Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions

“Crumbs! He’s a bit of all right.” Hermione Spragg is referring to a clean-cut young man with a couple of gold rings on the sleeve of his naval uniform. He is striding towards us purposefully—poor fool.

“Lieutenant Bland,” he says in a very upper class accent. “At your service, ladies.” He is talking to Penny and myself but we are quickly brushed aside by Miss Bondage.

“I am in command here,” booms Big B. “Kindly address your remarks to me, young man.”

“Captain Truscott is delighted to welcome you aboard, Ma’am. Please follow me.” Lieutenant Bland’s smile does not lose a watt of its intensity. I hear a desiring sigh and there is an ugly rush for the gangway.

“Back girls! Back! Remember who you are. The flower of English womenhood in bud.” Miss Bondage is no slouch when it comes to treating the lash with cold cream.

“Some of the sailors look awfully young, don’t they?” I say to Penny.

“It’s probably the healthy outdoor life,” says Penny, trying to raise her voice above the wolf whistles—some of the sailors are whistling too.

“Funny you should come today,” says Lieutenant Bland, “We’ve got the Bogsdown Sea Cadets here as well.” Bogsdown is the famous boy’s public school on the other side of the downs and I realise that what I thought were sailors with acne are really schoolboys. A faint feeling of alarm begins to creep over me.

“I didn’t know we were actually putting to sea,” says Miss Bondage.

“What!?” Lieutenant Bland looks about him and then rushes to the rail. The ship is quite clearly drifting away from the quay. As we watch, the gangplank drops into the water and sinks in a stream of bubbles.

At the sharp end, a hawser snakes out like a boa constrictor abandoning the ship and follows the gangplank into the water. Roxane and Eliza are staring intently at something on the other side of the harbour.

Everybody starts running all over the place and there is a loud crunch which I later learn is a small fishing smack—the crew escape with superficial injuries. Quite where your superficial is, I never find out. These medical terms are a dead loss outside University Challenge.

“Steady, girls!” shouts Miss Bondage. “No panic! Come out of that lifeboat, Fiona.”

“Spoil sport,” sniffs Fiona as she scrambles out with three boys. “I thought it was supposed to be women and children first?”

“Where are the children?” asks Penny.

“Give me time.” Fiona tosses a shoulder and disappears round a corner with one of the boys.

“That gel will come to a sticky end,” observes Miss Bondage.

“Or vice versa,” murmurs Penny.

“I’d like you to meet Sub-Lieutenant Brown,” says Lieutenant Bland, introducing a small eager-looking man.

“You work on submarines, do you?” I say.

Sub-Lieutenant Brown looks worried. “No. I’m under Lieutenant Bland.”

“Below decks?”

“I’m talking about rank. Lieutenant Bland has two rings, I only have one. Lieutenant Bland is senior to me.”

“Life is terribly unfair, isn’t it?” I say. “A little thing like that can make all the difference. I remember my Aunt—”

“You’re being over eager,” hisses Penny. “That’s terribly uncool.” Penny is right. I always talk too much when I am nervous. My mother is the same.

“This way, ladies.” Bland and Brown lead the way and we start to climb our first flight of narrow steps. I say first because, by the end of the visit, I feel as if I have been up and down the Eiffel Tower a couple of times. Eventually we approach what is clearly the Captain’s cabin. I am looking forward to seeing inside it but, unfortunately, I never get the chance.

“You two, marshall the troops,” says Miss Bondage firmly. “I’ll handle Captain Truscott.” Leaving our imaginations to grapple with every disturbing implication of that statement she sweeps into the cabin.

“Charming,” says Penny. “Oh well—” She turns round but there is no sign of a single troop waiting to be marshalled.

Just at that moment an attractive but harassed-looking man in a harassed tweed jacket comes round the corner. “Oh my God!” he says. “They’ve barricaded themselves in the engine room.”

“Who has?” I say, knowing the answer.

“Are you from St Rodence? I’m Patterson, Bogsdown. We’ve got to do something.”

“The ship is moving again,” says Penny.

“Who’s driving it?” I ask.

“Yoo hoo! Miss Green!” Hermione Spragg is calling to us from the deck above. “Is starboard, right or left?”

“Right,” says Penny.

“What did I tell you!? Now give me that wheel or I’ll scratch your eyes out!” Hermione disappears from view and I hear thumps and shouts of pain and rage. The ship veers hard to port.

“What are the crew doing?” I shriek.

“Most of them are in the brig, or under armed guard.”

“Armed!?”

“Yes. They broke into the armoury.” He ducks just in time as a twelve-inch gun sweeps over his head and trains on the town.

“Are those depth charges?” asks Penny. She is no doubt referring to the large underwater explosions that are sending tidal waves towards the fast disappearing shore.

“I think so. And it’s the anti-aircraft guns that have just shot down that biplane.”

No sooner has the parachute opened than the door of the Captain’s cabin bursts open and a large red-faced man and Miss Bondage and the two lieutenants fall in a heap at our feet. By the time they get up, the plane has crashed into an oil refinery and flames are leaping towards the sky.

“What is this!? A mutiny or subversion?” sobs the Captain. I notice that he is holding a telephone receiver and three inches of flex in his hand.

“I think the children have become a little over-excited,” says Miss Bondage calmly. “Miss Green, will you pop up and tell whoever is in that gun turret to stop sweeping the barrels around like that. Someone could get hurt.”

“My God! The aircraft carrier!” The Captain’s eyes are hanging out on stalks as we zoom towards an enormous wall of grey metal. This must be the end. Goodbye Mum! At the last second the destroyer swerves to one side and we scrape under that curved bit at the front. There is a horrible grinding noise as one of the anchor chains rubs against the ship.

“Oh, no! Get up to the bridge!!” The Captain scrambles to his feet and all three officers start running towards a flight of steps.

“Is nobody going to show us round the ship?” says Miss Bondage. “How very cavalier.” From above our heads we can hear shouts and excited squeals as the destroyer charges towards the harbour wall. “I don’t know what those fools are panicking about,” sniffs Miss Bondage. “The girls are only practising their slalom turns round those buoys.”

“Amazing how the rail sometimes touches the water,” pants Penny as we cling to the door of the captain’s cabin and watch a filing cabinet marked “Top Secret” slide past us and topple over the side.

“I’m going to be sick,” says Mr Patterson.

“Hold on,” says Penny. “We’re swinging over to the other side now.” Suddenly we find ourselves pressed flat against one of the metal studded walls. Ooh, it is uncomfortable!

“Are we out of the harbour yet?” Nobody has to answer my question because I turn my head just in time to see a man in a small lighthouse standing with his hands over his eyes. The image is suspended before me for a fraction of a second and then whipped away as the destroyer charges into the open sea. Behind us, a grisly funeral pyre of black smoke has obliterated the town.

“What are we going to do?” I ask desperately.

“I don’t know,” says Penny. “Would you recognise the Russian flag if you saw it?”

“I think so. Why?”

“I believe there’s one ahead of us.”

“No!” I follow her pointing finger and there is an enormous boat flying the hammer and sickle. We are heading straight for it.

“That’s the Slobovitch,” groans Patterson. “One of their new Brezhnev class atomic cruisers. You realise what this means?”

“World War Three?” says Penny grimly. Patterson nods and turns his face towards the rivets.

“At least we’re not going to know much about it,” I say, trying to be cheerful.

“If only it wasn’t a courtesy visit,” groans Patterson.

Miss Bondage has slid down the deck and is now forty feet away. “I think the Admiralty are going to get a bit sticky about this,” she shouts. “We may have to approach the R.A.F.”

“Stupid old bag!” hisses Penny. “She got us into this mess, and now listen to her.”

Just at that moment, H.M.S. Trueheart veers sharply to the side and I see the crew of the Slobovitch gazing down at us in amazement as we scoot paSt. I look back to where Miss Bondage was hanging on and—she has disappeared!

“Crumbs! She’s fallen overboard,” says Penny.

“We’d better go back for her.”

“Are you mad? This thing isn’t going to stop until it hits France.”

“Poor Miss Bondage. She was very conscientious.”

“I know, I know,” soothes Penny. “I expect there will be a collection for her.”

“It isn’t going to do her much good,” I say, brushing away a tear.

“I meant a collection to set up a memorial,” says Penny. “Every year someone will throw a wreath into the bomb crater, or something like that.”

The destroyer has now righted itself and seems to be trying to catch up with the horizon. On the deck, Patterson groans.

“We’d better get him inside the cabin,” says Penny. “You minister to him and I’ll try and round up the girls.”

All round us there are shouts and screams and a pair of knickers comes fluttering down from above. They look rather big for a girl and they have a slit up the front. I do hope—

“I think they’re playing forfeits,” says Penny. “I’d better get up there before things get out of hand.” She helps me drag Patterson into the cabin and darts off with a light wave—it splashes her heels as she reaches the companion way.

“Uuuuurh. Are we all right?” Patterson grips my arm like a vice and I can see that he is in an advanced state of shock. The hair at his temples has been bleached white by the sun and the skin is stretched tight over his strong features. He smells of pipe smoke and I take an instant liking to him. This was the kind of clean-cut young Englishman I secretly dreamed of meeting when I entered the teaching profession.

“Relax,” I say. “Everything is going to be all right. Do you want to loosen your trousers—I mean, your collar?”

Oh dear! How embarrassing! Why did I have to say that? I wasn’t thinking about his trousers. It must have just slipped out. Fortunately he does not seem to have heard me.

“I can’t take much more,” he says. “It’s the upper third. They’re driving me insane.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” I say. “It’s lower remove B with me. They’re all trouble makers. I caught one of them trying to saw through a rope in the gym.”

“That’s nothing. One of ours tried to saw through his housemaster’s neck with a bread knife.”

“How ghastly!” I say—it’s an expression I have picked up from the girls. “Was he all right?”

“He sprained his thumb a bit. The knife was so blunt, you see.”

“I meant, the housemaster!” I say. Really, how dim can you get? It must be shock.

“Oh, Rumbelow. Yes he was all right.” Patterson sits bolt upright and his eyes open wide. “Don’t send me back there! I can’t take any more. I survived for fourteen days in the Libyan desert without water—”

“Package holiday?” I inquire.

“No. Plane crash.” Patterson buries his face in his hands. “That was horrible but-but-but Bog-Bog-Bogsdown makes it seem like heaven on earth.” A strange expression comes over his face. “I think perhaps I will take my trousers off.” He starts to fiddle with the catch at the top of his flies.

“I didn’t think you’d heard,” I say. “It was a slip of the tongue.”

“If you like,” says Patterson. “Alistair’s the name. Do what you like but I’m not going back.”

The poor man is definitely deranged. What shall I do? He is now pulling down his underpants and revealing a love truncheon of heroic proportions. It is amazing the effect fear can have on people.

“Lie back and I’ll put this blanket over you,” I say soothingly. “Forty winks, that’s what you need.”

“Forty what!?”

“Winks,” I say, sculpting the word with my tongue and lips. Alistair Patterson lies back. “Oh,” he says, relieved, “I thought you said ‘winks’.”

I try and drape the blanket over him but it is very difficult. It is like trying to throw a tarpaulin over a tent pole.

“You know what my old nanny used to do to send me to sleep?” says Alistair.

“How old was she?” I ask.

“Not all that old, really,” says Alistair obviously thinking about it seriously for the first time.

“I think I can guess,” I say, trying to move away. The hand clamps on my wrist like a handcuff.

“She used to shake down her thermometer at the same time.”

“She must have been a very efficient woman,” I say.

“She was a very compassionate woman.” Alistair looks up at me like an Old English sheepdog—I mean, like he is an Old English sheepdog. Oh dear. What should I do? I would hate to compromise my principles but I do feel that I may be in the presence of a special case. There are so many around these days. To use one’s body as a medicament in a predicament is not the same as indulging in the sex act for mere lustful gratification. I have had this discussion with myself, before. There is no need to feel that my virginity is being compromised. What I am about to perform is an act of the mind. The man now stretched out on the bunk is in an advanced stage of shock. He needs sleep. For deep relaxing sleep he needs the remedial balm of a physical relationship. The kind of relationship he once enjoyed with his nanny. I believe I can do better than that.

Smoothing his fevered brow with my right hand I begin to pop open my buttons with my left. Outside I hear a man’s voice screaming for mercy and a shriek of girlish laughter. I cross to the door and lock it.

“Burnham Scale,” murmurs the figure on the bed. He is obviously delirious. I slip out of my dress and peel down my panties and tights. Poor devil, there is not a moment to lose. Unpopping the catch of my bra, I feel myself swing free and easy and clamber up on to the bunk. For a moment doubts assail me. Am I doing the right thing? I peel back the blanket and indulge in a quick game of grab the zabb. The merchandise under control, I take a swift look round the room and tuck it away out of sight. No point in being untidy.

“Uuuuuuuuuurh!” Mr Patterson is making those groaning noises again.

“Are you all right?” I say. I try bouncing up and down to see if he can still feel anything. When his shoulders come off the sheets I realise that he probably can.

“Aaaaargh!!!” There is a much more positive note to his voice that I find very encouraging. When one is going to this amount of trouble to ease the lot of a fellow human being one needs to know that one’s efforts are being appreciated.

“Is that better?” I ask. A slow smile spreads over Alistair Patterson’s face and he stretches up his hands to fondle my boobs.

“Alistair like nanny.” he says. What a remarkable woman she must have been. One of the old school obviously but not without a few fairly modern ideas.

“Rosie? Is he still in there?” The voice belongs to Penny and is accompanied by a sharp tap on the door.

“Yes,” I say truthfully.

“Well, hang on to him, I think we’re going to land in a minute. You haven’t seen Fiona Fladger, have you.”

“No. What’s happened to her?”

“I don’t know. Nobody has seen her since they broke into the liquor store. I think she—Rachel! Put that sailor down this instant! You’ve no idea where he’s been!” Her voice dies away and I return to the job in hand—or somewhere.

“Are you feeling sleepy?” I ask.

“Nearly!” breathes Alistair. He is biting his lip and his head is straining back against the pillow. Ah well. The darkest hour is always just before the dawn. I grab the brass curtain rail and joggle my hips up and down. It is quite nice really—not of course that I think about that. This is strictly therapeutic. I will never be able to give myself in any union not sanctioned by the nuptial knot—ooooooooh! Control yourself, Dixon.

Below me I can sense that the danger has passed. Alistair is lying back with his eyes closed in peaceful sleep and the tension seems to have left his body—it has certainly left one part of it.

I descend to the floor, cover Alistair with a blanket, and start to get my clothes on. I have just climbed into my pants and bra when I decide to see what is happening outside—a foolish decision as it turns out. No sooner have I opened the door a couple of inches than there is the most terrifying crashing noise and the ship seems to leap about twenty feet in the air. I am hurled out of the cabin and end up sprawled in an untidy heap against the rail. The sky tears by above me and is then filled by a large wooden structure like a giant framework of Meccano. As I gaze up in amazement, a carload of gawping people sweep down a long incline and disappear from view. I am looking at a roller coaster. Where are we? We can’t be—no!—can we? I look over the side and—we are! Slap bang in the middle of a fairground! Oh my goodness. How very inconvenient. I can see that there is going to be trouble about this. Fortunately, we have come to rest against the side of a helter skelter so it will not be too much of a problem to reach the ground.

I return to the Captain’s cabin and pick up the great man’s rubber cushion. Poor fellow. He must have problems, sitting at that desk all day.

All around me I can hear shouts and screams and there are men, boys and schoolgirls running about everywhere—one might be back at St Rodence. I walk across to the helter skelter and climb over the rail. Down goes the cushion and down goes my botty. Let go of the side and—whoosh! Off we go. Almost before I have got used to going round and round I am at the bottom. The coconut matting rubs against my thighs and I am reminded that I am only wearing my bra and panties. Ah well, the French are very understanding about such things.

“Bonjour, Monsieur,” I say. “Je suis très heureuse etre ici dans votre beau pays. Je pense que vos gendarmes sont magnifiques.” The fat man in the striped T-shirt stares down at me.

“Where’s your ticket?” he says.

CHAPTER 6

“I can’t see what all the fuss was about,” says Miss Murdstone. “People seem to have lost their sense of humour, these days.”

“I think it was the oil refinery that really upset everybody,” says Penny. “Eleven million pounds is quite a lot to laugh off.”

“It must have been, I suppose,” sighs Miss Murdstone. “But there was no need for those people to try and burn down the school as a reprisal. Goodness gracious me! Hardly any of the houses on the estate were really badly damaged. I never liked those houses anyway. Nasty little cardboard boxes!”

“They have so little time to be children these days, do they?” muses Miss Honeycomb, putting down her embroidery. “All these pressures on them to become adults. It’s a shame, really.”

“I think that while schools like ours are allowed to exist we can bridge the gap between childhood and womanhood with a sense of style and purpose,” says Miss Murdstone solemnly. “Our girls’ innocence will never be corrupted.”

Somewhere in the distance can be heard the rattle of small arms fire.

“The upper fourth beating a few coveys,” says Miss Batson indulgently. “I thought we’d confiscated all the sten guns?”

“It’s virtually impossible to lay hands on everything that disappeared,” says Penny calmly. “I was on the telephone to the armourer yesterday when we sent back the torpedo—”

“But surely, destroyers don’t carry torpedoes?” interrupted Miss Murdstone.

“That’s what he told me. I don’t know where they got it from. Anyway, he told me that about half the stuff had been recovered.”

“Just as well that the girls had the foresight to retain a few weapons,” says Miss Murdstone. “We soon put those yahoos from the town in their place.”

“Yes, I’m glad that’s over,” says Penny thoughtfully. “What about those Bogsdown boys?”

“The last truck load went back yesterday.” Miss Batson shakes her head. “I don’t think some of them would have lasted another night.”

“That’s their own damn fool fault for tangling with our girls,” snorts Miss Murdstone. “Personally, I think they were responsible for most of our problems on the boat.”

“Ship,” says Penny.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Green?” Miss Murdstone has taken over as 2 i.c. from Miss Bondage and she bristles convincingly.

“You call them ships,” says Penny calmly.

“Oh, I see.” Miss M. sounds almost disappointed.

“The Admiralty have been very good about the affair, haven’t they?” says Miss Honeycomb.

“And so they should be,” says Miss Murdstone firmly. “Selling the ship to Southmouth Council for that sum of money. It must have given them ideas. I wouldn’t be surprised if they beached every boat in the navy. It saves putting them in moth balls and the return is fantastic. I hear that the fairground takings have doubled, and they must be on a percentage.”

“That only leaves the tragedy of Miss Bondage,” says Miss Natson.

Miss Honeycomb jabs herself with her needle. “You mean, she’s been found alive?”

“Really!” We all wince at such lack of feeling.

“I read about a body being washed up covered in lobsters,” says Miss Batson with grim relish.

“Sell lobsters and return bait,” murmurs Penny.

“There’s been no sign of her yet,” says Miss Murdstone.

“Perhaps the Russians recovered the body,” says Miss Batson.

“They’d need a couple of tugs, wouldn’t they?” says Penny callously.

Sometimes I think that is why she gets on so well with the girls. She is just like one of them.

“Funny you should mention Russia,” says Miss Murdstone, picking up the pile of buff envelopes and solicitors’ letters that comprise the mail at St Rodence. “There’s one here with a Russian stamp on it.”

“Oh, bags I!” screeches Miss Batson, snatching it. With her pig tails, long legs, knock knees and protruding teeth, she makes Joyce Grenfell seem like a Dior model.

“Pull yourself together, Batson!” Miss Murdstone snatches back the letter. “The envelope is addressed to Miss Grimshaw, so I will open it.”

Miss Grimshaw seems to be taking less and less part in school affairs and there are fears about her health. Her fainting fits are becoming more frequent and she seldom ventures from her room except to attend wine tastings.

“It looks like Miss Bondage’s writing,” says Miss Honeycomb, adjusting her pince nez. “Oh dear, oh dear. I knew something like this would happen.”

“It is from her!” says Miss Murdstone. “Listen:

‘Dear Head Mistress, I am writing to tender my resignation on the occasion of my engagement to Serge Rogerov, Hero Of The Soviet Union Extraordinary.’”

“Quite extraordinary,” says Penny. “Is she really going to get married?”

“That’s what she says.” Miss Murdstone runs her eye over the letter. “Yes. ‘Serge finishes his tour of duty on this voyage after twenty years and we will return to Omsk.’”

“Imagine,” says Miss Batson. “Twenty years and he meets Bonders on his last trip.”

“Fate can be cruel, can’t it?” observes Penny.

“Omsk is along way away, isn’t it?” says Miss Honeycomb, sounding more cheerful.

“What are they going to do?” I ask.

“Apparently they’re going to work on Serge’s father’s potato farm. Look. Here’s a photograph of the crop.”

“I think that’s the happy couple,” says Penny. “Though it’s a very understandable mistake. What a fantastic romance. If you read about it in a book you wouldn’t believe it, would you? ‘Washed into the arms of the man she loved’. It sounds like the synopsis of a detergent commercial.”