Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions. Rosie Dixon

and immediately St Swithin’s nearly score again. One of their gorillas grabs the ball and runs away with it after he has punched Tom Richmond in the face. It is an obvious foul and the referee must be bent not to blow his whistle. Fortunately, a brilliant tackle by one of our players stops the horrible little jerk just short of our line.

      “Why is he going off?” I ask. “Has he hurt his arm?”

      “He’s been sent off, you stupid bitch!” snaps a St Swithin’s supporter with a face like a frog’s death mask. “Even this ref draws the line at short arm tackles. You’ve got the dirtiest team I’ve ever seen in this competition.” I do not want to get involved in unpleasantness so I wave a couple of lady-like fingers at the foul-mouthed fink and prepare to watch St Swithin’s make the game safe with a simple penalty kick. Maybe their kicker gets cold waiting for his fourth team-mate to be carried off the field because he makes a balls-up and hits one of the uprights. The ball bounces back and Adam catches it. He moves with the speed of treacle flowing down a fly paper but manages to give the ball a most terrific kick just before all the St Swithin’s swine leap on him. The ball soars through the air and, helped by the wind, lands deep in the St Swithin’s half. Everybody chases after it but just before Tom Richmond can get a boot to it some snivelling little St Swithin’s rat kicks it off the pitch by the corner flag.

      As Adam struggles to his feet I see the referee looking at his watch.

      “This must be our last chance,” croaks Labby. “Oh, come on, Adders!”

      Adam Quint shakes his head and runs towards the line out and I find myself responding to the look of grim endeavour that blazes in his eyes. He brushes aside the referee who comes up to ask him if he is all right and shoulders his opposite number three feet out of the line as he takes up his position. He bends forward so that his right hand is resting on his knee and his great belly quivers menacingly. “Come on, Adam!” I murmur the words under my breath but I couldn’t feel them more strongly if I was shouting them at the top of my voice.

      The ball curves through the air and Adam leaps, one arm soaring higher than anyone else in the line. He hooks the ball down and seizes it with both hands. What a man.

      “Give it!”

      Adam makes as if to pass and then hunches his shoulders and halves his height. With an explosive yell he hurls his whole weight against the wall of flesh between him and the line. There is a landslide of bodies and the referee’s hand shoots in the air. We have scored! Everybody is going mad and Labby runs on to the field to embrace Tom. For two pins I would do the same to Adam. Adam Quint. Suddenly the name trips off the tongue like Mark Phillips.

      My hero stumbles back to the centre line wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and Tom prepares to take the conversion. He misses but it does not matter. The final whistle goes immediately afterwards and Queen Adelaide’s have won 10–9 and 13–11 if you include the number of people left on the field at the end. I can hardly believe it has really happened.

      A crowd of Adelaide’s medics pour on to the field and try to chair Adam off but he shrugs them aside and runs from the pitch. It is the fastest I have seen him move all afternoon.

      “There’ll be the most fantastic party, this evening,” trills Labby. “Oh, I’m so excited I think I’m going to burst”

      The two teams clap each other off the field and the cup is presented to Tom Richmond. Feeling rather sad, I start walking towards the bus. Labby is staying behind to be with Tom and I wish I had a boy-friend in the team. I can still see Adam Quint poised to spring … the moment when he burst over the line with half the St Swithin’s team on his back … the agonising seconds before the referee raised his— “Hey, Nurse, can you give us a hand? I think this bloke’s in a bit of a mess.”

      The speaker is standing at the back of an ambulance. The doors are open and I can see someone bending over a stretcher.

      “What do you want?” I say, going over.

      “You, darling!”

      Before I can cry out or make a run for it the figure bending over the stretcher grabs my arm and yanks me into the ambulance. A blanket is flung over me and by the time I get it off, the doors are closing behind me and the ambulance is drawing away. On the floor is a St Swithin’s scarf. I have been kidnapped!

      I batter on the sides but I make less impression than Enoch Powell singing “That coal black mammie of mine,” at the Brixton Civic Centre. There is a babble of voices, and then my cries are swallowed up in the mighty roar of London’s traffic. I am not frightened—just furious. Everybody else wil be having a great time back at the hospital while I am stuck with a load of twits from St Swithin’s.

      A long half hour later, the ambulance stops and the engine is turned off. We must have arrived. The doors open and the creep who first called to me bows low.

      “Welcome to London’s number one hospital,” he says.

      “That doesn’t mean much coming from London’s number one twit,” I snarl. “How long do you intend to keep me here? I get bored easily in the company of jerks.”

      “Sticks and stones may break my bones,” says the drip. “But words will never hurt me.”

      “O.K. Give me some sticks and stones,” I say. “And get a move on. I have millions of better things to do than hang around swopping B movie dialogue with you.”

      “You’re going to stay here till Queen Adelaide’s hand over our cup. You won it by cheating.”

      “Can I use the telephone?” I say, “I’d like to call a child psychiatrist to have a look at you two.”

      I have been brought to what looks like the back entrance to a block of flats and I imagine that it must be a hall of residence for the medical staff of St Swithin’s.

      “Come with us and don’t try anything clever,” says the one who does all the talking.

      “You wouldn’t be able to follow me if I did,” I say.

      “Why don’t you let me go now instead of a couple of hours later? I know your evening has been ruined. Why spoil mine?”

      Good sense gets me nowhere with these creeps and I am led to a lift and taken up to the fourth floor. I would not mind so much if my captors were a teeny bit attractive but they make Julian Orchard look like Charlton Heston. I am led along the corridor to room 302 and ushered inside. It smells of Old Spice and old socks—like most bachelor’s rooms. Not, of course, that I am an authority on the subject.

      “Would you like a glass of sherry?” says my first captor.

      “I don’t know. I’ve never tried one.” This is not true because I had some at Aunty Lil’s wedding. I can remember that I did not like it much—I did not like the wedding much either. The best man flashed his nasty at me while they were signing the register. Of course, he and the bridegroom had been drinking since the pubs opened—if you had seen my Aunty Lil you would know why.

      “It’s on the bookcase if you feel like some. We’ll bring you some food later.”

      The door closes behind me and I hear a key turning in the lock. “Give my love to the Commandant,” I shout.

      What a waste of time. Just my luck to get stuck with Norman and Henry Bones, the boy defectives. Well, they won’t hold me for long. I cross to the window and look out. The street seems a long way below but the window ledge is wide enough to take a pram. All I have to do is crawl along it until I come to a staircase and—Bob’s your uncle. Super Dixon lives again.

      I don’t hang about but force up the window and edge out onto the ledge. The minute the wind whistles round me the whole idea seems a lot less appealing—more like Cold Tits than Colditz. I must come down to earth after the escapism of the rugby match. A glance at the street below makes me wish I had lit upon a better choice of words. It seems an awfully long way away. I look in towards the wall and have passed two rooms with the windows firmly bolted before I come to a third which has the light on