Rosie Dixon - Confessions from an Escort Agency

‘Some bloke kept chucking notes through the windows.’

‘I can’t see why that influenced you.’

‘They were wrapped round bricks.’

Poor Geoffrey! He does seem to attract trouble like a magnet. I should be warned really.

‘The doors were very difficult to open from the inside, weren’t they?’ I say.

‘No handles, you mean?’ says Geoffrey. ‘Yes, I think that had something to do with it being made by the people who turned out those Kami Kaze planes.’

‘Uum,’ I say. I am thinking about Geoffrey’s offer. It is a long way to Paddington and a lift would be a big help. ‘Do you think you could get round here in half an hour?’

When Geoffrey turns up it is in an old Daimler that looks like a hearse. I feel that I am going to be taken to Paddington cemetery rather than the station.

‘Plenty of room, eh?’ says Geoffrey proudly.

‘Have you got the other one in the back?’ I say. ‘It’s enormous.’

‘Guzzles petrol but it’s rather a splendid old bus,’ says Geoffrey. ‘Have you got your case?’

Mum pops out the minute that Geoffrey crosses the threshold, because she reckons that he is a wonderful catch for me. ‘Isn’t she a lucky girl?’ She trills. ‘Always gadding off somewhere. My, my. Isn’t that a beautiful old car. Is it yours, Geoffrey?’

‘Just about.’ Geoffrey shuffles from one foot to the other and makes funny faces as if he is trying to swallow something.

‘You are going to be in demand.’ Mum looks at me. ‘You’re lucky that Geoffrey has the time to spare to take you to the station.’

‘We’d better be going, I think,’ I say, before Mum can start calling the banns.

‘Yes.’ Geoffrey knocks the telephone off the table and dives down with Mum to pick it up. There is a painful crack of heads and I walk out and put my suitcase in the car. As I do so, Dad appears looking as if the cares of the world weigh heavily on his shoulders.

‘Are you coming or going?’ he says.

‘I’m going to stay in the country for a few days,’ I say.

‘Is it the holidays already?’ he says.

‘The school had to close down. It was all a bit of a—’

Dad holds up his hands. ‘Don’t tell me. I can imagine. You’re out of a job again, that’s what it boils down to, isn’t it?’

‘If you put it like that, yes,’ I say. Dad’s parents obviously never put him through charm school. He hasn’t even said ‘hello’ yet. ‘I’m going to discuss a new job with the people I’m staying with.’

Luckily, before I have to get involved in any embarrassing details, Geoffrey comes out of the house. ‘Evening Mr Dixon,’ he says, stepping into a flowerbed so that Dad can pass.

‘That’s one of my wallflowers you’ve got your foot on,’ says Dad.

‘Oh, I am sorry.’ Geoffrey takes another step backwards and sits down in the garden pool.

I close my eyes. This does not bode well for our trip to the station.

‘Don’t pull on that—’ Dad’s voice breaks off at the same moment as the head of the stone cherub that was standing beside the pool. Geoffrey tries to replace the head in a number of positions and then lays it on the bird bath the cherub is holding.

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ll get you another one.’

I can see the whites of Dad’s knuckles as he clenches his fists. ‘Don’t leave the head lying there,’ he says. ‘It looks like John the Baptist saving Salome the trouble.’

‘Oh very good,’ says Geoffrey. ‘Did you hear that—?’ His voice trails away when he reads the expression on Dad’s face. ‘Sorry again, Mr Nix–Dixon. I’ll–er—’ Geoffrey trips over the brick edging to the garden path and throws his arms forward so that the cherub’s head describes a graceful semi-circle and shatters a cucumber frame.

‘Come on, Geoffrey. We must be going or we’ll miss the train,’ I say helpfully.

‘Get out!’ screams Dad. ‘Get out!!’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Geoffrey. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’ He tries to close the garden gate behind him and the catch snaps off.

‘Don’t touch anything!’ I beg him. ‘Whatever you do, don’t touch anything!’

Geoffrey is shaking when he gets in the car and he tries three keys before he finds the right one for the ignition.

‘She’s a bit stiff,’ he says. ‘I wish that damn fool hadn’t boxed us in behind.’

‘Careful,’ I say. ‘That’s—’ I am going to say ‘Dad’s car’ but after Geoffrey has backed into it there doesn’t seem much point. I don’t want to upset him unnecessarily.

‘Are we all right on that side?’ asks Geoffrey. I wrench my eyes away from the water seeping out of Dad’s radiator and shoot a quick glance at the car in front. Dad has heard the crash and is coming down the garden path – fast.

‘I think so,’ I say. As it turns out, I am wrong, but we only catch the car in front a glancing blow before pulling out into the middle of the road. ‘What’s the acceleration like?’ I ask. Fortunately, Geoffrey is able to show me, just as Dad lunges for the door handle.

‘Very good,’ I say.

Geoffrey glances in the rear view mirror. ‘Why’s that chap lying in the middle of the road, shaking his fist at us?’ he says.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Mind out, you’ll hit this milk float!’

‘Which milk float?’

‘The one you’ve just hit,’ I say, looking over my shoulder. Honestly, I have never left Chingford with a greater sense of relief. If we are going to have an accident I would much rather we had it somewhere other than on my own doorstep.

It soon becomes clear that Geoffrey is in a terrible state and not at all at ease at the wheel of the mighty Daimler. He is crawling along and at this rate it is obvious that we are going to miss the train. The rush hour traffic doesn’t help, either.

‘Don’t you know any short cuts?’ I say, beginning to get desperate. ‘You’ll find it easier in the side roads anyway.’

As it turns out, I am wrong. With cars parked all over the place it is very difficult to manoeuvre and we soon find ourselves going slower than ever. I am rather angry with Geoffrey for accepting my suggestion but I try and control myself.

‘We’ll have to get back on the main road,’ I say. ‘Pull out now! Come on!!’

‘But it’s a funeral,’ says Geoffrey.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘Come on, Geoffrey! We’ll be here for ever if you don’t get a move on.’ Still grumbling, he does as I tell him and we fall in behind the car which has the coffin in it.

‘Lovely flowers,’ I say. Geoffrey must be sulking because he does not say anything. Five minutes later, the hearse takes a sharp right turn and we carry on.

‘Try and make a bit of speed now,’ I say. ‘Surely you can overtake him.’

Geoffrey says something about back-seat drivers but he does as I say – Geoffrey always does as I say – and puts his foot down.

‘Well done,’ I say. ‘I think maybe, next time, you’d better do it on the outside.’

‘I thought he was going to turn right,’ says Geoffrey. ‘Ooops!’ We get past the fire engine all right and I look back to make sure that we have not given any of the men clinging to the side the brush off. I am most surprised when I see another Daimler clinging to our tracks – and another – and another!

‘Geoffrey!’ I say. ‘How awful. They’re following us.’

‘The police?’ Geoffrey stands on the brakes and I see the whites of the driver behind’s eyes as he tries to avoid going into the back of us.

‘No, the funeral party.’

Geoffrey looks over his shoulder and shares my view of the black hats, veils and sombre expressions.

‘Gosh! We’d better stop and tell them.’