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Confessions of a Babysitter
Rosie Dixon
It isn’t all goodnight stories…The CONFESSIONS series, the brilliant sex comedies from the 70s, available for the first time in eBook.Rosie doesn’t think childcare can be hard – but there isn’t a maternal bone in her body.Instead, she is beset by puking babies, horny husbands, and long rides home in the dark…Also available:CONFESSIONS FROM A PACKAGE TOURCONFESSIONS OF A PHYSICAL WRACCONFESSIONS OF A LADY COURIER and many more!
Confessions of a Babysitter
BY ROSIE DIXON
Contents
Title Page (#u64c94039-745f-5946-befb-c0bfa7e97e9f)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Timothy Lea and Rosie Dixon
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1 (#ua66862f6-0629-5556-bbf9-5874ea222063)
I got the idea from a film. I can’t remember what it was called but it was about this woman saving a lot of children from the Chinese. They marched for hundreds of miles and sang songs. It was very uplifting. The woman was played by Ingrid Bergman or Flora Robson, so you can see it was a serious film. I was visibly moved – especially when the man sitting next to me tried to put his hand up my skirt. Just like that. No ‘by your leave’ or ‘I’m sorry, I was looking for my return half to Chorleywood’. Most of them at least have the decency to drape their jacket casually over your leg first, but not this fellow. Of course, being on a troop ship does make a difference. The niceties tend to be forgotten. Especially when you have been adrift in the Strait of Hormuz for two weeks. It gets hot off the coast of Persia – or Iran if you want to be toffee-nosed about it – and passions run high. Especially when there are only two girls and two thousand men. Every time a man brushes against you he thinks that he had better make the most of it because he might never get another chance.
Anyway, I don’t wish to dwell upon that distressing part of my life. I have already described my career as a WRAC (Confessions of a Physical WRAC) and, apart from a sense of outrage at being dishonourably discharged, I am very happy to be turning my back on a career as a lady soldier. When the next war breaks out I intend to become an unconscious objector and resist passively.
‘That was a nice film,’ I say when the man has been taken away by the Military Police and I have returned to the cabin I share with Penny Green – regular readers will remember that she is my bosom pal and the other half of the two-girl complement of the troop ship. She is very nice but just a teeny bit forward and outspoken on occasions.
‘I thought it was pathetic,’ says Penny. ‘You get more love interest in a party political broadcast on the telly. That chap with the sellotaped eyes looked about as Chinese as Robin Day.’
‘I found it very moving,’ I say. ‘It made me think that I’d like to do something that brought me into contact with children.’
‘Why not get pregnant?’ says Penny.
‘I think that’s overdoing it a bit,’ I say, trying not to blush – I have found that it only encourages her if I reveal how shocked I am. ‘I meant something that involves looking after children. After all, we nearly qualified as SRNs.’
‘Yes,’ says Penny. ‘It would have been a good life if it hadn’t been for the patients.’ (Read Confessions of a Night Nurse to find out just how good.)
‘The trouble is,’ I muse, ‘nearly everything you can do these days needs qualifications.’
‘Except being a tart,’ says Penny. ‘I sometimes think that’s the answer, you know. Find some paunchy old creep to set you up in a sumptuous Mayfair flat and then charge a bunch of groovy Latin-American diplomats two hundred guineas a throw for what you’d gladly give them for nothing.’
‘Penny!’ I exclaim. ‘That’s shameful!’
‘Not if your sugar daddy doesn’t find out,’ says Penny, her eyes sparkling with developing interest. ‘If you didn’t want a slice of the action you could be my maid. I can just see you with a little mob cap and a riding crop.’
‘Please!’ I say, closing my eyes in horror. ‘How can you talk like that after such a lovely film?’
‘You don’t have to use the whip,’ says Penny. ‘Just bring it to me on a silver salver – or maybe a silver slaver would be more appropriate. You could just take the money and pay the police their bribes. Why are you dragging that chest in front of the door?’
‘I’m not taking any chances,’ I pant. ‘Ever since those two men with the stockings over their heads came to read the gas meter I haven’t relaxed a muscle.’
‘We should have smelt a rat when both stockings belonged to the same pair of tights,’ says Penny. ‘They obviously had no idea where the meter was either.’
‘It beats me where they got the tights from,’ I say.
‘Ah-hem.’ Penny smiles. ‘Surely you remember that energetic “Strip the Willow” at the ship’s dance?’
‘The one that was broken up with the fire hoses?’
‘That’s it,’ says Penny. ‘I seem to remember that you were still doing the conga at the time?’
‘It went on and on,’ I say.
‘I thought it would when I saw you leading them into the lifeboat,’ says Penny.
I don’t answer her immediately because my recollection of exactly what took place at the ship’s dance is somewhat clouded by the punch I had at the ship’s officers’ party just before the event. The punch was intended for the First Officer but he stepped to one side and it caught me a glancing blow on the chin. I don’t remember what the fight was about but it did seem to create a precedent for the rest of the evening. Penny is still looking at me questioningly when there is a strange noise from the air conditioning system. This is a rather exaggerated name for the metal shaft that is supposed to feed air into our stuffy cabin. I say ‘supposed’ because it has not been working for days.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘It sounds like something scratching against the grille,’ says Penny. ‘I hope it’s not a rat.’
‘Don’t!’ I squeak. I mean, the thought of rats is enough to make me jump so high I leave my panties behind.
‘Calm yourself,’ says Penny. ‘On reflection, no rat could live in this temperature.’
But she is wrong. To my horror, I see a pair of eyes gleaming from behind the grille and a flash of white teeth. ‘Do not alarma yourselves, liedies,’ says a swarthy Italian voice. ‘Eet eez only ventilatione minetenance at your serviosa.’
Before we can say anything there is the sound of snapping metal and the grille pops out of its mooring. As we start back in stunned amazement, a tousled head emerges from the ventilation shaft followed by its owner’s head and shoulders. I am so surprised that I forget I am only wearing my skimpiest briefs and bra and stand staring at the newcomer. It is not until I see his eyes light up like a car’s headlights turning from dipped to full beam that I look down and start to take evasive action.
‘How long have you been in there?’ says Penny. She has obviously forgotten that her blouse is open and that she is not wearing a bra.
‘Only a weeka,’ says the remorseless Eyetie, continuing to emerge from the shaft like olive toothpaste. ‘But that is small pricea to pay to finda myself in the company of such deliciosa signorinas.’
‘A week?’ says Penny. ‘Gosh!’
I don’t know if she is commenting on the length of time or the length of pussy pummeller revealed when our visitor finally drops to the floor. He does not appear to be wearing any clothes and it looks as if his body has been covered with grease. When I catch an unintentional glimpse of his love wand waving ceilingwards I am forced to wonder how he ever managed to conduct it through the ventilation system. No doubt it was in a less rampant condition. I have been told that they are not always like that, though I find it difficult to believe, judging from my own experience.
‘Is everything all right?’ I ask.
The stranger looks at me and makes a strange smacking noise with his lips. ‘Bellissima!’ he hisses.
Something about the way his teeth grind together suggests that we may be on different wavelengths.
‘I mean with the air conditioning,’ I say.
‘Eeza very cramped,’ says the warm-blooded son of the Mediterranean.
‘I mean is it working?’ I ask.
‘Perfectly,’ says the stranger, running his fingers over his oily body in a way that I find rather disturbing. ‘I ’ear every word you say. I think I may bea able to ’elpa.’
‘You have a friend who has a large flat in Mayfair?’ says Penny.
The stranger shakes his head. ‘Napoli but notta My-flower,’ he purrs. ‘No. I refer to the bella signorina’s desire to looka after the bambini. My sister she looka for au pair girl to ’elpa the children speaka de English as good as wotta I do. One of the oldest families in Italy.’
‘The children must be grown up by now then,’ I say.
The newcomer’s brows furrow. ‘I donta meana thata,’ he says. ‘I mean thata the family have been on the Po for hundreds of years.’
His words puzzle me. ‘I’ve heard of early pot training,’ I say. ‘But this is ridiculous!’
‘He’s saying that it’s a very old established family, you fool!’ snaps Penny unkindly. ‘I’ve heard that some of these Italian ventilation engineers are very well connected.’ She shoots a glance at our visitor’s enormous bunk throbber and sucks in her breath. ‘Yes!’
‘The family palazza is neara Cremona,’ says the naked Eyetie. ‘You ’ave ’eard of eet, per’aps?’
‘The only custard I ever eat,’ I say. This is not strictly true but one tries to be kind, doesn’t one? Also, I want to keep in with our visitor. He certainly looks as if he would like to keep in with me. ‘Would you like to clean up?’ I say. ‘You’re drooping – I mean, dripping! all over the carpet.’ This man definitely knows his job because, since he emerged from the air duct, the cabin has become much fresher.
‘Thank yow,’ says the glistening spaghetti muncher. ‘A leetle shower would be nice. Also, I woulda lika to introduce myself into the middle of you.’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ husks Penny.
‘My namea is Franco.’ He holds out his hand and then withdraws it. ‘I forgetta how dirty I ama.’
‘Never forget that,’ says Penny. ‘She’s Rosie, I’m Penny. The shower’s in the corner. Just follow your nose and your natural inclinations.’
Franco smiles his friendly Italian smile and disappears behind the screen and Penny turns to me. ‘How would you likea – I mean, like – some money to go to the pictures?’ she says.
‘But we’ve just been,’ I say. ‘There won’t be another show until tomorrow – or however long it takes them to get the chewing gum off the seats.’
‘I mean, take a powder for a few hours,’ breathes Penny. ‘I have a feeling that Franco and I could make beautiful music together.’
The Italian ventilation engineer has revealed no sign of a musical bent that I can think of, but maybe I was too busy trying to avoid looking at the unseemly bulk of his prod rod to hear everything that was said on the subject. ‘Don’t ask me to leave the cabin,’ I beg. ‘You know what it’s like out there. I wouldn’t feel safe.’
‘Gooseberry!’ snarls Penny. ‘You want him all for yourself, don’t you?’
Before I can ask her what she thinks she is talking about, Franco sticks his head through the shower curtain – so impulsive when he could easily have looked round it – and beckons to me with his soft brown eyes and a tilt of his head. ‘Excusa mea,’ he says. ‘I no seema able to worka thees theeng.’
‘Maybe the water’s been cut off,’ I say, going to his rescue. ‘It does happen sometimes. So silly when you think of how much there is round us.’
‘You ava wonderful mind,’ says Franco admiringly. ‘I never thinka of that.’
He holds the curtain to one side and I slip into the shower with him. What an amazing life he must lead. Completely naked and crawling round the ship’s ventilation system all day covered in grease. He would be marvellous for What’s My Line? I don’t think anyone would ever get him.
‘You tried turning this little knob, did you?’ I ask. It is just as well that I only have my undies on as Franco’s greasy body is pressed against mine in so many places that it would make a terrible mess of any dress I was wearing.
‘Theesa one?’ says Franco. He twists the control knob and we are both soaked in warm water. ‘Mama mia! I never think of thata. I am soa sorry. Multo disconsolato!’ I try and withdraw but his wiry brown arms pull me towards him with surprising strength. ‘I ’ave madea mark on your bowtiful skin. I musta cleansa yow.’
‘What is happening in there?’ says Penny’s irritated voice.
‘We’re just sorting out the shower,’ I say. I don’t like to tell her that Franco is working up a rich lather on my boobs. I am certain that he means well but the more soap he uses, the more he drips grease all over me and the more lather he has to make. It is a vicious circle. Funny him not knowing how to work the shower. You would think that being an engineer it would come easily. Still, perhaps being a ventilation engineer is a very specialist craft.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘I think maybe it would be better if we got you clean first.’
‘Bono idea,’ says Franco. ‘Take off panties. No want to get them dirty.’ No one can say that the man is not considerate. He has my micro-briefs down to my ankles in the twinkling of a thigh, and thoughtfully rests his foot on them so that it is easy for me to step out of them.
‘Really!’ says Penny, who has just stuck her head into the shower.
‘I thought it was the loofah,’ I say apologetically.
‘A likely story,’ says Penny. ‘I turn my back for an instant and your evil fingers are running riot in the banana plantation.’ Without pausing for breath, she peels off her blouse, pulls down her panties and steps under the shower.
‘You’re going to get dirty,’ I warn her.
‘How right you are!’ Penny grabs the soap and begins to lather enthusiastically. Franco soon has so much soap on him that he looks like a melting snowman and a glazed expression comes into his eyes. ‘A-a-h!’ he cries. ‘I thinka I gotta the bends.’
I see Penny glancing downwards. ‘I don’t think so,’ she says.
‘Eeza olda occupational hazarda of Italian ventilatione engineers,’ grunts Franco. ‘After being cramped up for so longa the body become rigid.’
I see – and feel – what Franco means. His bang stick is the only thing keeping Penny and I apart. Its giant toadstool dome is flashing like an early warning system. I have never seen anything quite like it.
‘Is it serious?’ I ask.
Franco nods. ‘Very. The pressure insida my body musta be reduced or poppa.’
‘Or poppa what?’ He has never mentioned his father before. It probably indicates the serious nature of the problem if he starts talking about his parents.
‘I know what he needs,’ says Penny. She reaches out of the shower and grabs a stool. ‘Take the weight off your plus feature, Franco,’ she commands. ‘Right, Rosie. Sit on his lap.’
