Rosie Dixon - Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions

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

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

“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.

“What do you mean ‘borrow’? You never give anything back. Anyway, you know Mum doesn’t like you smoking.”

“What she doesn’t know isn’t going to worry her. Lots of girls at school smoke much more than I do.”

“Well, borrow their fags, then. They can obviously afford it.”

Natalie lights up and blows a big cloud of smoke at the flies on the ceiling. “Free! Isn’t that fantastic? Six whole days of bachelor girl living. When are we going to have the orgy?” Some girls might be joking. With Natalie you never know. She is three years younger than me but I wonder about her sometimes. There can’t be many fifteen-year-old girls who have grown out of three bras.

“You know what Mum said,” I warn. “No parties.”

“I wasn’t talking about a party, was I? Come on, Rosie. Don’t say you’re going to turn into a recording of Mum’s voice the minute the door is closed.”

“Do use an ashtray,” I tell her.

“What did I tell you? I do wish you could listen to yourself sometimes. You want to get a job as a school teacher. You’re wasting your time down at the tech.”

“You worry about me when you’ve got your ‘O’ levels, Lolita.” It is fast occurring to me that a week with Raquel Welchlet could well result in a few frayed nerve ends.

“Brains aren’t everything,” says my gay, fun-loving little sister. “I want to be a model, anyway.”

I watch her experimenting with the buttons on her stretch cotton blouse to see how many she can undo before her navel appears and understand why Mum and Dad worry about us so much. “Models aren’t idiots,” I say.

“I’m not an idiot,” says Natalie. “I’m a fire sign, that’s all. Outward going and uninhibited.”

“I don’t believe in horoscopes,” I tell her. “Scorpios never do.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” A sense of humour is not one of Natalie’s strong points. “Seriously though.” She buttons up the reasons why she was voted the most popular girl in her class—there were more boys than girls. “We ought to have a party to repay all the hospitality we’ve received. You could invite all your friends from the tennis club.” The way she says “tennis club” she makes it sound like “geriatrics anonymous”.