Confessions of a Gym Mistress. Rosie Dixon

the point of that at a girl’s school?” says Dad.

      “It is in the country,” says Mum.

      “They teach them to be milkmaids,” says Natalie.

      I shut out their voices and read on about the acres of playing fields and the entrance scholarships won to Cheltenham Ladies College and Benenden. There is also a note from Penny:

      “Dear Rosie,

      Here is the official story. Don’t believe a word of it. The prospectus has not been reprinted for years. Half the playing fields have been sold as a building site and the left wing of the school—you can’t see it in the photograph—was blown down in the last gale. Luckily it had been evacuated after the school inspector fell through the floor—or ceiling—or both, dependent on which way you look at it.

      But don’t let me put you off. The staff aren’t as bad as the sisters at Queen Adelaide’s and though the pupils are worse than the patients I’ve found a few very acceptable compensations—details when I see you! After receiving your letter I told Miss Grimshaw that you might be interested in the job and she is expecting a call. Hope this is O.K.? Must go now as I have a man hanging on for me—to the window sill, actually. Ho, ho, just my little joke—write soon. Love, Penny.”

      “What does the letter say, dear?” asks Mum.

      “Says I’ve got to get in touch with the headmistress,” I say.

      “Gym mistress,” says Dad, shaking his head. “I just can’t see it somehow.”

      I think Dad may be right but I don’t let on, of course. By a strange coincidence, I am on the point of picking up the telephone to call Miss Grimshaw when it starts ringing.

      “Hello, it’s me,” says Geoffrey. “Are you all right?”

      “No thanks to you and your Japanese wacky racer” I say coolly. “You know I had to walk all the way home?” I am expecting a profuse apology from the Chingford amateur rapist but I don’t get it.

      “You were lucky,” says Geoffrey. “They’ve only just let me go.”

      “It’s your own fault,” I say. “You should have zipped yourself up before you got out of the car.”

      “It wasn’t only that,” groans Geoffrey. “They found your lipstick and compact in my blazer pocket. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. They thought—they thought I was some kind of pervert.”

      I have never heard it put as strongly as that before. Poor Geoffrey, how very unpleasant.

      “You should have told them about me,” I say. I am always ready with any offer of help short of actual assistance

      “I did,” says Geoffrey. “But you weren’t there, were you? That made it even worse. Apparently there’s been some sex maniac up there, terrorising courting couples.”

      “You don’t have to tell me that!” I scream. “Who do you think chased me through Chingford Mount Cemetery?”

      “That’s terrible!” Geoffrey sounds comfortingly horror-struck. “Why didn’t you call a policeman?”

      “Because there wasn’t one! They must all have been helping drag you back to the cells.”

      “Oh dear. It had been quite a nice evening up until then, hadn’t it?”

      “How did the breathalyser test go?” I ask.

      “Positive.” Geoffrey shudders. “That was horrible too. They take your blood, you know. It’s not just a question of blowing into that bag. I took one look at the hypodermic and passed clean out. When I woke up I was covered in blood.”

      “Geoffrey!”

      “I’d banged my nose on the counter as I went down.”

      “That’s terrible, Geoffrey. Are you all right, now?”

      “My nose has stopped bleeding, yes. Now it’s just the charges.”

      “Charges?”

      “Drunken driving, gross indecency and causing a public disturbance. I think they might drop the last two if I buy them a new mat. I bled all over the last one.”

      I am speechless. Geoffrey deserved some reprimand for leaving me alone at the mercy of that terrible man in a plastic mac—he kept telling me he was a bank manager, I wonder why?—but this is surely too much.

      “What did your mother say?” I ask.

      “She’s terribly upset. She’s been to see a solicitor and made me an appointment with a psychiatrist.”

      Typical, I think. With Mrs Wilkes everyone is guilty until they are proved innocent. After that they are guilty again.

      “I don’t know what to say, Geoffrey,” I bleat. “If there’s anything I can do to help you must let me know—send you a cake, that kind of thing.”

      “Well, I—er—I don’t really know how to ask you this but I was hoping you might give evidence at the trial, if it comes to that.”

      “Geoffrey, you know I’m in the middle of trying to get a job as a school teacher.”

      “Yes, but—”

      “And at a private school, too. It might be different if it was a comprehensive.”

      “But without you, Rosie, there’s no one to prove that I wasn’t—that I’m not—”

      “It’s not the end of the world,” I say soothingly. “People are much more broad-minded about sexual abnormality these days. Of course, there may be a few eyebrows raised at the tennis club but they’ll soon get used to the idea. You may even find that it takes the pressure off your tennis. You won’t be worrying about your game so much.”

      “But, Rosie—”

      “I must go, Geoffrey. I’ve got to ring the headmistress about this job. You know how important it is to me. Good luck with the—with everything. Give my regards to your mother.”

      “She’d like to have a word—”

      “I wouldn’t bother to ring up in the next few days because we’re having the house rewired and the phone is being disconnected.”

      “But you don’t—”

      “Goodbye, Geoffrey. Thanks for taking me out.” I put the phone down quickly and start dialling the St Rodence number. Whatever happens, I must not let Geoffrey’s misfortunes undermine my confidence.

      The number rings for a long time and I am just beginning to wonder if I have the right one when the dialling tone stops and a fruity voice says,

      “Geood morning. St Rodence School. Headmistress’ secretary speaking.”

      “Good morning. My name is Rose Dixon. I think Miss Grimshaw is expecting me to get in touch with her regarding a j—a position she needs filling.” “Job” doesn’t sound very posh, does it?

      “Heold eon, please.” There is a rustling of papers followed by what sounds like a bottle falling over and a muffled oath. “I’m seorry to keep you waiting. You’ve caught us in the middle of elevenses.” I hear a belch and a burst of uncontrolled laughter.

      “I’m sorry. Would it be better if I rang back?”

      “Neo, it’s quite all right. I’m just looking for the appointments book. Ah, here it is. Underneath this—” The voice exhibits signs of strain and there is a sound like a heavy body falling to the floor “—pile. Neow, where are we? Ah, yes. How does tomorrow suit you?”

      And that is how, the next day, I find myself sitting on the 10.32 out of Waterloo. It was originally the 9.12 but that had to be combined with the 7.37 when the driver went off on a cheap day trip to Clacton. It must