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Confessions of a Night Nurse
Rosie Dixon
Things that go bump in the night…The CONFESSIONS series, the brilliant sex comedies from the 70s, available for the first time in eBook.Rosie Dixon ties to save herself for Mr Right – but Mr. Nearly, Mr. Almost and Mr. Not-at-All are all trying to get in there first.She makes her parents so cross that she has to leave home and find work as a night nurse – which only gets her into more trouble…Also available: CONFESSIONS FROM AN ESCORT AGENCY, CONFESSIONS OF A PERSONAL SECRETARY.
CONFESSIONS OF A NIGHT NURSE
ROSIE DIXON
Publisher’s Note
The Confessions series of novels were written in the 1970s and some of the content may not be as politically correct as we might expect of material written today. We have, however, published these ebook editions without any changes to preserve the integrity of the original books. These are word for word how they first appeared.
CONTENTS
Title Page (#u7c8f0bc4-5add-54ac-9172-6be1edf04b0c)
Publisher’s Note (#uf5c6b0c5-d5f3-5e65-8161-d2971cbdfd9f)
How did it all start? (#u94a8638d-66ee-56b7-bf65-a23edf9a67e2)
Chapter 1 (#ua82bc78c-e87e-59ca-900b-3757db6e53ea)
Chapter 2 (#ud1ef0ac7-0ccb-52eb-b7c4-021a86e7a1e6)
Chapter 3 (#ue04e5232-c5de-53c2-afda-ffda1eb363f2)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Rosie Dixon (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
How did it all start?
When I was young and in want of cash (all the time), I used to trudge round to the local labour exchange during school and university breaks and sign on for any job that was going – mason’s mate, loader for Speedy Prompt Delivery, part time postman etc, etc.
During our tea and fag breaks (�have a go and have a blow’ was the motto) my fellow workers would regale me with stories of the Second World War: (�very clean people, the Germans’), or throwing Irishmen through pub windows (the latter apparently crossed the Irish sea in hard times and were prepared to work for less than the locals). This was interesting, but what really stuck in my mind were the recurring stories of the mate or brother-in-law – it rarely seemed to be the speaker – who had been seduced, to put it genteelly, whilst on the job by (it always seemed to be) �a posh bird’: “Ew. Would you care for a cup of tea?” �And he was up her like a rat up a drainpipe’. Even one of the – to my eyes – singularly uncharismatic SPD drivers had apparently been invited to indulge in carnal capers after a glass of lemonade one hot summer afternoon in the Guildford area.
Of course, this could all have been make believe or urban myth but, but I couldn’t help thinking – with all this repetition – surely there must be something there?
It seemed unrealistic and undemocratic that Timmy’s naïve charms should only appeal to upper class women, so I quickly widened his demographic and put him in situations where any attractive member of the fair sex might come across him or, of course, vice versa.
The books were always fun to write and never more so than when involving Timmy’s family: Mum, Dad – prone to nicking weird objects from the lost property office where he worked – sister Rosie and, perhaps most important of all, conniving, would-be entrepreneur, brother in law Sidney Noggett, Timmy’s eminence greasy, a disciple of Thatcherism before it had been invented.
One day I woke up and had a brilliant idea. Why not a female Timothy Lea? And so was born Rosie Dixon, perhaps a gentler, more romantic flower than Timmy; always bending over backwards to do the right thing and preserve herself – mentally of course, that was very important – for Mr Right, but finding that things kept getting on top of her. In retrospect I regret that I did not end the series with Rosie and Timmy clashing in a sensual Gotterdammerung, possibly culminating in wedlock. Curled up before the glowing embers they would have had much to tell each other – or perhaps not tell each other.
Anyway, regardless of Timmy’s antecedents and Rosie’s moral scruples it is clear that an awful lot of people – or, perhaps, a lot of awful people – have shared my interest in the couple’s exploits and I would like to say a sincere �thank you’ to each and every one of them.
Christopher Wood, a.k.a. Timothy Lea/Rosie Dixon
CHAPTER 1
“Don’t forget to water the plants, dear.”
“No, Mum.”
“Not too much water. You don’t have to drown them.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Make sure you close all the windows and lock everything up when you go out.”
“Yes, Mum.”
“Don’t forget to let the cat out.”
“No, Dad.”
“And don’t let Natalie stay up too late watching television. She’s still growing, you know.”
“Yes, Mum.”
Mum picks up her gloves and handbag and looks round the room.
“I’m certain there was something else I wanted to say.”
“There’ll always be something else you want to say,” says Dad, wearily. “Hurry up, Mary, or we’ll miss the train.”
“You’ll be good girls, won’t you?” says Mum. “Oh, dear. I wish I wasn’t going, now.”
“What do you mean, �now’?” says Dad. “I never wanted to go and stay with your sister in the first place. It’s bad enough having her here, but at least I can suffer in my own home.”
“Have a lovely time, Mum,” says Natalie. “You too. Dad. I hope the weather stays nice for you.”
“It never has done yet,” sniffs Dad. “Every time we go there it’s �Oh dear, what a pity. If only you’d been able to come last week. The sun shone from dawn till dusk.’ I don’t believe it ever stops raining.”
“Don’t listen to your father,” says Mum patiently. “He loves it when he gets there.”
“If he gets there. If you don’t get a move on we’re going to miss that train.”
“You’re the one who’s doing all the talking, dear.”
“You should have got a taxi,” says Natalie.
“I’m not made of money, my girl,” says Dad. “The train fare alone comes to over five quid.”
“I’ll give you a hand with the bag, Mum.” Unless I do something to get them out of the house they will be here all night.
Mum still looks worried. “I wish I could remember what it was I was going to say.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll think of something. Goodbye, Rosie.”
“Goodbye, Dad. Have a nice time.”
I open the front door and everyone gets in each other’s way. Eventually we finish saying goodbye and Natalie whistles through her teeth and leans back against the door. “Do you really think that—” She stops as I press my finger against my lips. Instead of dying away the sound of footsteps is getting louder. There is a moment’s silence and then the door bell rings. Hardly has the first note sounded than I fling open the door. “Here’s your handbag, Mum.”
“Oh yes. How silly of me. What I really came back for was to remind you about the rhubarb. I couldn’t get it all in the fridge so I put it on top of the cupboard. You won’t forget it, will you?”
“No, Mum.”
Mum shakes her head. “I know there’s something else. I’ll probably think of it on the train.”
“There isn’t going to be a bleeding train,” yodels Dad.
“I’ll drop you a postcard.” Mum waves hurriedly and follows Dad down the street. I hear him shout “There you are, we just missed one”, before they disappear from sight.
“I don’t dare say anything,” says Natalie as we close the door. “What time is the train supposed to go?”
“Half past four.”
“So we won’t know whether they got it until about half past five. I won’t be able to live through the tension. Can I borrow one of your ciggies?”
She does not wait for me to reply but dives into my handbag.
“What do you mean �borrow’? You never give anything back. Anyway, you know Mum doesn’t like you smoking.”
“What she doesn’t know isn’t going to worry her. Lots of girls at school smoke much more than I do.”
“Well, borrow their fags, then. They can obviously afford it.”
Natalie lights up and blows a big cloud of smoke at the flies on the ceiling. “Free! Isn’t that fantastic? Six whole days of bachelor girl living. When are we going to have the orgy?” Some girls might be joking. With Natalie you never know. She is three years younger than me but I wonder about her sometimes. There can’t be many fifteen-year-old girls who have grown out of three bras.
“You know what Mum said,” I warn. “No parties.”
“I wasn’t talking about a party, was I? Come on, Rosie. Don’t say you’re going to turn into a recording of Mum’s voice the minute the door is closed.”
“Do use an ashtray,” I tell her.
“What did I tell you? I do wish you could listen to yourself sometimes. You want to get a job as a school teacher. You’re wasting your time down at the tech.”
“You worry about me when you’ve got your �O’ levels, Lolita.” It is fast occurring to me that a week with Raquel Welchlet could well result in a few frayed nerve ends.
“Brains aren’t everything,” says my gay, fun-loving little sister. “I want to be a model, anyway.”
I watch her experimenting with the buttons on her stretch cotton blouse to see how many she can undo before her navel appears and understand why Mum and Dad worry about us so much. “Models aren’t idiots,” I say.
“I’m not an idiot,” says Natalie. “I’m a fire sign, that’s all. Outward going and uninhibited.”
“I don’t believe in horoscopes,” I tell her. “Scorpios never do.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” A sense of humour is not one of Natalie’s strong points. “Seriously though.” She buttons up the reasons why she was voted the most popular girl in her class—there were more boys than girls. “We ought to have a party to repay all the hospitality we’ve received. You could invite all your friends from the tennis club.” The way she says “tennis club” she makes it sound like “geriatrics anonymous”.
“I wish you wouldn’t go on about the tennis club. I just like watching tennis, that’s all.”
“And your lover, Geoffrey.” Natalie wags a finger at me. “Oh yes. I know all about the two of you looking for lost balls in the long grass.”
“What do you expect us to do, leave them there?”
“This was after the club dance.”
“Oh �Natalie’ I wish you could get it into your thick head that Geoffrey Wilkes and I are not lovers.” I hope I sound convincing because I would like to be persuaded myself. Somebody must have put something in the fruit cup that night, because when we went behind the privet I began to feel quite weak at the knees. Maybe it was the night air. There had been a terrible fug in the clubhouse. Geoffrey started kissing me and trying to put his hand up my skirt and I remember wishing that he was that aggressive on the tennis court. Perhaps that is why I gave him the teeniest bit of encouragement. Silly, really, but I just wanted to know what it felt like. It was not until I saw my panties hanging out of his jacket pocket that I realised what was happening. We were lying behind the roller and he was making the most incredible grunting noises. I was kissing him more to keep him quiet than for any other reason. He was behaving terribly badly because he was taking advantage of me. The fruit cup was quite harmless on the previous occasions I had been to the club. His fingers were running riot in my reception area and I was in such a state that I did not know where they ended and his pork banana began. I should have been paying more attention but I was so frightened that someone might come—I mean approach, of course. I was just getting rather worried when he suddenly rolled off me and was sick behind the roller. It was terribly embarrassing and I felt quite ill myself as I hurried back to the club house. I don’t think anything had happened—I mean to me, of course—but it was a very nasty experience. When Geoffrey came in five minutes later, the colour of a dead cabbage leaf, with my panties still hanging out of his pocket I could have died. Everybody was so rude and I am not surprised that Natalie heard about it. It just shows how careful you have got to be.
“That’s not what I heard. You gave him your knicks to blow his nose on, did you?”
I ignore this tasteless remark and become engrossed in the TV Times. It is unhealthy the way Natalie harps on about sex the whole time.
“Ooh! look. They’ve got a repeat of Casualty Ward.”
“What? Now? Smashing,” Natalie drops her fag into her tea cup and follows me into the front room. I wish I had kept my mouth shut because I would much rather curl up with Edward Chancellor by myself. He is the sexy star of the show Doctor Eradlik.
“Haven’t you got any homework to do?” I snap.
“They don’t give us homework.”
“Well, they should. When I was your age I was—” I start to think about more important things as dreamboat’s face looms up on the screen. Some people think he is too pretty, but when he looks straight at the camera like that I feel my tongue creeping out of my mouth and running nervously along my upper lip—at least, I think it is nerves.
“Her skin may be black but her kidney is the same colour as a white girl’s.”
“Doctor Eradlik! You don’t mean—!”
“Yes, Sandy. There’s no time for prejudice when a man is dying.”
“Would you like to have a spade’s kidney?” says Natalie thoughtfully.
“Ssssh!”
“I don’t think I would myself. I’ve nothing against them but—”
“Shut up!” I hiss.
Eradlik stops tapping his folded stethoscope against the palm of his hand and looks at his watch. �If Gruntstone doesn’t give his consent to the operation in the next five minutes, it’s going to be too late.’
“That bigot will never give his consent to anything that involves his son having a black girl’s kidney. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You look beautiful when you’re mad, Nurse Timkins. Your eyes blaze like all those stars out there.”
“You mustn’t kiss me, Doctor. I’m supposed to be sterilised.”
“I couldn’t believe that lips so sweet and pure could ever bear the stigma of stapyhylococci.”
Dream Snogger is just about to put his beautiful mouth to work when the telephone rings. I don’t mean the telly telephone but the one in our hall. I wait hopefully for Natalie to answer it but I am wasting my time. God help him if it is some adenoidal little pimple factory wanting to know if my kid sister is going to the youth club—or Teen Scene as the new vicar now calls it. I try and catch her eye as I stalk past but she is staring at the screen with her thumb in her mouth and her skirt up to her panties.
“Don’t scratch yourself like that,” I say primly.
“Why not? I’ve got an itch.”
“It’s not nice.” I pick up the telephone. “Hello!” My voice is meant to sound about as welcoming as Moshe Dayan being invited to judge the Miss Egypt Beauty Contest. There is a pip, pip, pip and the line goes dead. I return to the front room.
“That was Mum,” I say.
“What did she want?”
“She hasn’t got through yet. What’s happened?”
“They can’t wait any longer so he’s doing an emergency operation without the father’s consent.”
“And using the black girl’s kidney?”
“I think so. Do you smell anything?”
“Only that awful perfume of yours. You don’t wear that at school, do you?”
“Of course not. I don’t want to enslave them.”
“Smells like something burning. You didn’t leave anything on in the kitchen, did you?”
Natalie shakes her head. “No.”
“Well, don’t just sit there. Go and have a look.”
“Why me?”
“Because I just answered the telephone.”
Natalie nods towards the telly. “It’s better if you go because I know what’s happening and I can tell you. If I go—”
“Oh, stay there and mind you don’t scratch another hole in yourself!”
“Charming!”
I make tracks for the kitchen and the smell of burning gets worse with every step. Don’t say the rhubarb has caught fire. I glance at the dials on the cooker and wrench open the oven door. Crikey! I haven’t seen so much smoke since Dad borrowed an indoor barbecue set. I grab a couple of wet tea towels and drop the burnt offering in the sink where it sizzles merrily. It looks as if it might once have been a steak and kidney pud. In the hall the telephone rings.
“Telephone!” shouts Natalie helpfully. I make a quick list of the ten ways I would most like to kill her and snatch up the receiver. Pip, pip, pip, pip …
“I’ve found the steak and kidney pud, Mum,” I speak the second the pips stop.
“I’ve no time to talk now, dear,” says Mum. “Listen carefully. There’s a steak and kidney pud in the oven which should have come out half an hour ago.”
“I found it, Mum.”
“You must take it out immediately.”
“I have done, Mum.”
“Do you understand, dear? I can’t talk because the train is just about to go and your father is shouting at me. There’s a steak and—”
There is a muffled squawk and a noise that could be Dad yelling something I am grateful I cannot understand.
“Hello? Mum?” I can still hear station noises in the background and I imagine that Mum must have left the phone dangling as Dad dragged her away. I am about to hang up when I hear a sound like someone breathing and a voice full of eastern promise purrs from the receiver.
“Hullo, how are you?” says a man’s voice.
“Hello,” I say. On the spur of the moment it is difficult to think of anything else to say.
“Dear lady, how happy I am to be speaking to you. You do not know me but I am of strong build and reaching towards the upper limits of those considerably in excess of five feet tall. I am only recently arrived in your country and would be most happy if you would go out with me. I have had many happy reports of the friendly disposition of the ladies of London and I would like to put them to the test.” His voice drones on and I have half a mind to call Natalie.
“I’m sorry but I’m married,” I say. I mean, there is no need to be unkind, is there?
“I eat husbands for breakfast!” insists the voice at the other end of the line. “My ardour is unquenchable. I am a lion! By the holy waters of the Ganges I will—”
I put down the receiver with a shaking hand. I know that there are some funny people about but why do they always have to pick on me? Only the other day the middle aged man sitting opposite me in the tube whipped open his mac to reveal something that looked like a small garden gnome weathered by a million years of non-stop rain. By the time I had opened my eyes he had got out at Clapham North.
That was not an isolated incident. Strange men are always rubbing themselves against me on public transport—and some of them are not so strange either. I thought the fellow with the bowler hat who had his umbrella jammed against my reception area was unaware of what he was doing—until I saw that he did not have an umbrella. Why does it always have to be me? I know girls who spend their whole lives waiting for a man to flash himself at them. I only have to look at a man below a line drawn at right angles to the top of his zipper and I have an evens chance of copping an eyeful of crotch insulation. I have the same effect on men’s willies as a summer shower on a lawn full of thirsty worms.
“I didn’t know you were married,” says Natalie as I come through the door. “Geoffrey put you in the family way, did he?”
“I was getting rid of another crank,” I say.
“You mean Mum?” asks Natalie.
“Her as well. She put a pie in the oven for us.”
“And Geoffrey put a bun in the oven for you. It’s our lucky day, isn’t it?”
“Do stop going on about Geoffrey. I just watch him play tennis sometimes, that’s all.”
“And soak up the ritzy atmosphere at Eastwood Tennis Club. Was that Mum’s pud we smelt?”
“Yes. Steak and kidney.”
Natalie pulls a face. “I wouldn’t have been able to eat it anyway. Doctor Dish has just whipped out that black bird’s kidney.”
“Is she all right?”
“She is at the moment, but she’s not going to last, is she?”
“Why not?”
“Stands to reason, doesn’t it? If you’re black you never last long on this programme. Specially if you’ve been going out with a white fellow. It saves all the embarrassment. See? She’s going to snuff it. The little white light has stopped bleeping.”
“I’ve seen them come back after the little white light has stopped bleeping.”
“Not black ones, you haven’t. Anyway, it’s two weeks since somebody kicked the bucket so we’re due for a spot of the deathbeds. It makes the whole thing more realistic, doesn’t it? You watch.”
Natalie’s blood is colder than an eskimo’s inside leg measurement and I can’t remember her crying since Mum put her David Cassidy T-shirt in the washing machine—he came out looking like Wee Georgie Wood.
On the screen, emotions are running higher than the interest rate on a hire purchase agreement. Doctor Eradlik is gazing into the camera as usual and behind him a brash young voice can be heard.
�Sure. I feel great, doc. How’s Dawn?’ An expression of refined pain flashes across Eradlik’s beautiful face. �What’s the matter, Doc? Is something wrong? Doc—’
The voice breaks off in mid-speech even before Eradlik has swung round. �You’re not going to find this very easy, Sonny. I’m not finding it very easy myself. You see, Dawn gave you much more than just her kidney.’
�You mean—?’
�Yes, Sonny. She gave you her life.’
“Just like I said,” interrupts Natalie.
“Ssssh!” Natalie has no soul. Lots of body but no soul. Sonny is reacting badly to the news so Eradlik puts his hand on his shoulder and gazes into the camera again. �We found out after the operation that only one of her kidneys was working.’
�You mean—?’
�That’s right. The one she gave to you.’
�So she knew?’
�Yes, Sonny. She knew. But she also knew that you didn’t know, and knowing that gave her the strength to know herself.’ The camera moves from Eradlik’s face to the sobbing Sonny and then outside to a shot of the sun rising over a hill.
“I like the end bit best, when he walks down the long corridor and the girl is waiting for him with the sports car,” says Natalie. “The music is nice, too.”
I pat the tears out of my eyes with a Kleenex and prepare to wrestle with Mum’s burnt dish.
“You know, I think I’d really like to be a nurse,” I say. “I really would.”
CHAPTER 2
“I hope nothing goes wrong,” I say.
“Of course nothing will go wrong,” says Natalie. “It’s only a little party.”
It is the day before Mum and Dad are due to come home and much against my better judgement I have been nagged into giving a party with Natalie. The way news of us being on our own has rocketed round the neighbourhood you would think we were a couple of queen bees who had put up a notice saying “Come and get it!” outside the entrance to the hive.
“Don’t you think those trousers are a bit tight?” I say.
“Yes,” says Natalie. “That’s the idea. They’re supposed to be figure-hugging.”
“Figure-hugging? They’re squeezing your body to death. I don’t know how you get into them.”
“You spray them on and wait for them to dry. Don’t be a spoilsport, Rosie. Relax and have a good time.”
“I’m not going to relax until everyone has gone home. You know what Mum said. No parties. She’d go mad if she knew that bunch of refugees from Easy Rider was coming round here tonight.”
“It’s not really a party, more a sorry.”
“You mean a soiree, don’t you? It’ll be a sorry when Dad finds out about it.”
“Why should he find out about it?”
“Because the neighbours are going to tell him, stupid. Mrs Wilson has already got tennis elbow from pulling aside the curtains every time someone comes to the front door.”
“Maybe we should ask her?”
“You must be joking. She’d spend all the time in a corner taking down evidence. The last party she went to was to celebrate the shooting down of the first Zeppelin.”
“What was that?”
“You don’t know anything, do you? It was a German airship used in the first world war.”
“Oh, you mean a giant French letter that carried passengers.”
“Yes. It didn’t carry as many passengers as a real French letter, though.”
“Does Geoffrey use French letters?”
“Why do you suddenly ask that? I don’t know.”
Natalie looks concerned. “Well, you should do. You don’t want to end up in the family way, do you? That would really upset Mum and Dad.”
“What I meant was—Oh, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to discuss my sex life with you, Natalie. You take some of your own advice and watch out tonight.”
I mean it, too. The way the local boys look at Natalie you would think she was a bag of warm aniseed balls thrown over the wall of Battersea Dogs’ Home. At least there is one good thing about those trousers—I can’t see any one getting them off in a hurry.
“What time is Geoffrey coming to make the punch?” Natalie starts to shiver with make-believe ecstasy. “Oh! To think that humble little me is actually going to drink the same punch as they serve down at the tennis club. Will it taste the same without the silver bowl?”
“Depends whether you still have your teeth when you try it,” I say.
Further unpleasantness is prevented by the door bell ringing.
“That’ll be him,” says Natalie. “Lod Raver himself. I can’t wait to see those hairy wrists stirring in the mandarin oranges.”
I restrain myself and open the front door. It is Geoffrey. He is wearing his tennis club blazer as I was frightened he might be. He is about as trendy as cardboard spats.
“Hello Geoff.” Natalie puts on her big smile and Geoffrey beams. She is so two-faced that I could kill her. Even Mum and Dad don’t know what she is really like.
“I’m not too early, am I?” says Geoffrey. He has not looked at me yet. It is just as well that I don’t fancy him.
“Of course not,” simpers my adorable little sister. “In fact, Rosie was getting all screwed up waiting for you. You must excuse me, I’ve got to put my face on.”
“Take care which one you choose,” I hiss, hoping that the venom does not seep through my teeth.
“Fantastic looking bird, your sister,” says Geoffrey admiringly as Natalie disappears up the stairs. “Definitely ladies doubles champion, eh?”
“Are my breasts sagging down to my knees?” I say. “Am I repulsive or just invisible?”
“What are you getting so worked up about?” says Geoffrey. “I only said that your sister was attractive.”
“What about me? You haven’t addressed a word to me yet.”
“You know I think you’re attractive.”
“Not unless you tell me I don’t.”
“But I have told you. I’ve proved it as well.”
Eastwood Tennis Club’s most persistent lobber tries to hoist his hand up my skirt.
“Stop it! You’re here to make the punch.” I push him away from me and am slightly annoyed by the way he gives up so easily. “What have you got in that bag?”
“All the ingredients for an unforgettable evening.”
“Not the stuff we had the night you made such a fool of yourself?”
“I don’t remember you grumbling when we were out by that roller.”
“I wasn’t myself then.”
“Well, whoever you were, you had a damn good time, I can tell you!”
“I’ll leave you to get on with it.” I extend an ear in the direction of the front door. “The rest of the mob will be arriving at any minute.” I pop into the hall and, sure enough, some egg head silhouettes appear against the frosted glass. I open the door as the first finger crashes against the bell push and find myself looking at three greasers in studded leathers and crash helmets. They make the average hell’s angel look like a refugee from Andy Pandy Cleans Up Toytown.’
“Is this where Natalie lives?” says the one with a fringe that looks as if it has been used to sponge some oil from a bicycle chain.
“Yes,” I say. It is a reply I think about a lot in the following weeks. It could so easily have been no.
“I’m Ted and she invited me to her party. These are my mates, Nutter and Flash.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“How do’s.”
All three of them are now behind me.
“Where can we put our helmets?” says Ted. “We don’t want some bleeder pissing in them.”
“I don’t think that’s very likely,” I say haughtily. “Put them down by the hallstand. Shall I take your bottles?’
Ted looks at Nutter who looks at Flash before all three of them look back at me. �We haven’t got any bottles, luv. Natalie said there wasn’t going to be any bovver. I’ve got my flick knife but I’m hanging on to it.”
“I don’t think you quite understand,” I say patiently. “You’re supposed to bring your own drink. Didn’t Natalie say it was a bottle party?”
“I can’t remember. No, I don’t think so.”
“I expect it slipped her mind.” I withdraw to the foot of the stairs. “I’ll tell her you’re here, Ted. You and your friends.”
“Ta, luv.”
“Look, Ted, there’s a geezer in there got some booze.”
“You’re right, Flash. Hey, mate, you don’t want to pour that on top of a load of orange peel. That’s wasting it.”
“Yeh. That’s good gin you’ve got there.”
As I reach the top of the stairs I can hear Geoffrey making spluttering noises. “Natalie!” I shout, bursting into the bathroom. “Oh, Natalie! Do you know—crikey!”
Natalie’s eyelids have been extended towards her temples so that she looks like bride of Batman. Each eyelash is a stamen thick with mascara.
“Don’t start on me, for gawd’s sake!” she says, reading my expression. “It’s my party as well, you know.”
“I’ll talk to you about the �as well’ later,” I say. “At the moment there’s three ton-up merchants down there threatening to smash up your party before it’s even started.”
Natalie goes to the window. “Oh yes. That’s a bit naughty of them, leaving their bikes on Mrs Wilson’s front lawn, isn’t it?”
“What!” By the time I have checked that Junior Fun-lover is not joking she has left the room.
I rush downstairs and find Flash helping himself from the half empty gin bottle while Ted embraces my sister. I use the term embrace in order to avoid embarrassing my more sensitive readers.
“Who are these people?” hisses Geoffrey. “They’ve drunk nearly everything I was going to put in the punch.”
“They’re friends of Natalie’s,” I whisper. “Watch them like a hawk.”
Talking of watching, the one called Nutter is leering at me as if someone has just told him that I have his photograph pinned up over my bed. “Wanna dance?” he says.
“There isn’t any music,” explains Geoffrey.
“Well, don’t just stand there with that lemon in your hand. Hum �The Blue Danube’.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” snaps Geoffrey. He can be very rude to line judges.
“Don’t you call me ridiculous, mate,” says Nutter, menacingly. “I’m not wearing a poofy blazer.”
“I’ll put something on,” I say, hurriedly.
“I’d rather you took something off, luv.” Nutter winks at Flash who laughs slowly like treacle flowing down a plug hole. He is obviously the ugly, silent type.
“What about the punch?” hisses Geoffrey. “It’s pure fruit juice at the moment.”
“We’ll have to borrow some of Dad’s booze and put it back later.”
“Where is it?”
“I hid it to be on the safe side. It’s in the—” I break off as Ted walks past me drinking from a bottle of scotch. I know it is Dad’s because of the biro marks on the side. “Cheers,” sings out Ted, nodding to us. “Going to have some music? That’s nice.”
“—In the bread bin in the kitchen,” I continue. “You’d better move fast before there’s nothing left.”
“Hurry up with the music, Rosie. People want to dance.” Natalie takes a swig of Ted’s bottle and drapes herself over him like ivy. At that moment I think I could probably kill her in about fifteen seconds. I put a record on and go out as the front door bell rings again.
An hour later, I am feeling slightly better. A lot more people have come and not all of them look as if they would take the gas meter home with them for the loose change.
Geoffrey has put a bottle of sherry and half a bottle of egg flip—Flash washed his hair with the other half, I think—in the punch and it has certainly given it body. Not that it was short in this department after I added the tin of Russian Salad. I think this might have been a mistake because a rumour went round that someone had been sick in the bowl. Still, it did help make it last a bit longer. What with Dad’s booze and all the odds and ends we have picked from the larder the party is going to cost a fortune. Despite that, I will have no regrets if nothing disastrous happens. Geoffrey gets very worked up every time I dance with Flash or Nutter but I keep explaining to him that Hells Angels do dance like that and I am prepared to put up with it if it saves the family home. Nutter is quite attractive in a greasy sort of way, rather like Elvis with slightly more hip twitching. Of course he is not my type but silly Geoffrey does not seem to understand this. I have just removed Nutter’s hand from my behind for the umpteenth time when Geoffrey pushes between us.
“I’m going to have to have it out with you if you’re not careful,” he snaps.
“I’ve been trying to have it out with her, but she doesn’t want to know,” says Nutter wittily. “Still, the night is young. Why don’t you push off back to Butlins and make the most of it?”
“Boys, please!” I say. As you can imagine, the thought of these two brute male hunks battling to the death over me is too horrible for words. I am about to say more when Natalie appears at my side. This is good news in some respects as I thought she was permanently attached to Ted’s side.
“Mrs Wilson is at the door,” she says.
“Oh my God! What does she want?”
“You.”
“Got a bit of aggro, have you?” says Nutter helpfully. “Want me to put the nut on someone? I’ll get the boys. Ted—”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” I say hurriedly. I take off for the door and there is Mrs W. bristling like an electric hedgehog. “You’ve got to do something about the noise,” she shouts. “I don’t know what you’re doing in there.” She peers past me into the interior and I see Ted and Natalie scampering up the stairs. The studs on Ted’s back spell “Ted” and a V sign.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I say. “I’ll try and get them to quieten down a bit. It’s somebody’s birthday, you see.”
“I can’t see what that has to do with it. Some of us have to work in the morning, you know.”
“Of course.” I try and close the door. I don’t want to leave Ted and Natalie alone upstairs for a second longer than I have to. As I glance over my shoulder I see Flash and Nutter leaving a film of grease on the bannisters.
“Don’t try and slam the door in my face, miss! The noise isn’t the main reason why I came. Have you seen my front lawn?” I glance over the hedge and my heart sinks. The glistening handlebars of the bikes remind me of a reindeer round-up. There must be stands at Earls Court that have fewer bikes on them.
“I’m terribly sorry. I’ll get them off at once.”
“If you don’t, I’m going to ring the police. The whole thing is quite disgraceful. Your parents aren’t here, are they?”
“They’ll be back tomorrow,” I simper.
“Humpf!” Mrs Wilson takes another look past me just as one of Geoffrey’s friends pushes out of the front door and is sick all over Mum’s petunias. Oh dear. How very unfortunate. Mrs Wilson stalks down the garden path still muttering and I shoot back into the house. The first thing I see is Geoffrey holding his dripping nose over the rubber plant in the hall. He can be very thoughtful sometimes.
“Did one of them hit you?” I say. “Oh dear, I am sorry. Can you try and get everyone to make less noise? The woman next door is threatening to call the police.”
Geoffrey says something to the effect that she can’t call the police soon enough as far as he is concerned but I laugh it off and make a run for the stairs. I have a vision of Ted trying to tug Natalie’s trousers off while Flash and Nutter wander around helping themselves to the flying ducks.
I dash into Natalie’s room and find to my relief that it is empty. Perhaps she is in the toilet. Somebody must be because there are half a dozen people waiting outside.
“I think Jim’s passed out,” says one of them. He puts his eye to the keyhole.
“Can you see him?”
“No. His head’s in the way. HEY JIM!!”
“Don’t shout like that!” I yell. “One of the neighbours has threatened to call the police.”
“She should call the fire brigade,” says one of the onlookers.
“Get him out but don’t make a noise.” I am beginning to feel that things are getting on top of me. Where are Natalie and those terrible greasers? Surely they couldn’t be in—? No. It is too horrible to think about. I throw open the door of Mum and Dad’s bedroom and—
“Hello, darling. What took you so long?”
At first I think it is just Ted and Flash on the bed and then I see Natalie lying between them—naked!! Nutter is hopping round the room trying to take off a boot.
“Get off that bed,” I shout before remembering to lower my voice. “This is my mother’s bedroom.”
“That’s why we’re playing mummies and daddies,” says Ted.
“Nineteen seventies style,” says Nutter.
“Yeah,” says Flash.
“Don’t be a spoilsport,” says Natalie. “Don’t take any notice of her. She’s jealous because she hasn’t got anyone.”
“Get off that bed,” I hiss. “You’re drunk and you’ve no idea what you’re doing.” I grab her by the arm and haul her to her feet. “Get out. I’ll handle this.”
“You can handle this and all,’ says Nutter who has now got his boot off. I tear my eyes away from the enormous love truncheon rearing up like a fascist salute and bundle Natalie towards the door. She loses no time bursting into tears. “You hate me, don’t you?” she sobs. “You never want me to have any fun.”
I grab Mum’s dressing gown from the hook on the door and shove it into her arms as I push her out into the corridor. I should be getting some kind of medal for the efforts I am making.
“And now you three can get your clothes on, get downstairs, and get your bikes off Mrs Wilson’s lawn.”
“Who’s she?”
“Must be the old tart next door,” says Ted. “She looking for trouble, is she?”
“I’m looking for trouble,” I say. “If you don’t get out of here immediately, I’m going to ring for the police.”
If I had expected my audience to bash their heads together in a mad rush for the door I would be disappointed.
“You know what your trouble is, darling?” says Ted. “You’re too tense.”
“Up tight is what he means,” says Nutter, folding his arms round me. “You want to relax more.”
“Let me go!” I say. It is awful because I can feel his thing pressing against my tummy. I try to struggle but he is terribly strong. Hairy, too.
“She needs a little relieving massage,” says Ted. “Bring her over here.” He stretches out an arm and pulls me down onto the bed.
“You touch me and I’ll scream,” I warn him.
“And disturb all the neighbours? You don’t want to do that.”
He runs his hand over my stomach and I notice that he has incredibly hairy wrists. On some men I find that quite sexy.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I say.
“Massage,” says Ted.
“Yeah,” says Flash. Of the three I like him the least. Not, of course, that I would pay for any of the others to go to charm school.
“You’re getting the counterpane filthy,” I say.
“For you, Princess, I’ll take it off. Now. Why don’t you do something like that?” Before I can say anything he has put his hand up my skirt and is pulling at my tights and panties. “I like these long skirts, don’t you, Nutter?”
“Yeh, they keep your neck warm.”
I am in big trouble. If I start screaming, all the neighbours will hear and Mrs Wilson will call the police. There is also Natalie to consider. By lying here and letting them do these awful things to me I am protecting her. It is terrible but—
“Help me peel her,” says Ted.
“Yeah,” says Flash.
Their crude hands force down my skirt while by word and gesture I try to convey my revulsion.
“Bet you’re feeling better already,” says Nutter as he kneels across me and starts popping open the buttons of my silk blouse. They are covered in fabric and I can just see the problems I am going to have getting the grease stains out. Nutter is half naked and in a matter of minutes the person wearing most on the bed is Flash. He has on a grey string vest which might one day have been white. Clothes are littered all over the room and I can see my lovely plaid skirt lying in a crumbled heap on the floor. I am so distressed that I can hardly find the strength to push Ted away. His disgustingly lithe, muscle-packed body looms over mine and he begins to gnaw one of my nipples as if it is a wad of chewing tobacco. On all sides, pussy-pummellers menace me like loaded weapons.
“Right, darling,” says Ted. “Cop this.”
“If you’re going to do that,” I say to Flash, “take your boots off the pillowcase.”
Honestly, the things I have to go through for my sister.
CHAPTER 3
It was awful getting raped. I mean—not so much getting raped as all the embarrassment it caused. Especially with Geoffrey. It was a pity that he had to come barging in to say that the police were in the hall just as Nutter was—perhaps I had better not say what Nutter was doing. I don’t really like to think about it myself.
As you can imagine, I was in a terrible state. I mean, after all I had gone through, to find that the police were downstairs was really too much. And so sneaky, too. I thought they were supposed to ring bells and all that kind of thing. At least Natalie had been spared. This thought was some comfort to me in the trying days to come.
I will always remember the expression on Geoffrey’s face as he slumped back against Mum’s dressing table and watched Nutter and Flash trying to put on the same pair of pants—I think they were mine in any case.
“Don’t just stand there, Geoffrey,” I have to tell him. “Come and help straighten this counterpane.”
“You swines!” He can be so emotional sometimes it is quite embarrassing. He hurls himself at Ted and collects another punch on the nose as the hideous trio make a bolt for the stairs.
“Geoffrey, please! If you’re going to start bleeding all over everything again you might as well go downstairs.” I mean, as if I did not have enough problems.
Geoffrey is practically wringing his hands. “Did they—? Did you—? Were you—?”
“It’s no good crying over spilt milt—I mean, milk,” I say, fluffing up the pillows. “Pull yourself together, Geoffrey. It’s not the end of the world. Anyway I don’t see what you’re getting so agitated about. I had to put up with all the unpleasantness.”
For a moment I think he is going to burst into tears. It is a shame really because I am only trying to be level-headed like Nurse Dubotaki on the Dr Eradlik show. Just “picking up the pieces” as she would put it.
Downstairs there are more policemen than you would find in a raid on a strip club and by the time they leave, the front garden is churned up worse than Mrs Wilson’s lawn—rotten old bag! Apparently some of the neighbours reported a man trying to crawl through the toilet window while the rest of the calls were just about the noise. Anyway, six police cars turn up which is considered a local record. They are very unhappy about Jim Whats-his-name? in the toilet because they think he has been trying to flush acid round the bend. When they break the door down they discover otherwise. Very unpleasant it is too. The bloke who got jammed in the window is not very happy either because somebody pulled his trousers down and put boot polish all over his bottom. Some people do have a funny sense of humour, don’t they?
By the time the last police dog has finished savaging the front room cushions and Natalie and I are left alone it is three o’clock in the morning and the house looks as if it has been used to store hurricanes.
“Well, I hope you’re satisfied,” I say. “That was a nice party, wasn’t it? The house wrecked and the neighbours already forming a queue to complain to Mum and Dad. Have you seen Mrs Wilson’s lawn? It looks as if it’s been used for a ploughing match.”
“Just our luck that it had to rain,” sighs Natalie.
“Our luck?” I laugh hollowly. “I must have been round the bend to let you throw this party. Where do you meet some of the people you invited? That Ted creature, for instance. He attacked me, you know.”
“Why? Wouldn’t you let him out?”
“I’m serious, Natalie. I was subjected to a physical assault by all three of them.”
“If you mean raped, why don’t you say so?”
“It’s not a word I like to use out loud.” She is very free with her language is Natalie. I can feel myself blushing.
“Why didn’t you tell the police?”
“How could I? You know the scandal would break Mum’s heart. I couldn’t do that to her.”
“Not. But you could snitch my boyfriend.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Natalie.” It is amazing how people can react against you when you’ve tried to do your best, isn’t it?”
“I’m not being ridiculous. You’re just a lousy hypocrite. You fancied him yourself.”
For a moment I am speechless. How could she imagine me falling for that gib, hairy, muscley, over-developed sex maniac? The whole idea is too ridiculous for words.
“If you must know, I did it—I mean, I submitted in order to protect you,” I say.
At these words the ungrateful little baggage has the cheek to laugh in my face. It is almost too much. There was me, bending over backwards to spare her the crude physical indignities that were inflicted on my body and she has the impertinence to suggest that I was doing it for my own gratification. At that moment only the forbearance gained by watching the Dr Eradlik programme prevents me from saying something I might one day regret.
“Balls!” Junior Foul Mouth loses no time in continuing her unjustified attack. “You don’t fool me! You pretend to be all goody-goody, but underneath you’re sex-mad. Well, big sister, I have news for you. While you were stealing my boy friends I was moving in on yours.”
“What are you talking about?” I say—having a nasty idea that I know very well what she is talking about.
“Geoffrey made passionate love to me in Dad’s shed,” she says, slowly removing a cobweb from her jumper as if to prove it.
“Don’t be ridiculous. He was terribly upset when he heard what had happened to me.”
“He wasn’t worrying when he was with me. He’s very sexy when he gets his blazer off, isn’t he?”
“He actually made love to you?” I ask. I mean, I just can’t believe it. Not Geoffrey.
“And how. Dad’s vice fell off the work bench.”
More destruction! It really is too bad. And, even more difficult to bear, is the physical betrayal involved. My own sister and the boy whose net I have adjusted at the Eastwood Tennis Club. If blood is thicker than water in our family then no wonder Mum’s porridge tastes like consommé. I know that men are hypocrites but how could he have made so much fuss about my sacrifice after misbehaving with Miss Rentapussy? Even Doctor Eradlik does not have to contend with this kind of treachery in his unflagging fight to make Mount Vista Hospital a better place to die in.
“I can’t bring myself to use words low enough to describe your behaviour,” I say with dignity.
“Hoity-toity,” sneers Natalie.
“In order to avoid more bloodshed I think it would be a good idea if we started cleaning opposite ends of the house,” I say with commendable self control. “May I suggest that you tackle the so appropriately named tool shed—if it is still standing?”
Mum and Dad are due back on the Sunday afternoon and Natalie and I hardly exchange more than a few words up to that time. However, I do see Mrs Wilson. I am standing in one of the dustbins trying to force the rubbish down and make room for some more bottles. She takes one look at me, over the fence, shrugs, and says “That’s the best place for both of you.”
By the time I have opened my mouth she has gone inside her house and slammed the back door. There is obviously little point in expecting any sympathy there.
“Do you think we ought to go to the station?” I ask Natalie.
“And get a train out of the country?”
“No, stupid. Meet Mum and Dad.”
“You can never be certain what train they’ll catch. We don’t want to miss them and find them having a long chat with Mrs W. when we get back.”
“True. We’d better stay here, then. Do you think the place looks all right?”
“It’s difficult to say. I know where all the stains and scuff marks are, so I notice them more easily than the average person might.”
“I hope you’re right. The trouble is that Mum isn’t the average person. After six days away she and Dad are going to come through that door like they’ve got to find six deliberate mistakes in sixty seconds.”
For once Natalie and I share a common emotion. It is expressed in a shiver of terror.
It is half past four when Mum and Dad pause at the gate and look at the garden as if they can’t believe their eyes. I remember the time because a film called A Farewell To Arms had just ended and I am still brushing away the tears. It is about this nurse who falls in love with a soldier at the front. You know—where the fighting is. They make love in his hospital bed and she gets pregnant and dies in childbirth just as they are going to cross over into Switzerland and safety. It is so sad that I cried buckets. The bloke was Rock Hudson and it really made me feel what a wonderful job nurses do.
While I am trying to compose myself, Natalie rushes to the front door and throws it open. “Hello, Mumsie!” she cries. “Did you have a lovely time?”
“Quite nice, thank you, dear,” says Mum.
Dad is still gazing thunderstruck at the garden. “Where are all the flowers?” he says.
“The milkman’s horse got up on the pavement, Dad.”
“He got it out of retirement, did he? He’s had a van for five years.”
“Vandals,” I say. “There’s been an awful lot of trouble while you’ve been away. Look what they did to Mrs Wilson’s lawn.”
“Blimey. I thought it was an open cast coal mine. You told the police, have you?”
“They know all about it,” says Natalie truthfully. “What was the weather like, Dad?”
Dad carries the suitcases into the house. “Diabolical. The worst we’ve ever had there—the worst we will ever have there. I’m not going back. Holiday? It was more like six days in a prisoner of war camp.”
“Where’s my coat?” says Mum, looking at the hallstand.
I am just thinking that it must have been nicked and wondering what to say when the telephone rings. I know instinctively who it must be, but before I can move Dad picks up the receiver.
“Hello? Oh, hello Mrs Wilson.” He puts his hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Mrs Wilson. Stupid old bag. What on earth can she want?”
“I’m going upstairs,” says Mum.
Ten minutes later Natalie and I are in the front room with Dad who now knows what Mrs Wilson wanted. He has turned a strange blue colour and his hands are shaking. “Now listen, you two,” he says. “I’m going to—”
At that moment Mum comes in. She, too, is looking strained and holding something in her hand. “I was doing the unpacking and I noticed these stuffed down the end of our bed,” she says. “Whose are they?”
She is dangling a pair of bright yellow men’s underpants which, with a shiver of distaste, I remember covering Flash’s vulgarly large private parts. Natalie bursts into tears.
“Were people using our bedroom?” snarls Dad.
“Oh Rosie, why did I ever listen to you?” sobs my deceitful little sister.
“Right. You go outside with your mother. I want to speak to Rosie.” They are hardly out of the room before Dad lets fly. “What you’ve done is a bloody disgrace! You’ve disobeyed your mother and you’ve blackened our name amongst the neighbours—I understand you’ve even had the police round here. The house is like a pigsty and I shudder to think what went on.”
“Dad—”
“Shut up! When I want your interruptions I’ll ask for them.
“What I am most disturbed about is the effect your behaviour is having on your sister. She is at a very formative age and the kind of carryings on you go in for could be a blooming disaster as far as her moral standards are concerned.”
“Dad—!”
“Shut up!!! You must realise that, being older than her, you have to set some kind of example. Supposing she starts imitating your behaviour?”
“It’s not fair, Dad. I always get the blame for everything. Just because she’s younger than I am you seem to think that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Well, I’ve got news for you—”
“And I’ve got news for you, my girl. I want you out of this house just as soon as you can find a job to support you. I think you’re a bad influence on your sister and it’s much better if the two of you are kept apart.”
For ten seconds after he had finished speaking I am on the point of telling my father a few home truths about my sweet little sister; and then my mind soars up to a higher plane. I see Doctor Eradlik walking down a long white corridor, a look of stoical self-sacrifice etched across his beautiful features. I see Jennifer Jones approaching Rock Hudson’s bed. I have arrived at a decision.
“Very well, Dad,” I say calmly. “I can tell you what I’m going to do, now. I’m going to be a nurse.”
Three and a half weeks later I have been summoned to an interview with the matron of Queen Adelaide’s and Dad and the family are just beginning to understand that I meant what I said.
Dad, particularly, finds it difficult to believe that any hospital would be prepared to consider me. He has an idea that nurses are somewhat like nuns and unlikely to be accepted if they have so much as caught a glimpse of an unpeeled banana. He also reckons that you have to be of noble birth and watch BBC 2 as well as have it.
“You’re not going to tell me that all those black nurses are princesses,” says Mum.
“I don’t know so much,” says Dad. “A lot of those blackies you see on the telly are better dressed than white people.”
“You don’t watch those,’ says Natalie. “You watch the ones with the bare titties doing the conga.”
“Natalie! Watch your language, please!” Mum looks horrified.
“We all know where she gets that from, don’t we?” Dad fixes me with his beady eye and I would like to bash him over the nut with Natalie.
Raquel Welchlet is the one who continued to be most surprised by the way I stick to my resolve.
“I never reckoned you were serious,” she says. “I thought you were just doing it for effect. Like when you read that book about air hostesses.”
“Air stewardesses,” I hiss. “Hostesses are people who work in nightclubs.”
“Those stewardesses spent all their time in night clubs if that book was anything to go by.”
“Well, nurses don’t spend all their time in night clubs so you needn’t start fretting about my eyesight.”
“I don’t think you’ll be able to stick it even if they do accept you. They work terribly hard, you know.”
“But it must be rewarding, mustn’t it?”
“The pay’s lousy from what I can make out.”
“I didn’t mean that.” Natalie is about as sensitive as a clay tuning fork. “I meant that it must be satisfying to nurse people back to health.”
Natalie sniffs and shakes her head. “I don’t like sick people.”
“It’s people like you that give being healthy a bad name,” I tell her.
Mum is merely realistic. “Do what you like, dear, but make sure you don’t catch anything.”
Queen Adelaide’s is a big disappointment after Mount Vista on the Doctor Eradlik show. It is a huge hospital but it looks as if it was carved out of charcoal and then had a giant vacuum cleaner bag emptied over it. What I at first imagine to be its grounds turn out to be the public park next door. As I go through the swing doors two nurses are coming out. They are wearing red cloaks with blue linings and talking in upper class voices.
“Stupid little bitch thought your sternum was what you sat on,” says the first.
“Oh no!” The second one’s voice screeches into the air like a rocket. Dad would love them.
Just inside the door is a pigeon hole behind which sits a pigeon wearing glasses. She coos softly to herself when I say that I have an appointment with matron and shuffles through a pile of papers.
“Rose Dixon?” She rises up slightly and leans forward as if she is wishing to confirm that I have brought the lower half of my body with me. Apparently satisfied, she sinks back and gives me totally unmemorable directions of which I can recall no more than that I have to go to the third floor. I am frightened to ask her to say it all again unless I immediately give the impression of being hopelessly stupid—just like the girl the two nurses were talking about. Who knows? The directions might be part of some cunning test to check on my memory.
I get into the lift and, for some reason that I will never understand, press the button marked four. I immediately press three but the lift glides contemptuously past my destination and stops at the fourth floor. The doors slide open and I am faced by an old man in a wheelchair and a nurse who is escorting him. He is wearing a dressing gown and seems half asleep. The nurse has no sooner pushed her patient into the lift than she slaps her hand to her forehead.
“Jesus, but it’s a fool that I am. I’ve gone and left his records in the ward. Hang on here for a moment, will you?”
Before I can say anything she has disappeared down the corridor. My presence on the fourth floor must suggest to her that I am a member of the hospital staff.
She has pressed the “door open” button but no sooner has she padded off than the patient’s eyes open a quarter of an inch, rather like those of the crocodiles you see in all those nature films on the telly. I am probably being very unkind comparing him to a crocodile because he looks quite a sweet old man. He is smiling at me now.
“She’ll be back in a minute,” I say comfortingly. It is all rather nice because I feel like a nurse already.
“Get your knicks off!”
Before I can be certain that I am hearing aright the old man has pressed the button marked B for Basement and the doors are closing.
“Please! We must wait,” I yelp.
“We’ll go down to the boiler room and stimulate each other on the coke,” says the sprightly greybeard. “You don’t mind a few pink patches on your bum, do you?”
“I’ve got to see Matron!” The lift sinks below the third floor.
“Don’t waste your time. She’s the ugliest woman in the hospital.” He suddenly propels his chair across the lift and pins me against the wall. “Come here! I want to take handfuls of you.”
He is a man of his word, too. When I come to think about it he must be both the oldest and the dirtiest man that I have ever met.
“Stop doing that!” I squeal, thinking that his sense of direction has not faltered over the years. “You must pull yourself together!”
“Up guards and at ’em! I’m eighty-four and I could show you young girls a thing or two.” He whips open his dressing gown and once again proves his point. I must say that though it distresses me to look at his equipment it is certainly more ramrod than shamrod. The door slides open and I catch a glimpse of an amazed man in shirt-sleeves leaning on a shovel. Hurriedly I press the button for the fourth floor.
“You were in the army, were you?” I humour the wizened octogenarian.
“The Gold Coast. That’s where you get them. Big, wobbling titties wanging against your belly. That’s the stuff to give the troops, eh?”
“It’s very nice,” I say appeasingly. “But don’t you think you ought to put it away now?”
“I know just where to put it away. It won’t keep, you know. They don’t.”
What a very lively old man, I think to myself. I bet he has more than a glass of Lucozade for elevenses.
“You’ve got a firm bosom, my dear.”
“Thank you. Can I have it back now?” For a senior citizen he certainly has very strong fingers. I can hardly prise them off my sweater.
The doors slide open on the fourth floor and there is an astonished nurse blinking at us.
“What happened to you, Mr Arkwright?”
Greybeard shrinks into his wheelchair and half closes his eyes.
“She tried to elope with me, Nurse Finnegan.”
“He went mad the minute you disappeared,” I say lowering my voice discreetly. “He started mauling me and suggested we made love in the boiler room.”
Nurse Finnegan looks at me in a way that might be described as strange.
“She pressed the button, Nurse.”
“You wicked old man.” I round on him so fiercely that Mr Arkwright sinks even lower into his chair. Nurse Finnegan is looking at me suspiciously.
“You don’t nurse here, do you?”
I give her the famous Rosie Dixon smile. “Not yet. I’ve come to see Matron.”
“What were you doing on the fourth floor?”
“I pressed the wrong button.”
“Don’t leave her with me, Nurse Finnegan,” croaks Arkwright pathetically.
“Hasn’t he done this before?” I whisper.
“They call him Mr Sunshine,” says Nurse Finnegan gazing at me with obvious suspicion.
“Bengers Food,” murmurs Mr Arkwright, closing his eyes.
Nurse Finnegan does not let me out of her sight until she sees me knocking on Matron’s door. I can’t blame her in the circumstances but I wish there was some way of repaying that horrible old man. I am still thinking about my harrowing experience when an upper class voice rings out from the other side of the door. “En-ta!”
I go in and find myself in the presence of a woman who makes Hattie Jacques look like Twiggy’s kid sister. She is sitting behind an antique desk signing papers.
“Miss Dixon?” She does not look up.
“That’s right.”
“My staff address me as matron.”
For a moment I think she is supplying me with some interesting information for my scrap book. Then I cotton on. “Yes, Matron.”
“That’s better. Now, where have you been? I was told you were coming up and then you disappeared for ten minutes.”
“I got lost, Matron.”
“Lost?” Matron looks up at last. “Good gracious. When I look at you I would find it easier to believe that you had been assaulted.”
“Well, actually—” And then I stop myself. Even if she believes that I was attacked by a sex-mad geriatric she will probably think I egged him on. Either way it is not going to make a very good impression.
“Actually, what?”
Matron has enough hair on her upper lip to clog a moustache cup and when she moves, the starch in her uniform crackles like an icy pond breaking up—at least, I imagine it is in her uniform.
“Nothing,” I say.
Matron gazes down her nose towards a bosom that looks like a ruckle in a barrage balloon. “I think I should make it absolutely clear at the onset that I am a stickler for smart turn-out. The discipline required to make sure that one is a credit to oneself and the hospital carries over into one’s attitude to one’s job and inspires confidence in the patients. By arriving here as if you have just been dragged through a hedge backwards you have not taken that first step towards reassuring me that you have the right attitude of mind to become a nurse.”
“I’m afraid my appearance is due to my confusion at losing my way,” I grovel.
Matron gazes up towards the ceiling and sighs. “No matter. The golden days are past. We must be thankful for what we can get.”
“Amen,” I don’t know why I say it. It is just that she drones on in such a way as that I imagine I must be in church.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Granted.”
“What?! !”
“I mean, granted, Matron.”
Matron shudders and her moustache quivers as if a strong wind has just run through it. “I have a horrible suspicion that you are trying to mock me, Miss – er Dixon.”
“Oh no, Matron.” What is the old bag on about?
“Tell me, Miss Dixon.” Crackle, crackle goes Matron’s uniform. “Does your family have a nursing background?”
“I think my father had his tonsils out.”
“No, Miss Dixon.” Something seems to be causing Matron pain. Maybe her cap is on too tight. “What I meant was do you have any relations who have worked in the medical profession?”
“My Aunt Gladys used to work in Boots during the war.”
Matron’s eyes are now tightly closed. “Fascinating. It says on your curriculum vitae that you have one �A’ level. What is that?”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Matron. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what �A’ level you’ve got?”
“Oh, I see. I thought you meant what does curriculum vimto mean. I’ve got geography.”
“Geography.” Matron shrugs. “It could have been woodwork, I suppose.”
“Not really,” I say, hoping I don’t appear too pushy. “We didn’t do woodwork after �O’ levels.”
Matron closes her eyes again. “Of course.” She shudders and then addresses me in a firm brisk voice. “Now, Miss Dixon, I don’t have to tell you that nursing is a hard, arduous profession. You have to dig deep and conscientiously to find jewels. Many girls—” she shakes her head sadly “—just can’t take it.” She looks at me expectantly and I can see that she is hoping that I will speak up and show her that I am not the wilting type.
“I know what I’m letting myself in for,” I say.
Matron nods. “Sometimes it’s a good idea if a gel faces up to the facts right at the onset and realises that she isn’t cut out for the life. Long hours … mental and physical strain … the requirement to study while you work… .” Her voice dies away and she smiles sympathetically. It is the first time I can remember her smiling.
“That’s what everybody says to me,” I tell her.
“Y-e-s.” Matron speaks slowly and thoughtfully. “That’s never worried you? I mean, you think you would be able to cope all right?”
“I’m no stranger to stress,” I tell her. “I used to work on the check-out at Tescos. Of course it was Saturdays only because—”
“We have what we call a four weeks trial period at Queen Adelaide’s.” Matron obviously takes in what you say to her very quickly. “It’s a safety precaution on both sides. During that time a nurse is able to see if she likes the life and—” Matron pauses dramatically “—we are able to see if we like her. Should we find that we are suited to each other, training proceeds, with preliminary examinations after one year and the majority of our gels becoming fully qualified State Registered Nurses after three years.”
I give her my cool, efficient nod and tuck my blouse back into the top of my skirt—ooh! I would like to take away that old man’s false teeth and feed him toast. Matron crackles and gives me another smile. “You’re not intimidated?”
I think hard for a minute and then shake my head. “I don’t think so. I’ve had a polio jab, though.”
Poor Matron. There is no doubt that she is in pain. Probably some tummy upset due to all the strains and stresses of the job. “We will be writing to you in due course. Thank you for coming to see me and for expressing your willingness to indulge in life’s noblest work.”
For a moment I think she is going to stand up but she just crackles and goes back to signing papers. The interview is presumably over. Short and sweet. It could have been worse. I win another brisk nod when I fall over a chair and then hobble out into the corridor. There is no sign of Mr Arkwright but I go down by the stairs, just in case.
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