Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions. Rosie Dixon

bath. He came up like a rocket launcher. Terribly embarrassed, too. I was really touched—so was he, actually.”

      “I can imagine,” I say.

      “When I was on nights I found myself thinking about him all the time. I was like a child left alone with a bag of sweets.”

      “And he couldn’t move?”

      “Only below the waiSt The rest of him was in plaster. He couldn’t move his arms. You can imagine how my heart went out to him. I thought I must be doing him a favour.”

      “What did you do?”

      “Careful, darling. You’re drooling. I held myself in check for a couple of nights and then I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. My oppo went off to see a chum and I could see this divine hunk flexing his toes in an agony of frustration. What am I here for? I asked myself. I must bring balm in whatever shape seems to be handiest at the time. I stole down the ward and got cracking with the screens. He had stopped moving around by then but I thought he was being discreet.”

      “Uum,” I say.

      “Tenderly I slid back the sheets and caressed him to a state of passive enthusiasm.”

      “‘Passive enthusiasm’?”

      “He was doing a marvellous imitation of the Eiffel Tower but his eyes were closed. I thought he was pretending to be asleep.”

      “Then what happened?”

      “When I saw the goodies it was right back to the sweets again. I always preferred hard centres. Never could stand strawberry whips, nothing kinky about me.”

      “Yes,” I breathe. “Then what?”

      “The floodgate broke. You know me, I was born to the saddle. When I saw his pommel I just had to pummel. I had my knicks off before you could say Tally Ho! and vaulted across his thighs. I’d only cantered a few hundred yards when he started screaming the place down. You know, I think he might really have been asleep all the time.”

      “That might explain the screams.”

      “That’s what I thought. After that, things became a bit sordid. Night Sister came along and all the screens fell down.”

      “And you had to get off?”

      “Well, I couldn’t stand the noise. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to rape a man but they make the most awful row. I don’t know what they’d be like if they had to have babies.”

      “And they’re going to kick you out?”

      “They have kicked me out. Matron was terribly cut up about it. I told her she was making a mountain out of a molehill—I don’t mean anything disrespectful by that, Julian was quite well endowed really—but it didn’t do any good. I think it was knowing the family that made it so difficult for her.”

      “When are you leaving?”

      “Right away. I’m just going to pack my things and chalk ‘G.B.H. is the worst poke in the hospital’ on the old bastard’s door and I’ll be off. Keep in touch. I don’t reckon you’re going to be able to stick this place much longer.”

      “What are you going to do?”

      “Go home until Daddy gives me some money to clear off and do something else. I’ll send you a postcard.” Twenty minutes later she had gone. Of course, she was very free in her ways, but I know I am going to miss her.

       CHAPTER 10

      “Did you hear what someone wrote on G.B.H.’s door?” giggles Labby the next morning.

      “‘G.B.H. is the worst poke in Queen Adelaide’s’?” I reply smugly.

      “It didn’t say ‘poke’.”

      “Well, it was Penny and you don’t have to tell me what it did say.”

      Penny’s departure is big news and by the time the rumours have stopped flying around most people believe that she was engaged in a gang bang featuring half the walking wounded in the hospital. Poor Julian Mayfair has to be moved to another hospital and there seems little doubt that a good deal of his distress can be attributed to the fact that his most frequent visitor was called Cecil and had yellow streaks in his hair. Impulsive Penny was fouling up the Gay Liberation Front—or Gay Liberation Behind as I think they ought to be called.

      It is funny, but shortly after she leaves, Mark rings up. I happen to be in the hall at the time and I hear G.B.H. in the act of putting the receiver down. Mark has rather a toffee nosed voice and stutters a bit but he seems very nice. It is difficult to hear him because there are a lot of dogs yapping in the background. He seems relieved to find that Penny has gone back to the country and rings off soon afterwards.

      Fortunately, perhaps, there are always lots of scandals going on and, by the time everybody has finished discussing the dirty deeds committed over the Christmas period, the Penny incident is just one amongst many.

      As winter grudgingly gives way to spring (nice that, isn’t it? I’m not just a pretty face, you know) the subject that increasingly forces itself into people’s conversations is The Inter-Hospital Rugby Union Football Knock-Out Cup. This would normally interest me less than an underwater pipe lighting contest but I am now sharing a room with Cilla Bias. Labby knows the score behind every bruise on Tom Richmond’s battered face and as Queen Adelaide trample their way towards the final her enthusiasm becomes contagious. It is like when England won the World Cup. I remember throwing my framed portrait of Troy Donahue through the front room window when Alf Ramsey scored the winning goal in the final.

      “If only we can beat Northminster then we’ll be in the final against St Swithin’s,” sighs Labby. “I do hope MacSweeney doesn’t have to have his cartilage out.”

      Fortunately, Queen Adelaide’s has a large medical staff otherwise some of the patients would never see a doctor. Those doctors who are not playing rugger are either training to play rugger or recovering from the injuries received when they did play rugger. It is rumoured that interviews with the head of the medical school are held at Twickenham with applicants expected to attend wearing shorts and scrum caps.

      “If we get into the final, will you be one of the cheer leaders?” says Labby. “Like I said, it’s tremendous fun.”

      “I remember,” I say, trying to control my enthusiasm.

      “Everybody throwing bags of soot.”

      “Not just soot,” says Labby enthusiastically. “Flour, custard pies, fire extinguishers. Last year St Swithin’s had a tank on the pitch. It got out of control and ran over an invalid car. God, it was funny.”

      “Sounds a riot,” I murmur. “What about the bloke in the invalid car?”

      “Oh, he got out in time. Caught the chap standing up in the tank behind the ear with his crutch. I thought I’d die laughing.”

      “Like the geezer in the invalid car.”

      “Don’t be so serious, Rosie. It’s only a bit of fun.”

      Two weeks later, Labby is in raptures and Tom is practically ruptured. Nurse Bias’s beloved has received his injury plunging over the line for the winning try against Northminster Hospital in the semi-final.

      “Dirty swines did it out of sheer spite,” hisses a furious Labby. “He’d already grounded the ball.”

      “Looks as if his balls are going to be grounded for a bit, doesn’t it?” I say cheerfully. “What are you going to do?”

      Labby does not find this amusing. “I’m thinking of the team,” she sniffs. “They’re going to need his thrust in the middle.” There must be an answer to that but I am too refined to consider it.

      “He certainly has a