Rosie Dixon - Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions

Where Sister Tutor really comes into her own is in the matter of making beds. Her eyes glisten like those of a Seventh Day Adventist who has just had the door shut on his foot and phrases like “mitred corners” and “draw sheets” drop from her lips coated in drool. A bed and bedding have been provided on the stage of the lecture room, and Sister Tutor puts us all through our paces before we are allowed to go back to our rooms with the suggestion that we should do some more practising on our own beds.

“I didn’t find that too exhausting,” says Penny.

“Not surprising considering you volunteered to be the patient,” I tell her. Honestly, this girl is going to take some watching.

“It was wonderful practice,” murmurs Penny. “All that bottom raising while they whipped the draw sheets in and out.”

“You’re not still thinking of going out, are you?” I say. “It’s half past nine already.”

“I don’t care if it’s two o’clock in the morning. I need a good—”

“Nurse Green?” G.B.H. stops us at the foot of the stairs. “There was a telephone message for you. It’s the last I’ll ever take. I’m not an answering service, you know.”

“Stand sideways.” Penny pretends to survey G.B.H. critically. “No, you’re not, are you? It must have been the light.”

“Young man said he was sorry but he had to go on guard duty at Buck House and couldn’t make it tonight.”

“Oh FFFFFFarthingales! How absolutely sick making.”

“That was Mark, was it?” I ask.

“Yes. Off to look after Big L and Philip.” She reads my perplexed expression. “Oft to Buckingham P. to look after the Queen of E. and Pip the Greek. Mark is in the Cold-streams.”

I feel a bit uncomfortable when she talks about the royal family like that but I am impressed. Standing in front of one of those sentry boxes with a corgi pointing out my trouser seam to the tourists would not be my cup of tea but there is no doubt that it carries a lot of responsibility.

“Oh dear. You’ll have to help me with my mitred corners.”

“No way! I’m not going to stay here the whole evening. Let’s go and have a drink.”

“I lock the door at eleven,” says G.B.H. cheerfully.

“Ridiculous!” sniffs Penny. “My needs were better catered for at my boarding school. I had this exotic French mistress who had the most enormous crush on me. She used to invite me into her room and give me creme de menthe out of her tooth mug. She got the sack because matron sneaked on her. Matron was in love with me too. Have you ever thought about becoming a lesbian, Rosie?”

G.B.H. is awaiting my answer with interest so I give a gay little laugh—maybe gay is the wrong word—and shake my head vigorously. “No. Never.”

“Me neither. Of course I used to stroke Mademoiselle Cheyssial’s feet when she asked me to but that was only for the booze. We never got down to something you’d read about in the Sunday Times .”

“No,” I say uneasily. G.B.H. is staring at Penny as if she had just come in through the skylight and said “take me to your leader.” I find that the look in his eyes makes me feel uncomfortable. “Maybe it would be a good idea to get a breath of fresh air,” I say.

Half an hour later I am beginning to think that it was the worst idea I ever had. I hardly ever go into pubs and in the area around Queen Adelaide’s they don’t serve a lot of cucumber sandwiches, I can tell you. Penny rabbits on in her upper class voice and we get some very old fashioned glances.

“Don’t you think we should have gone in the saloon bar?” I murmur.

“Good Heavens, no. It’ll be full of ghastly middle class people drinking port and lemon. I like it here with the pools of ale and the whippets.”

I can’t see any whippets and the man next to me is sipping a Babycham but I don’t say anything.

“Daddy says working class people are the salt of the earth,” says Penny, polishing off her second double scotch of the evening. “It’s the middle class who cause all the trouble. God, I need a man.”

If only she didn’t have such a loud voice! Even the old bloke in the corner drops his double six as he chokes over his beer.

“We’d better be getting back, hadn’t we?” I say nervously. Penny rapes an Irish navvy with her eyes and shakes her head.

“What’s the hurry? There’s certain to be a window we can climb through. I think this place could warm up in a minute.” She sticks a cigarette in her mouth and looks around hopefully.

Another twenty minutes and I am talking about The Black and White Minstrel Show to the Irish navvy’s mate who is talking to me about taking a little stroll: “Just a breath of fresh air to bring some colour to the cheeks of your arse,” he husks whimsically. Penny and the fellow with McAlpine stamped across his donkey jacket have been outside for fifteen minutes now.

“I think we must be going in a minute,” I say, primly removing the Paddy’s friendly hand from my thigh.

“It’s not taking after your friend you are, I’m thinking,” he says, disappointment and stout drowning his voice. “You haven’t touched a drop of your Guinness.”

“I’m certain my friend will drink it when she comes back,” I say glancing nervously at my watch. Ten to eleven! We are going to be locked out unless she gets her skates on. I finish picking another beer mat to pieces and glance towards the door. Thank God! There she is, her slim boyish figure dwarfed by the giant hulk of the Irish navvy following her. The mick stumbles as he comes through the door. I notice that his eyes are glassy and that he is feeling his way towards the table along the backs of chairs. Too much to drink, I suppose.

“Did you find one that was open?” I say as he slumps down opposite me. They went out to look for a fish and chip shop. For a moment the man looks puzzled, and then he gives an understanding nod. “No, they were all closed.” He stretches out a shaking hand for the Guinness but Penny gets there first.

“Hands off, Patrick,” she says. “That was thirsty work.”

She tilts back the glass until only a few sad riverlets of froth are left running down its empty sides.

“I don’t know where she puts it all,” I say.

The big mick laughs hollowly. “Sure, and you can say that again,” he says. “Twenty years I’ve been handling a pneumatic drill and I’ve never known anything like it.”

I don’t know what he is talking about so I smile politely and look at Penny. “We really ought to be going. It’s nearly eleven, you know.”

Penny waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t keep on about it. It’s so boring. I’m starving anyway. I want to go and eat. Patrick’s going to take us to a fab little café he knows, aren’t you, Paddy?”

“But Penny, it’s our first night,” I squeak.

“Jesus!” says Patrick.

The trouble with Penny is that once she has got an idea into her head, there is nothing you can do to shift it. She is also very good at making you feel wet if you disagree with her. All this means that the party moves on to the Green Clover Café where Patrick falls asleep with his head on the table and my mick goes off to help Penny mend the lock on the toilet door. It must have been stiff because he is sweating like a pig when he comes back.

“Penny! We’ve got to go,” I hiss.

Penny considers my bloke who seems on the point of drifting off alongside his mate and nods. “Yes, these two have had it, haven’t they? I wonder if there’s any chance of getting into Buck House. I feel like—”

“No!” I yelp, feeling it is time I put my foot down. “We’ve got to get back.”

“All right, all right, you don’t have to shout. I hope you’re not always such a stick in the mud.” She waves at the balding man behind the counter who is cleaning his nails with a fork. “Waiter, can you call us a taxi.”