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Confessions of a Gym Mistress
Rosie Dixon
Jolly hockey sticks, and constant scoring…The CONFESSIONS series, the brilliant sex comedies from the 70s, available for the first time in eBook.Rosie Dixon needs a break from men, men, men – but will she find it as the enthusiastic but totally incompetent Gym Mistress of St. Rodence school?Probably not. From the scandalous school play to the horrific hockey, Rosie is in for a very vigorous round of physical education…Also available: CONFESSIONS OF A NIGHT NURSE, CONFESSIONS OF A PERSONAL SECRETARY.



CONFESSIONS OF A GYM MISTRESS
ROSIE DIXON



Publisher’s Note
The Confessions series of novels were written in the 1970s and some of the content may not be as politically correct as we might expect of material written today. We have, however, published these ebook editions without any changes to preserve the integrity of the original books. These are word for word how they first appeared.
CONTENTS
Title Page (#ubcd5a531-9245-593a-92d1-580bd911580c)
Publisher’s Note (#u01d53bf8-09da-5ad7-b4e3-903109751d9c)
Dedication (#uaaf5ea56-0571-5649-8c6b-c1d0fdd80cfd)
How did it all start? (#u33498d95-25e0-5d59-8e93-89499460a893)
Chapter 1 (#ued8396be-fa40-5206-ac71-9cdabedebfd5)
Chapter 2 (#u461f3000-1e50-56ce-b879-c1ec9ee98c65)
Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Rosie Dixon (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
To Devina, with thanks for all the reminiscences. I am sorry I was not allowed to use them.

How did it all start?
When I was young and in want of cash (all the time) I used to trudge round to the local labour exchange during school and university breaks and sign on for any job that was going - mason’s mate, loader for Speedy Prompt Delivery, part time postman etc, etc.
During our tea and fag breaks (‘Have a go and have a blow’ was the motto) my fellow workers would regale me with stories of the Second World War: ‘Very clean people, the Germans’, or throwing Irishmen through pub windows (the latter apparently crossed the Irish sea in hard times and were prepared to work for less than the locals). This was interesting, but what really stuck in my mind were the recurring stories of the mate or brother-in-law - it rarely seemed to be the speaker - who had been seduced, to put it genteelly, whilst on the job by (it always seemed to be) ‘a posh bird’: “Ew. Would you care for a cup of tea?” ‘And he was up her like a rat up a drainpipe’. Even one of the - to my eyes - singularly uncharismatic SPD drivers had apparently been invited to indulge in carnal capers after a glass of lemonade one hot summer afternoon in the Guildford area.
Of course, this could all have been make believe or urban myth but, but I couldn’t help thinking - with all this repetition - surely there must be something there?
It seemed unrealistic and undemocratic that Timmy’s naïve charms should only appeal to upper class women so I quickly widened his demographic and put him in situations where any attractive member of the fair sex might come across him or, of course, vice versa.
The books were always fun to write and never more so than when involving Timmy’s family: Mum, Dad - prone to nicking weird objects from the lost property office where he worked - sister Rosie and, perhaps most important of all, conniving, would be entrepreneur, brother in law Sidney Noggett, Timmy’s eminence greasy, a disciple of Thatcherism before it had been invented.
One day I woke up and had a brilliant idea. Why not a female Timothy Lea? And so was born Rosie Dixon, perhaps a gentler, more romantic flower than Timmy; always bending over backwards to do the right thing and preserve herself - mentally of course, that was very important - for Mr Right, but finding that things kept getting on top of her. In retrospect I regret that I did not end the series with Rosie and Timmy clashing in a sensual Gotterdammerung, possibly culminating in wedlock. Curled up before the glowing embers they would have had much to tell each other - or perhaps not tell each other.
Anyway, regardless of Timmy’s antecedents and Rosie’s moral scruples it is clear that an awful lot of people - or, perhaps, a lot of awful people - have shared my interest in the couple’s exploits and I would like to say a sincere ‘thank you’ to each and every one of them.
Christopher Wood a.k.a. Timothy Lea/Rosie Dixon

CHAPTER 1
“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
“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.”

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