Читать книгу Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions - Rosie Dixon - Страница 18

“Did you hear what someone wrote on G.B.H.’s door?” giggles Labby the next morning.

“‘G.B.H. is the worst poke in Queen Adelaide’s’?” I reply smugly.

“It didn’t say ‘poke’.”

“Well, it was Penny and you don’t have to tell me what it did say.”

Penny’s departure is big news and by the time the rumours have stopped flying around most people believe that she was engaged in a gang bang featuring half the walking wounded in the hospital. Poor Julian Mayfair has to be moved to another hospital and there seems little doubt that a good deal of his distress can be attributed to the fact that his most frequent visitor was called Cecil and had yellow streaks in his hair. Impulsive Penny was fouling up the Gay Liberation Front—or Gay Liberation Behind as I think they ought to be called.

It is funny, but shortly after she leaves, Mark rings up. I happen to be in the hall at the time and I hear G.B.H. in the act of putting the receiver down. Mark has rather a toffee nosed voice and stutters a bit but he seems very nice. It is difficult to hear him because there are a lot of dogs yapping in the background. He seems relieved to find that Penny has gone back to the country and rings off soon afterwards.

Fortunately, perhaps, there are always lots of scandals going on and, by the time everybody has finished discussing the dirty deeds committed over the Christmas period, the Penny incident is just one amongst many.

As winter grudgingly gives way to spring (nice that, isn’t it? I’m not just a pretty face, you know) the subject that increasingly forces itself into people’s conversations is The Inter-Hospital Rugby Union Football Knock-Out Cup. This would normally interest me less than an underwater pipe lighting contest but I am now sharing a room with Cilla Bias. Labby knows the score behind every bruise on Tom Richmond’s battered face and as Queen Adelaide trample their way towards the final her enthusiasm becomes contagious. It is like when England won the World Cup. I remember throwing my framed portrait of Troy Donahue through the front room window when Alf Ramsey scored the winning goal in the final.

“If only we can beat Northminster then we’ll be in the final against St Swithin’s,” sighs Labby. “I do hope MacSweeney doesn’t have to have his cartilage out.”

Fortunately, Queen Adelaide’s has a large medical staff otherwise some of the patients would never see a doctor. Those doctors who are not playing rugger are either training to play rugger or recovering from the injuries received when they did play rugger. It is rumoured that interviews with the head of the medical school are held at Twickenham with applicants expected to attend wearing shorts and scrum caps.

“If we get into the final, will you be one of the cheer leaders?” says Labby. “Like I said, it’s tremendous fun.”

“I remember,” I say, trying to control my enthusiasm.

“Everybody throwing bags of soot.”

“Not just soot,” says Labby enthusiastically. “Flour, custard pies, fire extinguishers. Last year St Swithin’s had a tank on the pitch. It got out of control and ran over an invalid car. God, it was funny.”

“Sounds a riot,” I murmur. “What about the bloke in the invalid car?”

“Oh, he got out in time. Caught the chap standing up in the tank behind the ear with his crutch. I thought I’d die laughing.”

“Like the geezer in the invalid car.”

“Don’t be so serious, Rosie. It’s only a bit of fun.”

Two weeks later, Labby is in raptures and Tom is practically ruptured. Nurse Bias’s beloved has received his injury plunging over the line for the winning try against Northminster Hospital in the semi-final.

“Dirty swines did it out of sheer spite,” hisses a furious Labby. “He’d already grounded the ball.”

“Looks as if his balls are going to be grounded for a bit, doesn’t it?” I say cheerfully. “What are you going to do?”

Labby does not find this amusing. “I’m thinking of the team,” she sniffs. “They’re going to need his thrust in the middle.” There must be an answer to that but I am too refined to consider it.

“He certainly has a good eye for an opening,” I say, thinking of Christmas and Nurse Wilson.

I have forgotten about being a cheer leader when Labby produces a black mini skirt and a matching jumper with a big gold A and a snake embroidered on it.

“We’re the Adders,” she says. “Adder-laide. Get it?”

“If I think about it for fifteen minutes,” I say. “Blimey, do you want me to wear that? It’s a bit short, isn’t it?”

“You’ll have to get used to the remarks. They’re always going on about ‘I’ve adder’ and ‘she’s been layed’.”

“Sounds just like University Challenge, I can’t wait. By the way, have we got any chance of winning this game?”

Labby looks glum. “We got thrashed last year. They take it so seriously, you see?”

What the hell do we do? I think to myself. Apart from moving all the patients into the grounds and turning the wards into gyms I can’t imagine what more can be done.

Comes the great day and Labby has not slept a wink the previous night. I know because her tossing and turning has meant that I have not slept a wink either. I go through my morning on the ward in a daze and am so absent minded that I allow myself to wander within grabbing distance of Britain’s sexiest octogenarian. The dirty old basket is suggesting a game of “naughty nanas” before you can say “straitjacket”. At least it is nice to know that I have one fan. Groper Arkwright may not be God’s gift to women but he is loyal.

There are three coaches to take supporters to the ground and I feel a right twit sitting there in my cheer leader uniform. We have had one rehearsal and it was disastrous. I don’t think I will ever be able to put my heart into any song that ends “Right up, Queens!” The whole thing is not calculated to make your blood turn into red steam:

“Adder, Adder, Adder, Adder,

Adelaide’s! ! !

Come on Queens, give them beans!

Right up, Queens!”

I was furious because Adam Quint walked past as we were prancing about. He stopped and watched us with his hands on his hips and the expression on his face made me want to punch him in the mouth. It was like Einstein watching a group of monkeys trying to thread beads on a piece of string. I don’t think I will ever be able to find the words to describe how much I loathe that man.

The match is to be played at Richmond and I tell Labby that this is a good omen because of Tom’s name. She tells me that Tom was playing there last year when the hospital lost 32–0.

“Better close the windows,” says someone, and I see why when a bag of soot bursts against one of them as we drive through the gates of the ground. There are long red and white scarves everywhere and these must obviously belong to the St Swithin’s people. I can hear shouts and screams coming from behind the stand and a man walks past me covered in bog paper with a toilet seat round his neck.

“It’s a scream, isn’t it?” yodels Labby. “Olly, Olly, Adders! !” Everybody surges out of the coach and I am grateful to the medical student who passes me a hip flask and urges me to take a swig. I am feeling about as nervous as a sword swallower with hiccups. My last public performance was in a Butlin’s Holiday Princess Contest and my bra fell off. The girl who won the heat was the one who had hooked me up. Just a coincidence, of course.

“How long do we have to stay out there?” I ask.

“Until the game is over.”

“What!? I though we just did our little song and that was that.”

“Oh no. We go behind the goalposts and enthuse the team.”

I wish someone would enthuse me. It is a freezing cold afternoon with a hint of snow in the air. My reception area is like a cold storage unit and I have still got my coat on. Where is that medic with the hip flask?

Out on the field, rival gangs of supporters are pelting each other with paper bags full of soot and flour and parading banners with slogans like “St Swithin’s for Cuppers” or, the brilliantly original, “Queens are Kings!” The main idea seems to be to destroy as much of the opposition’s material as possible and the spectators beginning to fill the stands rehearse their cheering as the battle rages below them.

I try and keep out of trouble and wrap my arms round myself to stop my nipples becoming petrified prune stones. If I brushed against something hard they might snap off.

“We’ll get going just before the team comes out,” says Labby. “Oh look! The boys have got a fire engine. Isn’t that brilliant?”

She is right. There is a fire engine carrying the black and gold Queen Adelaide’s’ colours circling the pitch. It looks quite a new one too. I don’t suppose—I look towards the gates and there is a man in a fireman’s hat struggling with a group of medical students. Oh dear. This is becoming a bit like the Christmas Dinner. At least the fireman seems to have been separated from his chopper.

The extending ladder on the fire engine swings out and two rows of St Swithin’s supporters in the stand collect a faceful of foam as a Queen Adelaide’s medic unleashes a fire extinguisher from the, top rung.

“Fantastic!” Labby’s ecstasy is short-lived. The tip of the ladder strikes the end wall of the stand and spins round nearly catapulting the Queen Adelaide’s marksman into the standing spectators. He dangles for a moment and then drops onto the grass.

“Is he all right?” We sprint towards the prostrate body with a crowd of Queen Adelaide’s supporters but are beaten there by an ambulance that appears from nowhere. The authorities are obviously well prepared for this game. The back doors swing open and—ooooow!! Four St Swithin’s swine leap out and start spraying us with their own fire extinguishers. A tremendous pitched battle takes place and reinforcements converge from all sides. Another ambulance screeches up, but this time we are ready for it. Almost before the doors are open the driver and his mate are covered from head to toe in flour and soot. It is only then that we realise they are on the level. Labby tries to say something but I don’t think they are very pleased. Especially when the bloke they came to pick up, walks off whistling.

“I think we’d better go and do our thing,” says Labby. “It sometimes gets a little out of hand about now.”

I can see what she means when they break the banner over the man’s head. As I recall it, the motto of Queen Adelaide’s is “Cure by faith and dedication.” It must be referring to bacon.

Whatever anyone may say about our performance of the Queen Adelaide’s’ song—and most people seem to say “get ’em orf!” (referring, I believe, to our knickers and not the performers themselves)—it does seem to divert attention from the violence on the field—that and a loudspeaker announcement saying that the fire brigade want their fire engine back and that the police have been called. By the time we have got to the “Right up, Queens!” bit and swung our snakes—I didn’t tell you about those, did I? I was too embarrassed—we are actually being cheered by both groups of supporters. It just shows what fourteen legs, fourteen tits, seven cloth adders and one lousy song can do to restore international understanding. Maybe the United Nations would like to employ us. The wail of police sirens coincides with the last notes of the song and the Queen Adelaide’s team runs out onto the pitch. It must be whatever was in that hip flask, or the reception to our song, but I actually find myself cheering.

They all look so big and strong and healthy and the whiff of embrocation would kill the editorial board of Jeremy at forty paces. Even when Shameless MacSweeney squeezes my pussy as he canters past I am not annoyed. “Just a touch of the magic minge to bring me luck,” he husks. “The Irish are very superstitious, you know.”

“Hurrah!” shouts Labby. “Doesn’t he look fantastic?” She means Tom but my attention is seized by the large, hairy figure shambling out onto the pitch behind the rest of the team. It is Adam Quint wearing rugby kit. He looks like Clement Freud with elephantiasis.

“He’s not playing, is he?” I gasp. I mean, with the gut he has on him it is easy to see why his socks are round his ankles: he can’t bend down to pull them up.

“John Hockey had to drop out at the last moment,” says Labby sadly. “I believe Quint used to be very good when he was at school.”

“He must have been the boy who first picked up the ball and ran with it,” I say, gazing at the flesh mountain ambling paSt I must have spoken too loud.

“If you think I look ridiculous you should take a look at yourself in the mirror. I’ve seen Christmas tree fairies with more chic.”

As usual he is gone before I can think of anything to say. God but I hate that man. He spoils the look of the whole team. The rest of them are all whirling their arms in the air and running on the spot with their knees slamming against their chests. He is peering down the front of his shorts. It does not inspire a lot of confidence.

The St Swithin’s team run out and it is obvious that they are much bigger than us. Bigger and uglier. No, honestly. They really are repulsive, some of them. Our team look much nicer. Even Quint looks cuddly compared to some of the bruisers on the other side.

The two teams are presented to an old man in a white fur coat—at least I think it is a white fur coat until I realise that someone has tipped a bag of flour over him—and then it is time for the kick-off.

The ball is placed on its end in the middle of the field and one of the St Swithin’s men kicks it towards where all the Queen Adelaide’s men are standing. I think it would have been much cleverer to kick it over to the other side of the field but I suppose he knows what he is doing. The ball is caught by one of the Queen Adelaide’s team and then everybody starts punching each other and the referee blows his whistle. It is just like the scene before the game.

When the players break up I see that Quint has the ball and a bleeding nose. I would have backed myself to start a whip round for anyone who gave Quint a bloody nose but to my surprise I feel quite angry. When he puts a giant mitt over the face of one of the St Swithin’s men and pushes him flat on his back I am thrilled. “Belt him one!” I shout.

Labby looks horrified. “You don’t say things like that at rugger matches,” she says.

“I do,” I tell her. “Smash his face in!”

If anyone had told me that rugby was just like the wrestling on the telly I would have been a fan years ago. Mick McManus would really have to watch himself with this lot. Fists, elbows and boots flail away, interrupted only by dull moments when the ball is kicked in the air or people try and run with it.

“I think we’re holding them up front,” says Labby, breathlessly.

“Is that why that man is lying on his back clutching his balls?” I ask.

“Our back row is up very faSt”

“Given half a chance,” I think she is talking about MacSweeney.

“You mean the ref? He is a swine, isn’t he?”

There is no doubt that the referee favours St Swithin’s and this is proved after ten minutes when he awards them what Labby tells me is an easy penalty kick.

“What a swizz,” she says as the stretcher goes paSt “I’m certain Tom never meant to stand on his face.”

“Don’t worry. Maybe he’ll miss it. Does the ball have to go over or under the bar?”

I start booing the minute the St Swithin’s man runs up to kick, but again, Labby is horrified. Apparently, you don’t do that kind of thing either. It is so confusing. Throwing bags of soot and punching lumps out of each other on the field is O.K. but a bit of verbal agro is out of the question.

The kick is successful and we are three points down. All the St Swithin’s supporters go wild and I would like to scratch their stupid eyes out.

“Let’s go behind the posts they’re attacking,” says Labby. We move off along the edge of the field and I give a V sign to the jeering St Swithin’s mob. Labby shudders. Of course I am not usually like that but I do get worked up sometimes.

Quint is standing on the touchline and his vast tummy is quivering. His hair is bedraggled and blood mats his beard. I feel almost sorry for him. Queen Adelaide’s kick off and Quint shambles forward and flattens the man who is about to catch the ball. Immediately there is a shrill blast on the referee’s whistle and the St Swithin’s supporters start shouting ‘Off! Off! Off!’ I think they are referring to Adam but it is the St Swithin’s man who leaves on another stretcher.

“Come on, boys! Only another thirteen to go,” I shout. Labby winces.

In fact it is soon thirteen–fourteen because one of our team has to go off with a cut head. He collects a boot that is intended for Quint.

“A certain amount of feeling is creeping into the game,” says Labby.

“Is that why that other man is lying on his back clutching his balls?” I ask.

Labby does not have a chance to reply because sickening St Swithin’s score a try.

Tom Richmond cleverly kicks the ball in an opponent’s face but it bounces over our line and a St Swithin’s man falls on it. Quint falls on him but too late to do more than make him the third stretcher case of the day. Another four points to St Swithin’s. It is absolutely sickening. A couple of minutes later I feel even worse when St Swithin’s convert their try and make the half-time score 9–0 in their favour.

“If we can knock out another three men we’ve got a chance,” I say. “They’re already down to twelve.”

“I expect that’s what Mac is telling them,” says Labby.

Shameless is pounding his fist against the palm of his hand and making faces like he wants to go to the toilet very badly. Five minutes after half-time, he gets his chance when he is helped off the field clutching his collar bone and saying that he does not want to go—off the field of course.

“That’s terrible,” says Labby. “He’s one of our best players.”

“Olly! Olly! Adders!” I scream, “Let them have it, boys!” We do another little dance and a chorus of “Right Up, Queens!” but it looks more like “All up, Queens” out on the field.

Both sides have slowed down a lot and poor Quint looks exhausted as he struggles from one side of the field to the other. The St Swithin’s supporters are doing all the shouting and with twenty minutes to go we are still trailing by nine points.

Then something amazing happens. Queen Adelaide’s score! Somebody kicks the ball down the edge of the pitch and the St Swithin’s man who is running after it slips over—he says later that he was tripped but of course he is a rotten fibber. I may have stretched out my foot and wriggled my toes because I was getting pins and needles but there was definitely no intention to trip him up. He falls into the crowd and a Queen Adelaide’s man picks the ball up and runs under the posts. It is so exciting and we all cheer like mad.

The St Swithin’s supporters reveal what lousy sports they are because they all shout and boo and wave their fists. It is all so petty. Tom Richmond kicks the ball over the bar and we are only three points behind.

“A try will do it,” squeals Labby. “Oh, come on, Queen Adelaide’s.”

Now that we have scored the boys throw everything that they have got into the game and I notice what a tower of strength Adam Quint is in the touchline queues—or lines out as they call them. He is the biggest man in our team and he leaps into the air and catches the ball like a great seal. Of course everybody has to wait a couple of minutes for him to get to each line out but I expect that they are glad of the reSt

“How much longer?” I say to Labby.

“Three minutes. But there must be some injury time.”

“About half an hour, I should think.”

Even as I speak another St Swithin’s man goes down clutching his face and his team-mates start throwing punches at Adam. It is so unfair. They are always picking on him!

“Pick on someone your own size, you apes!” I scream.

“But he’s twice as big as anyone else on the field,” protests Labby.

“Exactly.” It occurs to me that for some stupid reason I care about the big rude ape. It must be hospital spirit.

A free kick is given against the Adders and immediately St Swithin’s nearly score again. One of their gorillas grabs the ball and runs away with it after he has punched Tom Richmond in the face. It is an obvious foul and the referee must be bent not to blow his whistle. Fortunately, a brilliant tackle by one of our players stops the horrible little jerk just short of our line.

“Why is he going off?” I ask. “Has he hurt his arm?”

“He’s been sent off, you stupid bitch!” snaps a St Swithin’s supporter with a face like a frog’s death mask. “Even this ref draws the line at short arm tackles. You’ve got the dirtiest team I’ve ever seen in this competition.” I do not want to get involved in unpleasantness so I wave a couple of lady-like fingers at the foul-mouthed fink and prepare to watch St Swithin’s make the game safe with a simple penalty kick. Maybe their kicker gets cold waiting for his fourth team-mate to be carried off the field because he makes a balls-up and hits one of the uprights. The ball bounces back and Adam catches it. He moves with the speed of treacle flowing down a fly paper but manages to give the ball a most terrific kick just before all the St Swithin’s swine leap on him. The ball soars through the air and, helped by the wind, lands deep in the St Swithin’s half. Everybody chases after it but just before Tom Richmond can get a boot to it some snivelling little St Swithin’s rat kicks it off the pitch by the corner flag.

As Adam struggles to his feet I see the referee looking at his watch.

“This must be our last chance,” croaks Labby. “Oh, come on, Adders!”

Adam Quint shakes his head and runs towards the line out and I find myself responding to the look of grim endeavour that blazes in his eyes. He brushes aside the referee who comes up to ask him if he is all right and shoulders his opposite number three feet out of the line as he takes up his position. He bends forward so that his right hand is resting on his knee and his great belly quivers menacingly. “Come on, Adam!” I murmur the words under my breath but I couldn’t feel them more strongly if I was shouting them at the top of my voice.

The ball curves through the air and Adam leaps, one arm soaring higher than anyone else in the line. He hooks the ball down and seizes it with both hands. What a man.

“Give it!”

Adam makes as if to pass and then hunches his shoulders and halves his height. With an explosive yell he hurls his whole weight against the wall of flesh between him and the line. There is a landslide of bodies and the referee’s hand shoots in the air. We have scored! Everybody is going mad and Labby runs on to the field to embrace Tom. For two pins I would do the same to Adam. Adam Quint. Suddenly the name trips off the tongue like Mark Phillips.

My hero stumbles back to the centre line wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and Tom prepares to take the conversion. He misses but it does not matter. The final whistle goes immediately afterwards and Queen Adelaide’s have won 10–9 and 13–11 if you include the number of people left on the field at the end. I can hardly believe it has really happened.

A crowd of Adelaide’s medics pour on to the field and try to chair Adam off but he shrugs them aside and runs from the pitch. It is the fastest I have seen him move all afternoon.

“There’ll be the most fantastic party, this evening,” trills Labby. “Oh, I’m so excited I think I’m going to burst”

The two teams clap each other off the field and the cup is presented to Tom Richmond. Feeling rather sad, I start walking towards the bus. Labby is staying behind to be with Tom and I wish I had a boy-friend in the team. I can still see Adam Quint poised to spring … the moment when he burst over the line with half the St Swithin’s team on his back … the agonising seconds before the referee raised his— “Hey, Nurse, can you give us a hand? I think this bloke’s in a bit of a mess.”

The speaker is standing at the back of an ambulance. The doors are open and I can see someone bending over a stretcher.

“What do you want?” I say, going over.

“You, darling!”

Before I can cry out or make a run for it the figure bending over the stretcher grabs my arm and yanks me into the ambulance. A blanket is flung over me and by the time I get it off, the doors are closing behind me and the ambulance is drawing away. On the floor is a St Swithin’s scarf. I have been kidnapped!

I batter on the sides but I make less impression than Enoch Powell singing “That coal black mammie of mine,” at the Brixton Civic Centre. There is a babble of voices, and then my cries are swallowed up in the mighty roar of London’s traffic. I am not frightened—just furious. Everybody else wil be having a great time back at the hospital while I am stuck with a load of twits from St Swithin’s.

A long half hour later, the ambulance stops and the engine is turned off. We must have arrived. The doors open and the creep who first called to me bows low.

“Welcome to London’s number one hospital,” he says.

“That doesn’t mean much coming from London’s number one twit,” I snarl. “How long do you intend to keep me here? I get bored easily in the company of jerks.”

“Sticks and stones may break my bones,” says the drip. “But words will never hurt me.”

“O.K. Give me some sticks and stones,” I say. “And get a move on. I have millions of better things to do than hang around swopping B movie dialogue with you.”

“You’re going to stay here till Queen Adelaide’s hand over our cup. You won it by cheating.”

“Can I use the telephone?” I say, “I’d like to call a child psychiatrist to have a look at you two.”

I have been brought to what looks like the back entrance to a block of flats and I imagine that it must be a hall of residence for the medical staff of St Swithin’s.

“Come with us and don’t try anything clever,” says the one who does all the talking.

“You wouldn’t be able to follow me if I did,” I say.

“Why don’t you let me go now instead of a couple of hours later? I know your evening has been ruined. Why spoil mine?”

Good sense gets me nowhere with these creeps and I am led to a lift and taken up to the fourth floor. I would not mind so much if my captors were a teeny bit attractive but they make Julian Orchard look like Charlton Heston. I am led along the corridor to room 302 and ushered inside. It smells of Old Spice and old socks—like most bachelor’s rooms. Not, of course, that I am an authority on the subject.

“Would you like a glass of sherry?” says my first captor.

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried one.” This is not true because I had some at Aunty Lil’s wedding. I can remember that I did not like it much—I did not like the wedding much either. The best man flashed his nasty at me while they were signing the register. Of course, he and the bridegroom had been drinking since the pubs opened—if you had seen my Aunty Lil you would know why.

“It’s on the bookcase if you feel like some. We’ll bring you some food later.”

The door closes behind me and I hear a key turning in the lock. “Give my love to the Commandant,” I shout.

What a waste of time. Just my luck to get stuck with Norman and Henry Bones, the boy defectives. Well, they won’t hold me for long. I cross to the window and look out. The street seems a long way below but the window ledge is wide enough to take a pram. All I have to do is crawl along it until I come to a staircase and—Bob’s your uncle. Super Dixon lives again.

I don’t hang about but force up the window and edge out onto the ledge. The minute the wind whistles round me the whole idea seems a lot less appealing—more like Cold Tits than Colditz. I must come down to earth after the escapism of the rugby match. A glance at the street below makes me wish I had lit upon a better choice of words. It seems an awfully long way away. I look in towards the wall and have passed two rooms with the windows firmly bolted before I come to a third which has the light on and the curtains drawn. How much further will I have to go? I must have rubbed holes in the knees of my tights and I am colder than a landlady’s smile.

I have just come level with the centre of the window when the curtains spring apart and a man gawps out at me. We both start back in surprise—in my case a very dangerous thing to do.

“My Gad!” I hear his voice through the window before he wrenches it up and drags me inside. “What are you doing out there, honey? Trying to give me a heart attack?” He has an American accent and looks me up and down like I am some kind of Martian. I suppose that with my Adder costume on I must seem a bit funny.

“Your fellow medics thought it would be a good idea to kidnap me after the Cuppers Final,” I say. “Not unnaturally, I was trying to escape.”

“That’s terrible,” says the yank. “You might have been killed.” He takes one of my hands in his. “And you’re so cold.” He has a soft voice and silvery grey hair. He must be about forty but he is very attractive. Lovely teeth and piercing blue eyes like Paul Newman.

“I suppose you’re one of them,” I say.

The yank looks hurt. “You mean I’m a fag? No, honey. I’m conspicuously heterosexual.”

“I meant, I suppose you’re attached to the hospital.” He is obviously too old to be a student.

“That’s right, honey. I’m on an exchange visit.” He looks at me tenderly. “I don’t know anything about these Cuppers. I know your coppers are wonderful.”

“They’re something else,” I say.

“Exactly. Look. I’m most distressed to hear what has happened to you and you can rest assured that I’m going to do everything in my power to get you out of here.”

“Thank you,” I say. He has such beautiful eyes.

“Don’t mention it. It’s the least I can do. Now, the first thing is to give you a drink and the second is to find you some new clothes. You can’t go out like that. I was just fixing myself a mint julep. Would you care to participate? It’s a little cool for your condition but it’s a powerful pick-me-up.”

How could I refuse? After all my exertions I feel like a drink, even if it is something I have never heard of before.

“My name’s Hank Fieldman,” says my saviour as he pours something out of a jug. “Try this for size.”

“Rosie Dixon. Thanks.” I receive a tumbler full of green liquid with a rime of sugar round the top and sprigs of mint floating on the surface. It tastes like cough mixture. Oh well, you can’t have everything.

“Now if you slip out of that sweater and skirt I’ll mosey across the street and pick up some new dudes for you. It’s late night shopping.” Hank misunderstands my hesitation. “Don’t worry about your body, honey. We’re in the same business. I’ve seen millions of naked dames.”

“It wasn’t that. It’s the fact that I don’t have any money. I can’t let you buy me clothes.”

“Don’t give it a thought. I’ll charge it to the football club. Now, come on. Hand over your things and I’ll be able to pick up the right sizes.”

When he puts it like that I find it difficult to say no. I would like to have an outfit paid for by the St Swithin’s Rugby Club. It would serve them right.

“All right,” I say. “You’re on.”

I peel off my sweater and step out of my skirt and you could warm your hands on the glint of approval in Hank’s eyes.

“Speaking purely professionally,” he drawls, “that’s a beautiful piece of machinery you’ve got there.”

“Thank you,” I say. For a moment we stand facing each other and then Hank shakes his head and grabs my threads.

“Don’t go away now,” he husks.

“Don’t forget my tights.”

Hank shudders. “I could never forget your tights.”

I bet he has a wonderful bedside manner, I think to myself. The door closes and I take another sip of my drink. It certainly does taste strange. Strong too.

The minute I am left alone I feel an overwhelming desire to spend a penny—more like 10p in fact. I know it is unsafe to venture outside into the corridor but what else can I do? There is only a wash basin in the room and it does not look as if it is very firmly attached to the wall. Anyway it would be awful if Hank came back for his cheque book and found—no, I refuse to think about it.

I open a cupboard and grab the first long garment that comes to hand. It is a plastic mac. Oh well, it is better than nothing. I slip it on and peep out into the corridor. There is no one about. I start walking and have covered about a dozen paces when I hear someone coming towards me round the bend in the corridor. I start to turn back but it is too late.

“Nurse Dixon!”

“Ad-Doctor Quint!” There, looking only slightly less dishevelled than he did on the pitch, is Adam Quint flanked by two other Queen Adelaide’s players. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re trying to get into the St Swithin’s Medical School. What are you doing here?”

“I thought this was the medical school.”

“No, you fool. That’s next door. This is the Y.M.C.A.”

“Oh my goodness.”

“Why are you wandering about in your underclothes and a see-through mac?”

“I was going to spend a penny. This man said he was a doctor and gave me a mint dewlap.”

Adam hits his hand against the side of his head. “A dewlap is a fold of loose flesh.”

“I thought it tasted funny.”

“I think you’re a bit funny,” says Adam grimly. “They took your clothes, did they?”

“No. I gave them to the man who was getting me some new ones.”

Adam turns to the other two medics. “Have you any idea what the stupid bitch is talking about?”

“There he is,” I squeal. “That’s the man.”

Hank had appeared at the end of the corridor but he is carrying a bottle of champagne. No clothes. An expression resembling uneasiness spreads across his face.

“I’d leave that young lady alone if I were you,” he says. “She’s under my protection.”

“You tricked me into taking my clothes off,” I shout. “You said you were a doctor.”

“I am a doctor. I’m a doctor of—”

I never get the chance to find out what Hank Fieldman was a doctor of, because Adam knocks him down. “Don’t leave the champagne,” he says. “It’s very bad for a man in his condition.” He steps over the prostrate body and strides on down the corridor.

“I’m sorry,” I say, directing the words towards the floor. “Really I am. I’ll send back the mac.”

Poor Hank groans. I can’t even take a last look into his dishy eyes because they are closed.

Two minutes later, I get a good look at the doorman’s eyes because they nearly pop out of their sockets when they collide with my breastwork.

“Well may you stare, my good man,” says Quint. “But for my intervention, this innocent child might have been in Port Said this time tomorrow evening. I had no conception that Y.M.C.A. stood for Young Maidens Criminally Assaulted. You will be hearing from your deaf aid in the morning.”

He sweeps out and the doorman’s mouth opens wider than Britain’s trade gap.

A car is parked round the corner and the champagne is opened before the doors are closed.

“Bloody lucky to find her like that,” says one of Adam’s sidekicks.

“Fortune favours the fortunate,” says Adam. “And now, on to the celebration party.”

“I can’t go like this,” I squeak. “I’ll have to change.”

“You’re positively overdressed as it is,” says Adam. “I spent a lot of time and trouble finding you because I wanted to take you to the party and I like you very well just the way you are. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Adam,” I say. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

“Stop snivelling. I can’t stand women who snivel.”

Oh dear. He is such a difficult man. So strong minded and sure of himself. Fancy him bothering to come and look for me. I should be very flattered.

“You should be bloody flattered that I bothered to find you,” rasps the hero of Queen Adelaide’s. “Don’t spoil everything by becoming a sniveller.”

The celebration party is at the medical school and by the time I have got on to the dance floor I am very grateful for my plastic mac. I have never seen so much booze flowing in my life and it is quite obvious that while I was kidnapped everybody else in the hospital, not on duty, was getting smashed out of their minds.

“Where have you been, darling?” shrieks Labby, coming apart from Tom like a sticky sweet in a toddler’s pocket. “You’ve missed so much fun!”

She is wearing shortie pyjamas so I don’t feel too under-dressed—especially as the top half is being worn on her head. She disappears into the crowd before I can say anything and I have a chance to see Nurse Martin wearing a scrum cap. I don’t think it suits her and I am surprised she can get her legs through the slits.

“I’d like you to dance with my stomach,” says Adam. “The rest of me will follow a respectful distance behind.”

He is not kidding, but after a few steps I begin to like the feeling of his great hairy gut against my body. “It’s nature’s contraceptive measure,” breathes Quint. “The men in my family have got flat feet through walking the world looking for women with concave bellies.”

I think he must be joking because my pelvis is being propped up by something that feels like a raised drawbridge. Maybe it is the drink. I don’t usually notice things like that.

I think I must have fallen asleep because, suddenly, there are far fewer people about and I become conscious that soft fingers are gently massaging my reception area as if it is a piece of dough.

“I want you,” breathes Quint.

Fortunately the real me has passed out hours before and is being spared the wild permissive sensations that now invade my body.

“Not here,” says a voice which, I suppose, could belong to me.

“I know the place.” Adam’s fingers suggest that his lips do not lie. “In the attic.”

“But I must get back to the nurses home.” That sounded more like the real me.

“That presents no problem. The attic stretches over the nurses home as well. I think there’s a trap door in the ceiling of the television room.”

“You’ve taken other girls up there, you brute.”

“Hundreds of years ago when I was a student. They used to give anaesthetics with hammers in those days.”

“How are we going to see?” It must be the champagne. This forward behaviour is so unlike me.

“I’ve got some matches.”

We take a lift to the top floor and walk down a corridor.

“This is it. Stand on my stomach.”

Above us is a trapdoor and Adam picks me up like a packet of cornflakes. He is so strong. I am tingling like a bruised funny bone—or humerus as we call it in the business. If I was not too drunk to know what I was doing I might be on the brink of losing my virginity.

“It’s so dark,” I say.

“Of course it’s dark, you stupid bitch. What do you expect—floodlights? Take these matches and start striking them.”

He pushes me through the opening and heaves himself up beside me. “I’m getting too old for this caper. Damn you for being irresistible.”

“Adam, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Stop snivelling. I can’t stand it! And mind where you’re walking. I don’t want to go through the ceiling.”

He takes me by the arm and guides me into the enveloping darkness. “Are there rats up here?” I ask.

“Millions of ’em. They’d have your leg off if you gave them half a chance.”

“Adam. Don’t!”

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“I mean, don’t go on like that about the rats.”

“All right. There aren’t any rats up here. The spiders have seen off most of them.”

“Why are you such a cruel, crude bastard?”

“Because I wouldn’t appeal to you if I was anything else.” Quint’s arms encircle my body and his very personal smell—like a compost heap in spring time—sweeps over me. I had imagined that to kiss him would be like kissing the inside of a sheep shearer’s dust bin but his lips come through with the minimum of tickle.

“You’re so hairy,” I murmur.

“I am a foreSt” Adam’s hands disappear inside my plastic mac and slip under the elastic of my panties. I should cry out but how can I with his mouth firmly wedged against mine? He presses me to him and I feel something large and firm like a nuclear submarine breaking the surface. I know things feel bigger in the dark when you can’t see them but this is ridiculous. “Oh Adam, you mustn’t,” I murmur.

“If that’s all you’ve got to say you might as well keep your mouth shut. Come over here. Where are those matches?”

“I’ve dropped them.”

“Typical. You’d lose your fanny if it wasn’t fastened to the rest of your body.”

“You’re so crude,” I whisper enthusiastically. It must be the champagne.

Adam leads me across the attic and pushes me against something that rings out in the darkness.

“What is it?” I say anxiously.

“It’s the cistern. Attics are full of them—and you, my ravishing Florence Nightingale, are soon going to be full of me, Adam Quint.”

“Oh, Adam—”

“Don’t start any snivelling, wailing or whining or I may think better of my generous offer.”

Adam Quint hurls his mouth against mine and his brutal hands rip off my panties like they are a strip of ElastoplaSt Almost in the same moment he explodes the front of his trousers and I feel a rush of hot air like an oven door opening. He plucks me against his body and I come into the presence of the terrifying beast lurking against his great hairy belly. Thank goodness I am not fully in command of my senses. Surely Monster Quint cannot expect my delicate female mechanism to absorb his enormous piston? Has he no pity?

“Aaaaarrgh!!!”

The answer is no as I realise when I have first hand experience of what a sausage skin must feel like at the moment of truth. Quint’s battering ram body belabours me from belly to knee and the cistern rings out like the gong at the start of an old J. Arthur Rank movie.

My body cries out in ecstasy—and, of course, revulsion at the terrible things that are happening to it. Will I ever be able to look our vicar in the surplice again?

Quint is bellowing at the top of his voice and the noise must be enough to raise the roof.

“Ooh Adam, please!”

Whether he hears me or not I never know. He changes his position and there is a crack like a pistol shot. Light floods up through the floor and Quint drops as if into a hole. In fact it is not a hole. It is Sister Belter’s bedroom. I discover this when I plummet past him and land on the bed midst a shower of plaster. Above us Quint dangles with his trousers round his ankles. I will always remember the expression on Sister Belter’s cold creamed face as she stares up at Quint’s cluster hanging below the dark foliage of his belly like a bunch of grapes with a boa constrictor peering out of them.

Something tells me that she does not like what she sees.