Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions

“What’s the matter with him?”

Penny and I charge up the platform and come level with the appropriate compartment as the train starts to move. Inside, Robin Brentford is sitting calmly, reading a copy of Variety. Beside him sits a blonde youth wearing a green velvet suit and reading a copy of Gay News.

“Mr. Brentford! Mr Brentford!”

Super Star switches on a thousand watt smile and waves a hand indulgently. “Sorry, girls. I never sign autographs while the train is in motion. I might jar my wrist.”

“This is it!” I screech. “We’re from St Rodence. You get off here!” Robin Brentford pales and then springs into action. A few seconds later, he and his friend have arrived in an untidy heap on the platform.

“Oh my God!” says the blonde youth clutching the lapels of his suit. “My nerves have all gone to pieces.”

“Calm yourself, Jeremy,” says Robin. “Worse things happen at sea, as my old wardrobe mistress used to say.”

“She never had to put up with this!” sniffs Jeremy. “If I’d known what I was letting myself in for I’d have stayed at home and tilled the window box. It’s looking like a wasteland!”

“‘Let us go then, when the evening is spread out against the sky.’” Robin takes our hands in both of his and looks up and down the platform. “Where are the crowds?”

I am still wondering about the evening but Penny is swift to answer.

“We thought you’d prefer to travel incognito so we didn’t tell anybody,’ she says.

“Oh.” Robin looks disappointed. “That’s why I nearly went past the station, you know. When I saw that there was no one here, I thought ‘this can’t be the place.’ Are you all right?” His remark is addressed to me. With his long curling moustache and dark mournful eyes he is exactly like his photographs and I am finding it difficult to keep control of myself. I have never been so close to a famous person before.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m sorry Syllabub isn’t here to meet you but she was doing the pools.”

“The football pools?” asks Jeremy.

“No. She was spraying the swimming pools against tsetse fly.”

“Syllabub? Syllabub?” Robin looks puzzled.

“Your daughter.”

“Do I have a daughter called Syllabub? That’s amazing. You don’t know who her mother was, do you? It doesn’t matter. I expect I’ll recognise her when I see her. Come, Jeremy.” He turns to me. “If you can drop us off at the hotel. We’ll only take a few minutes to freshen up.”

“We haven’t booked a hotel,” I say, feeling awful. “We didn’t know you were going to stay the night.”

Robin looks horrified. “One couldn’t possibly bury oneself in the wilds of the country and disinter oneself, all in one day. Provision must be made, my dear.”

“I suppose we could find something at The Lamb and Cuspidor,” I say. “It’s not very grand, but—”

“The village pub. How does that appeal to you, Jeremy?”

Jeremy shudders. “I find the idea positively sick-making. You know I get a bilious attack just looking at the facade of The Hilton.”

I can’t quite make up my mind about Jeremy. He is too old to be Robin’s son and yet they obviously have a very close relationship. At least he does not represent the same threat as a woman. I don’t know what it is but there seems something faintly effeminate about him. I ask Penny what she thinks as we stagger along behind, carrying the suitcases.

“Robin and batman,” she says. It takes me a little while to realise what she means and then I get it. She is making a joke. By the time I get around to asking her what she really thinks, we are at the car.

“We’re not all supposed to get in this, are we?” says Robin irritably. “Remember, I’m a star, not a midget act. Brentford is an easier way of spelling charisma.”

“I told you,” I hiss to Penny. “If you’d listened to me—”

“Shut up!” Penny stops speaking out of the corner of her mouth and we watch the last taxi pull out of the station forecourt. “I’m afraid it’s all there is,” she says, smiling sweetly.

Robin groans. “To think I cancelled a masonic dinner to come here. Come on, let’s get it over with.” He scrambles into the car and then has to scramble out again so that Jeremy and I can get in the back seat. Really! It is so blush-making. We are jammed closer together than a couple of pilchards and my skirt rides up my thighs. I suppose Penny was right about my clothes. They are a bit tight and revealing.

“It’s an awful squash, isn’t it?” I say.

“Uuuum.” Jeremy is a good-looking boy but he seems terribly shy. When I think what liberties some people would take in a situation like this, the mind boggles. Not, of course, that I want Jeremy to behave like that. It is just that a girl likes to know that men find her attractive. Jeremy must be getting a crick in the neck the way he is trying to peer out of the window.

“Do watch where you’re going!” snaps Robin. Penny does not seem to be making a lot of progress in the front seat. “How does this safety belt work?”

“You have to untwist it first. Here, let me.” Of course I do not intend to dangle my boobs in front of Robin’s face as I lean over his shoulder. It just happens that way. Some men might count themselves fortunate, my bust is one of my best features, but Brentford sheers away like I am some kind of tarantella. What is the matter with my fatal allure? Maybe it really is fatal.

“Please drive more slowly!” gasps Super Star. “Remember, you have a million dollars worth of dream fodder to nurture.”

“I’m sorry. We’re going to be late for the play if I don’t get a move on.”

Robin leans forward nervously. “I’d rather catch the second act than the first act up there.” He jerks his eyes heavenwards.”

“The act of the apostles,” says Penny brightly, overtaking a furniture van on the inside—practically on the inside of the furniture van.

“Precisely,” groans Brentford. “Be a love and pass me my pills, Jeremy.”

“I’ve just eaten them all.”

“Drat! How typically thoughtless of you. You’re so inconsiderate I could spit!”

“Sticks and stones!” Jeremy flicks his hand as if trying to jerk it off his wrist.

“Here we are,” I say cheerfully. “The Lamb and Cuspidor.”

Robin looks out of the window and shudders. “Have we got to stay there? It looks like a public urinal.”

“It is a public urinal. The pub is next door.”

Robin shifts his gaze. “I think I’d prefer the public urinal,” he says after a pause.

“You’ll probably have to share a room,” says Penny. “Will that be all right?”

“I expect we’ll make out,” says Robin gruffly. Jeremy does not say anything.

I know it is silly but I feel quite upset at the thought of Jeremy and Robin sharing a room. Of course I have no intention of becoming physically involved with Robin, the whole idea is too stupid for words, but I do like the romantic feeling of him being alone in his room. I can see him in a velvet smoking jacket standing by the open window and puffing his pipe across the moors—or, in this case, the allotment—the shadows from the log fire flickering against the half-timbered walls. …

“Penny, my love. What a marvellous surprise—and you, Rose. Our good fortune knows no bounds.”

I turn to see Guy Hark-Bach and Rex Harrington watching us from the doorway of the snug. I have not seen them since my unfortunate experience during the game of ‘Hunt The Horseshoe’ although I know that Penny still plays regularly. How typical that we should bump into them when we are already committed.

“Have a swift snort, girls,” says Rex.

“No time, I’m afraid,” sings out Penny. “We’ve got to go to the school play.”

“Who are those two queer-looking fellows?” says Guy, lowering his voice so that only people standing within fifty yards can hear him.

“Robin Brentford and his friend,” I say. “You know, the famous actor.”

“His friend is the famous actor?” says Rex.

“Jokes like that aren’t funny,” I say stiffly. “Everybody knows Robin Brentford. You name it, he’s opened it.”

“Oh yes. He’s on the telly when he’s not appearing on the Co-op advertisements, isn’t he? How frightfully amusing. Is he appearing in the school play?”

“Of course not! He’s the guest of honour.”

Robin and Jeremy have gone upstairs and, before I can reply to Rex, there is a scuffling noise and a sharp slap. Jeremy runs down the stairs clutching his cheek and Robin follows hot on his heels.

“Oh God!” sighs Penny.

“Jeremy, Jeremy! I’m sorry! I don’t know what came over me,” squeals Robin.

“You struck me! You struck me!” Jeremy rolls out the words like a carpet.

“Time to be off,” I say heartily. “Room all right?” I don’t have to wait for a reply because Jeremy storms into the street with Robin after him.

“Have a good evening,” says Guy, raising his glass. “If you feel like a change of scene later, pop round to the stables. We’re having a few people in for a drink.” He winks at Penny and nods at me which I find rather irritating. I am not all that much of a wet blanket. I have petted up to the heavyweight division in my time.

“We’ll see,” says Penny. “Toodle pip.”

When we get outside there is no sign of either Robin or Jeremy and it is five minutes before we run them to earth at the back of the gents. Jeremy is in an awful mood and refuses point blank to come to the play. In the end we persuade Robin to come by himself but you can tell that his heart is not in it. They are a funny couple, there is no getting away from it.

When we arrive at the school, the curtain is due to go up in five minutes and I am not happy to see a dishevelled old woman busking the queue outside the Memorial Hall—it is called by this name although no one can remember what it was built in memory of—certainly not the architect, who managed to construct a shape without an angle of ninety degrees in it.

“Headmistress, please!” urges Penny. “Put down that gin bottle and come with us.”

“Just let me give them a reprise of Nelly Dean,” wheezes Miss Grimshaw. “I’ve got another five minutes before it’s Miss Batson and her spoons.”

“But Miss Grimshaw—”

“No ‘buts!’ And I’m not sharing my collection with anyone. ‘There’s an old mill by the stream, NELLY DEAN!!’”

“Who is this disgusting old pile of dirty washing?” snaps Robin. “Will you tell her to let go of my lapels!?”

Oh dear. It is all so embarrassing. What a shame that Miss Grimshaw has to choose this night to have one of her worst turns. Just as well that few of the parents are going to be able to recognise her in her black veil, stays and high heel lace-up granny boots.

“Help me off with the accordion,” says Penny. “It’s amazing where she gets the strength from, isn’t it?”

We manage to get Miss Grimshaw into the art room and stretch her out beside a selection of the new number plates that the girls have been painting for the car maintenance classes.

“Leave her there,” says Penny. “She’ll sleep it off in a couple of hours. I can’t think what the rest of them are doing to let her wander about like that.”

“They must all be behind stage,” I say.

“I hope not,” says Penny. “It would be fatal to leave the hall in the control of the girls.”

“What is going on here?” says Robin.

We don’t stop to explain but leave Miss Grimshaw snoring and make for the hall. As we had feared, Eliza Dunnalot is on the door.

“I’m sorry,” we hear her saying, “those tickets only entitle you to enter as a member of the dramatic society club. The actual seat tickets will cost another five guineas. Do you want the commemoration programme at one seventy-five or are you the kind of cheap skate who would let his wife ruin her eyesight on the ordinary programme we’ve just run out of anyway?”

“Eliza!” Penny’s eyes blaze fire. “Do you understand that this is rank extortion and where’s my share?”

“We’ll try and grease the sides of your pigeonholes so we can get it all in,” murmurs Eliza.

“What a winsome girl,” says Penny as we make our way to the seats of honour. “Do check for chewing gum and poisoned drawing pins before you sit down.”

“My programme is made up of old pieces of the Radio Times stuck together with toilet tissue,” complains Robin.

“You should never have bought it outside the hall,” chides Penny. “There’s notices everywhere.”

Robin looks at his programme critically. “The cover is made from one of them,” he says.

No sooner have we taken our seats in the crowded hall than the light begins to disappear. Penny makes the girl responsible bring it back again and I see Miss Murdstone peering through the curtains towards us. An expression resembling relief flashes across her generous features.

“The curtain should go up any minute,” I say.

Here, I have to confess, I am wrong. The curtain falls down. I feel very sorry for Miss Murdstone because she is standing underneath it and has to remain motionless until the national anthem has finished. She looks like a sun dial with a dust sheet over it. Despite this set back she is swift to reveal that she is a real trouper—some people say that she is a real trooper but this is because of the way she stands. She emerges from the curtain and holds up her hands for silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Before the play commences I would like to say how grateful we are to have with us that distinguished actor, Robin Brentford, who is going to award the Murdstone Memorial Prize for the best actress in the production.” She waves her hand towards the audience and Robin stands up with a loud ripping noise. This is caused by the fact that the back of his trousers remain seated.

“Oh dear,” says Penny. “Fish hooks. I told him to look before he sat down.”

Robin says something which sounds a bit like “fish hooks” and the lights go down.

The set represents the lounge of a hotel in the middle of the Indian Ocean and most of the furniture has been borrowed from Miss Grimshaw’s ante-room—or anti-room as is more nearly the case. I recognise the razor slashes and the particular pattern the horsehair makes as it leaks out of the settee.

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