Rosie Dixon - Confessions of a Gym Mistress

“Yes, we nursed together.”

“Splendid gel. Her pupils worship her stud marks. I think we’ve got all the makings of a great hockey team this year. Probably our best since the palmy days of Mabel Atherstone-Hinkmore. A big girl but so light on her feet. She moved like a great fairy.” Dad often says the same thing when he is watching the telly. “I think we’re really going to give St Belters a game, this year.”

I nod vigorously and try and make my eyes glow with enthusiasm. Miss Grimshaw’s eyes are glowing with enthusiasm—or something.

“I’d certainly like to help.” I say.

“Good gel!” Miss Grimshaw tries to rise to her feet and then falls back into her chair. “You cut along and take tiffin with Miss Green. She’ll show you the ropes. I must get on with preparing my weekly jaw on current affairs.” Her hand stretches out towards a copy of Sporting Life . “Goodbye, Miss Nixon. Nixon—” Miss G. shakes her head quizzically “—it’s funny, I’m certain I’ve heard that name before somewhere.” Miss Grimshaw obviously has a very dry sense of humour. I have read about people like her.

“How did it go?” says Penny, when I eventually find my way to her room.

“Jolly—I mean, very well,” I say. “I think I’m in.”

“What did I tell you? This place would employ the Boston Strangler if he kept his nails short.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me,” I say. “And, talking of flattery, Miss Grimshaw spoke very highly of you.”

“I suppose she was pissed out of her mind, was she? In that mood she loves everybody.”

I like Penny but she can be very cynical sometimes.

“Are you going to take the job?” she says.

“You bet.”

“Right, let’s go out and eat.”

“Go out ?”

“Yes. I don’t want you to change your mind.”

“Don’t you have to eat here?”

“I’ve got a free afternoon. Come on, we’ll go down to the village. I feel like a good natter.”

She also feels like four large gin and tonics as I find by the time I am on my second cider—it is strong, too. Not like the stuff Dad gets in at Christimas.

“I feel I should have spent more time at the school,” I say.

“You’ve got plenty of time to do that,” says Penny. “There’s nothing else to see that wouldn’t depress you. Did you notice my room? Like the inside of a coffin only the wood isn’t such good quality.”

“If it’s so awful, why do you stay here?”

“That’s one reason.” Penny indicates a tall, dark-haired man of about thirty who has just come into the bar. “Rex Harrington, the vet. I wouldn’t mind him vetting me, I can tell you.”

The man turns round immediately and I do wish Penny did not have such a loud voice. “Penny, my sweet,” he says coming towards us. “I bumped into Guy a few moments ago. He said you might be popping in for a drink later on?”

“It’s on the cards,” says Penny.

“And your charming companion, I hope?”

“I’ve got to be going back to London,” I say, thinking what sexy eyes the man has. “I’ve already missed the train I was going on.”

“Miss the next one.”

“Rosie, this is Rex,” says Penny. “Rex Harrington, Rosie Dixon.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I say.

“Likewise. What are you both having to drink?”

“I mustn’t have another one,” I say.

“Nonsense. I’ll be offended. What is it, cider?”

Upper class men always seem so sure of themselves. I find it difficult to refuse any suggestion they make. “Just a small one,” I say.

“And a large gin and tonic,” says Penny, holding out her glass.

“Does this pub ever close?” I ask. “It’s half past three now.”

“We operate continental licensing hours around here,” says Penny. “Now we’re in the Common Market it seems the least we can do.”

Rex Harrington is thoughtfully tapping two coins together at the bar and there is something about the way he is looking at my legs that makes me cross them immediately—what a good job he is not looking into my eyes.

“When is the next train?” I ask.

“You might as well wait for the six-thirty, now. It’s a fast train and it will mean that you can have that drink with Guy. It’s a good idea to keep in with the locals.”

I am feeling so exhausted that I don’t argue with her. I suppose it was all the nervous tension I burned up worrying about the interview.

“Here we are, girls. Chin, chin.” Rex raises his glass and I am off again.

An hour later—give or take a couple of hours—I am not quite certain where I am. Although it is still daylight, a strange dark haze hangs over everything and I move as if in a dream. In fact, I am not moving. I am in a car. The countryside stops pelting past the window and reassembles itself in the shape of Branwell Riding Stables.

“Good,” I hear myself say, “I feel like a drink.”

“Capital girl,” says Rex who is driving. “A chip off the old block, eh Penners?”

“Absolutely,” says Penny. “Don’t do that, Rex. You’ll ladder my tights.”

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