Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions

CHAPTER 7

“What a disaster,” says Penny.

“Yes. It was terrible,” I agree with her. “All that cheating and those terrible goings on under the tarpaulin. I didn’t know where to look.”

“Don’t be wet!” snaps Penny. “I was referring to the amount of money I lost on the eight by one hundred yards relay.”

“It was astonishing when that baton blew up, wasn’t it?”

“Astounding,” sneers Penny. “I was expecting that. What I didn’t expect was that the other batons would turn out to be leather pouches filled with frozen water. When they melted and started drooping it took some girls half a minute to effect a change over. That kind of twisted thinking defeats the whole concept of cheating.”

“Don’t worry,” I say soothingly. “It’s all over now. The last parent has been released from the san. and life can return to normal.”

“The ransom money was paid, was it? That’s good. I hate unpleasantness.”

I thought that Sports Day was a terrible flop but, apparently, it was one of the most successful in the school’s history. It was the first time ever that neither the police nor the fire brigade had to be called. Miss Murdstone is swift to take all the credit and to consider new fields to conquer.

“I think we need more occasions in which parents can play an active part in school life,” she says. “They do enjoy themselves so and it helps to give them a sense of belonging. They can actually see where their money is going.”

“Down the drain,” murmurs Penny.

“I find that the ability to lip read is one that can stand a member of the teaching profession in very good stead,” sniffs Miss Murdstone. “You would do well to remember that, Miss Green.”

“Yes, Miss Murdstone.”

Miss M. folds her arms and sweeps her eyes round everyone in the common room. “It is a matter of continuing regret to us all that Miss Grimshaw continues to be in poor health. Her finger on the helm is sorely missed.”

“Amen,” says Miss Honeycomb.

“However, the life of the school must go on and I find it incumbent upon myself to make such decisions as seem to be in the best interests of staff and pupils.”

“We’re all jolly pleased that we now only have to have semolina twice a week,” says Miss Batson, eagerly.

“Thank you, Batson.” A slight frown plucks at the corners of Miss Murdstone’s mouth. “I was in fact referring to matters of slightly greater import.”

“Oh, gosh, yes. How stupid of me.” Batson is becoming Super Crawler. “It was just that the girls were so grateful and I thought that—”

“I think that the Amateur Dramatic Society should be reconstituted.”

A gasp of amazement goes up from around the room. “Do you really think so?” Says Miss Honeycomb. “I mean, after last time—”

“I think we are all agreed that Oh Calcutta was the wrong choice of play,” says Miss Murdstone evenly. “We can’t rely on the good offices of the misters Hardakre in every production.”

“But, Miss Murdstone. So many parents complained.”

“Only because they had to stand. When I say that Oh Calcutta was the wrong production, you must not misunderstand me. I was referring to the size of the parts.” Miss Honeycomb sticks her needle in her thumb again.

“Our girls need large parts.” Miss Murdstone beams round the room. “I like a good role myself and I’m certain that our pupils are exactly the same.”

“What did you have in mind?” says Penny at the end of a long silence.

“Well.” Miss Murdstone attempts to look bashful. “In the absence of finding anything satisfactory, I’ve fallen back on trying to fill the gap myself.”

“You’ve written a play?” says Miss Honeycomb.

Miss Murdstone touches her finger tips together lightly. “In a word ‘yes’. ’Tis a humble effort but all mine own.”

“What’s it about?” asks Penny.

“It’s a whodunnit set in a girl’s school.”

“What a brilliant idea,” says Miss Batson.

Miss Murdstone looks at her sharply before deciding that she probably means it. “Yes,” she says. “That way there will be no trouble making sure that all the girls get satisfactory roles.”

“Quite brilliant,” says Crawler Batson.

“What’s it called?” says Penny.

“The Rat Trap,” says Miss Murdstone proudly.

Penny shakes her head. “It’s amazing but that name rings a bell, somehow.”

“Me too.” I say. “It doesn’t feature a police inspector who arrives on skis?”

“Water skis.” says Miss Murdstone, firmly. “The school is built on stilts in the middle of the Indian Ocean.”

“Oh,” I say. “I made a mistake. This school was nothing like that. In fact it was a hotel.”

“Vole Trap? Guinea Pig Trap? Hampster Trap?” Penny snaps her fingers. “I know it will come to me in a minute.”

“You may possibly be thinking of The Mouse Trap by Miss Agatha Christie.” Miss Murdstone’s voice has more than a hint of scorn in it. “I can assure you that my piece owes nothing to that work. The similarity of title is purely coincidental—and I say that out of deference to Miss Christie. I was thinking of my play years before she first dashed pen to paper.”

“You mean she stole your idea?” says Miss Batson.

Miss Murdstone waves her arms about airily. “I would never dream of saying that,” she says. “It was just one of those occasions on which, unbeknownst to each other, two great artists were waking—I mean, working on the same idea.”

“Fascinating!” exploded Miss Batson. She looks round the room for support but everyone is gazing out of the window.

“I think it would probably be overweaning of me to play a role myself,” says Miss Murdstone.

“Yes,” says Miss Batson.

Miss Murdstone frowns. “On the other hand it could be said that, as the writer of the play, I am the best person to understand the motivations of the principal characters.”

Miss Batson grabs the drift just in time. “Of course, of course. That probably outweighs the other consideration.”

“I think it does,” says Miss Murdstone firmly. “I will have to play Inspector Braithwaite.”

“Does that mean you’re playing a man?” I ask.

“Of course not!” snaps Miss Murdstone. “They have female inspectors.”

“All the men I know are female inspectors,” whispers Penny.

Miss Murdstone looks up sharply. “I find that kind of remark in very bad taste,” she says. “Any more of it and I’ll put you down for an extra week’s art class supervision.”

“I wanted to mention that, Miss Murdstone,” says Miss Honeycomb. “A lot of the girls are complaining about having to work in the quarry.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” storms Miss Murdstone. “We bought them new picks, didn’t we? How do they think we’re going to get the stone for the sculpture classes?”

“But we don’t have any sculpture classes.”

Miss Murdstone claps her hands together in exasperation. “That’s because we haven’t unearthed the right stone yet, isn’t it? Those lorries the girls load are taking the stone away to be tested.”

“Oh, I see,” says Miss Honeycomb. “I’ll tell the girls that. And I suppose the gravel and sand are being removed to clear the way for the mining operation?”

“Exactly!” says Miss Murdstone. “Don’t give any credence to these wild stories that are going around. The girls are only chained together to prevent them slipping down the side of the quarry.”

“Parents are going to be invited to the play, are they?” asks Penny.

“I thought I’d made that crystal clear,” says Miss Murdstone comtemptuously. “Furthermore I think it would be a good idea if we got some famous thespian who was a former pupil of the school to present a prize for the most promising actress.”

Miss Batson claps her hand to her mouth. “Ooh, wouldn’t it be funny if you won it, Headmistress—Oooh! Did you hear what I said? I’m sorry but with poor Miss Grimshaw still so poorly, I can’t help thinking of you as her natural successor.”

It is all I can do to stop bringing up my puffed rice but Miss Murdstone purrs like an armchair-bound moggy. “Thank you, Batson,” she says. “Your faith is touching. Now, can anyone think of an old girl who has made a name for herself on the stage?”

“Dame Sybil Thorndyke,” says Miss Batson eagerly.

“I meant an old girl of the school!” hisses Miss Murdstone.

There is a long silence before Miss Honeycomb puts down her petit point and speaks. “I can remember Muriel Chills.”

“Muriel Chills? That doesn’t ring a bell.”

“I think she’s now called Gloria Van de Bust. I read about her in the paper.”

“The striptease dancer who was prosecuted for causing unnecessary suffering to a boa constrictor!?” Miss Murdstone looks appropriately horrified. “We don’t want her!”

“There must be someone else,” says Miss Batson. “I can’t believe that in a school of this size—”

“Robin Brentford!” says Miss Marjoribanks, who has been helping Miss Wilton with her collection of pressed ferns.

“He wasn’t here, was he?” says Miss Batson.

“No, but Syllabub Brentford is his daughter, isn’t she?”

The thought makes me go all dithery. Robin Brentford whose gorgeous moustachioed mug has had pride of place in the drawer of my bedside table ever since I arrived at St Rodence. The man who made me forget Dr Eradlik of Casualty Ward, my favourite T.V. star. Can his flesh and blood actually reside under the same roof? I feel like rushing round and asking for an autograph.

“Who is Robin Brentford?” asks Miss Murdstone.

Stupid old crone! I could scratch her eyes out sometimes. “He’s the star of The Implausibles,” I say.

“There’s no need to shout!” Miss Murdstone dabs at her eye with a handkerchief. “I’m not deaf, you know. What is The Implausibles? Some kind of television programme?” The poor, deluded old fool does not realise that Robin Brentford is a star. He has opened more supermarkets than she has had hot dinners.

“I believe it attracts a large following,” says Miss Honeycomb. “The girls were most distressed when the television broke down just before last night’s show.”

“So that’s what the flames were,” says Miss Murdstone. “I thought one of the stills had gone up again.”

“Do you think we can get him down here?” says Miss Batson.

“I should think that there can be little doubt of that,” sniffs Miss Murdstone. “The question is, do we want him? He’s not exactly Sir John Geilgud.”

“On the other hand, he’s more like Sir John Gielgud than any one else we have,” says Miss Honeycomb.

“Uuum.” Miss Murdstone looks thoughtful. “I had never considered my work in terms of television. I suppose it could translate.”

“Oh yes. Provided the language is simple enough. I mean, look at—oh dear, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. The man who wrote all those plays. Now what was it? Er—Hamlet. That was one of them. His name began with S. He was very well known. It’ll come to me in a minute. Anyway, his plays are translated into lots of languages.”

When you think that Miss Batson is the senior English mistress you can understand why nobody passed their ‘O’ Level examination. Apparently, only two girls spelt their name right at the top of the answer paper.

“I was not referring to a translation into another language but into another medium,” says Miss Murdstone patiently.

“Strindberg,” says Miss Honeycomb, suddenly.

Miss Batson shakes her head slowly. “No, I don’t think so. It’s no good. I’ll get confused if I go on thinking about it.”

One great advantage of Miss Murdstone ressurrecting the school dramatics society is that she takes over responsibility for everything. Not only does she write the play and star in it but she also casts and directs the actresses. The rest of us run around in the background and try and render all assistance short of actual help. One thing that can be said about Miss Murdstone is that she is very professional. “A real pro” is how Miss Batson describes her, although I would not go as far as that.

“A real pain in the arse” is how Penny describes her and I think that this is nearer the truth. Most actresses, asked to appear on stage as if they had just water skied across the Indian Ocean, would be content to walk on carrying a pair of water skis—not Millicent Murdstone. Uh, uh! For this baby it has to be the real thing. Despite the fact that she has never been on a pair of skis in her life, Miss M. wants to glide onto the stage as if deposited by the fag end of a giant breaker.

After a lot of discussion, it is agreed that she will be towed on by an invisible rope and that a bucket of water will be swilled across the stage, coincident with her appearance, to simulate the wave. It works remarkably well in practice and I, personally, am grateful for any action to break up the unrelieved deadliness of the dialogue. Despite Miss Murdstone’s insistence on large parts for the girls there is little sign of this being carried through into the final draft of the play.

“But, Inspector!”, “Inspector, you don’t mean—?” “Can you explain what you mean, Inspector?” “I don’t think I quite understand what you mean, Inspector.” All these are examples of some of the more demanding roles made available by the educated pen of Miss Murdstone when not writing for herself. The rest of the piece is taken up with long monologues in which Inspector Braithwaite describes her feelings upon first looking into Chapman’s Homer, spending the winter in Italy or hearing the first cuckoo of spring. I keep feeling that I have heard it all before somewhere, but this is probably a subconscious tribute to Miss Murdstone’s ability to engage the ear of the listener.

Penny and I are given the job of helping behind the scenes and persuading Robin Brentford to attend the production. We decide that the best way of attaining the latter end is through the good offices of his doting daughter and it is with this in mind that we troop round to see Syllabub Brentford.

“Stupid old poof!” she says when we acquaint her with the reason for our visit. “It makes me want to puke just to think about him.”

“Syllabub! What a terrible thing to say about your father.”

“He’s not my real father. I shouldn’t think he’s anyone’s real father. He’s Mummy’s number four, that’s all. Why she chose him when she could have had the pick of any broken down alcoholic lecher in London, I’ll never know.”

“Perhaps she loved him,” says Penny.

“‘Loved him’? Mummy loved my father and maybe the one after that but she’s not going to be stupid enough to go on believing in eternal happiness for ever.” Syllabub laughs a hollow laugh. “Did you hear that? It was quite funny, really: you can’t go on believing in eternity for ever.”

“How old are you?” asks Penny.

“Fourteen.”

“Goodness me, but you’re cynical,” says Penny.

“It saves a lot of disappointment. Anyhow, you want me to get the old fink down here for the play? It’s no skin off my nose. He’ll probably fall asleep but that will be nothing new.”

Listening to Syllabub makes me feel old, apart from anything else. I had always thought of dishy Robin as being my own age, not dragging one foot in the grave. Still, these days you are practically qualifying for a pension if you reach sixteen without having a stroke.

Syllabub writes to her stepfather as promised and I am astonished when a letter comes back virtually by return of post—e.g. about three weeks later. It is addressed to me and enclosed in a lilac envelope that smells like the perfume counter of Boots. The handwriting has more swirls and squiggles than half a pound of pigs’ tails. I tear open the envelope and withdraw a sheet of thick blotting paper—at least, that is what it feels like. In fact it is notepaper with the address embossed about half an inch off the paper. “4111 Hollywood Drive, Surbiton, Northern Europe”. A photograph of my hero flutters to the floor as does a lock of hair and a slip of paper. I pick up the piece of paper. On it is scrawled “send the stupid bitch a lock of hair from one of my old toupees and a photograph—preferably mine”. Nice to know that the personal touch still survives in these rough and ready times.

“Dear Miss Nixon” says the letter—I do wish people would get my name right. It’s bad enough finding “Dixon can’t keep her Nixon” scrawled on all the walls without this kind of thing—“I will be delighted to come down and judge your knobbly knees contest. Because I am doing this at the request of my stepdaughter, whose name I have momentarily forgotten, I will waive my normal fee of one hundred guineas, paid in used pound notes while I am pretending to gaze into the middle distance, and content myself with charging travelling expenses which should come to a sum approximately twice that amount. Please do not embarrass me by writing a gushing letter of gratitude. Prompt reimbursement of the sum involved will serve as a far more permanent symbol of your understandable appreciation which it would probably be difficult to convey in mere words anyway. I will arrive at Fudgely Station at 1800 hours with friend. Please inform national newspapers if crowd likely to exceed several thousand. Your humble servant, Robin Brentford (SUPER STAR)”

“He writes a nice letter, doesn’t he?” I say to Penny.

“Yes. It’s good to see that success hasn’t spoiled him. So many of them get big-headed, you know.”

I nod understandingly. “Uum. I suppose we’d better go and pick them up?”

“Definitely. We want to get in there first, don’t we? No point in telling the girls. They’d tear him limb from limb before he had handed in his ticket.”

“It’s a pity about his friend. Some glamorous starlet, I suppose.”

“Certain to be. I know he’s separated from Syllabub’s mother. She left him during the honeymoon.”

I know it is very wicked of me but I can’t help feeling glad that Syllabub’s mummy and daddy are no longer together. It means that Super Hunk is free. I can work my womanly wiles on him without experiencing those twinges of guilt that would accompany every action were the nuptial knot still firmly tied.

On the day of the play every mistress in the school is in some kind of tizzy. Miss Grimshaw is being walked round and round the grounds in an attempt to perk her up after a prolonged bout of over-tiredness. Miss Murdstone is flapping because she thinks that something may go wrong with her precious production. Most of the other staff are involved in the play, and Penny and I are thinking about our appointment with Robin and his lady.

“You don’t think I’ve overdone the eye make-up, do you?” says Penny.

“Not if you can remember the words of Way down upon the Swanee River” I say cattily.

“That’s a lovely jumper,” says Penny. “Which of the fourth form lent it to you?”

“Are you trying to suggest that I’m flaunting my figure?” I say coldly.

“No. I just think it’s a pity that you can’t find some clothes that aren’t three sizes too small for you. I expect Robin has seen breasts before.” Relations between Penny and I become rather chilly after that exchange and the journey to Fudgely is made in silence as well as Penny’s battered sports car.

“I think we should have hired something,” I say. “This crate is not only tiny but it’s nearly clapped out.”

“You can always walk behind it with a red flag,” hisses Penny.

“Don’t you mean walk in front of it?” I correct her.

“I wouldn’t trust myself if you were walking in front of it.”

“Charming!”

It just shows how much friendship means when there is an attractive man at stake, doesn’t it? Penny parks the car between two sets of double yellow lines and we go onto the platform. There are still fifteen minutes to kill before the train is due to arrive so we go into the buffet and watch the bluebottles chasing each other round the curling sandwiches.

“Some of them have been here for months,” says Penny.

“You mean, the bluebottles?” I ask.

“No! The sandwiches. They change the bluebottles every week. They get complaints if they don’t.”

“From the passengers?”

“No. From the bluebottles.”

Half an hour later the train has still not arrived and I am getting nervous. It reminds me of the time the St Rodence Supporters Club Special came back from Guildford. It was nine hours late and only three of the carriages still had their doors on—only four of the girls still had their drawer on, but that is another story.

“It’s not another go slow, is it?” Penny asks the kindly station master, Mr Ahkmed.

“Indeed to goodness, no. If it was a go slow we would be pushing the trains back up the line. I believe that it is merely a natural disaster, look you.” Mr Ahkmed went to Wales for his holidays and found himself much in sympathy with the speech patterns of the locals. Since then he has taken to sticking a leek in his turban and singing “Land Of Our Fathers” as the commuters special pulls in every evening—or every other evening if relations with the Railways Board are strained.

“It is coming. Allah and Carwyn James be praised.”

We look up the line and my heart thumps inside my body like a mechanical gong. This is it! The moment I have been waiting for. I hope he has not missed the train. I think I would leave the platform with me under it if he had. I crane my head forward as the doors begin to swing open and a collection of men carrying umbrellas and briefcases start to push each other out of the way, saying “Do you mind!?” in indignant voices. It seems a silly thing to say because they obviously do mind.

“There he is!” Penny sees him first. A mane of shaggy black hair encircled by a yoke of astrakhan, pokes out of one of the windows and then withdraws. He must be getting his case. A minute passes and the guard blows his whistle.