Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions. Rosie Dixon

of Open Cast Coal Mining, though,” says her father, proudly.

      “She’s wonderful with horses,” says Mummy.

      “Indistinguishable, too,” says Daddy. Mummy taps him playfully with her shooting stick. Daddy screams and falls on the floor. Oh dear. I can see that this is going to be one of those difficult occasions. I do hate unpleasantness. I bend down to give assistance and notice Matron’s feet sticking out from underneath the hall stand. I recognise her by the scarlet bloomers with ‘I love Robin Day’ embroidered on them. She is snoring and clutching a half empty brandy bottle with a baby’s teat on it. It occurs to me that she must have uncovered the booze when attempting to treat Felicity Pelham. How awful! What can I do? I pull her skirt over her knees and try to think.

      Suddenly, I have an idea. “Time for the obstacle race,” I croon. “We mustn’t disappoint everybody.” Of course, I don’t intend to go in for it but I feel it will be easier to jolly people along if I make it sound as if I am.

      “I’ll follow you, my dear,” says Henry.

      “And I’ll follow you,” says Mrs Henry. She is talking to her old man.

      “Never missed a race yet,” says another civilised gent, raising the rose bowl to his lips. “By Jove, but this is a damn fine martini. It’s the vermouth, y’know.”

      I take a look at the bottle and get a nasty shock. There, amongst the angels and coats of arms on the label it says: “Ruben and Seth Hardakre’s fine old genuine Italian Vermouth—just like momma used to make.” I hope it does not have the same effect as the girdjuice. I don’t like to think about it too closely but I sometimes have a nasty feeling that Seth and his father might have tampered with me in the thicket. It was finding my panties in my shoulder bag that first made me suspicious.

      “Off we go!” I say, trying to cloak my worries in gaiety. “Good luck everybody.” I skip out of the front door and they bundle after me like patients escaping from a fire in an old people’s home. This race should be the biggest shambles yet.

      “Where on earth have you been?” asks Penny when I get back to the sports field. “It’s time for the parents’ obstacle race.”

      “So what do you think they are?” I say, pointing to the jostling crowd of drunks shambling towards us. “Lemmings?”

      “They’re supposed to change first.” Penny jerks her head towards a group of men and women wearing overalls and embarrassed expressions.

      “It gets a bit messy, does it?” I ask. It is a question I think about a lot in the months to come.

      “No ratting! You come with me, my gel.” Henry grabs me by the arm and drags me towards the start line. He is obviously very much the worse for wear and I am almost relieved that Miss Grimshaw appears to have succumbed to one of her periodic fainting fits and is not looking at us. As I watch, a bottle of smelling salts is passed to and fro under her nose. She seizes it and attempts to drink greedily. What a wonderful sense of humour the woman has.

      “On your marks!” The first thing I can see is six tyres dangling from ropes. They can’t expect us to go through those!

      “Get set!” I try and edge towards the crowd of booing and shouting girls. Henry yanks me back.

      BANG! “Tally Ho!” Henry nearly pulls my arm out of my socket as he lurches forward. “Dive!” he shouts.

      By the time I realise that he means “through the hoops” it is too late to tell him what I think of the idea. Henry takes off and his features flatten against the side of the tyre so hard that the word “Dunlop” is printed on his forehead. I don’t know which is vibrating more, him or the tyre.

      “Help me Henry!” Mrs H. is not a woman who is likely to drown her husband in sympathy. She tries to scramble through the tyre and her skirt splits with a noise like an elephant celebrating its win in a prune eating contest.

      “Through the barrels!” howls Henry. He seems to have forgotten about the tyre and his wife. She is now hopping up and down astride a Michelin 380/180—very uncomfortable it must be, too. The barrels are in fact those crinkly oil drums and they are very hard on your knees. Almost as uncomfortable as having Henry behind you when you try and crawl through one. He does not seem to mind what he does with his hands, naughty old man!

      “Along the greasy pole. Keep it up! We’re winning!”

      Only just, though. It is amazing how keen these parents are. Mrs Henry’s hat has tipped over her eyes and she has abandoned her shooting stick but she is still coming on gamely. The rest of the party I picked up by the medicine cabinet are literally hanging in rags. Beautifully cut Savile Row suits are crumpled and covered in mud and one of the lady competitors has lost her skirt—mainly because Henry helped her out of the oil drum. Beside the course the spectators shout and cheer and throw empty gin bottles. It is just like one of those old sporting prints you see in other peoples houses.

      The greasy pole stretches across a deep, muddy ditch and I sense immediately that it is going to cause problems—so do the hundreds of people who are clustered round it. Henry is first to try his luck and makes a brave run. He gets half way across and then his legs start moving very fast without touching anything. The column of water that rises in the air would fill a couple of barrels.

      Mrs Henry is next to have a go and soon reveals what a great competitor she is. Hanging like a monkey and totally unruffled by the fact that her black frilly knickers and scarlet suspender belt are revealed for all to see she starts to pull herself across. Alas! The pole is very greasy and Mrs H. loses contact at the same point as her husband. A host of competitors now hurl themselves at the pole and there are a number of regrettable incidents as impatience gives way to outbursts of petulance. I can see where some of the girls get their aggression from. What I can’t understand is why they should be so apathetic when their parents radiate enthusiasm and will to win. I suppose that they must be reactions against all the zeal that was flying about at home.

      “Take that, you swine!”

      “Strike a lady, would you?”

      “If you can show me one.”

      “How dare you! I have never been so insulted in my life!”

      “With a face like that I don’t believe you.”

      In no time at all most of the competitors are struggling in the water and the race has been forgotten. Fortunately, Penny comes to the rescue.

      “Forget the pole!” she shouts. “Just get to the other side and carry on.”

      I know what she means by “carry on” but it is clear that Henry has ideas of his own. No sooner am I trying to scramble up the steep bank than his hands plunder my body as if trying to find pieces to take home as souvenirs.

      “Please!” I say. “Everybody is looking!”

      “I don’t give a damn about them. I must have you!”

      If I was running fast before, now I really start moving. If the Hardakres’ Italian Vermouth had any girdjuice in it all kinds of unpleasantness could occur. The last obstacle looms up before me. It is an enormous tarpaulin under which the field have to crawl. I have half a mind to give it a miss but the old competitive spirit and the cheers of the crowd will me on. “Knickers! Knickers! Knickers!” they shout.

      Unfortunately, this particular chant is as great an incentive to Henry as it is to me. I slide under the sheet which is pegged down at four corners and—“Oooh!” It is not only Henry’s hand probing under the band of my panties that causes me distress. Somebody, it must be the Hardakres who prepared the course, has treated the ground underneath the tarpaulin with the grease that was left over from the slippery pole. It is virtually impossible to move. I struggle desperately but make no progress. Blast it! Why did I ever allow myself to be dragged into this stupid race?

      The rest of the competitors pile under the sheet and in a few seconds it is impossible to know who is doing what and with which and