Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions. Rosie Dixon

thing to do.

      “My Gad!” I hear his voice through the window before he wrenches it up and drags me inside. “What are you doing out there, honey? Trying to give me a heart attack?” He has an American accent and looks me up and down like I am some kind of Martian. I suppose that with my Adder costume on I must seem a bit funny.

      “Your fellow medics thought it would be a good idea to kidnap me after the Cuppers Final,” I say. “Not unnaturally, I was trying to escape.”

      “That’s terrible,” says the yank. “You might have been killed.” He takes one of my hands in his. “And you’re so cold.” He has a soft voice and silvery grey hair. He must be about forty but he is very attractive. Lovely teeth and piercing blue eyes like Paul Newman.

      “I suppose you’re one of them,” I say.

      The yank looks hurt. “You mean I’m a fag? No, honey. I’m conspicuously heterosexual.”

      “I meant, I suppose you’re attached to the hospital.” He is obviously too old to be a student.

      “That’s right, honey. I’m on an exchange visit.” He looks at me tenderly. “I don’t know anything about these Cuppers. I know your coppers are wonderful.”

      “They’re something else,” I say.

      “Exactly. Look. I’m most distressed to hear what has happened to you and you can rest assured that I’m going to do everything in my power to get you out of here.”

      “Thank you,” I say. He has such beautiful eyes.

      “Don’t mention it. It’s the least I can do. Now, the first thing is to give you a drink and the second is to find you some new clothes. You can’t go out like that. I was just fixing myself a mint julep. Would you care to participate? It’s a little cool for your condition but it’s a powerful pick-me-up.”

      How could I refuse? After all my exertions I feel like a drink, even if it is something I have never heard of before.

      “My name’s Hank Fieldman,” says my saviour as he pours something out of a jug. “Try this for size.”

      “Rosie Dixon. Thanks.” I receive a tumbler full of green liquid with a rime of sugar round the top and sprigs of mint floating on the surface. It tastes like cough mixture. Oh well, you can’t have everything.

      “Now if you slip out of that sweater and skirt I’ll mosey across the street and pick up some new dudes for you. It’s late night shopping.” Hank misunderstands my hesitation. “Don’t worry about your body, honey. We’re in the same business. I’ve seen millions of naked dames.”

      “It wasn’t that. It’s the fact that I don’t have any money. I can’t let you buy me clothes.”

      “Don’t give it a thought. I’ll charge it to the football club. Now, come on. Hand over your things and I’ll be able to pick up the right sizes.”

      When he puts it like that I find it difficult to say no. I would like to have an outfit paid for by the St Swithin’s Rugby Club. It would serve them right.

      “All right,” I say. “You’re on.”

      I peel off my sweater and step out of my skirt and you could warm your hands on the glint of approval in Hank’s eyes.

      “Speaking purely professionally,” he drawls, “that’s a beautiful piece of machinery you’ve got there.”

      “Thank you,” I say. For a moment we stand facing each other and then Hank shakes his head and grabs my threads.

      “Don’t go away now,” he husks.

      “Don’t forget my tights.”

      Hank shudders. “I could never forget your tights.”

      I bet he has a wonderful bedside manner, I think to myself. The door closes and I take another sip of my drink. It certainly does taste strange. Strong too.

      The minute I am left alone I feel an overwhelming desire to spend a penny—more like 10p in fact. I know it is unsafe to venture outside into the corridor but what else can I do? There is only a wash basin in the room and it does not look as if it is very firmly attached to the wall. Anyway it would be awful if Hank came back for his cheque book and found—no, I refuse to think about it.

      I open a cupboard and grab the first long garment that comes to hand. It is a plastic mac. Oh well, it is better than nothing. I slip it on and peep out into the corridor. There is no one about. I start walking and have covered about a dozen paces when I hear someone coming towards me round the bend in the corridor. I start to turn back but it is too late.

      “Nurse Dixon!”

      “Ad-Doctor Quint!” There, looking only slightly less dishevelled than he did on the pitch, is Adam Quint flanked by two other Queen Adelaide’s players. “What are you doing here?”

      “We’re trying to get into the St Swithin’s Medical School. What are you doing here?”

      “I thought this was the medical school.”

      “No, you fool. That’s next door. This is the Y.M.C.A.”

      “Oh my goodness.”

      “Why are you wandering about in your underclothes and a see-through mac?”

      “I was going to spend a penny. This man said he was a doctor and gave me a mint dewlap.”

      Adam hits his hand against the side of his head. “A dewlap is a fold of loose flesh.”

      “I thought it tasted funny.”

      “I think you’re a bit funny,” says Adam grimly. “They took your clothes, did they?”

      “No. I gave them to the man who was getting me some new ones.”

      Adam turns to the other two medics. “Have you any idea what the stupid bitch is talking about?”

      “There he is,” I squeal. “That’s the man.”

      Hank had appeared at the end of the corridor but he is carrying a bottle of champagne. No clothes. An expression resembling uneasiness spreads across his face.

      “I’d leave that young lady alone if I were you,” he says. “She’s under my protection.”

      “You tricked me into taking my clothes off,” I shout. “You said you were a doctor.”

      “I am a doctor. I’m a doctor of—”

      I never get the chance to find out what Hank Fieldman was a doctor of, because Adam knocks him down. “Don’t leave the champagne,” he says. “It’s very bad for a man in his condition.” He steps over the prostrate body and strides on down the corridor.

      “I’m sorry,” I say, directing the words towards the floor. “Really I am. I’ll send back the mac.”

      Poor Hank groans. I can’t even take a last look into his dishy eyes because they are closed.

      Two minutes later, I get a good look at the doorman’s eyes because they nearly pop out of their sockets when they collide with my breastwork.

      “Well may you stare, my good man,” says Quint. “But for my intervention, this innocent child might have been in Port Said this time tomorrow evening. I had no conception that Y.M.C.A. stood for Young Maidens Criminally Assaulted. You will be hearing from your deaf aid in the morning.”

      He sweeps out and the doorman’s mouth opens wider than Britain’s trade gap.

      A car is parked round the corner and the champagne is opened before the doors are closed.

      “Bloody lucky to find her like that,” says one of Adam’s sidekicks.

      “Fortune favours the fortunate,” says Adam. “And now, on to the celebration party.”

      “I