Confessions of a Babysitter

Confessions of a Babysitter

BY ROSIE DIXON

Contents

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

About the Author

Also by Timothy Lea and Rosie Dixon

Copyright

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

I got the idea from a film. I can’t remember what it was called but it was about this woman saving a lot of children from the Chinese. They marched for hundreds of miles and sang songs. It was very uplifting. The woman was played by Ingrid Bergman or Flora Robson, so you can see it was a serious film. I was visibly moved – especially when the man sitting next to me tried to put his hand up my skirt. Just like that. No ‘by your leave’ or ‘I’m sorry, I was looking for my return half to Chorleywood’. Most of them at least have the decency to drape their jacket casually over your leg first, but not this fellow. Of course, being on a troop ship does make a difference. The niceties tend to be forgotten. Especially when you have been adrift in the Strait of Hormuz for two weeks. It gets hot off the coast of Persia – or Iran if you want to be toffee-nosed about it – and passions run high. Especially when there are only two girls and two thousand men. Every time a man brushes against you he thinks that he had better make the most of it because he might never get another chance.

Anyway, I don’t wish to dwell upon that distressing part of my life. I have already described my career as a WRAC (Confessions of a Physical WRAC) and, apart from a sense of outrage at being dishonourably discharged, I am very happy to be turning my back on a career as a lady soldier. When the next war breaks out I intend to become an unconscious objector and resist passively.

‘That was a nice film,’ I say when the man has been taken away by the Military Police and I have returned to the cabin I share with Penny Green – regular readers will remember that she is my bosom pal and the other half of the two-girl complement of the troop ship. She is very nice but just a teeny bit forward and outspoken on occasions.

‘I thought it was pathetic,’ says Penny. ‘You get more love interest in a party political broadcast on the telly. That chap with the sellotaped eyes looked about as Chinese as Robin Day.’

‘I found it very moving,’ I say. ‘It made me think that I’d like to do something that brought me into contact with children.’

‘Why not get pregnant?’ says Penny.

‘I think that’s overdoing it a bit,’ I say, trying not to blush – I have found that it only encourages her if I reveal how shocked I am. ‘I meant something that involves looking after children. After all, we nearly qualified as SRNs.’

‘Yes,’ says Penny. ‘It would have been a good life if it hadn’t been for the patients.’ (Read Confessions of a Night Nurse to find out just how good.)

‘The trouble is,’ I muse, ‘nearly everything you can do these days needs qualifications.’

‘Except being a tart,’ says Penny. ‘I sometimes think that’s the answer, you know. Find some paunchy old creep to set you up in a sumptuous Mayfair flat and then charge a bunch of groovy Latin-American diplomats two hundred guineas a throw for what you’d gladly give them for nothing.’

‘Penny!’ I exclaim. ‘That’s shameful!’

‘Not if your sugar daddy doesn’t find out,’ says Penny, her eyes sparkling with developing interest. ‘If you didn’t want a slice of the action you could be my maid. I can just see you with a little mob cap and a riding crop.’

‘Please!’ I say, closing my eyes in horror. ‘How can you talk like that after such a lovely film?’

‘You don’t have to use the whip,’ says Penny. ‘Just bring it to me on a silver salver – or maybe a silver slaver would be more appropriate. You could just take the money and pay the police their bribes. Why are you dragging that chest in front of the door?’

‘I’m not taking any chances,’ I pant. ‘Ever since those two men with the stockings over their heads came to read the gas meter I haven’t relaxed a muscle.’

‘We should have smelt a rat when both stockings belonged to the same pair of tights,’ says Penny. ‘They obviously had no idea where the meter was either.’

‘It beats me where they got the tights from,’ I say.

‘Ah-hem.’ Penny smiles. ‘Surely you remember that energetic “Strip the Willow” at the ship’s dance?’

‘The one that was broken up with the fire hoses?’

‘That’s it,’ says Penny. ‘I seem to remember that you were still doing the conga at the time?’

‘It went on and on,’ I say.

‘I thought it would when I saw you leading them into the lifeboat,’ says Penny.

I don’t answer her immediately because my recollection of exactly what took place at the ship’s dance is somewhat clouded by the punch I had at the ship’s officers’ party just before the event. The punch was intended for the First Officer but he stepped to one side and it caught me a glancing blow on the chin. I don’t remember what the fight was about but it did seem to create a precedent for the rest of the evening. Penny is still looking at me questioningly when there is a strange noise from the air conditioning system. This is a rather exaggerated name for the metal shaft that is supposed to feed air into our stuffy cabin. I say ‘supposed’ because it has not been working for days.

‘What’s that?’ I ask.

‘It sounds like something scratching against the grille,’ says Penny. ‘I hope it’s not a rat.’

‘Don’t!’ I squeak. I mean, the thought of rats is enough to make me jump so high I leave my panties behind.

‘Calm yourself,’ says Penny. ‘On reflection, no rat could live in this temperature.’

But she is wrong. To my horror, I see a pair of eyes gleaming from behind the grille and a flash of white teeth. ‘Do not alarma yourselves, liedies,’ says a swarthy Italian voice. ‘Eet eez only ventilatione minetenance at your serviosa.’

Before we can say anything there is the sound of snapping metal and the grille pops out of its mooring. As we start back in stunned amazement, a tousled head emerges from the ventilation shaft followed by its owner’s head and shoulders. I am so surprised that I forget I am only wearing my skimpiest briefs and bra and stand staring at the newcomer. It is not until I see his eyes light up like a car’s headlights turning from dipped to full beam that I look down and start to take evasive action.

‘How long have you been in there?’ says Penny. She has obviously forgotten that her blouse is open and that she is not wearing a bra.

‘Only a weeka,’ says the remorseless Eyetie, continuing to emerge from the shaft like olive toothpaste. ‘But that is small pricea to pay to finda myself in the company of such deliciosa signorinas.’

‘A week?’ says Penny. ‘Gosh!’

I don’t know if she is commenting on the length of time or the length of pussy pummeller revealed when our visitor finally drops to the floor. He does not appear to be wearing any clothes and it looks as if his body has been covered with grease. When I catch an unintentional glimpse of his love wand waving ceilingwards I am forced to wonder how he ever managed to conduct it through the ventilation system. No doubt it was in a less rampant condition. I have been told that they are not always like that, though I find it difficult to believe, judging from my own experience.

‘Is everything all right?’ I ask.

The stranger looks at me and makes a strange smacking noise with his lips. ‘Bellissima!’ he hisses.

Something about the way his teeth grind together suggests that we may be on different wavelengths.

‘I mean with the air conditioning,’ I say.

‘Eeza very cramped,’ says the warm-blooded son of the Mediterranean.

‘I mean is it working?’ I ask.

‘Perfectly,’ says the stranger, running his fingers over his oily body in a way that I find rather disturbing. ‘I ’ear every word you say. I think I may bea able to ’elpa.’

‘You have a friend who has a large flat in Mayfair?’ says Penny.

The stranger shakes his head. ‘Napoli but notta My-flower,’ he purrs. ‘No. I refer to the bella signorina’s desire to looka after the bambini. My sister she looka for au pair girl to ’elpa the children speaka de English as good as wotta I do. One of the oldest families in Italy.’

‘The children must be grown up by now then,’ I say.

The newcomer’s brows furrow. ‘I donta meana thata,’ he says. ‘I mean thata the family have been on the Po for hundreds of years.’

His words puzzle me. ‘I’ve heard of early pot training,’ I say. ‘But this is ridiculous!’

‘He’s saying that it’s a very old established family, you fool!’ snaps Penny unkindly. ‘I’ve heard that some of these Italian ventilation engineers are very well connected.’ She shoots a glance at our visitor’s enormous bunk throbber and sucks in her breath. ‘Yes!’

‘The family palazza is neara Cremona,’ says the naked Eyetie. ‘You ’ave ’eard of eet, per’aps?’

‘The only custard I ever eat,’ I say. This is not strictly true but one tries to be kind, doesn’t one? Also, I want to keep in with our visitor. He certainly looks as if he would like to keep in with me. ‘Would you like to clean up?’ I say. ‘You’re drooping – I mean, dripping! all over the carpet.’ This man definitely knows his job because, since he emerged from the air duct, the cabin has become much fresher.

‘Thank yow,’ says the glistening spaghetti muncher. ‘A leetle shower would be nice. Also, I woulda lika to introduce myself into the middle of you.’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ husks Penny.

‘My namea is Franco.’ He holds out his hand and then withdraws it. ‘I forgetta how dirty I ama.’

‘Never forget that,’ says Penny. ‘She’s Rosie, I’m Penny. The shower’s in the corner. Just follow your nose and your natural inclinations.’

Franco smiles his friendly Italian smile and disappears behind the screen and Penny turns to me. ‘How would you likea – I mean, like – some money to go to the pictures?’ she says.

‘But we’ve just been,’ I say. ‘There won’t be another show until tomorrow – or however long it takes them to get the chewing gum off the seats.’

‘I mean, take a powder for a few hours,’ breathes Penny. ‘I have a feeling that Franco and I could make beautiful music together.’

The Italian ventilation engineer has revealed no sign of a musical bent that I can think of, but maybe I was too busy trying to avoid looking at the unseemly bulk of his prod rod to hear everything that was said on the subject. ‘Don’t ask me to leave the cabin,’ I beg. ‘You know what it’s like out there. I wouldn’t feel safe.’

‘Gooseberry!’ snarls Penny. ‘You want him all for yourself, don’t you?’

Before I can ask her what she thinks she is talking about, Franco sticks his head through the shower curtain – so impulsive when he could easily have looked round it – and beckons to me with his soft brown eyes and a tilt of his head. ‘Excusa mea,’ he says. ‘I no seema able to worka thees theeng.’

‘Maybe the water’s been cut off,’ I say, going to his rescue. ‘It does happen sometimes. So silly when you think of how much there is round us.’

‘You ava wonderful mind,’ says Franco admiringly. ‘I never thinka of that.’

He holds the curtain to one side and I slip into the shower with him. What an amazing life he must lead. Completely naked and crawling round the ship’s ventilation system all day covered in grease. He would be marvellous for What’s My Line? I don’t think anyone would ever get him.

‘You tried turning this little knob, did you?’ I ask. It is just as well that I only have my undies on as Franco’s greasy body is pressed against mine in so many places that it would make a terrible mess of any dress I was wearing.

‘Theesa one?’ says Franco. He twists the control knob and we are both soaked in warm water. ‘Mama mia! I never think of thata. I am soa sorry. Multo disconsolato!’ I try and withdraw but his wiry brown arms pull me towards him with surprising strength. ‘I ’ave madea mark on your bowtiful skin. I musta cleansa yow.’

‘What is happening in there?’ says Penny’s irritated voice.

‘We’re just sorting out the shower,’ I say. I don’t like to tell her that Franco is working up a rich lather on my boobs. I am certain that he means well but the more soap he uses, the more he drips grease all over me and the more lather he has to make. It is a vicious circle. Funny him not knowing how to work the shower. You would think that being an engineer it would come easily. Still, perhaps being a ventilation engineer is a very specialist craft.

‘Look,’ I say. ‘I think maybe it would be better if we got you clean first.’

‘Bono idea,’ says Franco. ‘Take off panties. No want to get them dirty.’ No one can say that the man is not considerate. He has my micro-briefs down to my ankles in the twinkling of a thigh, and thoughtfully rests his foot on them so that it is easy for me to step out of them.

‘Really!’ says Penny, who has just stuck her head into the shower.

‘I thought it was the loofah,’ I say apologetically.

‘A likely story,’ says Penny. ‘I turn my back for an instant and your evil fingers are running riot in the banana plantation.’ Without pausing for breath, she peels off her blouse, pulls down her panties and steps under the shower.

‘You’re going to get dirty,’ I warn her.

‘How right you are!’ Penny grabs the soap and begins to lather enthusiastically. Franco soon has so much soap on him that he looks like a melting snowman and a glazed expression comes into his eyes. ‘A-a-h!’ he cries. ‘I thinka I gotta the bends.’

I see Penny glancing downwards. ‘I don’t think so,’ she says.

‘Eeza olda occupational hazarda of Italian ventilatione engineers,’ grunts Franco. ‘After being cramped up for so longa the body become rigid.’

I see – and feel – what Franco means. His bang stick is the only thing keeping Penny and I apart. Its giant toadstool dome is flashing like an early warning system. I have never seen anything quite like it.

‘Is it serious?’ I ask.

Franco nods. ‘Very. The pressure insida my body musta be reduced or poppa.’

‘Or poppa what?’ He has never mentioned his father before. It probably indicates the serious nature of the problem if he starts talking about his parents.

‘I know what he needs,’ says Penny. She reaches out of the shower and grabs a stool. ‘Take the weight off your plus feature, Franco,’ she commands. ‘Right, Rosie. Sit on his lap.’

‘But there isn’t room,’ I say.

‘You have to make room,’ says Penny. ‘You’re a tidy girl. Put things away where they belong. You don’t want to see this poor devil suffer, do you?’

Her last words are the ones that make up my mind. Though never a girl to countenance uncalled for familiarity or waywardness, I have a strong concern for the feelings of others and I can see that Franco is clearly going through a period of strain. He is biting one of his soapy lips – I suppose it is soap? – and his whole body is trembling. There is certainly no doubt as to where the pressure is at its height – around my tummy button. That is where the gleaming tip of the menacing pelvis pounder is currently resting.

‘Very well, Penny,’ I say. ‘When you put it like that, there’s not much I can do, is there?’

‘Just sit down,’ says Penny. ‘I’ll change places with you in a few minutes if we’ve still got a problem on our hands.’

She joggles Franco’s thing about like she is trying to find reverse in a car she has never driven before and it is a couple of seconds before I feel the afflicted part making contact with the portals of my private pleasure palace. How fine a thing it is to be able to help one’s fellow men in their moments of need. I wonder if astronauts have the same problem. It must be more difficult for them in those cumbersome suits. Still, I expect space control has thought of everything. I bend my knees and feel as if I am sliding down a hot, slippery pole. I must say, the sensation is not unpleasant, though it is a bit tricky at the end because the stool is very low and I suddenly have to shoot my legs forward when I can’t bend them any more.

‘Mama mia!’ I cannot see the expression on Franco’s face because Penny has thoughtfully straddled his thighs and interposed herself between us – presumably to save me from embarrassment.

‘Is it any better?’ I ask. There is no reply beyond a funny sort of mumbling noise and I wonder if Penny may be standing too close to him. I don’t have the chance to say anything because Franco’s thighs suddenly start bumping up and down and his hands shoot round Penny’s situpon. This feature starts reverberating like a tuning fork in a tornado and I find myself bouncing about like a sausage in a British Railways hot dog travelling through Clapham Junction. I don’t know what the sensation is doing for Franco but I must confess to finding it not unpleasant. Thank goodness I feel no moral qualms. The situation would be reversed if I was not giving succour to a fellow human being. By this I do not mean that I would be sitting the other way round on Franco’s lap. I mean that I would not be able to respond in the same way to the warm currents of ecstasy currently fanning through my loins. Whereas sexual satisfaction outside the nuptial couch is to be eschewed – as opposed to merely chewed, which is definitely not permitted – those physical encounters which take place in circumstances where one of the participants (eg me) is entering into them for reasons other than mere personal gratification are to be condoned – and condomed, just to be on the safe side. Anybody can be overcome by strong liquor or decide that a deserving friend merits salvation from a sticky end which might irredeemably undermine her defences, and no finger should be pointed at those who might be considered by unknowledgeable observers to have succumbed to base unreasoning lust. Though, regrettably, harpooned by a maddened love lolly at this very moment I am able to review the situation calmly – or as calmly as my awakened senses will allow – and decide that I need feel no reproach for what I am doing. If it helps poor, shuddering, juddering Franco to put the bends behind him then any inconvenience I have suffered will be more than adequately compensated. Such incidents also help me build up a useful stock of unsolicited experience for that wonderful moment when I trip down the aisle with my one day Mr Right – or, to save embarrassing the guests, several hours after I trip down the aisle with my one day Mr Right. His joy will be the more abundant because he will know that I have saved my mind for him and that I come to the bridal chamber pure in spirit – ‘virginity is a state of mind’ is what I have to keep telling myself. I have to do that to stop me getting confused with Virginia which, of course, is a state in America. Yes, girls. Life is much easier for everybody if you can work out a few principles and come to terms with them. If you give to others then you give to yourself without taking anything away. It can be a bit confusing sometimes but that helps.

‘Mama! Mama! MAMA!’ I have heard that the Italians are very family-orientated and this certainly seems to be the case with Franco. He has stopped talking about his poppa and is now into his mother – or perhaps, talking about his mother sounds rather more wholesome. Penny is also making funny gurgling noises and I sense that the climax of our fun together is approaching. I slide my arms around Penny and Franco and squeeze so that we are all one huggy-buggy sandwich. I will be glad when it is over because, with Franco, hopefully, recovered I will be able to get on to him about his sister and the job opportunities at Cremola. The water is still pouring down about us and it is strange how the pleasant warm sensation strikes up an immediate understanding with the one between my thighs. ‘Yi, Yi, Yi!’ Franco is really getting excited now and it is all I can do to stay on his lap. One of the legs of the stool has got stuck in the drainage grill and I stretch out an arm for something to hang on to – ‘YOWHHHH!’ Oh dear. I think I must have turned the knob to the hot water setting. Franco achieves deeper penetration than it is nice to think about and rises into the air like a rocket. Penny screams, and all three of us crash through the shower curtain and land in an untidy heap on the floor. Franco untidier than most. A glance at what my Brown Owl used to call ‘the nether regions’ shows me that the pressure has been well and truly relieved. Well done, Dixon! I wonder if I am in line for a Humane Society medal yet?

‘Right!’ says Penny. ‘Now it’s my turn on the hot seat.’

‘Surely we’ve done the job?’ I say.

Penny shakes her head. ‘You can’t be too sure in this kind of case. Look, it’s come back again.’

‘Of course it’s going to come back if you do that!’ I say. Really! I don’t know where to put my face sometimes – which is not something you can say for Penny. She behaves in a way that would make you feel uncomfortable if you saw your pet Sealyham doing it to a bone.

‘Bang! Bang! Bang!’ No, it is not just the back of Franco’s head bashing against the floor. It is somebody beating on the door of the cabin.

‘Are you all right in there?’ shouts a gruff voice. Before we can reply, Franco twists like an eel and springs to his feet. Without a word, he darts across the room and dives into the ventilation shaft. Can the voice outside be that of someone checking that he is on the job?

‘No staying power,’ says Penny with a sad shrug of the head. ‘It’s the old, old story.’ She pulls on a robe and starts to open the door. ‘Let’s see what new supplies have arrived.’ But the men who burst through the door do not appear to be – thank goodness! – interested in hanky panky. They rush across the room and start shining torches up the ventilation shaft.

‘Has a man come in here?’ grunts one of them.

‘Better ask her that question,’ says Penny, nodding at me.

‘Only an Italian ventilation engineer,’ I say.

The man snorts. ‘That’s what he told you, is it? He’s no engineer. He’s been on the run from the brig ever since we put to sea. That was Franco Wanco, the Italian Army’s number one deserter. He’s been inside more times than you’ve had hot dinners.’

‘I can believe it,’ says Penny, wistfully. ‘Well, gentlemen, I expect you wish to sit down and wait for him to return. May I suggest that you make yourselves comfortable? Take off your jackets and loosen your ties. Maybe you’d even like a shower? It’s a bit crowded but – ’

It is at this point that I slip out of the cabin and go and sit in the toilet until we reach Aden. It’s not very comfortable but at least I am pretty certain to have it to myself.

CHAPTER 2

Breakfast at 47 Pretty Way, West Woodford – or Chingford if you insist. Four pairs of Dixon jaws munch their way through assorted packets of breakfast cereal. Dad is complaining because they design the packets in such a way that they won’t stand up, and because my precocious little sister, Natalie, has plunged her hand into the cornflakes in order to seize upon a plastic hair grip which is this month’s free offer.

‘Now look what you’ve done!’ he says. ‘They’re all in the sugar. Why can’t you wait? You never use a hairgrip anyway. Why don’t you speak to her, Mary?’

Dad’s last words echo my sentiments exactly. Natalie gets away with far too much and somebody ought to make a stand with her. She uses far too much make-up for a girl of her age and is always trying to flaunt her figure in a very common fashion. Mum says it’s a phase she’s going through but I think it’s there for keeps unless somebody does something.