Rosie Dixon - Confessions of a Gym Mistress

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 GYM MISTRESS 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.

Dedication To Devina, with thanks for all the reminiscences. I am sorry I was not allowed to use them.

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

About the Author

Also by Rosie Dixon

Copyright

About the Publisher

To Devina, with thanks for all the reminiscences. I am sorry I was not allowed to use them.

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

“I can remember when you were sent back from Brownies’ Camp,” says Dad.

“That’s unkind, dear,” says Mum. “It was a day trip to Hampton Court and she had a nose bleed.”

“I wasn’t sent back from Queen Adelaide’s, Dad,” I say. “I resigned. I didn’t think that hospital life was going to agree with me.”

“That was sensible of her, Dad. You have to admit that. The longer she stayed the more difficult it would have been to make the break.”

“Humpf.” Dad is obviously not impressed. That does not surprise me. I would have to come back disguised as my sister Natalie to get a smile out of him.

In many ways I was sad to leave the hospital but when the ceiling gave way and Dr Quint and I fell on Sister Belter’s bed I knew, in my heart of hearts, that it was time to move on. People can be very quick to jump to conclusions and the fact that Adam and I were both semi-naked could have led a suggestable mind to imagine that we had been indulging in more than frivolous horseplay.

“What’s she going to do, now?” says Dad. “They won’t have her back at the Tech, you know.”

I really hate Dad when he talks about me as if I was not in the room. “I’m thinking of going into teaching,” I say.

“Teaching!?” If I had said bronco-busting, Dad could not have sounded more surprised.

“You haven’t got the qualifications.”

“I’ve got my ‘O’ levels,” I say.

“Art and needlework?”

“It may surprise you to know that qualifications are not all important in the private sector,” I say loftily. “The character of the applicant is what counts.”

“Then you’re out before you start,” says Dad unkindly. “Anyway, what do you mean, ‘the private sector’?”

“I mean a school that isn’t state controlled. A school where the parents pay fees.”

“I wouldn’t pay fees to have my kids taught by you.”

“I know you wouldn’t, Dad. You gave me a satchel as a combined Christmas and birthday present, didn’t you?”

Dad does not take kindly to this remark. “You’ve never wanted for anything from me, my girl. Just a darn good thrashing. That’s where I went wrong.”

“Dad, please! There’s no need to talk to the girl like that.” Mum silences Dad with a look and turns to me. “Are you really saying it’s easier to become a teacher at some posh public school than it is to get a job at the comprehensive down the road?”

“You have to have qualifications to teach at a state school, Mum. At a private school the head mistress can hire who she likes.”

Mum shakes her head. “No wonder you read some of those things in the paper.”

“You’re going to read a few more if she starts,” snorts Dad. “What are you going to teach, then? Sloth?”

“A vacancy exists for an assistant gym mistress,” I say, steeling myself for the inevitable.

“Gym mistress!? I’ve never known you take a spot of exercise in your life. You get dizzy if you get out of bed too quickly.”

“I used to play hockey at school,” I say.

“You used to play hookey from school,” says Dad triumphantly.