Rosie Dixon - Confessions of a Lady Courier

‘I might even join the WRACs,’ I say, seeking to strike terror into their hearts.

Dad pours a milk bottle full of cold water down the front of his trousers and I start rifling through a pile of newspapers. ‘There’s usually an advertisement in here,’ I say, very matter of fact.

‘Are you all right, Dadsy?’ simpers Natalie.

‘Ruined!’ says Dad. ‘Ruined!’ I think he is referring to the trousers.

I have just found an advertisement saying ‘It’s a man’s life in the WRAC’ when I notice a much smaller announcement below it. It says ‘Girls! See Europe in style and get paid for it. Climax Tours want lady couriers. Foreign language an advantage but not vital.’ I put down the paper thoughtfully. This could be just what I am looking for. I don’t speak any foreign languages but I have had lots of experience with people – I mean, of course when I was a nurse, gym mistress and professional escort. All this should stand me in good stead. Working abroad would be wonderful too. I like Britain but it does get a teeny bit gloomy sometimes, doesn’t it?

‘Oooooooh!’ Dad’s soaked trousers are clinging to his legs and he is clearly in no little discomfort.

‘Take them off, dear.’ Mum proffers a tea towel which Dad snatches and starts to peel off his C&A lightweight special summer offer. Unfortunately, he meets more resistance than he bargained for and sits down on the plastic waste bin which shatters with a noise like a small explosion. Tea leaves spread across the floor and Dad’s face registers pain which may, or may not, be caused by the fact that his trousers have split down to the knee.

‘Are you all right, dear?’

Dad does not answer but feels between his legs and produces an empty tin of cat food – ‘Pussy loves it’ emblazoned across the label. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Would you children mind leaving the room?’

We leave Mum inspecting the damage and it does not take Natalie long to start apportioning blame. ‘It’s always the same, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Whenever you turn up, there’s trouble. It’s been lovely and peaceful here up till now.’

I am about to say something very unsisterly when there is a loud scream and the telephone rings. The two events are not connected. I think the scream has something to do with Mum ministering to Dad’s predicament.

I pick up the phone. ‘Rosie?’ says a familiar voice. ‘Penny here. I just thought I’d ring up to see if you’d got home safely.’

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘How is Chedworth Place?’

‘Very quiet at the moment,’ says my friend. ‘Daddy has given Sandra the boot and moved in with Sonia. I don’t give her very long. I should think that the last Nicetime employee will be off the premises by tomorrow. I’m bored already. If it wasn’t for all those men I don’t know what I’d do. It’s such a drag competing against your own stepmother, though.’

Harriet Green is the latest in a long line of Mrs Greens and seems to have much in common with her old man when it comes to instant relationships. I am glad I don’t have a mother and father like that. Natalie is the nearest to what you might call being promiscuous in our family.

‘I know just what you mean,’ I lie – Penny is so ‘with it’ that I don’t want her to think that I am as natural and unaffected as I really am. I am certain that she thinks of me as being very dull. ‘I’m finding it very boring here,’ I say. ‘In fact, I’m already thinking of becoming a lady courier.’

I do not expect Penny to be very enthusiastic but she jumps at the idea. ‘Sizzling privates!’ she exclaims. ‘What a top hole wheeze. Give me the particks and I’ll flash them my credentials. Mumsy was always bemoaning the fact that I never did anything with my French.’

‘You speak French?’ I say, wishing that I had kept my mouth shut.

‘Only fluently,’ says Penny modestly. ‘It’s not as good as my Italian. I was finished on the continent, you know. In fact, I started there. Did I ever tell you about the man who rented out the parasols at St Trop?’

‘The one with the hairy wrists and the big – er, the big –’

‘Yes, that’s the one,’ says Penny cheerfully. ‘Beginner’s luck I always called it – though I wasn’t so certain at the time. It comes as a bit of a shock when you’re thirteen. Just as well I’d done a lot of riding.’

‘Quite,’ I say. Thirteen! Just think of it. I was eighteen when Geoffrey Wilkes first took advantage of my condition behind the heavy roller – or tried to. I’m still not quite certain what really happened.

‘Why are you blushing?’ hisses Natalie at my elbow. ‘Is it an obscene telephone call? Just breathe right back at them, that’s what I always do.’ In the end, I give Penny the particulars and rush upstairs to make quite certain that my letter of application gets in the post first. I am a little surprised that Climax Tours operate from Dalston High Street but I suppose that they can’t all have smart West End offices. Probably just as well when you think about it. It could be why so many of them go bust. All these overheads and ritzy brochures and things.

Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg is the name of the man I have to write to and I find it very reassuring when I see it written on an envelope. He sounds like a real gentleman, doesn’t he? I expect that he has travelled extensively and visited all the hotels we will be staying at. I don’t want to sound too unkind about Sammy Fish but he was not what Mum refers to as ‘being out of the top drawer’. I must take after her, I suppose, because I always have this hankering after someone smooth and well bred who will sweep me off my feet and introduce me to a world of elegance and luxury. Maybe Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg will turn out to be the ‘Mr Right’ I have been saving myself for – spiritually, that is. As I have said many times, virginity is a state of mind and nothing that happens to the body can affect one’s untainted status provided that one’s will is not a party to it. I have found myself in many unpleasant predicaments but never one, thank goodness, in which I have felt my Everest-high principles to be in danger of compromise. I pop the letter in the post and spend a couple of nerve-racked days waiting to see what the reply will be. I should think that such a glamorous sounding job will encourage a lot of girls to write in and my fear is that quite a few of them may share Penny’s proficiency in foreign languages. I carefully study the parts of the sauce bottle label that have not been obscured by Dad’s sloppy pouring – ‘cette sauce est de haute qualité. Une mêlange, etc’ – but in my heart of hearts I know that I have left it too late.

On the fourth day the appearance of a lilac-coloured envelope on the front doormat coincides with the sound of our neighbour’s dog trying to rip the back out of the postman’s trousers and I know that the moment of truth has arrived. With faltering fingers, I tear open the envelope and dart my eye over its contents: ‘Thank you for … letter. Hope you can … attend … interview. … 11.15 Monday. Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg.’ My heart leaps. The first hurdle overcome. Now all I have to do is make a good impression at the interview.

On the appointed day I take a bus down to Dalston and make my way along the High Street. It certainly gives you a reassuring feeling of ordinariness. There is nothing sharp or flashy about it. I am wearing my blue wool interview suit with a yellow blouse that has just the trace of see-throughs about it. I don’t want to be brazen but on the other hand, my breasts are one of my best assets. There is no point in being over-prim. I have no difficulty at all in seeing the ‘CLIMAX’ sign. It projects out into the street and flashes on and off. Mr Rafelson-Bigg is obviously switched on to the benefits of advertising. Below the sign is a large expanse of coloured glass with the drawing of a man and a woman on it. They are stretched out in a position that can best be described as horizontal and don’t appear to be wearing any clothes. I suppose they are meant to symbolise the sense of freedom you experience when you book a Climax holiday but it does seem a bit near the knuckle.