Rosie Dixon - Confessions of a Night Nurse

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 CONFESSIONS OF A NIGHT NURSE ROSIE DIXON

Publisher’s Note 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.

How did it all start?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

About the Author

Also by Rosie Dixon

Copyright

About the Publisher

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

“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.