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Confessions from an Escort Agency
Rosie Dixon
Nice girls come at a price…The CONFESSIONS series, the brilliant sex comedies from the 70s, available for the first time in eBook.There is something more than a little fishy about Sammy Fish, boss of the Nicetime Escort Agency, but Rosie Dixon needs the dough…From Oxbridge orgies to depraved evenings in the embassy, and a less-than-sedate football match, this might be the job that sends Rosie to her knees…Also available: CONFESSIONS OF A PERSONAL SECRETARY, CONFESSIONS OF A NIGHT NURSE.



CONFESSIONS FROM AN ESCORT AGENCY
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 (#u6b970330-f5b3-5364-a81f-b5606b20aabd)
Publisher’s Note (#u34c79c29-3d5d-51a1-b15b-804fa6606799)
How did it all start? (#ua06b98b9-397f-5cf2-a272-48c4b2da2530)
Chapter 1 (#u1bc7e697-2b19-5b94-8420-c8d59899e1b5)
In which Rosie finds sister Natalie entertaining in disquieting circumstances and shares a nightmare drive with faithful boyfriend, Geoffrey Wilkes, and a funeral procession.
Chapter 2 (#u0b4c9211-f352-590d-a16b-e7cb0c75881f)
In which Rosie visits an Oxford college and endures some disgusting experiences at the hands – and other things – of the Hon. Ward-Virgins and his friends.
Chapter 3 (#u8e49b9a2-5c32-553e-979c-ffe42502a280)
In which Rosie suffers an agonisingly embarrassing meal with Sammy Fish, lecherous owner of The Nicetime Escort Agency.
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Rosie undertakes her first assignment – a harrowing evening at the opera with a strange German gentleman.
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
In which a case of mistaken identity leads to Rosie being molested in a mini-van.
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
In which a harmless attempt to make a bit on the side lands Rosie and Penny in a situation fraught with emotional tension and violence.
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Rosie has some photographs – and several liberties – taken by Tristram Bingley, the famous fashion photographer.
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Rosie and Penny undertake an assignment at the Ugawi Embassy and end up becoming the blushing brides of sensual Field Marshal Nbootin.
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Rosie and Penny escort two Dutchmen to an International Sporting Cup soccer match which deteriorates into violence and terrible sexual goings-on.
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Rosie retires to Chedworth Place, a country seat where, regrettably, sex is rampant.
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Rosie behaves in a most uncharacteristic fashion and comes up against a masked stranger.
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Rosie Dixon (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

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

CHAPTER 1
When I get back from St Rodence I am thrilled because Penny has asked me down to stay at her country seat – or rather, her father’s country seat. It is just what I need to buck me up because I am very upset about the school closing down – especially with all the related unpleasantness. (For unspeakable details read Confessions of a Gym Mistress, published by Futura.) Chedworth Place sounds awfully grand and I know that the Cotswolds are very sought after. Mum and Dad went on a coach trip to a place called Bourton-on-the-Water and said that it was very nice except for the coaches parked everywhere.
Where we live in Chingford – or West Woodford as Mum calls it because it sounds posher – is not very grand. Still, it is home and I am glad to be back there, even if it is my younger sister Natalie who answers the door. One has to excuse Natalie her flighty ways because she is going through an awkward age but I do feel that Mum and Dad should take a stronger line with her. This feeling is soon reinforced.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘It’s you.’
‘Who were you expecting?’ I say.
‘Nobody.’
I notice that two of her blouse buttons are undone and that there is a red patch on the side of her neck. I may be wrong but those look like tooth marks in the middle of it.
‘Why aren’t you at school?’ I ask.
‘We were going to have games but the pitch was too muddy.’ She looks over her shoulder nervously.
It has not rained for three weeks but I make no comment on the fact.
‘Do you mind if I come in?’ I say, allowing a trace of sarcasm to creep into my voice. ‘After all, I do live here.’
Natalie shoots another nervous glance over her shoulder. ‘Oh yes. Of course.’
This is so unlike the normal Natalie. She has not said anything rude yet.
‘You’ve got somebody in there, haven’t you?’ I say, nodding towards the front room.
‘A friend,’ says Natalie uncomfortably. She plants herself in front of the front room door but I put down my suitcase and step past her. A boy of about sixteen is sitting on the edge of the settee and staring intently at the telly. I notice that his hair is ruffled and his shirt hanging out at the back. Ten seconds after I have opened the door a picture appears on the screen. ‘He came to watch the television,’ says Natalie.
The boy turns his head for an instant and gives what might either be a nod or a nervous twitch.
‘Do you usually watch ‘Play School’ together?’ I ask. ‘And why only one shoe? Is it so that you don’t damage the carpet when you hop around to Mrs Cluckabiddy’s song?’
‘I had a stone in my shoe,’ says the boy. ‘You trying to be sarky?’
‘She never stops,’ says Natalie turning to me. ‘Do you want a hand to carry your suitcase upstairs? I’m certain you’d like to go and unpack.’ That is more like the old Natalie.
‘Where’s Mum?’ I say, ignoring the hint.
‘She’s gone down the Parkwood Hill Ladies Social Club.’
‘Oh, playing bingo?’ I say.
Natalie shrugs her shoulders. ‘’Spect so.’ She is making faces at her boyfriend and I notice that his shirt is hanging out of his fly. I get a nasty shock for a moment. I am about to go out when there is an enormous bump on the ceiling above our heads. My bedroom.
‘Who else is here?’ I say. ‘What’s going on, Natalie? Does Mum know about this?’
Natalie does not answer but goes to the door and shouts upstairs, ‘My sister is home, ’reen. You coming down?’
‘It’s either her or the ceiling,’ I say. ‘How often do you throw the place open, Natalie?’ Just at that moment there is a ring on the front door bell.
‘That must be Tiger,’ says Natalie.
‘He said he was coming on his bike,’ says the boy, producing a comb from his pocket and running it through his hair. He looks up at me and wrinkles his nose. ‘You don’t fancy going to the pictures, do you?’
‘You going to give me 40p, are you?’ I ask, sarcastically.
‘You want an ice cream as well, do you?’ he says.
‘It’s Sonia,’ says Natalie turning away from the lace curtain. ‘She’s brought some records.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ I say. ‘Does this go on every time you don’t play games?’
‘We help each other with our homework,’ says Natalie’s friend putting away his comb and stretching.
‘What homework?’ I ask.
‘We didn’t have any today.’
‘Natalie—’ I begin. But she has gone to open the front door.
In the end I have to stay with them the whole afternoon. It is probably just as well that I do because goodness knows what they would get up to by themselves. My bedroom is unbelievable: bedclothes everywhere and some hideously spotty youth prancing about in his underpants. The whole thing reminds me of that terrible time when I was attacked by the three greasers (Confessions of a Night Nurse). Fortunately, this lot are easier to control although I do get fed up with being called ‘grandma’. After all, I am still several months short of my twentieth birthday. About five o’clock they disappear as if by magic, and five minutes later Mum comes home. Natalie and I are doing the washing up.
‘Rose, dear! What a lovely surprise. We weren’t expecting you back till next week.’
I give Mum a censored version of the events of the last few days and she shakes her head in sympathy. ‘It’s terrible what they’re doing to the countryside, these days. There’s too many cars as it is. All these roads just encourage them. Fancy your nice school having to go. I think we read something about it in the paper.’
I do remember reading a headline saying ‘School boy gang-raped’ but fortunately this is not the one Mum saw. It was terribly exaggerated anyway and the boy told the doctor that he quite enjoyed it – till he lost count and consciousness. The Lower Fourth always were terribly high spirited.
‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do now?’ asks Mum.
‘She’s going to be a hostess,’ says Natalie before I can clap a hand over her mouth. I might have known that it was an act of insanity to tell Natalie anything in confidence.
‘Not an air hostess?’ says Mum looking worried. ‘I’ve just been reading this book called The Jumbo Jet Girls and I wouldn’t like to think—’
‘Oh no, Mum,’ I say. ‘Nothing like that. Did you—’
‘Going out with strange men,’ says Natalie. I wonder how long you get for killing your sister, these days?
‘Oh no,’ says Mum. ‘You’re not going to sit in some club, are you? The whole thing was exposed recently. I don’t want you drinking all that coloured water. You never know what’s in it.’
‘Natalie’s got it wrong,’ I say. ‘I’m going to be an escort not a hostess. There’s a world of difference. There’s nothing sleazy or unpleasant about what I’m going to do.’
‘What are you going to do?’ says Mum.
‘I don’t know all the details yet,’ I say. ‘Basically, the job consists of providing female companionship for businessmen or tourists who find themselves in London without a wife or loved one.’
‘“Loved one”?’ queries Mum.
‘I meant “loved one” in the loosest sense,’ I say.
Mum’s eyebrows shoot upwards again. ‘I don’t mean “loose” like that!’ I yelp.
Honestly! It is so difficult to explain, isn’t it? I could slap Natalie’s wrist for putting me in this spot – in fact I think I will when I get her alone upstairs.
Why Mum should be so worried I cannot understand. I have never made any secret of my moral standpoint, which is remarkably severe for these lax times we live in. Not for me the casual ‘easy come, easy go’ attitude which characterises Natalie’s approach to relationships. Every time I embark upon any form of contact with a member of the opposite sex I carry with me the realisation that I need to preserve the precious dowry of my virginity for my eventual ‘Mr Right’. How can any girl expect to be respected if she does less? – even more important, how can she respect herself?
But these are difficult times and it behoves one to develop a philosophy which, to those without a keen sense of moral values, might smack of compromise. It has always been my conviction that virginity is a state of mind, and this belief has carried me through many situations which might have placed an unbearable strain on those who had not selected their colours and pinned them to the masthead.
I can think of occasions on which I have lain powerless before the onslaught of some gigantic pussy pummeller and yet been able to endure the situation – nay, even draw some strange satisfaction from it – because my mind was pure from taint. I was able to perceive that I was in a situation not of my own making, or, alternatively, one that I had entered into for reasons other than those of personal gratification. In such circumstances, how could it be said that my virginity – my mental virginity – was affected? When the base Geoffrey plied me with drink, or I intervened between my sister and the greasers, my principle was never compromised. I was an agent of circumstance.
I am sorry to digress in this way but I think it important to get what you feel straight. I am certain that many girls would get much more out of life if they assessed their position and took a firm stand.
‘I don’t like the sound of it at all,’ says Mum.
‘Make up your mind when I get back from Chedworth Place,’ I say. I had expected the mention of such a posh spot to be received with a mild attack of drooling but Mum looks even more worried.
‘Where’s that?’ she says.
‘It’s in the Cotswolds,’ I say. ‘I’ve been invited to stay by my friend.’
Mum follows the trail ruthlessly. ‘Is she something to do with this escort business?’
‘Yes. She knows somebody who runs it.’
Mum wrings her hands. ‘Oh dear. I don’t like the sound of this at all. It’s difficult to know how to put it, but—’
‘White Slave Trade,’ interrupts Natalie, eagerly. ‘They’ll drug you and then you’ll wake up in a brothel in Port Said. Thousands of Arabs will be tasting the fruits of your body at knockdown prices.’
‘Natalie! That’s quite enough of that!’
‘It’s true, Mum. I read about it in the paper.’
‘Not in the Sunday Telegraph, you didn’t.’
‘You’re both jumping to conclusions,’ I say. ‘I’ve known Penny since we were nursing together. She’d never get involved in something like that.’
‘Well, let’s wait and see what your father says. I don’t think he’s going to like it.’ Natalie shakes her head in time with her mother and I could drag my nails down her cheek. The little baggage has always been the favourite, especially as far as Dad is concerned, and it is always me who gets the blame for everything. I waste no time in making my feelings clear and retire to my room in tears. Somebody has been using the perfume that Geoffrey gave me, which does not improve my mood.
Some of you may remember that Geoffrey Wilkes is my long-suffering boyfriend who has stuck with me through thin and thin. I know I treat him badly but he is so eager to please that he turns me right off. If you see a door mat it is difficult to avoid wiping your feet on it.
I don’t know whether it is telepathy or something like that but while I am lying on my bed, and thinking about Geoffrey’s funny little ways, and how sweet he is really, I hear the telephone ringing downstairs – it would be alarming if I heard it ringing anywhere else. Immediately, I have a strange feeling that it is Geoffrey. Amazing, isn’t it? It just goes to show that there are so many things in this life we can never understand. I wait with bated breath as I hear footsteps coming upstairs and prepare myself for the inevitable.
‘It’s your friend,’ says Natalie’s sulky voice from outside the door. Just as I thought! A new eagerness pushes my body from the bed and I trip downstairs rehearsing my greeting. The telephone is lying on the hall table and I pick it up and place it to my lips.
‘Hello! Rose here!’ I trill.
‘Hello. Did you get home without being raped?’
‘Yes,’ I say, bitterly.
‘You don’t sound very happy about it.’
‘It’s not that,’ I say. ‘I thought you were someone else.’ Of course, it is Penny, not Geoffrey. How typical of her.
‘If you’re expecting a call, I’ll get off the line.’
‘There’s no need. I just had a feeling, that’s all.’
‘Lucky you, old girl.’ Penny has a very crude streak which I try to ignore. ‘I was just ringing up to see if you’d like to come down this evening. There’s a train from Paddington at six. I could meet you at Oxford.’
I begin to cheer up. When Dad hears the news about my possible new job he will make Mum’s comments sound like hysterical enthusiasm. I don’t feel in the mood for a long inquest and a speedy departure to Chedworth Place will solve all my problems.
‘That’s very kind of you—’ I begin, trying to be polite.
‘Of course, if you’d rather spend a bit of time with your family, I’d quite understand. It’s just that I got invited to this party at St Peter’s Hall and I thought it might be fun if you came along. Shall I ring you in a few days and—’
‘I’d love to come,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Six o’clock, did you say? Right, I’ll be on it.’ It occurs to me that I am veering to the other extreme of enthusiasm but it doesn’t matter because Penny is already describing the delights that the evening has to offer.
‘… bumps supper, throwing up everywhere, some of the younger dons aren’t bad but they spend too much time postulating.’ I blush at the end of the telephone line. Penny is a great one for indulging in revealing detail. As far as I am concerned, what the younger dons do in the privacy of their rooms is their own business. We live in the twentieth century and provided that it does not hurt anyone else I think that people should be allowed to do what they like.
Despite the questionable behaviour of the junior dons the thought of visiting Oxford appeals to me tremendously. I have always dreamed of going to one of those big balls when everyone dances on the lawns and drinks champagne till the early hours of the morning before climbing into a punt and rowing down to Rochester for breakfast. I wonder if Penny’s party will be like that? Whatever happens, it will be marvellous to see the inside of an Oxford College. By the time I put the telephone down, I am really excited and I can hardly wait to see the expression on Natalie’s face when I tell her where I am going. She will be green with envy. I am on my way to spread the good news when the phone rings again. Curse the thing! I have not got a lot of time to waste if I am going to catch that train.
‘Hello,’ I say, slightly irritably.
‘Rosie? Is that you? It’s Geoffrey here. What a smashing surprise. I was ringing up to find out when you were coming home?’
‘In a few days,’ I say. I wish I could sound more welcoming but I am a bit annoyed at how Geoffrey let me down when he turned out to be Penny. It is a very shabby thing to interfere with someone’s telepathy.
‘But you are home,’ says Geoffrey sounding puzzled.
‘I’m going down – I mean, up to Oxford,’ I say, practising the delivery I will be using with Natalie. ‘I’m going to stay with some people in the country.’
‘Are you free this evening?’ says Geoffrey. ‘I thought we might go to the flicks. There’s a smashing movie called Confessions of a Window Cleaner. Very funny.’
‘Confessions of a Window Cleaner!?’ I say. ‘Do you really think I’d go and see something like that? I can just imagine what it’s like. Nudity and filth.’ How insensitive of Geoffrey to mention something like that when I have told him that I am going to Oxford. He exposes himself sometimes.
‘It was just a thought,’ he says. ‘We could always go and see “Thud”. It’s a fearless exposure of the man behind all the fearless exposures of police corruption and brutality.’
‘Thank you, Geoffrey,’ I say, politely. ‘But I’m afraid my train leaves at six. There won’t be time to go anywhere.’
‘Oh dear. What a shame. I was so excited when I heard your voice.’ My heart softens. He is not a bad old stick. ‘Do you think Natalie would like to see Confessions of a Window Cleaner?’
My heart hardens. Not only insensitive but tactless to boot.
‘Why don’t you ask her?’ I say icily. ‘She’s just popped out to buy a tin of Valderma. She’ll be back in a minute.’ Something about my tone must tell Geoffrey that he has caused offence.
‘Don’t get shirty, old girl,’ he pleads.
‘Don’t call me “old girl”!’ I rant. ‘It sets my teeth on edge.’
‘Sorry, old girl – I mean, look—’ There is a pause while Geoffrey splutters. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t I run you to the station? It’s not an easy journey and it will give us a chance to have a talk. Also,’ Geoffrey begins to sound pleased with himself, ‘you’ll be able to see my new motor.’
‘Not that Japanese thing?’ I say.
‘No, I got rid of that. It occurred to me that it was a bit unpatriotic to run a foreign car when our motor industry was struggling.’
‘What made you suddenly think of that?’
‘Some bloke kept chucking notes through the windows.’
‘I can’t see why that influenced you.’
‘They were wrapped round bricks.’
Poor Geoffrey! He does seem to attract trouble like a magnet. I should be warned really.
‘The doors were very difficult to open from the inside, weren’t they?’ I say.
‘No handles, you mean?’ says Geoffrey. ‘Yes, I think that had something to do with it being made by the people who turned out those Kami Kaze planes.’
‘Uum,’ I say. I am thinking about Geoffrey’s offer. It is a long way to Paddington and a lift would be a big help. ‘Do you think you could get round here in half an hour?’
When Geoffrey turns up it is in an old Daimler that looks like a hearse. I feel that I am going to be taken to Paddington cemetery rather than the station.
‘Plenty of room, eh?’ says Geoffrey proudly.
‘Have you got the other one in the back?’ I say. ‘It’s enormous.’
‘Guzzles petrol but it’s rather a splendid old bus,’ says Geoffrey. ‘Have you got your case?’
Mum pops out the minute that Geoffrey crosses the threshold, because she reckons that he is a wonderful catch for me. ‘Isn’t she a lucky girl?’ She trills. ‘Always gadding off somewhere. My, my. Isn’t that a beautiful old car. Is it yours, Geoffrey?’
‘Just about.’ Geoffrey shuffles from one foot to the other and makes funny faces as if he is trying to swallow something.
‘You are going to be in demand.’ Mum looks at me. ‘You’re lucky that Geoffrey has the time to spare to take you to the station.’
‘We’d better be going, I think,’ I say, before Mum can start calling the banns.
‘Yes.’ Geoffrey knocks the telephone off the table and dives down with Mum to pick it up. There is a painful crack of heads and I walk out and put my suitcase in the car. As I do so, Dad appears looking as if the cares of the world weigh heavily on his shoulders.
‘Are you coming or going?’ he says.
‘I’m going to stay in the country for a few days,’ I say.
‘Is it the holidays already?’ he says.
‘The school had to close down. It was all a bit of a—’
Dad holds up his hands. ‘Don’t tell me. I can imagine. You’re out of a job again, that’s what it boils down to, isn’t it?’
‘If you put it like that, yes,’ I say. Dad’s parents obviously never put him through charm school. He hasn’t even said ‘hello’ yet. ‘I’m going to discuss a new job with the people I’m staying with.’
Luckily, before I have to get involved in any embarrassing details, Geoffrey comes out of the house. ‘Evening Mr Dixon,’ he says, stepping into a flowerbed so that Dad can pass.
‘That’s one of my wallflowers you’ve got your foot on,’ says Dad.
‘Oh, I am sorry.’ Geoffrey takes another step backwards and sits down in the garden pool.
I close my eyes. This does not bode well for our trip to the station.
‘Don’t pull on that—’ Dad’s voice breaks off at the same moment as the head of the stone cherub that was standing beside the pool. Geoffrey tries to replace the head in a number of positions and then lays it on the bird bath the cherub is holding.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ll get you another one.’
I can see the whites of Dad’s knuckles as he clenches his fists. ‘Don’t leave the head lying there,’ he says. ‘It looks like John the Baptist saving Salome the trouble.’
‘Oh very good,’ says Geoffrey. ‘Did you hear that—?’ His voice trails away when he reads the expression on Dad’s face. ‘Sorry again, Mr Nix–Dixon. I’ll–er—’ Geoffrey trips over the brick edging to the garden path and throws his arms forward so that the cherub’s head describes a graceful semi-circle and shatters a cucumber frame.
‘Come on, Geoffrey. We must be going or we’ll miss the train,’ I say helpfully.
‘Get out!’ screams Dad. ‘Get out!!’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Geoffrey. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’ He tries to close the garden gate behind him and the catch snaps off.
‘Don’t touch anything!’ I beg him. ‘Whatever you do, don’t touch anything!’
Geoffrey is shaking when he gets in the car and he tries three keys before he finds the right one for the ignition.
‘She’s a bit stiff,’ he says. ‘I wish that damn fool hadn’t boxed us in behind.’
‘Careful,’ I say. ‘That’s—’ I am going to say ‘Dad’s car’ but after Geoffrey has backed into it there doesn’t seem much point. I don’t want to upset him unnecessarily.
‘Are we all right on that side?’ asks Geoffrey. I wrench my eyes away from the water seeping out of Dad’s radiator and shoot a quick glance at the car in front. Dad has heard the crash and is coming down the garden path – fast.
‘I think so,’ I say. As it turns out, I am wrong, but we only catch the car in front a glancing blow before pulling out into the middle of the road. ‘What’s the acceleration like?’ I ask. Fortunately, Geoffrey is able to show me, just as Dad lunges for the door handle.
‘Very good,’ I say.
Geoffrey glances in the rear view mirror. ‘Why’s that chap lying in the middle of the road, shaking his fist at us?’ he says.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Mind out, you’ll hit this milk float!’
‘Which milk float?’
‘The one you’ve just hit,’ I say, looking over my shoulder. Honestly, I have never left Chingford with a greater sense of relief. If we are going to have an accident I would much rather we had it somewhere other than on my own doorstep.
It soon becomes clear that Geoffrey is in a terrible state and not at all at ease at the wheel of the mighty Daimler. He is crawling along and at this rate it is obvious that we are going to miss the train. The rush hour traffic doesn’t help, either.
‘Don’t you know any short cuts?’ I say, beginning to get desperate. ‘You’ll find it easier in the side roads anyway.’
As it turns out, I am wrong. With cars parked all over the place it is very difficult to manoeuvre and we soon find ourselves going slower than ever. I am rather angry with Geoffrey for accepting my suggestion but I try and control myself.
‘We’ll have to get back on the main road,’ I say. ‘Pull out now! Come on!!’
‘But it’s a funeral,’ says Geoffrey.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘Come on, Geoffrey! We’ll be here for ever if you don’t get a move on.’ Still grumbling, he does as I tell him and we fall in behind the car which has the coffin in it.
‘Lovely flowers,’ I say. Geoffrey must be sulking because he does not say anything. Five minutes later, the hearse takes a sharp right turn and we carry on.
‘Try and make a bit of speed now,’ I say. ‘Surely you can overtake him.’
Geoffrey says something about back-seat drivers but he does as I say – Geoffrey always does as I say – and puts his foot down.
‘Well done,’ I say. ‘I think maybe, next time, you’d better do it on the outside.’
‘I thought he was going to turn right,’ says Geoffrey. ‘Ooops!’ We get past the fire engine all right and I look back to make sure that we have not given any of the men clinging to the side the brush off. I am most surprised when I see another Daimler clinging to our tracks – and another – and another!
‘Geoffrey!’ I say. ‘How awful. They’re following us.’
‘The police?’ Geoffrey stands on the brakes and I see the whites of the driver behind’s eyes as he tries to avoid going into the back of us.
‘No, the funeral party.’
Geoffrey looks over his shoulder and shares my view of the black hats, veils and sombre expressions.
‘Gosh! We’d better stop and tell them.’
‘There isn’t time,’ I squeak. ‘It’s touch and go as it is. Keep going and I’ll attract their attention.’
I should have said try and attract their attention. I have never met such a load of zombies. I wave my arms about and shake my head and point to the side streets and there is no reaction at all – apart from one woman who bursts into tears. The others just stare at me.
‘Here we are,’ sings out Geoffrey. ‘Damn! There’s a great queue of cars.’
‘Go up where it says “Taxis Only”,’ I say. ‘This is an emergency.’
Well, I must say. I am very disappointed in the attitude of the taxi drivers. I had always thought them such a bluff, cheerful lot, hadn’t you? The kind of people who would give you the shirt off their back in an emergency. The lot we bump into outside the station would not give you an old surgical support. I suppose it is unfortunate that five Daimlers follow us into the taxi rank but it is not our fault that people with suitcases start wrenching open the doors and climbing inside the minute they have stopped.
‘West London Air Terminal and step on it!’ I hear one of them shout.
‘’Ere! What do you think you’re doing!?’ says a large man with a red face and a luggage label fastened to his lapel. Before Geoffrey can open his mouth, the man starts dragging him out of the car and shouting ‘Bleeding minicab drivers!!’ Mini cab, I ask you! It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? The Daimler is built like a furniture van.
I am trying to say goodbye to Geoffrey when a very agitated woman dressed in black runs up to me and says, ‘Where’s my Dick?’
For a moment I don’t know what to say. I mean, I am a little overwrought and there are some very funny people about. Then it dawns on me. Dick must be the deceased.
‘I think he went up to High Holborn,’ I say. ‘You shouldn’t have followed us. We’re nothing to do with the funeral.’
For some reason the woman reacts very badly to this and tries to hit me with her umbrella. I know she is under strain but, really, it is a bit much with all the problems I have. Geoffrey is sinking to his knees under a rain of blows and all around me there are scuffles breaking out as the funeral party refuse to leave their cars, people try to scramble into them with suitcases, and cabbies assault the drivers. Sometimes I think that all this stuff about the British remaining cool in emergencies is blooming rubbish.

CHAPTER 2
In which Rosie visits an Oxford college and endures some disgusting experiences at the hands – and other things – of the Hon. Ward-Virgins and his friends.
Of course, the culmination of the whole sordid business is that I miss my train. I am absolutely furious about it and can hardly wait for Geoffrey to regain consciousness before telling him what I think of him.
‘I’ve tried to ring through but the phone is out of order and the next train doesn’t leave for an hour,’ I say. ‘Geoffrey, how could you? You sit there calmly bleeding into that handkerchief and my world has collapsed in ruins.’
I must say that Geoffrey is very good about it. When I have calmed down and the bleeding has stopped he gives his name and address to the police, collects all the pieces that have been broken off the car, and suggests that he drives me to Oxford.
‘You’ll probably be able to catch up with your friend at this party,’ he says. ‘Where is it? St Peter’s Hall?’
I am slightly worried by the prospect of Geoffrey cramping my style but on the other hand, beggars can’t be choosers, can they? Better to arrive encumbered than not at all. The journey to Oxford is quite remarkable in that we do not have any form of accident on the way. Not one teeny-weeny prang. Maybe it is this that lulls me into a sense of false security. I close my eyes and try to sleep but all the time I am thinking of the hundreds of years of tradition and noble breeding that I will shortly be part of. I do hope that I do not feel out of my depth and that Geoffrey does not say anything to let me down. Although he plays tennis for Eastwood Tennis Club and watches ‘Aquarius’, Geoffrey is not as intellectual as he would like people to think. We ask the way in Oxford and find that St Peter’s is between Woolworths and Mothercare and I begin to get goose pimples. Soon I will be setting foot on those flagstones mellowed by contact with the great minds of history. Who knows? – Perhaps Dudley Moore went here?
‘There it is.’
Geoffrey slows down and I suck in my breath. It is just as I imagined it would be: the gold-topped railings, the warm brick buildings, the window boxes full of flowers, the man with shoulder-length hair and a placard saying ‘The Senior Tutor is a Stupid Old Fart.’ – wait a minute! How did he get here?
‘Good, isn’t it?’ says Geoffrey. ‘Where shall I park?’ Half an hour later we have walked back to the street containing the college.
‘Just look at those windows,’ I say. ‘What beautiful sashes.’
‘They are nice,’ agrees Geoffrey. ‘I like the ones with the little dogs and the horseshoes.’
Would you believe that the stupid fool is looking in the window of Woolworths? Oh dear, I feel that he is going to be completely at sea once we get inside the college. We get back to the front gate of the college and Geoffrey puts down my suitcase.
‘Do you know where to go?’ he asks.
I do not answer at once because I am busy looking at a line of men lying against the wall. One or two are reading but most are staring into space. Very odd. We go into a little office and there is a middle-aged man with a bowler hat standing behind a desk.
‘I’m looking for a party,’ I say.
The man behind the desk looks at my suitcase. ‘Are you Fi Fi La Knocker?’ he says.
‘Most definitely not!’ I say. ‘What would a person like that be doing here?’
‘The cabaret for the Rugby Club smoker,’ says the caretaker.
‘That’s what you might call a party.’
‘I don’t think my friend would be going to that,’ I say. ‘She’s not very sporty.’
The caretaker laughs. ‘Neither are the Rugby Club. They haven’t won a game in three years.’
‘Are there any other parties that you know of?’ says Geoffrey.
Bowler Hat thinks. ‘I saw some crates of champagne piled at the bottom of Z staircase. Could be that the Hon. Ward-Virgins is giving one of his soirées.’
‘That sounds much more like it,’ I say enthusiastically. ‘Is there anywhere round here I can change? I’m afraid I missed my train and had to get a lift down.’
The caretaker looks me up and down thoughtfully. ‘We don’t have a lot of facilities for ladies,’ he says. ‘The Admissions Board turned them down flat.’
‘They obviously didn’t like flat ladies,’ says Geoffrey. I blush furiously. I was dreading Geoffrey saying something like that. How could he so demean himself in this temple of erudition?
‘Ho, ho. Very jovial, sir,’ says the caretaker. ‘A joke, eh, sir? Ho, ho. We don’t have many of those these days.’
‘What are those people doing, leaning against the wall?’ asks Geoffrey.
‘Don’t rightly know, sir. They’re either protesting about the quality of the collége food or fasting for the third world.’
‘What’s the third world?’ I ask.
The caretaker shakes his head. ‘I don’t know, miss. But it’s a phrase much used in the college these days. Second only to “fascist pig” in popularity, I would say.’
‘You’re very tolerant,’ I say. ‘Why do you allow that man to stand out there with that rude sign?’
‘He’s the Dean, miss.’ I am so amazed that I can’t think of anything to say. The caretaker comes round his desk and picks up my suitcase. ‘Yes, miss. Times have changed. Still, I think you’ll find that Mr Ward-Virgins keeps up the old traditions.’ He leads the way out into the courtyard and Geoffrey and I follow him.
‘I could groove on your flesh, baby,’ says the Dean but I pretend not to hear him. I knew this kind of behaviour went on at redbrick universities but it is a terrible shock to find that the ‘city of dreaming spires’ is not free from taint. Why have people turned their backs on the old values? It is a question I look forward to discussing with the Hon. Ward-Virgins. We have taken a couple of steps across the court when a first floor window shoots up and a man vomits all over one of those lying below. There are loud cries of ‘Well done, Bertie!’ and ‘Best tonight!’ Needless to say they do not come from the courtyard.
‘That’s the gentleman himself,’ says the caretaker respectfully. ‘His family have been throwing up out of that window for hundreds of years.’
I try to catch a glimpse of the Hon. Ward-Virgins but he is hauled back into the room and the window comes down on the shouts of the rabble below like a guillotine.
‘What a disgusting thing to do,’ says Geoffrey.
Once again I feel a hot flush invading my cheeks. What can Geoffrey Wilkes know of the traditions of ancient Oxford colleges? Anyway, I can remember when he disgraced himself behind a roller at the Eastwood Tennis Club Summer Ball.
‘Geoffrey, please!’ I hiss. ‘If you’re going to behave like that we might as well say goodbye now. I can’t stand any more unpleasantness.’
To my surprise, Geoffrey stops in his tracks. ‘Very well,’ he says. ‘Goodbye. If this is what you want, you can have it. I’d rather go back to Chingford.’
‘West Woodford!’ I hiss. But he has turned on his heel and is marching across the grass.
‘My God!’ exclaims the caretaker. ‘He be walking across Founders Lawn!’
‘That’s bad?’ I say.
‘Nobody walks on Founder’s Lawn save old Ben Clutterbutt who cuts it and he wears ballet shoes.’
Oh dear! Geoffrey has clearly committed a terrible boob. ‘Geoffrey—’ I call out. But, too late. I hear a shout from above and look up to see one of the young men decorating the chapel with toilet paper pointing angrily at my accident-prone friend.
‘’Ware turf-scuffers!’ he shouts. ‘Scrag the blighter!’
‘That’s put the cat amongst the pigeons,’ gasps the ancient retainer by my side. ‘That be young Mr Bellchamber, President of the Boat Club. They’re celebrating in the traditional way because the eight rowed over today.’
‘Rowed over what?’ I ask. I mean, it could have been a weir or a waterfall, or anything, couldn’t it?
Before the caretaker can answer, a crowd of oarsmen appear and surround Geoffrey. I know they are oarsmen because they are all carrying oars with which they bang Geoffrey over the head – all except one little man who looks around for a stick.
‘Duck him!’
Geoffrey is picked up and carried shoulder high to one of the most beautifully carved fountains I have ever seen. It is all nymphs and dolphins and things with spouts of water coming out of their mouths – not other places as you see in some statues.
‘Do look, Geoffrey,’ I say. ‘Isn’t that lovely?’
I don’t know if Geoffrey hears me, and it would probably not have made a lot of difference if he had. He is not very interested in sculpture.
SPLASH!! Geoffrey disappears under the water and a cheer goes up.
‘Row him out, fellows!’ Immediately the oars are slotted in amongst the pieces of sculpture and used as bollocks – or whatever those things on the side of rowing boats are called. It is terribly clever how they do it. The water froths and bubbles and Geoffrey is swept backwards and forwards by the threshing oars until a concerted heave flips him out of the fountain and onto the cobbles. I suppose it is rather cruel but you have to admire the technique – just like a bullfight.
‘You bullying swine!!’ shouts Geoffrey.
The caretaker sucks in his breath. ‘No sporting instinct,’ he hisses contemptuously. ‘They were using the flats of the blades, too.’
I blush for Geoffrey but there is no opportunity to have words with him. Pursued by jabbing oars he runs from the college and into the deepening dusk. The caretaker shakes his head and bends down to adjust a blade of grass. The incident is clearly closed. We continue our journey in silence and have entered a smaller court when my guide stops outside a heavy wooden door.
‘This is the domestic bursar’s cloakroom,’ he says. ‘You can change in here. The lock’s not very good but don’t worry, I’ll keep watch.’
He is as good as his word and in fact, even puts his head round the door on a number of occasions to make sure that I am all right. I am touched by such consideration and do hope that I am not causing the good man too much inconvenience. At one stage, when I am changing my tights, he begins to groan in a most alarming manner and I notice that his right hand is shaking fit to break off. Fortunately the spasm soon passes and he accepts gratefully the glass of water I hand him. Less fortunately, he jerks most of it over the floor before he can convey it to his mouth.
While I put the finishing touches to my make-up it occurs to me that I have taken a lot for granted in imagining that I will find Penny at the Hon. Ward-Virgins’ party. On the other hand I am certain that someone will know of her whereabouts and the chance to see how a real gentleman lives is one that I am unable to resist. Just a glimpse will be enough.
The caretaker shows me to the bottom of Z Staircase and I leave him breathing deeply with his head resting against his arm, and go up the narrow flight of stone stairs. The noise that greets my ears suggests that a party is in full swing and my senses quicken in anticipation. The day has been so full of unpleasant incidents that I feel more than overdue for a little pleasure.
I reach the head of the stairs and am about to approach the door in front of me when it bursts open and a man staggers out holding a champagne bottle. He raises it to his lips, tilts the last drops on to his chin and then sinks slowly to his knees and rolls down the stairs.
‘Are you all right?’ I call after him, but he does not answer.
‘Another wench, by God!’ The man looking me up and down approvingly is wearing a lace choker, a long velvet jacket and knee breeches. He is very handsome and his shoulder length hair hangs in ringlets. ‘I’ll plumb your flanks before the night is out,’ he says fiercely. ‘You’d better go and change, we’re nearly ready for the huntin’.’
‘I’m looking for my friend Penelope Green,’ I say, not really understanding what he is talking about.
‘’Spect she’s in there with the rest of the fillies.’ He leads me into the room and whispers into my ear. ‘Stay by the south wall.’ He winks and pushes me through a door leading off the main room. I only have time to catch a glimpse of a jostling group of young men swilling champagne and then the door closes behind me.
I am in a room with about half a dozen girls all in various stages of undress. A number of long white robes are hanging from the walls and it becomes obvious that the girls are changing into them. What rather surprises me is that they are stripping completely naked before doing so. There is no sign of Penny.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask.
‘We’re changing for the hunt, of course,’ says one buxom creature who is anointing the valley between her generous breasts with perfume.
‘The hunt?’
‘In the deer park. Don’t say you’ve never done it before? Who introduced you?’
‘My friend Penny invited me to a party here.’
‘Penny? Never heard of her. Still it doesn’t matter. You’re here, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose I am,’ I say. ‘Tell me, what happens?’
‘It’s not a question of “what”, it’s a question of how many times,’ says another girl.
‘It gives the young gentlemen pleasure, that’s the main thing,’ says a pretty blonde girl adjusting the fall line of her dress by raising it and letting it drop to the ground.
‘And it’s been going on for hundreds of years,’ says the first speaker. ‘Every time I take a tumble I feel like a part of history.’
The others nod in agreement and I feel a new excitement. What a stroke of luck. I love ritual and it looks as if I am going to take part in some.
‘You’ll have to show me what to do,’ I say. The other girls laugh and clap their hands to their mouths.
‘Lawks a mercy,’ says the pretty blonde. ‘You’re a bright spark and no mistake. You’ve no need to do anything. You just keep running, my girl. All the doing is taken care of.’
I would like to ask more questions but the door flies open and a young man with a shiny face and a glass of champagne sways backwards and forwards in front of us.
‘Right, jades! Your moment has arrived,’ he barks. ‘To the park with you and we’ll seek you out when we’ve quaffed another jeroboam of bubbly.’ He staggers across the room and unbolts a door which gives onto a flight of stone stairs. I catch a glimpse of a moonlit garden and then the exit is blocked by the escaping girls. Giggling and shrieking, they flee into the night. How exciting it all is. I can’t wait to start playing. ‘You’re slow, wench. Do you need any help to shed your garments?’
Before I can tell him to keep his hands to himself, the man has started to rip open my blouse! Like a food-crazed porker he exposes the ripe fruit of my breasts and buries his face in my bosom. I know I am probably being prudish but this does seem a little much. We have not even been introduced.
‘Hands off the merchandise, Rollo, the sale has yet to begin.’ My rescuer, for so he proves, is the good-looking man who greeted me when I arrived at the party. He seizes my attacker by the shoulders and sends him reeling out of the room.
‘Thank you so much,’ I say. ‘Tell me—’
‘Two minutes, no more,’ interrupts my deliverer. ‘Change swiftly. I can hold them back only with the greatest difficulty – myself included.’ He delivers a smacking kiss to each of my unprotected breasts and retreats from the room. A trifle forward, I think to myself, but his heart is obviously in the right place – to say nothing of another part of the body that thrust itself against me.
Deciding that I must not be a spoilsport I strip down to my panties and put on one of the robes that is remaining. I do not want to strip completely naked in case I catch a chill. These summer nights can be very deceptive.
‘Thirty seconds!!’ A great cheer goes up and I hear bodies jostling for position against the door. The whole proceedings are obviously some kind of hide and seek. I wonder if there is a prize for the last one to be caught? An untouched glass of champagne lies on a silver salver and I knock it back in one impulsive gesture and throw the empty glass over my shoulder. What fun! I have always wanted to do that. Feeling delightfully light-headed, I skip down the steps and into the garden. There is no sign of the other girls and I imagine that they must have found all the best places. Never mind. It is not winning but taking a part that matters as they say on the football specials.
The grass is long and the dew feels cold against my legs. I am heading towards a clump of trees but I catch my foot in a trailing root and sprawl full length. No sooner have I touched the ground than a great shout goes up and I hear what I remember from one of those Alan Whicker programmes as being hunting horns. ‘Tally Ho!’, ‘View Halloo!!’ I raise my head far enough to see men running in all directions. Some moving fast, some barely able to set one foot in front of the other. One man remains draped over the balustrade at the top of the staircase as if hung out to dry.
‘Got you!’
I think that the man must be talking to me but he has fallen to his knees half a dozen paces away. I see a flash of white as he roughly pulls a girl to a sitting position and launches himself onto her lips. His hands start off against her cheeks but then drop down to pull at her robe. As I watch in amazement he hobbles forward on his knees and proceeds to tug open the front of his knee breeches. The girl sinks back so that her shoulders are flat against the ground and – do my eyes deceive me!? Can this be true? Sexual intercourse is being joined! How awful. Fancy taking advantage of an innocent game to behave like that. I cannot lie where I am and watch one of my sisters being so shamefully abused.
‘Leave her alone, you brute!’ I shout, and springing to my feet race to the rescue. An instant after I have formed the resolve I am raining blows on the rapist’s shoulders but he brushes me away as if I am a fly.
‘Hold your horses, wench,’ he cries. ‘I’ll accommodate your overpowering lust in a few minutes.’
‘That’s right, you take your turn,’ says an angry female voice from beneath him. ‘There’s plenty to go round.’
No sooner have I started to puzzle at these words than there is the sound of heavy breathing behind me and two figures loom out of the darkness.
‘Spare mount,’ says one of them cheerfully. ‘Do you want to test the stirrups first, Max?’
‘I’ll watch your form, old lad,’ says his fellow.
‘Look,’ I begin. ‘Are you going to allow—’ Before I can say another word I am swept off my feet and find myself deposited on the ground like a discarded dust sheet. The descent temporarily winds me and when I try to rise I find the manoeuvre thwarted by the weight of the first newcomer.
‘Get off me!’ I shout.
‘Frisky little filly,’ observes the gent in question. ‘I’ll wager this is her first pummelling of the eve.’
‘No doubt of it,’ agrees his companion. ‘See. She still sports her wrapping.’
I imagine that the brute is alluding to my panties which have been revealed in the struggle.
‘She’s a trifle over-excited,’ says my first attacker. ‘Overwhelmed by eagerness, no doubt. Rest your knees on her shoulders so that I can prepare her for the joust.’
‘My pleasure, Rollo.’
That a man bearing the name of one of my favourite sweets could behave in such a despicable fashion is beyond my comprehension. I attempt to call out, but my robe is pulled over my head and serves to muffle my shouts.
‘Peel her, Rollo.’
I wriggle and writhe but to no avail. Powerful hands fall upon my prettily patterned panties and rip them away as if they had been made of paper. In the circumstances I wish that they had been. The cost of lingerie these days makes it difficult to absorb the loss of items destroyed in such wanton fashion.
‘Fine evening for it, Max.’
‘One of the best I can remember, Rollo, old sport.’
‘I thought the champers could have come a little sharper to the tongue.’
‘Quantity rather than quality.’
‘’Tis the same with everything, these days – and now, my little game cock!’
Quite which game cock he is referring to I do not know. My own feeling is that it is not his own organ because this, though game, is anything but little. His knees press against my shuddering thighs and I receive a monstrous injection of love truncheon that makes me suck in a mouthful of muslin and near choke myself. Regrettably, my coughing spasm is construed as a sign of enthusiasm for the sordid attack that is being made upon my person and my ravisher attempts to harness his thrusts to the tremors that run through my body. He must be a big brute because the thwack of his gonads against my posterior is like the blow from an open hand.
After what seems an eternity, my attacker releases a low shuddering moan and collapses on top of me. Regrettably, this is not the first time that I have found myself in the miserable situation that currently confronts me and I know that the beast between my thighs has discharged his responsibility to his gender.
‘Well rode, sir!’ exults his friend. ‘I take it you now wish to relinquish the saddle?’
‘Hold hard, Max,’ gasps my attacker.
‘Exactly what I find myself in the position of doing,’ says the second villain cheerily. ‘Step aside, I beg you.’
No sooner has the pressure on my shoulders slackened than a new force invades my thighs. I hardly have time to flex my aching limbs before they are forced to withstand a second buffeting. How differently this evening has turned out from what I had imagined. I had entertained the possibility of a chaste kiss beside the buttery but nothing like this orgy. It might be a Young Conservative’s dance but for the champagne. Just when I feel that I can take no more, my second ravisher imitates his fellow’s cry and lies panting by my side. For the first time in twenty minutes there is no restraining force holding me down. I wait no longer but pluck away the robe that covers my face and scramble to my knees.
‘Off to find new prey so soon?’ says the man who is standing up and stuffing his shirt into his breeches. ‘Damn me but you’re a sporty little minx!’
‘Indeed,’ says his fellow. ‘For me, it’s a bottle of champers that beckons.’
I listen to no more but take to my heels and flee into the darkness. Whatever I do I must get away from these sex maniacs. I never dreamed that such things could go on in the centre of Oxford. There must be someone I can turn to for help.
‘Ah, there you are. What kept you so long from my side?’ My arm is seized and I am plucked into the shadows. ‘I said the south wall, did I not?’ The voice is as familiar as the hand that is shooting up the inside of my robe. It is the handsome man who received me at the head of the staircase.
‘I was detained – eek!’ I say. ‘Please don’t do that. And help me get out of here! I have been attacked twice.’
‘And how else can you expect to be elected Queen of the Made? Come measure your length on the sward with me. I pine for you …’
I pine for him, too. Though in my case it may be elm. Either way I hit him over the head with a branch and he slumps to the ground. Violence is very much against my nature but sometimes a girl has to say no firmly.
I leave the twitching body and run along the gravel path which winds through the long grass. From all sides come screams and occasional bouts of coarse laughter but I keep running. My last attempt at rescue is still a sore point with me – or possibly, with someone else. The college building looms up in front of me and I see the lights blazing in the room at the top of the staircase. No chance of escape there. Maybe if I strike off to the right there will be a gate leading to the street outside? I leave the path and run along a giant yew hedge which stretches parallel to the college building. Dark shapes loom on all sides and my heart seems to be pumping fear round my body rather than blood. Ahead of me lies the wall and—
‘Got you!!’
If it were possible to jump out of my skin I would be coming to earth half a dozen paces away. As it is, I tear my arm free from my latest attacker and run towards the college. The man must be drunk because I hear him curse as he stumbles when lunging at me. There is a door in front of me and I hurl myself at it. It is locked. I dart to one side and my pursuer bounces off the woodwork and blunders after me. Another door with a large metal handle. This time the handle turns. I push. The door opens. I fall inside and slam the door shut behind me. There is a bolt and I thrust it home like a dagger and listen to my breathing orchestrating the sound of the shoulder that thumps against the door.
‘Spoilsport!’ shouts a high-pitched upper-class voice. ‘That’s the last invite you’ll ever get.’
‘Piss off!!’ I shout. I know it is a terribly unladylike thing to say but I am at the end of my tether. Having been attacked four times and raped twice I hardly know which way to turn – and in those kinds of situations it is absolutely vital to know which way to turn.
‘What ails you, my dear?’
I spin round, terrified. I had imagined myself alone, but this is clearly not the case. The room in which I find myself is high-ceilinged with wood-panelled walls and a fireplace like a low bridge. Before the empty grate is a high-backed chair and on one arm I see a withered hand – I mean on one arm of the chair, of course. I step into the centre of the room and find myself looking down into the kindly eyes of an elderly white-haired man wearing a purple smoking jacket and embroidered slippers. It is a minute before I pick up the courage to speak.
‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘But do you know that your jacket is smoking?’
‘My goodness! So it is,’ he says, jumping to his feet. ‘Mrs Widdly has long told me that this pipe will be the death of me. Your intervention might well have saved my life.’
‘Your presence here may well have saved me from a fate some say is worse than death,’ I say, marvelling to myself at how soon you can get into the habit of speaking in a far more posher way than you are entitled to by your station in life – in my case, Highams Park.
‘The Deer Park?’ says the nice old man, shaking his head sadly. ‘Those young bucks still up to their knavish tricks, are they?’ I see him staring intently at my bosom and look down to see that my left breast has escaped from my torn gown. I hitch it over my shoulder – my gown, I mean – and nod demurely.
‘They’re like animals,’ I say.
‘It’s a bad business,’ says the old man. ‘A damned bad business.’ He must be genuinely disturbed because I can see that his hands are shaking. ‘I think you had best take a glass of Founder’s port to calm your nerves.’
How very thoughtful, I think to myself. This is more like the gracious Oxford I had imagined. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say. ‘Just a small one.’
It is strange how quickly I am recovering from my ordeal. In this quiet temple of learning I feel a thousand miles away from the ravening brutes wandering around the deer park. I cross to the window and look out across the cobbled court. Before me the chapel is now completely festooned with toilet paper. It looks beautiful. Like a freshly decorated Christmas cake.
‘I wonder what they used before toilet paper,’ I say, almost to myself.
‘I think they used a conveniently shaped stone,’ says the old man appearing at my elbow with a glass in his hand. ‘What a funny little thing you are, to be thinking about a thing like that.’
Once more, I find myself blushing to the roots of my hair. ‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘I was referring to the decoration of the chapel.’
I sip eagerly at my drink in order to cover up my embarrassment and am relieved to find that its rich texture has an effect that soothes almost immediately – not so much soothes as deadens. I hear the old man saying something about the chapel being burnt down three times in the eighteen-fifties and then he is leading me across the room by the elbow – at least, I think he means to take my elbow. He is obviously very short-sighted.
‘Adjust your limbs on the chaise-longue,’ he says.
‘I think this settee would be a better idea,’ I say, sinking down gratefully. ‘I don’t know what’s come over me.’ It occurs to me at the time that this is an unfortunate choice of words but I think it best not to draw attention to it. I take another sip of port and find my head drawn back irresistibly to the surface of the settee. How sleepy I feel.
‘Poor child,’ says the old man. ‘You have been through much.’
‘And vice versa,’ I say, swallowing a yawn. ‘I wonder if I ought to report what has happened to the college authorities.’
‘And who did you have in mind?’ says the nice old man. I can feel his gentle hands running over my body – no doubt looking for pieces of evidence that can be brought against people. It is quite nice, really.
‘I think I ought to go to the very top,’ I say.
‘Capital suggestion.’ The old man’s enthusiasm carries over to the speed with which he scrambles on top of me. How strange. I could have sworn – but no, it can’t be.
‘The Master,’ I say.
‘Speak, child. I am listening.’
‘You mean—!?’ I say as the settee takes off and starts to jerk across the room.
‘Yes, my dear. I am The Master.’

CHAPTER 3
‘You’re back early,’ says Dad.
‘A fleeting visit,’ I say.
‘Did you have a nice time?’
‘Lovely, thank you.’
‘Nice house?’
‘Smashing.’
‘Was your friend all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘You’re lying!!’ Dad bangs his fist down on the table and the Bemax leaps into the air. ‘She rang up at midnight last night to ask where you were!’
Oh dear. I might have guessed that Dad was up to something. He doesn’t usually ask me if I have had a good time.
‘I missed the train,’ I say.
‘There’s other trains.’
‘Yes – well, Geoffrey gave me a lift.’
‘Geoffrey!?’ Dad’s face contorts like a breakdown in an elastic band factory. ‘Is that the long streak of rubbish who practically wrote off my car?’ I nod weakly. ‘I’m not surprised he drives around in a hearse. He’s going to end up in one if I ever get my hands on him.’
‘Where did you spend the night?’ says Mum. This is the sixty-four thousand dollar question and I gulp nervously. How can I tell them the truth? I can hardly believe it myself. And to think I used to support Oxford in the boat race.
‘With that swine Geoffrey, I suppose?’ says Dad threateningly. I am about to deny this ridiculous accusation when I think again. Perhaps he would be the lesser of many evils. Geoffrey has always said that he would do anything for me and Mum has a soft spot for him.
‘The car broke down,’ I say.
‘Humph!’ snorts Dad. ‘That’s what they always say.’
‘We had separate rooms,’ I say. ‘I insisted.’
‘Why didn’t you tell the truth in the first place?’ says Mum.
I begin to snivel. ‘Because I knew you’d never believe me. You always think the worst of me!’
‘Stop that snivelling!’ barks Dad.
‘Don’t be harsh on the girl, Harry. You are inclined to find fault if you can.’
‘Those are tears of guilt!’ storms Dad, sounding like Billy Graham. ‘Oh, if I could just lay my hands on that swine!’ Just at that moment there is a ring at the front door bell.
‘Must be Natalie,’ says Mum.
‘If she’s lost her key again, I’ll tan her hide,’ snarls Dad. When I hear him talk like that about Nat, I realise how worked up he must be. Normally he can never find a bad word to say about my beloved sister.
‘It’s always better to tell the truth in the first place,’ says Mum, once he has left us. ‘It avoids so many misunderstandings.’ I am just beginning to agree with her when I hear an angry shout from the front doorstep and a scream of pain.
‘Oh my lord,’ says Mum. ‘What’s happened now?’
We run to the front of the house and I nearly cry out in horror at what I see. Dad is chasing Geoffrey round the front garden. Geoffrey is waving a cardigan which I recognise as mine and shouting something like, ‘She left it in the car, I tell you!’ His face is horribly bruised and I don’t think that all the bruises can have been caused by Dad. In fact, the way Dad is shaping up I doubt if he can have caused any of them. He takes a wild swing with his garden rake and the cherub’s head goes flying again. Oh dear, I know he took the whole of one evening trying to replace it.
‘You swine!’ shouts Dad. ‘Defiler of young girls! Don’t let me ever see you round here again. And if anything happens, you marry her. Is that understood?’
The neighbours’ windows are going up faster than the cost of living and I feel absolutely humiliated. As if I have not been through enough recently.
‘Dad, please!’ I shout. ‘Geoffrey hasn’t done anything.’
‘Get out of my garden!’ Dad does another swing with his rake, the top comes off the handle and lands about three gardens away. ‘Out!!’
Geoffrey looks as if he is about to say something and then shrugs his shoulders and drops my cardy on the hedge. I can see that he is making a big effort to keep himself under control. Say what you like about Geoffrey but he has been a good friend to me over the years. He climbs into his car and, with a slightly embarrassed little wave in my direction puts the mighty machine in gear and reverses powerfully into Dad’s car. It is as if the first time had been a practice run.

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