Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions

“It’s on the bookcase if you feel like some. We’ll bring you some food later.”

The door closes behind me and I hear a key turning in the lock. “Give my love to the Commandant,” I shout.

What a waste of time. Just my luck to get stuck with Norman and Henry Bones, the boy defectives. Well, they won’t hold me for long. I cross to the window and look out. The street seems a long way below but the window ledge is wide enough to take a pram. All I have to do is crawl along it until I come to a staircase and—Bob’s your uncle. Super Dixon lives again.

I don’t hang about but force up the window and edge out onto the ledge. The minute the wind whistles round me the whole idea seems a lot less appealing—more like Cold Tits than Colditz. I must come down to earth after the escapism of the rugby match. A glance at the street below makes me wish I had lit upon a better choice of words. It seems an awfully long way away. I look in towards the wall and have passed two rooms with the windows firmly bolted before I come to a third which has the light on and the curtains drawn. How much further will I have to go? I must have rubbed holes in the knees of my tights and I am colder than a landlady’s smile.

I have just come level with the centre of the window when the curtains spring apart and a man gawps out at me. We both start back in surprise—in my case a very dangerous thing to do.

“My Gad!” I hear his voice through the window before he wrenches it up and drags me inside. “What are you doing out there, honey? Trying to give me a heart attack?” He has an American accent and looks me up and down like I am some kind of Martian. I suppose that with my Adder costume on I must seem a bit funny.

“Your fellow medics thought it would be a good idea to kidnap me after the Cuppers Final,” I say. “Not unnaturally, I was trying to escape.”

“That’s terrible,” says the yank. “You might have been killed.” He takes one of my hands in his. “And you’re so cold.” He has a soft voice and silvery grey hair. He must be about forty but he is very attractive. Lovely teeth and piercing blue eyes like Paul Newman.

“I suppose you’re one of them,” I say.

The yank looks hurt. “You mean I’m a fag? No, honey. I’m conspicuously heterosexual.”

“I meant, I suppose you’re attached to the hospital.” He is obviously too old to be a student.

“That’s right, honey. I’m on an exchange visit.” He looks at me tenderly. “I don’t know anything about these Cuppers. I know your coppers are wonderful.”

“They’re something else,” I say.

“Exactly. Look. I’m most distressed to hear what has happened to you and you can rest assured that I’m going to do everything in my power to get you out of here.”

“Thank you,” I say. He has such beautiful eyes.

“Don’t mention it. It’s the least I can do. Now, the first thing is to give you a drink and the second is to find you some new clothes. You can’t go out like that. I was just fixing myself a mint julep. Would you care to participate? It’s a little cool for your condition but it’s a powerful pick-me-up.”

How could I refuse? After all my exertions I feel like a drink, even if it is something I have never heard of before.

“My name’s Hank Fieldman,” says my saviour as he pours something out of a jug. “Try this for size.”

“Rosie Dixon. Thanks.” I receive a tumbler full of green liquid with a rime of sugar round the top and sprigs of mint floating on the surface. It tastes like cough mixture. Oh well, you can’t have everything.

“Now if you slip out of that sweater and skirt I’ll mosey across the street and pick up some new dudes for you. It’s late night shopping.” Hank misunderstands my hesitation. “Don’t worry about your body, honey. We’re in the same business. I’ve seen millions of naked dames.”

“It wasn’t that. It’s the fact that I don’t have any money. I can’t let you buy me clothes.”

“Don’t give it a thought. I’ll charge it to the football club. Now, come on. Hand over your things and I’ll be able to pick up the right sizes.”

When he puts it like that I find it difficult to say no. I would like to have an outfit paid for by the St Swithin’s Rugby Club. It would serve them right.

“All right,” I say. “You’re on.”

I peel off my sweater and step out of my skirt and you could warm your hands on the glint of approval in Hank’s eyes.

“Speaking purely professionally,” he drawls, “that’s a beautiful piece of machinery you’ve got there.”

“Thank you,” I say. For a moment we stand facing each other and then Hank shakes his head and grabs my threads.

“Don’t go away now,” he husks.

“Don’t forget my tights.”

Hank shudders. “I could never forget your tights.”

I bet he has a wonderful bedside manner, I think to myself. The door closes and I take another sip of my drink. It certainly does taste strange. Strong too.

The minute I am left alone I feel an overwhelming desire to spend a penny—more like 10p in fact. I know it is unsafe to venture outside into the corridor but what else can I do? There is only a wash basin in the room and it does not look as if it is very firmly attached to the wall. Anyway it would be awful if Hank came back for his cheque book and found—no, I refuse to think about it.

I open a cupboard and grab the first long garment that comes to hand. It is a plastic mac. Oh well, it is better than nothing. I slip it on and peep out into the corridor. There is no one about. I start walking and have covered about a dozen paces when I hear someone coming towards me round the bend in the corridor. I start to turn back but it is too late.

“Nurse Dixon!”

“Ad-Doctor Quint!” There, looking only slightly less dishevelled than he did on the pitch, is Adam Quint flanked by two other Queen Adelaide’s players. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re trying to get into the St Swithin’s Medical School. What are you doing here?”

“I thought this was the medical school.”

“No, you fool. That’s next door. This is the Y.M.C.A.”

“Oh my goodness.”

“Why are you wandering about in your underclothes and a see-through mac?”

“I was going to spend a penny. This man said he was a doctor and gave me a mint dewlap.”

Adam hits his hand against the side of his head. “A dewlap is a fold of loose flesh.”

“I thought it tasted funny.”

“I think you’re a bit funny,” says Adam grimly. “They took your clothes, did they?”

“No. I gave them to the man who was getting me some new ones.”

Adam turns to the other two medics. “Have you any idea what the stupid bitch is talking about?”

“There he is,” I squeal. “That’s the man.”

Hank had appeared at the end of the corridor but he is carrying a bottle of champagne. No clothes. An expression resembling uneasiness spreads across his face.

“I’d leave that young lady alone if I were you,” he says. “She’s under my protection.”

“You tricked me into taking my clothes off,” I shout. “You said you were a doctor.”

“I am a doctor. I’m a doctor of—”

I never get the chance to find out what Hank Fieldman was a doctor of, because Adam knocks him down. “Don’t leave the champagne,” he says. “It’s very bad for a man in his condition.” He steps over the prostrate body and strides on down the corridor.

“I’m sorry,” I say, directing the words towards the floor. “Really I am. I’ll send back the mac.”

Poor Hank groans. I can’t even take a last look into his dishy eyes because they are closed.

Two minutes later, I get a good look at the doorman’s eyes because they nearly pop out of their sockets when they collide with my breastwork.

“Well may you stare, my good man,” says Quint. “But for my intervention, this innocent child might have been in Port Said this time tomorrow evening. I had no conception that Y.M.C.A. stood for Young Maidens Criminally Assaulted. You will be hearing from your deaf aid in the morning.”

He sweeps out and the doorman’s mouth opens wider than Britain’s trade gap.

A car is parked round the corner and the champagne is opened before the doors are closed.

“Bloody lucky to find her like that,” says one of Adam’s sidekicks.

“Fortune favours the fortunate,” says Adam. “And now, on to the celebration party.”

“I can’t go like this,” I squeak. “I’ll have to change.”

“You’re positively overdressed as it is,” says Adam. “I spent a lot of time and trouble finding you because I wanted to take you to the party and I like you very well just the way you are. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Adam,” I say. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

“Stop snivelling. I can’t stand women who snivel.”

Oh dear. He is such a difficult man. So strong minded and sure of himself. Fancy him bothering to come and look for me. I should be very flattered.

“You should be bloody flattered that I bothered to find you,” rasps the hero of Queen Adelaide’s. “Don’t spoil everything by becoming a sniveller.”

The celebration party is at the medical school and by the time I have got on to the dance floor I am very grateful for my plastic mac. I have never seen so much booze flowing in my life and it is quite obvious that while I was kidnapped everybody else in the hospital, not on duty, was getting smashed out of their minds.

“Where have you been, darling?” shrieks Labby, coming apart from Tom like a sticky sweet in a toddler’s pocket. “You’ve missed so much fun!”

She is wearing shortie pyjamas so I don’t feel too under-dressed—especially as the top half is being worn on her head. She disappears into the crowd before I can say anything and I have a chance to see Nurse Martin wearing a scrum cap. I don’t think it suits her and I am surprised she can get her legs through the slits.

“I’d like you to dance with my stomach,” says Adam. “The rest of me will follow a respectful distance behind.”

He is not kidding, but after a few steps I begin to like the feeling of his great hairy gut against my body. “It’s nature’s contraceptive measure,” breathes Quint. “The men in my family have got flat feet through walking the world looking for women with concave bellies.”

I think he must be joking because my pelvis is being propped up by something that feels like a raised drawbridge. Maybe it is the drink. I don’t usually notice things like that.

I think I must have fallen asleep because, suddenly, there are far fewer people about and I become conscious that soft fingers are gently massaging my reception area as if it is a piece of dough.

“I want you,” breathes Quint.

Fortunately the real me has passed out hours before and is being spared the wild permissive sensations that now invade my body.

“Not here,” says a voice which, I suppose, could belong to me.

“I know the place.” Adam’s fingers suggest that his lips do not lie. “In the attic.”

“But I must get back to the nurses home.” That sounded more like the real me.

“That presents no problem. The attic stretches over the nurses home as well. I think there’s a trap door in the ceiling of the television room.”

“You’ve taken other girls up there, you brute.”

“Hundreds of years ago when I was a student. They used to give anaesthetics with hammers in those days.”

“How are we going to see?” It must be the champagne. This forward behaviour is so unlike me.

“I’ve got some matches.”

We take a lift to the top floor and walk down a corridor.

“This is it. Stand on my stomach.”

Above us is a trapdoor and Adam picks me up like a packet of cornflakes. He is so strong. I am tingling like a bruised funny bone—or humerus as we call it in the business. If I was not too drunk to know what I was doing I might be on the brink of losing my virginity.

“It’s so dark,” I say.

“Of course it’s dark, you stupid bitch. What do you expect—floodlights? Take these matches and start striking them.”

He pushes me through the opening and heaves himself up beside me. “I’m getting too old for this caper. Damn you for being irresistible.”

“Adam, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Stop snivelling. I can’t stand it! And mind where you’re walking. I don’t want to go through the ceiling.”

He takes me by the arm and guides me into the enveloping darkness. “Are there rats up here?” I ask.

“Millions of ’em. They’d have your leg off if you gave them half a chance.”

“Adam. Don’t!”

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“I mean, don’t go on like that about the rats.”

“All right. There aren’t any rats up here. The spiders have seen off most of them.”

“Why are you such a cruel, crude bastard?”

“Because I wouldn’t appeal to you if I was anything else.” Quint’s arms encircle my body and his very personal smell—like a compost heap in spring time—sweeps over me. I had imagined that to kiss him would be like kissing the inside of a sheep shearer’s dust bin but his lips come through with the minimum of tickle.

“You’re so hairy,” I murmur.

“I am a foreSt” Adam’s hands disappear inside my plastic mac and slip under the elastic of my panties. I should cry out but how can I with his mouth firmly wedged against mine? He presses me to him and I feel something large and firm like a nuclear submarine breaking the surface. I know things feel bigger in the dark when you can’t see them but this is ridiculous. “Oh Adam, you mustn’t,” I murmur.

“If that’s all you’ve got to say you might as well keep your mouth shut. Come over here. Where are those matches?”

“I’ve dropped them.”

“Typical. You’d lose your fanny if it wasn’t fastened to the rest of your body.”

“You’re so crude,” I whisper enthusiastically. It must be the champagne.

Adam leads me across the attic and pushes me against something that rings out in the darkness.

“What is it?” I say anxiously.

“It’s the cistern. Attics are full of them—and you, my ravishing Florence Nightingale, are soon going to be full of me, Adam Quint.”

“Oh, Adam—”

“Don’t start any snivelling, wailing or whining or I may think better of my generous offer.”

Adam Quint hurls his mouth against mine and his brutal hands rip off my panties like they are a strip of ElastoplaSt Almost in the same moment he explodes the front of his trousers and I feel a rush of hot air like an oven door opening. He plucks me against his body and I come into the presence of the terrifying beast lurking against his great hairy belly. Thank goodness I am not fully in command of my senses. Surely Monster Quint cannot expect my delicate female mechanism to absorb his enormous piston? Has he no pity?

“Aaaaarrgh!!!”

The answer is no as I realise when I have first hand experience of what a sausage skin must feel like at the moment of truth. Quint’s battering ram body belabours me from belly to knee and the cistern rings out like the gong at the start of an old J. Arthur Rank movie.

My body cries out in ecstasy—and, of course, revulsion at the terrible things that are happening to it. Will I ever be able to look our vicar in the surplice again?

Quint is bellowing at the top of his voice and the noise must be enough to raise the roof.

“Ooh Adam, please!”

Whether he hears me or not I never know. He changes his position and there is a crack like a pistol shot. Light floods up through the floor and Quint drops as if into a hole. In fact it is not a hole. It is Sister Belter’s bedroom. I discover this when I plummet past him and land on the bed midst a shower of plaster. Above us Quint dangles with his trousers round his ankles. I will always remember the expression on Sister Belter’s cold creamed face as she stares up at Quint’s cluster hanging below the dark foliage of his belly like a bunch of grapes with a boa constrictor peering out of them.

Something tells me that she does not like what she sees.

CHAPTER 11

“And so, in the circumstances, I have no alternative but to ask for your resignation.” Matron looks at me severely. “I fully appreciate that my—that Nurse Green may have proved an evil influence but I cannot allow bad apples to go on spoiling the barrel indiscriminately. There is no place for bruised fruit at Queen Adelaide’s.” I can’t think of anything to say to that so I keep my mouth shut. “I realise that you were not alone in this sorry incident and Doctor Quint’s decision to leave the hospital and study Sleeping Sickness in the Congo is, I think, a wise one. If you could have your room cleared by …”

She need not worry. I have already packed my bags. Just time to say goodbye to a few friends and I will be ready for Adam Quint when he calls to take me out to lunch. Of course, there will be no repetition of the unsavoury scenes of the previous night. Champagne and virginity obviously do not mix as far as I am concerned. In days to come I must take good care of the merchandise if I am to avoid presenting my future Mr Right with shop-soiled goods. It is only by a hairsbreadth that I have so far avoided compromising my principles.

As I leave Matron’s office I am not as downcast as I might be. Of course, I am sad about leaving Queen Adelaide’s but I have in my pocket a letter from Penny Green which could lead to even more interesting and stimulating employment.

The writing paper is headed “St Rodence Private Boarding School For Girls, Little Rogering, Nr. Southmouth, Hants.” It reads: Dear Rosie, I hope you still remember me. I am now working as Sports Mistress at St Rodence. It is a crummy dump and most of the staff are nearer the grave than anything Queen A’s has to offer but the countryside is nice and there are lots of sailors and things like that at Southmouth. Some of the masters at the local boys schools are not bad either and desperate(!) for female company.

“I am writing because there is a vacancy for a gym mistress to assist me and I thought it might be rather a jape if we teamed up. Get in touch if you are getting a bit bored with hospital life. Tons of love, Penny.”

Of course, Penny is rather free but I like the idea of working with young people. Perhaps I might meet some clean-limbed young schoolmaster. I believe they are very dedicated. I am still thinking about the possibilities when the lift doors open.

There, all by himself in a wheelchair, is Mr Arkwright. “I gave my gaoler the slip,” he says evilly. “Now, how about that game of ‘Naughty Nanas’?”

He jabs at the “basement” button and clutches at my leg. Something inside me snaps. I am tired of being pushed around by dirty old men of all ages. The time has come to take a leaf out of Penny’s book.

“I prefer ‘Furry Quoits’, “ I say.

“What’s that?” There is a nervous flutter in the old wart hog’s voice.

“Whip out your peg and I’ll show you.”

“Get away from me!” Arkwright cowers in his wheelchair.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?” I lift my skirt and give him a flash of the full frontals.

“No! No!”

“Scared of this!” Down come my panties.

The lift doors slide open and there is Sister Belter. Her eyes widen in horror as she takes in the hideous scene: the crumpled heap in the wheel chair; me, skirt up, knickers down.

“ I have this thing about older men,” I explain.

THE END

Confessions of a Gym Mistress

BY ROSIE DIXON

CONTENTS

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

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.”