end we persuade Robin to come by himself but you can tell that his heart is not in it. They are a funny couple, there is no getting away from it.

When we arrive at the school, the curtain is due to go up in five minutes and I am not happy to see a dishevelled old woman busking the queue outside the Memorial Hall—it is called by this name although no one can remember what it was built in memory of—certainly not the architect, who managed to construct a shape without an angle of ninety degrees in it.

“Headmistress, please!” urges Penny. “Put down that gin bottle and come with us.”

“Just let me give them a reprise of Nelly Dean,” wheezes Miss Grimshaw. “I’ve got another five minutes before it’s Miss Batson and her spoons.”

“But Miss Grimshaw—”

“No ‘buts!’ And I’m not sharing my collection with anyone. ‘There’s an old mill by the stream, NELLY DEAN!!’”

“Who is this disgusting old pile of dirty washing?” snaps Robin. “Will you tell her to let go of my lapels!?”

Oh dear. It is all so embarrassing. What a shame that Miss Grimshaw has to choose this night to have one of her worst turns. Just as well that few of the parents are going to be able to recognise her in her black veil, stays and high heel lace-up granny boots.

“Help me off with the accordion,” says Penny. “It’s amazing where she gets the strength from, isn’t it?”

We manage to get Miss Grimshaw into the art room and stretch her out beside a selection of the new number plates that the girls have been painting for the car maintenance classes.

“Leave her there,” says Penny. “She’ll sleep it off in a couple of hours. I can’t think what the rest of them are doing to let her wander about like that.”

“They must all be behind stage,” I say.

“I hope not,” says Penny. “It would be fatal to leave the hall in the control of the girls.”

“What is going on here?” says Robin.

We don’t stop to explain but leave Miss Grimshaw snoring and make for the hall. As we had feared, Eliza Dunnalot is on the door.

“I’m sorry,” we hear her saying, “those tickets only entitle you to enter as a member of the dramatic society club. The actual seat tickets will cost another five guineas. Do you want the commemoration programme at one seventy-five or are you the kind of cheap skate who would let his wife ruin her eyesight on the ordinary programme we’ve just run out of anyway?”

“Eliza!” Penny’s eyes blaze fire. “Do you understand that this is rank extortion and where’s my share?”

“We’ll try and grease the sides of your pigeonholes so we can get it all in,” murmurs Eliza.

“What a winsome girl,” says Penny as we make our way to the seats of honour. “Do check for chewing gum and poisoned drawing pins before you sit down.”

“My programme is made up of old pieces of the Radio Times stuck together with toilet tissue,” complains Robin.

“You should never have bought it outside the hall,” chides Penny. “There’s notices everywhere.”

Robin looks at his programme critically. “The cover is made from one of them,” he says.

No sooner have we taken our seats in the crowded hall than the light begins to disappear. Penny makes the girl responsible bring it back again and I see Miss Murdstone peering through the curtains towards us. An expression resembling relief flashes across her generous features.

“The curtain should go up any minute,” I say.

Here, I have to confess, I am wrong. The curtain falls down. I feel very sorry for Miss Murdstone because she is standing underneath it and has to remain motionless until the national anthem has finished. She looks like a sun dial with a dust sheet over it. Despite this set back she is swift to reveal that she is a real trouper—some people say that she is a real trooper but this is because of the way she stands. She emerges from the curtain and holds up her hands for silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Before the play commences I would like to say how grateful we are to have with us that distinguished actor, Robin Brentford, who is going to award the Murdstone Memorial Prize for the best actress in the production.” She waves her hand towards the audience and Robin stands up with a loud ripping noise. This is caused by the fact that the back of his trousers remain seated.

“Oh dear,” says Penny. “Fish hooks. I told him to look before he sat down.”

Robin says something which sounds a bit like “fish hooks” and the lights go down.

The set represents the lounge of a hotel in the middle of the Indian Ocean and most of the furniture has been borrowed from Miss Grimshaw’s ante-room—or anti-room as is more nearly the case. I recognise the razor slashes and the particular pattern the horsehair makes as it leaks out of the settee.





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