Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions. Rosie Dixon

disappeared after junior school swimming practice.

      It is two weeks after my introduction to life at St Rodence and I am now happily settled in under Penny’s protective wing—and, talking of protectives, what a good job that I am a little girl scout when it comes to such matters. Without the Pill that unpleasant incident in the stable could have had even more serious repercussions.

      I never found out who my attacker was. There was a wild cry of “Wacko the froggies!” and I felt myself encumbered so to speak. When I struggled out from under the bales there was nice Rex Harrington picking pieces of straw from the knees of his cavalry twills and offering me his hand. I didn’t like to say anything, it would have been too embarrassing.

      On the whole, I would prefer not to know. That way, I find it easier to put this latest assault on my virginity into perspective. As I have stated on many occasions, virginity is very much a state of mind with me and I am comforted to think that I was attacked without my consent by someone I did not see. In this way I feel no sense of loss or even of temporary removal. I am still free to offer the man I eventually marry the precious gift of my Maidenhead without Staines—I mean, my maidenhead without stains. But to return to the present.

      “Mind you, I can’t say I blame them,” says Penny. “I’d be pretty hungry if I had to swim two lengths of the hockey field on an empty stomach.”

      “And a tin tray,” I say. “Sometimes I think it’s a bit thick, charging extra for swimming lessons when we don’t have a pool.”

      “We used to go to the pool in Pokeham,” says Penny. But they banned us after the attendant had a heart attack.”

      “What happened?”

      “Oh, some of the girls cornered him in the showers. It was just a bit of harmless horseplay that got out of hand.”

      “There are so many extras, aren’t there?” I say.

      “It’s the only way to keep a place like this going. You charge a fortune to begin with and everything else is an extra. The parents jump at the chance to make sure that their brat has more extras than anyone else.”

      “But I don’t call sawing up logs, carpentry.”

      “I don’t know. The wood’s got to come from somewhere, hasn’t it? Miss Bondage calls that backward integration.”

      “I call it sharp practice. And what about ‘Vehicle Maintenance’?”

      “It saves Miss Grimshaw a bomb on garage bills. I’m not grumbling, either. Last week I had a complete oil change and—”

      “It’s not that so much,” I interrupt, “It’s the fact that the school charges the parents fifteen guineas and enrols the kids in the Village College Evening Classes for 60p.”

      “That’s good business,” says Penny. “Miss Keynes frequently cites it in her ‘Business Studies’ course.”

      Maybe I am too soft but it does seem a bit unfair, somehow. The spirit of “Survival in the Seventies” runs right through the school.

      “I’ll see you at supper,” says Penny. “I want to talk to Ruben about some linseed oil for the hockey sticks.”

      She goes off towards the pavillion and I think what a pillar of strength Seth and Ruben Hardakre are in the school community. Always hard at it. No sooner has the thought flashed across my mind than young Seth comes out of the bushes with Mademoiselle Dubois, the French mistress.

      “We ’ave been laying in ze trail for ze cross cunt—country,” she says in her charming accent.

      No wonder they both look so flushed and exhausted. How typical of the Hardakres that Seth should be prepared to give up his spare time in this fashion. Only the evening before I had found Ruben helping Mlle Dubois plan the route of a nature ramble.

      I go on my way to the school, past the group of fourth formers picking edible toadstools for supper, and think of all the satisfactions there are to be derived from the life of a teacher. If only I found the rest of the staff, Penny excepted, more sympathetic. I always dread going into the mistresses’ common room. It seems like the reading room of the British Museum—not that I have ever been there but you know what I mean. If you open your mouth, people have complained about the draught before you have time to say anything. In fact, you soon get the feeling that you are not expected to say anything until you have been in the place for ten years. The person who does most of the talking is Miss Bondage, the assistant head mistress. She has a face like a boiled calf’s head and is always reading the newspapers and making “humf!” noises.

      “Damn sex maniacs need a dose of their own medicine. I’d like to get my hands on some filthy pervert!” She looks round the room challengingly but nobody disagrees with her. Penny has certainly confided to me that she thinks Miss Bondage would like to get her hands on a sex maniac and that it would probably be her only chance.

      “There’s rather an interesting article in the New Scientist on pre-post-revisionary repression factors in deprived adolescents—”

      “Communist propaganda,” interrupts Miss Bondage. “Put them up against the wall and shoot them. Bang! Bang! Bang!”

      Miss Marjoribanks who is young and sensitive runs from the room in tears closely followed by her inseparable friend, Miss Wilton. They have only been at the school slightly longer than me. I have tried to be friendly to both of them but if I talk to one of them the other becomes all moody and petulant. They are a funny couple.

      “No stomach for the realities of life,” snaps Miss Bondage, stuffing tobacco into her pipe. “No wonder the world is in such a damn mess!” I make the mistake of catching her eye. “What do you think, Nixon?”

      “Well, I—er think it’s very difficult,” I say.

      “What do you mean?”

      I wish she wouldn’t ask questions like that. “Well, you know, I think—er—of course, it’s only a personal opinion, but, I suppose for lots of young people today, it’s a question of finding it very difficult to know exactly what they do think.”

      Miss Bondage stares at me. “And that’s what you think?”

      “In a manner of speaking,” I say.

      “Ridiculous! There’s only one answer: Martial law and a strong hand on the helm. I’d advocate Enoch Powell if he wasn’t too liberal.”

      “Oh fiddle!” says Miss Honeycomb. “You’ll have to stand up everybody, the grass snake has got out again.”

      “It’s ridiculous keeping the thing in here,” storms Miss Bondage. “Next time you confiscate something, keep it in your own room.”

      “I daren’t. It’s too cold. Do you remember what happened to the hampster? It froze to death.”

      “How do the girls keep them, then?”

      “They take them into bed with them.”

      “How very unhealthy!”

      “None of the animals seems to have caught anything yet,” says Miss Honeycomb.

      “It’s only a matter of time, mark my words. The R.S.P.C.A. streaming through the gates is just what we need.”

      I am grateful that Miss Honeycomb has diverted Miss Bondage’s attention and even more so when Penny comes in to announce that we must pick the hockey team for the key match against St Belters.

      “It’s a jolly swizz,” she says when we have retired to the snug at the Vole and Ratchet. “St Belters is a co-ed and their girls get a lot of practice playing with boys. They’re going to be a tough nut to crack.”

      “Are we playing home or away?” I ask.

      “Away. Not a lot of teams are prepared to come here. St Belters nearly cancelled the fixture when one of their girls was attacked by cockroaches.”