Rosie Dixon - Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions

“I wish you wouldn’t go on about the tennis club. I just like watching tennis, that’s all.”

“And your lover, Geoffrey.” Natalie wags a finger at me. “Oh yes. I know all about the two of you looking for lost balls in the long grass.”

“What do you expect us to do, leave them there?”

“This was after the club dance.”

“Oh ‘Natalie’ I wish you could get it into your thick head that Geoffrey Wilkes and I are not lovers.” I hope I sound convincing because I would like to be persuaded myself. Somebody must have put something in the fruit cup that night, because when we went behind the privet I began to feel quite weak at the knees. Maybe it was the night air. There had been a terrible fug in the clubhouse. Geoffrey started kissing me and trying to put his hand up my skirt and I remember wishing that he was that aggressive on the tennis court. Perhaps that is why I gave him the teeniest bit of encouragement. Silly, really, but I just wanted to know what it felt like. It was not until I saw my panties hanging out of his jacket pocket that I realised what was happening. We were lying behind the roller and he was making the most incredible grunting noises. I was kissing him more to keep him quiet than for any other reason. He was behaving terribly badly because he was taking advantage of me. The fruit cup was quite harmless on the previous occasions I had been to the club. His fingers were running riot in my reception area and I was in such a state that I did not know where they ended and his pork banana began. I should have been paying more attention but I was so frightened that someone might come—I mean approach, of course. I was just getting rather worried when he suddenly rolled off me and was sick behind the roller. It was terribly embarrassing and I felt quite ill myself as I hurried back to the club house. I don’t think anything had happened—I mean to me, of course—but it was a very nasty experience. When Geoffrey came in five minutes later, the colour of a dead cabbage leaf, with my panties still hanging out of his pocket I could have died. Everybody was so rude and I am not surprised that Natalie heard about it. It just shows how careful you have got to be.

“That’s not what I heard. You gave him your knicks to blow his nose on, did you?”

I ignore this tasteless remark and become engrossed in the TV Times . It is unhealthy the way Natalie harps on about sex the whole time.

“Ooh! look. They’ve got a repeat of Casualty Ward .”

“What? Now? Smashing,” Natalie drops her fag into her tea cup and follows me into the front room. I wish I had kept my mouth shut because I would much rather curl up with Edward Chancellor by myself. He is the sexy star of the show Doctor Eradlik .

“Haven’t you got any homework to do?” I snap.

“They don’t give us homework.”

“Well, they should. When I was your age I was—” I start to think about more important things as dreamboat’s face looms up on the screen. Some people think he is too pretty, but when he looks straight at the camera like that I feel my tongue creeping out of my mouth and running nervously along my upper lip—at least, I think it is nerves.

“Her skin may be black but her kidney is the same colour as a white girl’s.”

“Doctor Eradlik! You don’t mean—!”

“Yes, Sandy. There’s no time for prejudice when a man is dying.”

“Would you like to have a spade’s kidney?” says Natalie thoughtfully.

“Ssssh!”

“I don’t think I would myself. I’ve nothing against them but—”

“Shut up!” I hiss.

Eradlik stops tapping his folded stethoscope against the palm of his hand and looks at his watch. ‘If Gruntstone doesn’t give his consent to the operation in the next five minutes, it’s going to be too late.’

“That bigot will never give his consent to anything that involves his son having a black girl’s kidney. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You look beautiful when you’re mad, Nurse Timkins. Your eyes blaze like all those stars out there.”

“You mustn’t kiss me, Doctor. I’m supposed to be sterilised.”

“I couldn’t believe that lips so sweet and pure could ever bear the stigma of stapyhylococci.”

Dream Snogger is just about to put his beautiful mouth to work when the telephone rings. I don’t mean the telly telephone but the one in our hall. I wait hopefully for Natalie to answer it but I am wasting my time. God help him if it is some adenoidal little pimple factory wanting to know if my kid sister is going to the youth club—or Teen Scene as the new vicar now calls it. I try and catch her eye as I stalk past but she is staring at the screen with her thumb in her mouth and her skirt up to her panties.

“Don’t scratch yourself like that,” I say primly.

“Why not? I’ve got an itch.”

“It’s not nice.” I pick up the telephone. “Hello!” My voice is meant to sound about as welcoming as Moshe Dayan being invited to judge the Miss Egypt Beauty Contest. There is a pip, pip, pip and the line goes dead. I return to the front room.

“That was Mum,” I say.

“What did she want?”

“She hasn’t got through yet. What’s happened?”

“They can’t wait any longer so he’s doing an emergency operation without the father’s consent.”

“And using the black girl’s kidney?”

“I think so. Do you smell anything?”

“Only that awful perfume of yours. You don’t wear that at school, do you?”

“Of course not. I don’t want to enslave them.”

“Smells like something burning. You didn’t leave anything on in the kitchen, did you?”

Natalie shakes her head. “No.”

“Well, don’t just sit there. Go and have a look.”

“Why me?”

“Because I just answered the telephone.”

Natalie nods towards the telly. “It’s better if you go because I know what’s happening and I can tell you. If I go—”

“Oh, stay there and mind you don’t scratch another hole in yourself!”

“Charming!”

I make tracks for the kitchen and the smell of burning gets worse with every step. Don’t say the rhubarb has caught fire. I glance at the dials on the cooker and wrench open the oven door. Crikey! I haven’t seen so much smoke since Dad borrowed an indoor barbecue set. I grab a couple of wet tea towels and drop the burnt offering in the sink where it sizzles merrily. It looks as if it might once have been a steak and kidney pud. In the hall the telephone rings.

“Telephone!” shouts Natalie helpfully. I make a quick list of the ten ways I would most like to kill her and snatch up the receiver. Pip, pip, pip, pip …

“I’ve found the steak and kidney pud, Mum,” I speak the second the pips stop.

“I’ve no time to talk now, dear,” says Mum. “Listen carefully. There’s a steak and kidney pud in the oven which should have come out half an hour ago.”

“I found it, Mum.”

“You must take it out immediately.”

“I have done, Mum.”

“Do you understand, dear? I can’t talk because the train is just about to go and your father is shouting at me. There’s a steak and—”

There is a muffled squawk and a noise that could be Dad yelling something I am grateful I cannot understand.

“Hello? Mum?” I can still hear station noises in the background and I imagine that Mum must have left the phone dangling as Dad dragged her away. I am about to hang up when I hear a sound like someone breathing and a voice full of eastern promise purrs from the receiver.

“Hullo, how are you?” says a man’s voice.

“Hello,” I say. On the spur of the moment it is difficult to think of anything else to say.