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‘But there isn’t room,’ I say.
‘You have to make room,’ says Penny. ‘You’re a tidy girl. Put things away where they belong. You don’t want to see this poor devil suffer, do you?’
Her last words are the ones that make up my mind. Though never a girl to countenance uncalled for familiarity or waywardness, I have a strong concern for the feelings of others and I can see that Franco is clearly going through a period of strain. He is biting one of his soapy lips – I suppose it is soap? – and his whole body is trembling. There is certainly no doubt as to where the pressure is at its height – around my tummy button. That is where the gleaming tip of the menacing pelvis pounder is currently resting.
‘Very well, Penny,’ I say. ‘When you put it like that, there’s not much I can do, is there?’
‘Just sit down,’ says Penny. ‘I’ll change places with you in a few minutes if we’ve still got a problem on our hands.’
She joggles Franco’s thing about like she is trying to find reverse in a car she has never driven before and it is a couple of seconds before I feel the afflicted part making contact with the portals of my private pleasure palace. How fine a thing it is to be able to help one’s fellow men in their moments of need. I wonder if astronauts have the same problem. It must be more difficult for them in those cumbersome suits. Still, I expect space control has thought of everything. I bend my knees and feel as if I am sliding down a hot, slippery pole. I must say, the sensation is not unpleasant, though it is a bit tricky at the end because the stool is very low and I suddenly have to shoot my legs forward when I can’t bend them any more.
‘Mama mia!’ I cannot see the expression on Franco’s face because Penny has thoughtfully straddled his thighs and interposed herself between us – presumably to save me from embarrassment.
‘Is it any better?’ I ask. There is no reply beyond a funny sort of mumbling noise and I wonder if Penny may be standing too close to him. I don’t have the chance to say anything because Franco’s thighs suddenly start bumping up and down and his hands shoot round Penny’s situpon. This feature starts reverberating like a tuning fork in a tornado and I find myself bouncing about like a sausage in a British Railways hot dog travelling through Clapham Junction. I don’t know what the sensation is doing for Franco but I must confess to finding it not unpleasant. Thank goodness I feel no moral qualms. The situation would be reversed if I was not giving succour to a fellow human being. By this I do not mean that I would be sitting the other way round on Franco’s lap. I mean that I would not be able to respond in the same way to the warm currents of ecstasy currently fanning through my loins. Whereas sexual satisfaction outside the nuptial couch is to be eschewed – as opposed to merely chewed, which is definitely not permitted – those physical encounters which take place in circumstances where one of the participants (eg me) is entering into them for reasons other than mere personal gratification are to be condoned – and condomed, just to be on the safe side. Anybody can be overcome by strong liquor or decide that a deserving friend merits salvation from a sticky end which might irredeemably undermine her defences, and no finger should be pointed at those who might be considered by unknowledgeable observers to have succumbed to base unreasoning lust. Though, regrettably, harpooned by a maddened love lolly at this very moment I am able to review the situation calmly – or as calmly as my awakened senses will allow – and decide that I need feel no reproach for what I am doing. If it helps poor, shuddering, juddering Franco to put the bends behind him then any inconvenience I have suffered will be more than adequately compensated. Such incidents also help me build up a useful stock of unsolicited experience for that wonderful moment when I trip down the aisle with my one day Mr Right – or, to save embarrassing the guests, several hours after I trip down the aisle with my one day Mr Right. His joy will be the more abundant because he will know that I have saved my mind for him and that I come to the bridal chamber pure in spirit – ‘virginity is a state of mind’ is what I have to keep telling myself. I have to do that to stop me getting confused with Virginia which, of course, is a state in America. Yes, girls. Life is much easier for everybody if you can work out a few principles and come to terms with them. If you give to others then you give to yourself without taking anything away. It can be a bit confusing sometimes but that helps.
‘Mama! Mama! MAMA!’ I have heard that the Italians are very family-orientated and this certainly seems to be the case with Franco. He has stopped talking about his poppa and is now into his mother – or perhaps, talking about his mother sounds rather more wholesome. Penny is also making funny gurgling noises and I sense that the climax of our fun together is approaching. I slide my arms around Penny and Franco and squeeze so that we are all one huggy-buggy sandwich. I will be glad when it is over because, with Franco, hopefully, recovered I will be able to get on to him about his sister and the job opportunities at Cremola. The water is still pouring down about us and it is strange how the pleasant warm sensation strikes up an immediate understanding with the one between my thighs. ‘Yi, Yi, Yi!’ Franco is really getting excited now and it is all I can do to stay on his lap. One of the legs of the stool has got stuck in the drainage grill and I stretch out an arm for something to hang on to – ‘YOWHHHH!’ Oh dear. I think I must have turned the knob to the hot water setting. Franco achieves deeper penetration than it is nice to think about and rises into the air like a rocket. Penny screams, and all three of us crash through the shower curtain and land in an untidy heap on the floor. Franco untidier than most. A glance at what my Brown Owl used to call ‘the nether regions’ shows me that the pressure has been well and truly relieved. Well done, Dixon! I wonder if I am in line for a Humane Society medal yet?
‘Right!’ says Penny. ‘Now it’s my turn on the hot seat.’
‘Surely we’ve done the job?’ I say.
Penny shakes her head. ‘You can’t be too sure in this kind of case. Look, it’s come back again.’
‘Of course it’s going to come back if you do that!’ I say. Really! I don’t know where to put my face sometimes – which is not something you can say for Penny. She behaves in a way that would make you feel uncomfortable if you saw your pet Sealyham doing it to a bone.
‘Bang! Bang! Bang!’ No, it is not just the back of Franco’s head bashing against the floor. It is somebody beating on the door of the cabin.
‘Are you all right in there?’ shouts a gruff voice. Before we can reply, Franco twists like an eel and springs to his feet. Without a word, he darts across the room and dives into the ventilation shaft. Can the voice outside be that of someone checking that he is on the job?
‘No staying power,’ says Penny with a sad shrug of the head. ‘It’s the old, old story.’ She pulls on a robe and starts to open the door. ‘Let’s see what new supplies have arrived.’ But the men who burst through the door do not appear to be – thank goodness! – interested in hanky panky. They rush across the room and start shining torches up the ventilation shaft.
‘Has a man come in here?’ grunts one of them.
‘Better ask her that question,’ says Penny, nodding at me.
‘Only an Italian ventilation engineer,’ I say.
The man snorts. ‘That’s what he told you, is it? He’s no engineer. He’s been on the run from the brig ever since we put to sea. That was Franco Wanco, the Italian Army’s number one deserter. He’s been inside more times than you’ve had hot dinners.’
‘I can believe it,’ says Penny, wistfully. ‘Well, gentlemen, I expect you wish to sit down and wait for him to return. May I suggest that you make yourselves comfortable? Take off your jackets and loosen your ties. Maybe you’d even like a shower? It’s a bit crowded but – ’
It is at this point that I slip out of the cabin and go and sit in the toilet until we reach Aden. It’s not very comfortable but at least I am pretty certain to have it to myself.
CHAPTER 2 (#ua66862f6-0629-5556-bbf9-5874ea222063)
Breakfast at 47 Pretty Way, West Woodford – or Chingford if you insist. Four pairs of Dixon jaws munch their way through assorted packets of breakfast cereal. Dad is complaining because they design the packets in such a way that they won’t stand up, and because my precocious little sister, Natalie, has plunged her hand into the cornflakes in order to seize upon a plastic hair grip which is this month’s free offer.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ he says. ‘They’re all in the sugar. Why can’t you wait? You never use a hairgrip anyway. Why don’t you speak to her, Mary?’
Dad’s last words echo my sentiments exactly. Natalie gets away with far too much and somebody ought to make a stand with her. She uses far too much make-up for a girl of her age and is always trying to flaunt her figure in a very common fashion. Mum says it’s a phase she’s going through but I think it’s there for keeps unless somebody does something.
‘You heard what your father said, dear,’ says Mum. ‘It’s not very nice.’
‘It’s unhygienic,’ I say. ‘I don’t want them after her filthy hands have been grubbing through them.’
‘My hands aren’t filthy,’ says Natalie provocatively. ‘I wash them as often as you do,’
‘That’s true,’ I say. ‘I can tell by the marks on the towels. When are you going to learn to use your own?’
‘I didn’t think you had a towel,’ says Natalie. ‘You’re here so seldom, I don’t see the point.’
‘You use the place like a hotel,’ says Dad. I might have guessed he would team up with Natalie. She has always been his favourite. I take a mouthful of Sugar Puffs and try to look hurt. It is not easy because I spill some of them and can feel one of them sticking to the corner of my mouth.
‘Don’t be unkind to the girl, Harry,’ says Mum. ‘She only came home last night.’
‘I suppose we should be thankful for that,’ says Dad. ‘It’s usually first thing in the morning.’
Natalie sniggers and I could kill her. She has such a vulgar laugh. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I say angrily.
‘You know what I mean,’ says Dad. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me, my girl. It won’t wash.’
‘Now, now,’ says Mum. ‘Let’s have no unpleasantness. I’m very happy that Rose is home again. I don’t know why she always wants to leave us.’ She sniffs and dabs her eye with her apron.
‘I don’t want to leave you, Mum,’ I say. ‘It’s everybody getting at me that I can’t stand.’
‘Nobody’s getting at you,’ says Dad. ‘I’m just commenting on a matter of fact, that’s all. You’ve always kept unreliable hours. It’s a symptom of your whole way of going on. Look at the jobs you’ve had. Not just jobs – professions most of them. Nursing, teaching. You couldn’t make a go of any of them. Then that escort business.’
‘I was never in favour of that,’ says Mum. ‘I think that’s where she made her mistake. She should have stuck at the teaching. They need teachers.’
‘I don’t think she had a chance to stick,’ says Dad, coming over all malevolent. ‘Redundant is a word you hear a lot of these days but never more so than from our little Rose. I think she gets the push for reasons that have nothing to do with the plight of this once great country of ours – well, not directly anyway.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Dad,’ I say.
‘Oh yes you do!’ says Natalie. ‘I remember when we had that coach party here. I saw what was going on in the bathroom.’
‘You nosy little slut!’ I say – what was going on in the bathroom was unpleasant as readers of Confessions of a Lady Courier will recall, but it is even worse if you have your kid sister revealing the lowdown on the distressing details. A sensitive nature can stand so much.
‘Watch your language, young lady!’ snaps Dad. ‘You may think you’re grown up, but you don’t have leave to talk like that.’
‘Don’t start snivelling!’ I say to Natalie, who is encouraging her lip to tremble. ‘You’re not really upset – and stop borrowing my bras!’ I catch a glimpse of a familiar strap as the little brat leans forward. It has Geoffrey Wilkes’s teeth marks on it. Down at the Eastwood tennis club they think of him as an old square but he can get quite frisky if someone overdoes the beer in his lemonade shandy.
‘What would I want to borrow your rotten old bras for?’ says my odious little sister. ‘They’re too small anyway.’
I nearly slap her when she says that. She is well-developed for her age – possibly too well-developed – but everybody agrees that my upper body is one of my best features.
‘Mum!’ I exclaim. ‘How can you let her talk like that?’
‘You raised the subject,’ says Dad.
‘Now, now, both of you,’ says Mum, twisting the tea towel into knots. ‘Let’s have no more of that. Rosie’s back in the bosom of the family – ’ she breaks off and smiles nervously. ‘You know what I mean?’
‘Yes, Mary,’ says Dad irritably. ‘Well, I must be on my way. Time and tide wait for no man. We can’t get Britain back on her feet if we spend all day loafing round the breakfast table.’ He looks at me pointedly when he says that. ‘Perhaps I may be permitted to ask what form of employment you are next thinking of indulging in?’
When he does his Mr Sarky-boots bit I feel like emptying the Sugar Puffs all over him. ‘I’d like to do something with kids,’ I say.
Even Mum looks surprised and Dad stares at me like I have suggested a career as a child molester. ‘Looking after them?’ he says.
‘That’s right,’ I say.
‘Good heavens,’ says Dad. ‘You can’t look after yourself. Who’s going to employ you as a nursemaid?’
‘I happen to have had a very good offer already,’ I say loftily. ‘With an Italian family on the Po.’
‘Blimey, they must need some help,’ says Dad.
I raise my eyes to the ceiling and try to indicate how he lowers himself when he makes jokes like that.
‘The Po is an Italian river, Dad,’ I say patiently.
‘Oh yes?’ Dad’s new-found perkiness tells me that another terrible funny is on the way. ‘I always thought the Po was in China!’
Creeper Natalie laughs heartily and I seek Mum’s eyes for a sympathetic exchange of glances. ‘All this reminds me, Natalie,’ she says. ‘You haven’t forgotten that you’re babysitting for the Wilkinsons tonight?’
Natalie’s face clouds over. ‘Do I have to, Mum? It’s Folk Night at the youth club.’
‘It’s what?’ Dad sounds worried.
‘Folk Night,’ says Natalie.
‘You should have thought when I asked you,’ says Mum. ‘It’s Mrs Wilkinson’s amateur dramatics tonight. She’s appearing in Howard’s End.’
‘I’m surprised it isn’t vice versa, knowing her,’ says Dad. ‘They’re very free and easy, those Wilkinsons.’
‘You can’t back out now,’ says Mum. ‘She asked me specially. It’s the first night, and her husband wants to be there.’
‘Oh, Mum,’ whines Natalie. ‘Do I have to?’
‘Why don’t I go?’ I say. ‘I’ve got nothing else to do. The Wilkinsons have got a couple of little boys, haven’t they?’
‘That’s right, dear,’ says Mum. ‘Courtenay and Benedict. Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘Thanks, Rosie,’ says Natalie grudgingly. ‘I charge a quid up to midnight and 50p for every hour or part of an hour after.’
Just like when I was working for an escort agency, I think to myself. And then – BANG! – the germ of an idea hits me. Maybe this is what I should be doing. A babysitting service. I know that Natalie is always being asked if she will oblige and if people are prepared to have her dropping cigarette ash all over their carpets and necking with her ghastly boyfriends – not to mention all the other terrible things I am certain they get up to – then I am certain that an efficient and wholesome babyminding service would be much in demand. I will use tonight as a trial run and then talk to Penny about the idea. We could probably recruit other girls and take a commission. After working for so many crummy organisations which have exploited me it seems a good idea to start one of my own. I don’t mean a crummy one, of course. The Dixon Night Guard Service will be above reproach and reflect all its founder’s principles and ideals. Maybe, one day, people will think of me in the same breath as Flora MacNightingale and Madame Puree.
The Wilkinsons live in a detached house a few streets from us. Mr Wilkinson works with Dad, though a few rungs higher up the management ladder and our families are not what you would call close. Whenever Mrs Wilkinson beams at me in the street I know that she is going to ask if Natalie can babysit. Otherwise, she just passes by as if she has not seen me. I ring the doorbell and listen to the chimes dying away into the far corners of the house. I can hear a child screaming which is not a good sign and when Mr Wilkinson opens the door he looks harassed. He is wearing dinner jacket trousers and is obviously having trouble tying his bow tie.
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Good. It’s – er – – ’
‘Rose,’ I say. ‘I’ve come instead of Natalie. I hope that’s all right?’
Mr Wilkinson looks me up and down and strokes the front of his shirt absentmindedly. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Very definitely. Come in. My wife’s gone on because she has to be made up. She’s appearing in a play, you know.’
‘Howard’s End,’ I say. He is a good-looking man with a thin moustache and a lot of lines round his eyes. There is a little flesh under his chin but he is quite well preserved. I suppose he must be about forty.
‘That’s right. Come into the living room. Would you like a drink?’ He leads the way into a comfortable lounge with a lot of leather-backed chairs and nods towards a well-stocked bar that takes up one corner of it.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to hold you up.’
‘You won’t have to hold me up if I only have one drink,’ he says with a laugh. How refreshing to be in the company of a witty man after Dad. ‘A quick gin won’t do any harm.’ He pressed a switch and a pottery figurine of a drunk leaning against a lamp post lights up and says ‘Bar’s open’.
‘That’s clever,’ I say.
‘I’ll show you some of my other knick knacks when I know you better.’ Mr Wilkinson winks at me. ‘Ice and lemon?’
‘Er – yes,’ I say registering with some alarm that there seems to be quite a lot of gin in my glass. ‘Is it all right to let the child scream like that?’
Mr Wilkinson chinks his glass against mine. ‘Cheers! Oh yes. Exercises their lungs. Benedict always has a good bawl before he settles down.’ He listens for a moment. ‘Or maybe it’s Courtenay.’
‘Nice names,’ I say.
‘Mine’s Rex,’ he says. ‘You know, Sexy Rexy.’ He winks at me again and waggles the flapping ends of his bow tie. ‘Do you know how to tie one of these?’
‘It’s not like a bootlace, is it?’ I ask.
‘No, you have to bring the end back somehow. It’s a nuisance. I’ve got a clip-on one upstairs but it’s not velvet.’
‘Perhaps you could take that apart and see how they do it?’ I suggest.
Mr Wilkinson shakes his head admiringly. ‘You’re not just a pretty face, are you darling? Come upstairs and I’ll introduce you to the kids.’
I had formed an impression of Courtenay and Benedict as being two golden-haired little mites with their hair cut in fringes. The reality is somewhat different. A hulking twelve-year-old is emerging from the toilet as we hit the top of the stairs. ‘What has your mother told you, Benedict?’ says Mr Wilkinson wearily.
‘I haven’t done it on the floor!’ shouts the child like it has been unjustly accused of murder.
‘Pull the chain!’ bellows Mr Wilkinson.
‘I was just going to do it,’ says Benedict.
‘Don’t lie to me, boy!’
‘I was, Dad!’
‘You were walking away from the toilet, you bloody little liar! The lady saw you!’
‘Maybe he just remembered,’ I say, trying to pour oil on troubled waters.
Mr Wilkinson sticks his head inside the toilet. ‘What do you mean you didn’t do it on the floor!?’
