Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions. Rosie Dixon

hockey sticks when returning from a wood-collecting exercise and Penny prophesies that we are in for trouble.

      “I think tomorrow will throw up some very interesting winners,” she says. “It was stupid of me to back a favourite. I should have guessed they would be taken out before they tucked their gym slips in their knickers.”

      “You suspect foul play?” I ask.

      Penny looks at me with contempt. “What other kind of play do they know?”

      I suppose she is right and, of course, I had the chance to see St Rodence in action when we played St Belters at hockey, but everything is so much more out in the open at a sports meeting, isn’t it? I mean, how can anyone interfere with people when they’re running in the middle of a field? I get the chance to find out during the first event.

      It is a fine afternoon by St Rodence standards and only a thin net rain is undermining the proven drying qualities of the slightly sub-hurricane force west wind. The finalists for the hundred yards are at their marks and waiting only for Miss Barton who is wrestling with an umbrella which has blown inside out. Quite a few parents have turned out and can be seen swigging eagerly at their daughters’ hip flasks.

      Favourite for the race is Molly McBride, a big-boned girl from the bogs—which is possibly why she runs so fast. In the absence of the Saranjit sisters there seems no one to touch her. She certainly takes it seriously enough and has hammered in starting blocks, something quite unheard of at St Rodence where you are considered hearty if you own a pair of gym shoes.

      “On your marks, get set.”—BANG!

      The girl next to McBride collapses clutching her shoulder and Penny blows her whistle for a false start.

      “I told you we should have got some blanks,” she says. “The trouble is that it’s so difficult to find them for a Luger. Do point the gun up in the air next time, Batters. We’re going to get behind schedule if we go on like this.”

      “Stop snivelling, Pelham!” snaps Miss Batson. “It’s only a flesh wound. Goodness gracious me. I’ll have to disqualify you in a minute.”

      Pelham refuses to stop crying and is led off to find matron.

      “Damn,” says Penny. “I had her down for a place. There goes my each way double.”

      “On your marks, get set—” McBride’s great muscular legs knot like worm casts and her shoulders lunge foward menacingly—BANG! Four of the remaining five finalists spring into action but McBride remains rooted to her blocks. She struggles gamely and then collapses flat on her face.

      “What on earth!?”

      We spring forward to the prostrate McBride and Penny picks up a piece of wire that is running from the starting blocks.

      “Cunning little swines!” she hisses.

      “Why? What happened?”

      “Don’t you see? A current was passed through this wire to set up an electro-magnetic field that held the steel spikes in the girl’s running shoes to the starting blocks. She was like an iron filing picked up by a magnet.”

      “Crumbs! You mean we’ve got girls who are intelligent enough to organise something like that?” I ask, amazed.

      “It’s incredible what they can do when there’s money at stake.” Penny pats the sobbing McBride on the shoulder. “There, there, Molly. There’s always the high jump.”

      Ten minutes later we are waiting for McBride to make the first jump. “Nothing can stop her here,” says Penny smugly. “Hey, wait a minute!” She steps forward and checks that the bar can be lifted. “Just thought I’d make sure that no joker had welded the bar to the uprights,” she says. “There’s a lot of money riding on this one and you can’t afford to be too careful. All right, McBride!”

      McBride starts her high, prancing run and then suddenly twists and soars into the air. The Fosberry Flop, I believe you call it. Up, up, up and down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, DOWN!—so far down that she disappears from view. Her scream seems to be dying away in the bowels of the earth.

      “Oh my God!” says Penny. We rush to the landing pit and find ourselves looking into a deep hole. At the bottom of it is McBride. Penny’s eyes probe the darkness. “Thank heavens there aren’t any sharpened bamboo canes,” she says. “Sometimes, things get a bit out of hand.”

      McBride is hauled out and retires immediately. Poor kid. Her nerve has gone and she wants to be around to count the candles on her next birthday cake.

      After the high jump there are no more incidents. Five of the finalists in the egg and spoon race are found to have china eggs nailed to their spoons, and the fifth—an Irish girl—has the spoon tied to her hand, but this is small stuff compared to the serious fixing that has been going on.

      With McBride gone there is no point in betting on any event because the contestants are so poor. The quarter mile race is awarded to the girl who got furthest before collapsing and the pole vault is even more embarrassing. The first competitor runs up and throws the pole over the bar. What is worse, most of the parents and girls cheer like mad.

      “We daren’t run a dope test at this place,” says Penny. “Every single one would be positive.”

      What puzzles me is that although the standard of athletics is abysmal, none of the parents seem to mind. In fact, the longer the afternoon goes on the happier they seem to be. Mr and Mrs Pelham, whose daughter was carried off to the san, seem particularly relaxed.

      “Better get the trophies out,” says Penny. “I was hoping the Securicor boys would show up but I think they had enough after last year. Three of them emigrated to Austria and joined the Vienna Boys Choir.”

      “You think the girls might steal them?” I ask.

      “Not now. It’s got to be real men or nothing with these—”

      “I meant the cups!” I say, trying to control my exasperation.

      “Oh them! No I reckon you’re pretty safe. Most of the best stuff has already gone. The Securicor men are just here to impress the parents.”

      I toddle off on my errand and am amazed at the crowd of parents around the trophy table. They are all talking away animatedly, and when I snatch a glance at the medicine cabinet I appreciate why. Even after the bashing it has had from the parents, it is still full of booze. There is one small bottle of T.C.P., a packet of corn plasters and eighteen bottles of brandy. It is amazing that the cupboard can stay on the wall.

      “Hello, darling!” says a large florid man in a city slicker suit who I have noticed looking at me before. “Come for a little drinky, have you?”

      “I’ve come to fetch the cups,” I say, picking up the victor ludo shield and reaching out for the other trophies.

      “Hey! Hang on a minute, sweetheart. That cup’s in use.” The man snatches back a large rose bowl and I see that it is filled to the brim with a colourless liquid. My nostrils tell me that it is not Adam’s ale.

      “That’s gin,” I say.

      “With the merest hint of vermouth to prevent it becoming lonely. Tell me, my dear. What form are you in, apart from excellent?”

      “I’m a teacher,” I say, absolutely amazed that anyone should think I was a pupil. I mean, it’s so flattering, isn’t it? Even when one considers the average girl at St Rodence.

      “A teacher!? ’Pon my soul. Teachers have changed since I was a young whipper snapper. We didn’t have any teachers like you when I was at school.”

      “Hardly surprising considering that you were at Dartmouth Naval College, Henry,” says a tall, thin lady with finger nails like sticks of melting sealing wax. She looks me up and down as if measuring me for a coffin. “You’re not trying to take our drink away, are you? It’s the first time I’ve been given one in the ten years I’ve been coming here.”