Rosie Dixon - Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions

“Oh, Rumbelow. Yes he was all right.” Patterson sits bolt upright and his eyes open wide. “Don’t send me back there! I can’t take any more. I survived for fourteen days in the Libyan desert without water—”

“Package holiday?” I inquire.

“No. Plane crash.” Patterson buries his face in his hands. “That was horrible but-but-but Bog-Bog-Bogsdown makes it seem like heaven on earth.” A strange expression comes over his face. “I think perhaps I will take my trousers off.” He starts to fiddle with the catch at the top of his flies.

“I didn’t think you’d heard,” I say. “It was a slip of the tongue.”

“If you like,” says Patterson. “Alistair’s the name. Do what you like but I’m not going back.”

The poor man is definitely deranged. What shall I do? He is now pulling down his underpants and revealing a love truncheon of heroic proportions. It is amazing the effect fear can have on people.

“Lie back and I’ll put this blanket over you,” I say soothingly. “Forty winks, that’s what you need.”

“Forty what!?”

“Winks,” I say, sculpting the word with my tongue and lips. Alistair Patterson lies back. “Oh,” he says, relieved, “I thought you said ‘winks’.”

I try and drape the blanket over him but it is very difficult. It is like trying to throw a tarpaulin over a tent pole.

“You know what my old nanny used to do to send me to sleep?” says Alistair.

“How old was she?” I ask.

“Not all that old, really,” says Alistair obviously thinking about it seriously for the first time.

“I think I can guess,” I say, trying to move away. The hand clamps on my wrist like a handcuff.

“She used to shake down her thermometer at the same time.”

“She must have been a very efficient woman,” I say.

“She was a very compassionate woman.” Alistair looks up at me like an Old English sheepdog—I mean, like he is an Old English sheepdog. Oh dear. What should I do? I would hate to compromise my principles but I do feel that I may be in the presence of a special case. There are so many around these days. To use one’s body as a medicament in a predicament is not the same as indulging in the sex act for mere lustful gratification. I have had this discussion with myself, before. There is no need to feel that my virginity is being compromised. What I am about to perform is an act of the mind. The man now stretched out on the bunk is in an advanced stage of shock. He needs sleep. For deep relaxing sleep he needs the remedial balm of a physical relationship. The kind of relationship he once enjoyed with his nanny. I believe I can do better than that.

Smoothing his fevered brow with my right hand I begin to pop open my buttons with my left. Outside I hear a man’s voice screaming for mercy and a shriek of girlish laughter. I cross to the door and lock it.

“Burnham Scale,” murmurs the figure on the bed. He is obviously delirious. I slip out of my dress and peel down my panties and tights. Poor devil, there is not a moment to lose. Unpopping the catch of my bra, I feel myself swing free and easy and clamber up on to the bunk. For a moment doubts assail me. Am I doing the right thing? I peel back the blanket and indulge in a quick game of grab the zabb. The merchandise under control, I take a swift look round the room and tuck it away out of sight. No point in being untidy.

“Uuuuuuuuuurh!” Mr Patterson is making those groaning noises again.

“Are you all right?” I say. I try bouncing up and down to see if he can still feel anything. When his shoulders come off the sheets I realise that he probably can.

“Aaaaargh!!!” There is a much more positive note to his voice that I find very encouraging. When one is going to this amount of trouble to ease the lot of a fellow human being one needs to know that one’s efforts are being appreciated.

“Is that better?” I ask. A slow smile spreads over Alistair Patterson’s face and he stretches up his hands to fondle my boobs.

“Alistair like nanny.” he says. What a remarkable woman she must have been. One of the old school obviously but not without a few fairly modern ideas.

“Rosie? Is he still in there?” The voice belongs to Penny and is accompanied by a sharp tap on the door.

“Yes,” I say truthfully.

“Well, hang on to him, I think we’re going to land in a minute. You haven’t seen Fiona Fladger, have you.”

“No. What’s happened to her?”

“I don’t know. Nobody has seen her since they broke into the liquor store. I think she—Rachel! Put that sailor down this instant! You’ve no idea where he’s been!” Her voice dies away and I return to the job in hand—or somewhere.

“Are you feeling sleepy?” I ask.

“Nearly!” breathes Alistair. He is biting his lip and his head is straining back against the pillow. Ah well. The darkest hour is always just before the dawn. I grab the brass curtain rail and joggle my hips up and down. It is quite nice really—not of course that I think about that. This is strictly therapeutic. I will never be able to give myself in any union not sanctioned by the nuptial knot—ooooooooh! Control yourself, Dixon.

Below me I can sense that the danger has passed. Alistair is lying back with his eyes closed in peaceful sleep and the tension seems to have left his body—it has certainly left one part of it.

I descend to the floor, cover Alistair with a blanket, and start to get my clothes on. I have just climbed into my pants and bra when I decide to see what is happening outside—a foolish decision as it turns out. No sooner have I opened the door a couple of inches than there is the most terrifying crashing noise and the ship seems to leap about twenty feet in the air. I am hurled out of the cabin and end up sprawled in an untidy heap against the rail. The sky tears by above me and is then filled by a large wooden structure like a giant framework of Meccano. As I gaze up in amazement, a carload of gawping people sweep down a long incline and disappear from view. I am looking at a roller coaster. Where are we? We can’t be—no!—can we? I look over the side and—we are! Slap bang in the middle of a fairground! Oh my goodness. How very inconvenient. I can see that there is going to be trouble about this. Fortunately, we have come to rest against the side of a helter skelter so it will not be too much of a problem to reach the ground.

I return to the Captain’s cabin and pick up the great man’s rubber cushion. Poor fellow. He must have problems, sitting at that desk all day.

All around me I can hear shouts and screams and there are men, boys and schoolgirls running about everywhere—one might be back at St Rodence. I walk across to the helter skelter and climb over the rail. Down goes the cushion and down goes my botty. Let go of the side and—whoosh! Off we go. Almost before I have got used to going round and round I am at the bottom. The coconut matting rubs against my thighs and I am reminded that I am only wearing my bra and panties. Ah well, the French are very understanding about such things.

“Bonjour, Monsieur,” I say. “Je suis très heureuse etre ici dans votre beau pays. Je pense que vos gendarmes sont magnifiques.” The fat man in the striped T-shirt stares down at me.

“Where’s your ticket?” he says.

“I can’t see what all the fuss was about,” says Miss Murdstone. “People seem to have lost their sense of humour, these days.”

“I think it was the oil refinery that really upset everybody,” says Penny. “Eleven million pounds is quite a lot to laugh off.”

“It must have been, I suppose,” sighs Miss Murdstone. “But there was no need for those people to try and burn down the school as a reprisal. Goodness gracious me! Hardly any of the houses on the estate were really badly damaged. I never liked those houses anyway. Nasty little cardboard boxes!”