Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions. Rosie Dixon

of modern values … duty to uphold law and order … Capital Gains Tax …” Miss Grimshaw sways and collapses into her chair. “It’s those pills I have to take for my hay fever.”

      “They’re terrible, aren’t they?” I say sympathetically.

      Miss Grimshaw shakes her head and picks up a letter with “final demand” typed across the top of it. “Was Geography your only subject at Mingehampton?”

      “I think there must be some mistake,” I say. “I came about the job of gym mistress.”

      Miss Grimshaw waves a hand at my words as if they are distracting insects. “We can’t have you incarcerated in the gym all the time—anyway, we don’t have one. These days, during the grave shortage of teachers and—er, money considerations prompt us to double up as much as we can. I don’t think you’ll have any problem teaching Geography. After all, you did find your way here.” Miss Grimshaw laughs at her little joke and stretches out a hand to where the bottle of cold tea used to be.

      “Well, if you really think—I don’t have any qualifications.”

      Miss Grimshaw smiles knowingly. “Don’t worry too much about that. Many of our longest serving members of the staff don’t have any qualifications.”

      It all seems too good to be true. Miss Grimshaw is talking as if I already have the job. I must appear keen.

      “Pen—Miss Green mentioned the ‘Survival In The Seventies’ Course.”

      “Ah yes.” Miss Grimshaw leans forward and places the palms of her hands together. “That’s a project very dear to my heart.”

      I flash on my “tell me more” expression but it is unnecessary.

      “I think it absolutely vital that we prepare our gels for the world that they are going to have to live in. A world in which oil, coal and even food are going to be in increasingly short supply. Here at St Rodence we bring our gels face to face with these realities from the earliest possible moment. Sometimes a meal is dropped without notice and I have discontinued the oil deliveries so that we can use the raw materials existing in the grounds.”

      “I saw some girls sawing up trees,” I say.

      “Exactly. And then there’s Miss Bondage’s Open Cast Coal Mining Class. At all levels we’re trying to back up the government’s economy measures.”

      “It must save a lot of money, too,” I say.

      Miss Grimshaw looks up sharply. “Money. Yes, I suppose that must be a consideration to some people.” The way she says it makes me feel ashamed. How could I have been so clumsy?

      “I didn’t mean—” I say hurriedly.

      “Don’t.” Miss Grimshaw fans herself with a letter from a firm called Humpbach, Straynes and Croucher. “We live in venal times. It’s understandable that the thought should occur to you. For somebody of my ascetic temperament money hardly enters into the scheme of things.” I nod, wishing that I could understand. Maybe, after exposure to this remarkable woman—“I believe you’ve worked with Miss Green before?”

      “Yes, we nursed together.”

      “Splendid gel. Her pupils worship her stud marks. I think we’ve got all the makings of a great hockey team this year. Probably our best since the palmy days of Mabel Atherstone-Hinkmore. A big girl but so light on her feet. She moved like a great fairy.” Dad often says the same thing when he is watching the telly. “I think we’re really going to give St Belters a game, this year.”

      I nod vigorously and try and make my eyes glow with enthusiasm. Miss Grimshaw’s eyes are glowing with enthusiasm—or something.

      “I’d certainly like to help.” I say.

      “Good gel!” Miss Grimshaw tries to rise to her feet and then falls back into her chair. “You cut along and take tiffin with Miss Green. She’ll show you the ropes. I must get on with preparing my weekly jaw on current affairs.” Her hand stretches out towards a copy of Sporting Life. “Goodbye, Miss Nixon. Nixon—” Miss G. shakes her head quizzically “—it’s funny, I’m certain I’ve heard that name before somewhere.” Miss Grimshaw obviously has a very dry sense of humour. I have read about people like her.

      “How did it go?” says Penny, when I eventually find my way to her room.

      “Jolly—I mean, very well,” I say. “I think I’m in.”

      “What did I tell you? This place would employ the Boston Strangler if he kept his nails short.”

      “Flattery will get you nowhere with me,” I say. “And, talking of flattery, Miss Grimshaw spoke very highly of you.”

      “I suppose she was pissed out of her mind, was she? In that mood she loves everybody.”

      I like Penny but she can be very cynical sometimes.

      “Are you going to take the job?” she says.

      “You bet.”

      “Right, let’s go out and eat.”

      “Go out?”

      “Yes. I don’t want you to change your mind.”

      “Don’t you have to eat here?”

      “I’ve got a free afternoon. Come on, we’ll go down to the village. I feel like a good natter.”

      She also feels like four large gin and tonics as I find by the time I am on my second cider—it is strong, too. Not like the stuff Dad gets in at Christimas.

      “I feel I should have spent more time at the school,” I say.

      “You’ve got plenty of time to do that,” says Penny. “There’s nothing else to see that wouldn’t depress you. Did you notice my room? Like the inside of a coffin only the wood isn’t such good quality.”

      “If it’s so awful, why do you stay here?”

      “That’s one reason.” Penny indicates a tall, dark-haired man of about thirty who has just come into the bar. “Rex Harrington, the vet. I wouldn’t mind him vetting me, I can tell you.”

      The man turns round immediately and I do wish Penny did not have such a loud voice. “Penny, my sweet,” he says coming towards us. “I bumped into Guy a few moments ago. He said you might be popping in for a drink later on?”

      “It’s on the cards,” says Penny.

      “And your charming companion, I hope?”

      “I’ve got to be going back to London,” I say, thinking what sexy eyes the man has. “I’ve already missed the train I was going on.”

      “Miss the next one.”

      “Rosie, this is Rex,” says Penny. “Rex Harrington, Rosie Dixon.”

      “Pleased to meet you,” I say.

      “Likewise. What are you both having to drink?”

      “I mustn’t have another one,” I say.

      “Nonsense. I’ll be offended. What is it, cider?”

      Upper class men always seem so sure of themselves. I find it difficult to refuse any suggestion they make. “Just a small one,” I say.

      “And a large gin and tonic,” says Penny, holding out her glass.

      “Does this pub ever close?” I ask. “It’s half past three now.”

      “We operate continental licensing hours around here,” says Penny. “Now we’re in the Common Market it seems the least we can do.”

      Rex Harrington is thoughtfully tapping two coins together at the bar and there is something about the way he is looking at my legs that makes me cross them immediately—what