Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions. Rosie Dixon

is true. What really makes me choked is the way that I have behaved in exactly the same forgetful fashion that I would expect from Mum. I always feel slightly superior to her when she gets dithery and yet I have to go and do a thing like that.

      “At least you won’t have to heat it up,” I say. “That fur will keep it warm, no trouble.”

      Natalie pretends to be disgusted and it is all I can do to stop myself from giving her a slap. That girl would take the salute at a march past of flashers without batting an eyelid so she has nothing to act up about.

      All in all—and nearly free for all—I am glad when the taxi comes. Dad reckons that this is sheer extravagance but I tell him that I want to arrive at the hospital as a student nurse, not a patient. Lugging a heavy suitcase from one end of London to another is not my idea of gentle exercise.

      Despite the fact that I tell Dad that he is a mean old sod I watch the meter like a hawk. I don’t think I look out of the window once. I will traffic lights to turn green and make little jerking movements to help ease us through the traffic. The driver is the young chatty type and I should be warned.

      “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you going in for?” he says, drumming his fingers on the side of the cab.

      “I’m going to be a nurse.” As it turns out I should have said rabies.

      “Oh.” Immediately he sounds much more cheerful. “Wonderful bunch of girls, nurses. I think they do a fantastic job.”

      “Yes,” I say. The meter has now clocked up 85p. Since the journey started the value of the pound has probably passed it travelling in the opposite direction.

      “I’ve been out with quite a few nurses. They always like a bit of fun. Know what I mean?”

      “Yes.” Honestly, it is ridiculous the way this meter goes on. The digits on a petrol pump travel slower.

      “I expect you’re just the same?”

      “Yes.” And what are all those extras? This bloke would obviously charge you 3p for your hand bag.

      “A bit of slap and tickle never did anyone any harm. That’s what I say. I mean, you’re a mug if you think different these days, aren’t you?”

      “Yes.” I break my concentration to dart a quick glance out of the window. We must be nearly there now. Yes, that’s the park.

      “Do you fancy a bit of a giggle this evening?”

      One pound 25p! I could have gone to Brighton for the day with that.

      “I said do you fancy coming out with me?”

      “Yes—I mean, what did you say?”

      “Gordon Bennett! Your ears don’t see very far, do they?”

      At last the cab has stopped but the meter is still running.

      “How much is that?” I say hurriedly.

      The driver opens his door, swears at the bloke he nearly knocks off a bicycle, and slowly walks round to where my cases are strapped.

      “Nothing, if you’re a good girl,” he says. Before I can say “turn the meter off” he has opened the door and is pushing me back into my seat. “How about a ride for a ride?”

      “Do you mind!” I say forcefully. “Let me out of this cab. And turn that meter off! We’re not going anywhere.”

      “We can soon change that.” Without further ado the horrible herbert hoists his horny hand up my skirt. How unpleasant. And totally uncalled for. With my luck I could have had this experience on the tube for a fraction of the money.

      “How dare you!” Mary Peters could not fail to be impressed by the speed and grace with which I jab my elbow in the direction of Ben Hur’s action man kit.

      “What’s the matter, darling? Why are you suddenly playing hard to get?”

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let me go!” This time my aim is better and I am rewarded with a gold medal groan as my excitable fellow passenger cops a bunch of fives in the nether regions. From the noise he is making it sounds as if I have made them the “never” regions.

      I do not hang around to see if I can put on a spring but escape onto the pavement, fast.

      I am struggling with my cases when a huge, roly-poly bear of a man with a beard and an untidy mane of black hair appears at my side.

      “Is this driver free?” he asks.

      “Very,” I snap.

      “Where is he?” The man has a deep voice that sounds like Clement Freud selling dog food or the Liberal Party but I have left my portable tape recorder at home.

      “He’s sitting in the back—correction, lying in the back,” I say.

      “How very odd.” The man looks from me to the driver and then back to me again. “Is he all right?”

      “I hope not,” I say.

      It is not in my nature to be unkind to anyone but with everyone else making stands I feel that I might as well make one too. Black beard stares at me thoughtfully and opens the cab door.

      “Aren’t you going to help the lady?”

      “Aaaaaaaargh!” says the driver.

      “He’s already tried,” I say tartly. “Excuse me.” I tug my skirt into shape and trudge off with my cases. Thank goodness this unsavoury incident took place outside the nurses home and not the main hospital. I wonder who the man with the beard was. He had very piercing eyes.

      It is not until I hear the taxi pulling away that I realise I have not paid any fare. Oh dear. Still, I expect I will be able to live with myself.

      Inside the entrance to the nurses home is an office and inside the office is a small man wearing a brown house coat. He is smoking a brown cigarette which looks as if it grows out of his brown mouth.

      “Yes?” he says when I have cleared my throat a couple of times.

      “My name is Dixon. I’m a new nurse.”

      “Oh yeah.” The man drags himself out of his chair and rises slowly to his feet in a series of harrowing wheezes. “My back,” he explains.

      “You should see a doctor,” I say sunnily.

      The man winces. “I seen enough bleeding doctors in this job, don’t you worry. Now, what did you say your name was? Nixon?”

      “Dixon.”

      “That’s right.” The man rocks on his feet as a long shudder passes through his body. When you look at him you feel that he must have bought up most of the stomach powders in South West London—brought up quite a few of them too.

      “Dixon R. You’re sharing with Green P. in 5C.”

      “Thanks very M,” I say. “I hope we don’t land in the soup.”

      “Yerwhat?”

      “Green Pea,” I say merrily. “It’s a kind of soup, isn’t it?”

      The man looks at me as if I am round the bend. “What’s that got to do with it?”

      “Nothing at all,” I say wearily. “Which floor is 5C on?”

      “The fifth. The lift is out of order and you’ll have to carry your own bags up. I can’t risk my back. I’ve done too much of it.” He could only be referring to carrying bags.

      “You’re the porter are you, Mr—?”

      “Greaves.”

      “Spelt G-R-I-E-V-E-S?”

      “E-A,” says Mr G warily. “You’re not trying to be funny, are you?”

      I shake my head and begin