Confessions of a Gym Mistress

CONFESSIONS OF A GYM MISTRESS

ROSIE DIXON

Publisher’s Note

The Confessions series of novels were written in the 1970s and some of the content may not be as politically correct as we might expect of material written today. We have, however, published these ebook editions without any changes to preserve the integrity of the original books. These are word for word how they first appeared.

CONTENTS

Title Page

Publisher’s Note

Dedication

How did it all start?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

About the Author

Also by Rosie Dixon

Copyright

About the Publisher

To Devina, with thanks for all the reminiscences. I am sorry I was not allowed to use them.

How did it all start?

When I was young and in want of cash (all the time) I used to trudge round to the local labour exchange during school and university breaks and sign on for any job that was going - mason’s mate, loader for Speedy Prompt Delivery, part time postman etc, etc.

During our tea and fag breaks (‘Have a go and have a blow’ was the motto) my fellow workers would regale me with stories of the Second World War: ‘Very clean people, the Germans’, or throwing Irishmen through pub windows (the latter apparently crossed the Irish sea in hard times and were prepared to work for less than the locals). This was interesting, but what really stuck in my mind were the recurring stories of the mate or brother-in-law - it rarely seemed to be the speaker - who had been seduced, to put it genteelly, whilst on the job by (it always seemed to be) ‘a posh bird’: “Ew. Would you care for a cup of tea?” ‘And he was up her like a rat up a drainpipe’. Even one of the - to my eyes - singularly uncharismatic SPD drivers had apparently been invited to indulge in carnal capers after a glass of lemonade one hot summer afternoon in the Guildford area.

Of course, this could all have been make believe or urban myth but, but I couldn’t help thinking - with all this repetition - surely there must be something there?

It seemed unrealistic and undemocratic that Timmy’s naïve charms should only appeal to upper class women so I quickly widened his demographic and put him in situations where any attractive member of the fair sex might come across him or, of course, vice versa.

The books were always fun to write and never more so than when involving Timmy’s family: Mum, Dad - prone to nicking weird objects from the lost property office where he worked - sister Rosie and, perhaps most important of all, conniving, would be entrepreneur, brother in law Sidney Noggett, Timmy’s eminence greasy, a disciple of Thatcherism before it had been invented.

One day I woke up and had a brilliant idea. Why not a female Timothy Lea? And so was born Rosie Dixon, perhaps a gentler, more romantic flower than Timmy; always bending over backwards to do the right thing and preserve herself - mentally of course, that was very important - for Mr Right, but finding that things kept getting on top of her. In retrospect I regret that I did not end the series with Rosie and Timmy clashing in a sensual Gotterdammerung, possibly culminating in wedlock. Curled up before the glowing embers they would have had much to tell each other - or perhaps not tell each other.

Anyway, regardless of Timmy’s antecedents and Rosie’s moral scruples it is clear that an awful lot of people - or, perhaps, a lot of awful people - have shared my interest in the couple’s exploits and I would like to say a sincere ‘thank you’ to each and every one of them.

Christopher Wood a.k.a. Timothy Lea/Rosie Dixon

CHAPTER 1

“I can remember when you were sent back from Brownies’ Camp,” says Dad.

“That’s unkind, dear,” says Mum. “It was a day trip to Hampton Court and she had a nose bleed.”

“I wasn’t sent back from Queen Adelaide’s, Dad,” I say. “I resigned. I didn’t think that hospital life was going to agree with me.”

“That was sensible of her, Dad. You have to admit that. The longer she stayed the more difficult it would have been to make the break.”

“Humpf.” Dad is obviously not impressed. That does not surprise me. I would have to come back disguised as my sister Natalie to get a smile out of him.

In many ways I was sad to leave the hospital but when the ceiling gave way and Dr Quint and I fell on Sister Belter’s bed I knew, in my heart of hearts, that it was time to move on. People can be very quick to jump to conclusions and the fact that Adam and I were both semi-naked could have led a suggestable mind to imagine that we had been indulging in more than frivolous horseplay.

“What’s she going to do, now?” says Dad. “They won’t have her back at the Tech, you know.”

I really hate Dad when he talks about me as if I was not in the room. “I’m thinking of going into teaching,” I say.

“Teaching!?” If I had said bronco-busting, Dad could not have sounded more surprised.

“You haven’t got the qualifications.”

“I’ve got my ‘O’ levels,” I say.

“Art and needlework?”

“It may surprise you to know that qualifications are not all important in the private sector,” I say loftily. “The character of the applicant is what counts.”

“Then you’re out before you start,” says Dad unkindly. “Anyway, what do you mean, ‘the private sector’?”

“I mean a school that isn’t state controlled. A school where the parents pay fees.”

“I wouldn’t pay fees to have my kids taught by you.”

“I know you wouldn’t, Dad. You gave me a satchel as a combined Christmas and birthday present, didn’t you?”

Dad does not take kindly to this remark. “You’ve never wanted for anything from me, my girl. Just a darn good thrashing. That’s where I went wrong.”

“Dad, please! There’s no need to talk to the girl like that.” Mum silences Dad with a look and turns to me. “Are you really saying it’s easier to become a teacher at some posh public school than it is to get a job at the comprehensive down the road?”

“You have to have qualifications to teach at a state school, Mum. At a private school the head mistress can hire who she likes.”

Mum shakes her head. “No wonder you read some of those things in the paper.”

“You’re going to read a few more if she starts,” snorts Dad. “What are you going to teach, then? Sloth?”

“A vacancy exists for an assistant gym mistress,” I say, steeling myself for the inevitable.

“Gym mistress!? I’ve never known you take a spot of exercise in your life. You get dizzy if you get out of bed too quickly.”

“I used to play hockey at school,” I say.

“You used to play hookey from school,” says Dad triumphantly.

Oh dear. I wish he would not make jokes like that. They are so embarrassingly unfunny.

“How did you hear about this job, dear?” says Mum, changing the subject tactfully.

“One of my friends at the hospital went to teach at the school.”

“She got chucked out as well, did she?” says Dad.

I am not happy about answering this question because Penny Green was, in fact, the only nurse in the history of Queen Adelaide’s sacked for raping a patient. (For disgusting details see Confessions of a Night Nurse by Rosie Dixon.) Fortunately, Mum comes to the rescue again.

“Oh, do stop going on at the girl! I think it’s very good that she should have thought about things. Where is the school, dear?”

“It’s at a place called Little Rogering, not far from Southmouth.”

“Hampshire. That’s nice. That’s where your uncle lives, isn’t it, Harry?”

“He lives near Newcastle,” says Dad shortly. “What’s this school called?”

“St Rodence.”

“Sounds like a rat poison.”

“You’d better not come down, then,” I say. The moment the words have passed my lips I wish I could suck them in again but it is too late.

“How dare you speak to me like that!” bellows Dad. “You go to your room immediately. And stay there until you’re prepared to come down and apologise.”

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

“It’s no good saying you’re sorry now. You go to your room, miss.”

“But you said—”

“Don’t argue with me!”

Considering that I am nineteen it is shocking the way Dad treats me. My younger sister, Natalie, does not have to put up with half of the things that I do. If it was not for the fact that I knew he would take it out on Mum, I would tell the mean old basket what he could do with himself. The only thing I can do is get a job away from home as quickly as possible. St Rodence would be ideal but I wonder if I am good enough to get in. I expect their standards are pretty exacting. Penny’s morals may have been a bit on the easygoing side but I have no doubt that she was quite brainy. She said she was going to send me a prospectus so I will have to wait and see what it says. I will also have to find out what a prospectus is.

I have just gone out into the hall when Natalie comes in wearing her après-school uniform—half a tin of eye shadow and a quart of Californian poppy behind the ears. There are red patches on her throat and it is obvious that she has been snogging. I don’t know why Dad worries about me, really I don’t.

“Oh you’re back,” she says. “I hear there was some trouble.” Hardly through the door and she is on at me. She is her father’s daughter all right.

“Your lipstick is smudged, sister dear,” I say. “Been chasing the grammar school boys on the way home, have you?”

“I’d have brought one home for you if I’d have known you were that interested.” Raquel Welchlet chucks her vanity case on the floor and goes into the front room. “I’m home, Dadsy.”

“Dadsy”! It makes you cringe, doesn’t it? She can wind him round her little finger.

I am halfway up the stairs when the phone rings. I pick it up and put on my most inviting voice. “Hello, Chingford two, three, two, eight.”

“Oh, Mrs Dixon. Is that you?”

I recognise the voice immediately. It is my long time and semi-faithful boyfriend, Geoffrey Wilkes.

“It’s Miss Dixon, actually,” I say coldly. “Is that you, Geoffrey?”

“Natalie? Oh, I’m glad it’s you. I was wondering if you were doing anything tonight? I’ve got a couple of tickets for the professional tennis at the indoor pool.”

I am tempted to suggest that he should dive into the centre of the court from the top board but I control myself. After all, he may be a two-timing creep but he is my boyfriend—when I need him.

“I hate to be a cause of disappointment to you, Geoffrey,” I say, the acid dripping from my fangs. “But this is Rose. Do you remember me? You used to say that I was everything to you.”

I could count to ten while Geoffrey splutters on the other end of the line.

“Rosie? That’s marvellous. Oh—of course—well—I hope you can come—I mean, you can come. I was only asking for Natalie because I thought she’d be able to tell me how you were getting on. I’m always doing it.”

“Always taking Natalie out?”

“No, no, well, there was that once—or it might have been twice, I can’t really remember. We just talked about you and the old times.”

“Like when you made love to her at that party?”

There is more spluttering from the mouthpiece. “Don’t bring that up again. I didn’t know what I was doing.” I can believe that!

“I’ve only just got home,” I say coldly. “I don’t know if I really feel like going out so soon. It seems a bit unkind to the family.”

Dad appears at the door of the front room and waves an arm at me. “I won’t tell you again, my girl. Get up those stairs!”

“Hello? Hello? Are you still there?” Geoffrey is sounding quite worried. Good!

“Sorry, Geoffrey,” I say, calmly. “That was the telly: ‘Family At War’.” Dad looks as if he is going to say something but settles for slamming the door.

“Please come out with me, Rosie. We could have something to eat, as well.”

“I don’t fancy a Wimpy, tonight,” I say. Talk about last of the big spenders. Geoffrey’s idea of giving a girl a good time is to let her have first nibble at his choc ice—he wipes it on his handkerchief afterwards, can you imagine? I don’t want to sound like a gold digger but Geoffrey is tighter than a new roll-on and after asking for Natalie he deserves to suffer a bit.

“I wasn’t meaning a Wimpy,” he says. “I thought we might have a bite up West.”

“The West End?” I say. You have to be careful with Geoffrey. He could be talking about West Chingford.

“Of course. Oh Rosie. Do say you’ll come. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you.”

“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather take out Natalie—or my mother?” Sometimes I am so nasty I amaze myself.

“Rosie! Don’t be like that. We’ll have a great evening. I know we will.”

I don’t mean to be unkind to poor Geoffrey but he is so easy to push around that I can’t stop myself. I am much better with the mean, moody and magnificent types—at least, I would be if I could ever find one. I have not got any nearer than the mean type, so far, which brings me neatly back to Geoffrey.

“Oh, all right, Geoffrey,” I say graciously. “You’ll be round about seven, will you?”

“If that’s all right. Then I can show you my new car.”

“A new, new car?” I ask.

“Oh yes. It’s one of these new Japanese jobs. Goes like a bomb.”

I can remember the last car of Geoffrey’s that went like a bomb—it disintegrated on impact with the road.

“Sounds great, Geoffrey,” I say. “See you later. ’Bye!” I ring off as Natalie comes out of the front room.

“Who was that?” she says.

“Just Geoffrey,” I say, stifling a yawn. “He wants to take me out to dinner and the Wembley tennis.”

“Should be very nice if you don’t mind eating off your knees,” says my revolting little sister. “I had to pack him in. He’s so mean and he only thinks about one thing.”

I ignore her bitchy remarks but at the same time I can’t help thinking about the sex angle. Natalie has suggested before that Geoffrey is a bit of a handful passion-wise. With me he has always acted as if weaned on Horlicks tablets. Could it be that he finds me less desirable than Natalie? Of course, she does behave like a little trollop and wear the most obvious clothes—I will never understand why Mum lets her get away with it—but I would have expected Geoffrey to see through that. Still, he is a man—I think—and they can be very stupid sometimes.

I stick my head round the front room door. “Sorry, Dad,” I say.

Geoffrey arrives just when I knew he would. At ten to seven while I am still in the bath. This is not a great hardship because he goes into the kitchen and helps Mum with the potatoes—I can tell by the peel down the front of his Eastwood Tennis Club blazer. Mum thinks that Geoffrey is the greatest thing to happen to a girl’s marriage prospects since Artie Shaw. She is always telling me what a gentleman he is and what good prospects he has. I think she fancies him a bit, herself.

“Sorry I was a bit early,” he says when I come down at twenty past seven. “Gosh, you do look nice.”

“She’s not a bad looking girl, is she?” says Mum, almost swinging up and down on the bell rope.

“Mum, please!” I say. “Geoffrey, will you look after these, for me?”

Geoffrey pockets my lipstick and compact and leads me out to the car. I must say, it does look snappy. Pillar box red with white wall tyres.

“I can let the seat back a bit if you find it cramped,” says Geoffrey.

“That’s all right,” I say. “Just give me a shoe horn to get in.”

I am not kidding. With both Geoffrey and me inside we have to open one of the windows before the door will shut properly.

“Precision engineering,” explains Geoffrey. “No draughts.”

“You mean, if we have all the windows closed, we suffocate?”

“Not if you remember to switch on the air conditioning.”

“That’s reassuring,” I say. “This wasn’t made by the same firm as the kamikaze planes, was it?”

“I don’t know,” says Geoffrey seriously. “I’ll have to look at the handbook.” Poor Geoffrey. He doesn’t cause Jimmy Tarbuck any sleepless nights.

“I heard a rumour you were giving up nursing,” he says.

“Natalie told you?”

“Well, she sort of mentioned it.”

Typical, I think to myself. I’ll have to wait until Friday to see if she has put an advertisement in the local paper.

“I decided I couldn’t make it my life work,” I say.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I haven’t really made up my mind. I might go into teaching.”

“I hear there’s a big shortage.” Geoffrey makes it sound as if that is my only hope. I think he said the same thing when I told him I was going to become a nurse.

“I think it could be stimulating,” I say.

“I think you’re stimulating.” Geoffreys hand drops onto my knee like a lead spider.

“Keep your hands on the wheel,” I scold, secretly glad that there is asign of red blood coursing through the Wilkes veins.

“It’s not easy,” pants Geoffrey. “It’s been so long.”

I am not quite certain what he is talking about so I don’t pursue the matter.

“We’re going to the tennis first, are we?” I ask.

“I’ve booked a table for ten.”

“But there’s only two of us.”

“I meant ten o’clock,” says Geoffrey.

“I knew you did!” I nearly scream at him. “I was making a little joke.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, very good.”

“Where are we eating, Geoffrey?” I say patiently.

“This new place I was telling you about.”

“I remember that, Geoffrey,” I say grimly. “What is it called?”

“Oh, um, Star of—no. The White—no. It’s somewhere near Goodge Street.”

“You’ve been there?”

“No. A bloke I know told me about it.”

“Can you remember what his name was?” I say sarcastically.

“I think it was Reg Gadney. No, wait a minute, it was—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Honestly, Geoffrey is impossible. I can think of people I have seen on the party political broadcasts who inspire more confidence.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll recognise it when I see it.”

Unfortunately, Geoffrey reckons without the fiery Latin temperament of one of Stanley Kramer’s tennis stars. He hits a ball at a line judge and it catches Geoffrey smack in the eye. I am furious—Geoffrey’s choc ice goes all over my new skirt—and poor Geoffrey can hardly see anything. His eye swells up and he sits there for the rest of the match with his handkerchief over his face. The officials offer him a free ticket but I can’t see what good it is going to be if he can’t see anything.

Some of these lithe, superbly muscled tennis stars with their film star good looks and brown hairy legs ought to make more effort to control themselves. They may think that they can get away with murder but as far as I am concerned, they are absolutely right. When I look at them and I look at the star of Eastwood Tennis Club I think that Geoffrey would be better off strapping both his tennis rackets to his feet and emigrating to Alaska.

I keep hoping that the player who zapped Geoffrey will come over and apologise so that I can ask for his autograph, but at the end of the game he vaults over the net, punches his opponent senseless and disappears—goodness knows what would have happened if he had lost.

“It’s over now, Geoffrey,” I say. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to see to drive to the restaurant?”

“I think so,” he says. “You may have to help me get the food in my mouth, though.” Geoffrey is very English because he only makes jokes when he is suffering.

The journey to the West End is a nightmare because I can’t drive and Geoffrey has to control the car with one hand over his injured eye and the other changing gear and holding the wheel. I start off by trying to help but when we have driven over the flowerbeds outside the town hall I leave it to Geoffrey. I feel such a fool because he has to cock his head to one side to see properly and I notice the other drivers nudging each other at the lights. They must think I have just socked him one for getting fresh. Fat chance of that!

When we get near Goodge Street it is absolutely hopeless. Geoffrey can’t see anything and can’t remember anything and we drive up endless streets full of parked cars and dustbins.

“You call out the names and I’ll see if any of them rings a bell,” says Geoffrey. “What’s that place over there? ‘Felice’? That rings a bell.”

“Is it a vegetarian restaurant?” I ask.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Well it can’t be that one. That’s a florist.”

We go on for another ten minutes and I decide I can’t stand it any longer. “Let’s stop anywhere,” I plead. “If I don’t get something to eat in a minute I’m going to start chewing your plastic banana.”

“What?” says Geoffrey, hopefully.

“The thing you’ve got hanging from the rear view mirror.” I tell him. “Come on, this place will do: ‘Borrman’s German Restaurant.’ I’ve never had any German food.”

Well, I can tell you right away. This is not one of my best ideas. The minute the waiter overhears Geoffrey saying that he reminds him of Hitler I know we are going to have problems.

“Ze var is over,” he screams. “Whole generations ov nazis have grown up who av never eard ov concentration camps.”

“Exactly,” I say. “You’re absolutely right. Now, what would you recommend?” You can’t fault me on the humble meter, can you?

Unfortunately, the waiter clearly feels he has an axe to grind. I have noticed before how Geoffrey manages to rub people up the wrong way.

“Recommend?” he shouts. “Vott, you zink zere is something wrong with some ov it? Gott in Himmel, that the Führer should be alive today.” He throws down the menu and we don’t see him again for twenty-five minutes.

“The decor is nice,” says Geoffrey.

“How much longer are you prepared to sit there?” I hiss. “Are you a man or a mouse?”

“Which do you prefer?” says Geoffrey. You know, I really think he means it.

“Tell him we want some food or we’re getting out,” I say. “There’s no excuse for the delay. We’re the only people in the place.”

At first I think that Geoffrey has developed a cold in the throat. Then I realise that his nervous cough is attempting to attract the waiter’s attention. Honestly, talk about an evening with Steve McQueen. I am not surprised that Geoffrey once missed the mixed doubles final because he shut his fingers in his racket press. I am just on the point of taking matters into my own hands when two enormous plates of sausage and red cabbage arrive on the table.

“We didn’t order this,” says Geoffrey.

“‘Order’!? You don’t know ze meaning ov ze vord order,” screams our waiter, fingering his duelling scar. “Ze Panzers, ze knew vot an order vos!” Before we can say anything he sweeps the plates onto the floor and dives behind one of the tables.

“This definitely isn’t the place my friend told me about,” says Geoffrey.