Читать книгу Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions - Rosie Dixon - Страница 26

“Well done, ladies.” I can hear the crackle of Miss Grimshaw’s stays as she leans forward.

“Thank you, Headmistress.” Penny and I bow our heads modestly.

“This was undoubtedly the finest victory in the school’s history—hic!” Miss Grimshaw closes her desk drawer and I hear the familiar chink of cold tea bottles. “However—hic! It was achieved at a cost.”

“We’ll be able to pay for the coach,” says Penny hurriedly. “It’s not as badly damaged as was first thought.”

“What I can’t understand.” Miss Grimshaw speaks slowly. “Is—hic! Why Fiona Fladger was driving?”

“Well, when the coach driver ran away we had to find someone. Fiona said she’d driven her father’s mini-moke.”

“More like mini-amok,” I say.

Miss Grimshaw winces. “Did the driver get away before—before they got him?” she asks. Penny nods.

“Thank God. We don’t want any more lawsuits. Did you say you were going to pay for the damage?”

“The girls had a whip round.”

Miss Grimshaw smiles. “You mean they whipped round the St Belters’ cloakrooms in search of booty?” Penny nods again. Miss Grimshaw’s smile becomes a beam. “Good. I’m glad to see that the buccaneer spirit is not quite dead. Were there any injuries in the crash?”

“Hermione Spragg sprained her ankle when one of the crates of light ale fell off a rack.”

“The light ale was all right?”

“Oh yes. A bit fizzy, but drinkable.”

Miss Grimshaw’s face clears. “Good, good. It’s terrible when disaster strikes twice.” She swallows another hiccup and reaches towards the drawer before restraining herself. “The police aren’t going to bring charges?”

“I think they’ll want to forget the matter,” I say. Penny casts her eyes down bashfully.

“It must have been a terrible experience for you,” says Miss Grimshaw. “I can’t think what came over the creature. Constable Dumpling has been a happily married man for as long as I can remember.”

“It was harrowing,” agrees Penny. “And totally unexpected. But from the school’s point of view …” Her voice fades away, tortured by memory.

Miss Grimshaw nods grimly. “Yes it was fortunate that the Inspector came by at that moment. Catching the bounder in the act. It certainly diverted attention from the coach.”

“Quite an achievement when you think it was sticking out of the wall of the Baptist chapel,” I say, brightly.

“So very good of him not to press charges,” continues Miss Grimshaw.

“I think the man has suffered enough,” says Penny. “I hear he’s being transferred to Royston.”

A silence falls on the room broken only by the sound of a long, low belch. Miss Grimshaw pats her stomach. “Ah, well. Time for tiffin. The inner woman must be served.” Miss Grimshaw catches Penny’s eye and blushes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“That’s quite all right,” says Penny.

News of our famous victory over St Belters is as nothing compared with details of Miss Green’s brush with the fuzz and it is that more than anything that serves to create a new wave of enthusiasm for athletic pursuits. Perhaps “new” is the wrong word. It suggests the existence of an enthusiasm in the past. Nothing could be further from the truth. Most of the girls at St Rodence get their only exercise when they cough through smoking too much. That or chasing Seth and Ruben Hardakre.

As the weeks go by I find that I think more and more about Seth. His firm, brown body seems to be everywhere I go. Sweeping up piles of leaves or standing, arms folded beside a smouldering bonfire, his dark eyes glowing with an equal fire—you can see how the atmosphere in this temple of learning is beginning to rub off on me, can’t you?

Geoffrey writes to me a couple of times but I find it difficult to scrape together the enthusiasm to reply. I learn that he has been fined £50 and banned from driving for a year. The police dropped the other charges. Poor Geoffrey! What a pity he did not have Penny with him when he was charged. He would probably have been given £50.

I am walking towards the pavilion because I want to have my tennis racket regutted. I know it is the middle of winter but one must be prepared. Mlle Dubois is coming out of the woods with a man I have not seen before. One of her pupils, I suppose. Mlle Dubois gives French lessons in her spare time. I saw her advertisement in the window of the village post office. The man has tears in his eyes. I expect he found the lesson very affecting. Miss Dubois tucks a wad of notes into the top of one of her black stockings and waves gaily. “Ooh la la!” she says. “A nize day for eet!”

I agree with her as I skip along the tree-lined path past the war memorial—the large crater made by a short-sighted German bomb aimer who was trying to hit Southmouth docks. There is a lark on the wing, and possibly one in the pavilion. Ruben Hardakre is a flirtatious old man as you would soon find out if he ever oiled your hockey stick.

“Morning, young missy,” he sings out as I cross the threshold. “It’s a fine day for swadging your gonjins.”

“It is indeed,” I agree with him. “I wonder if you could help me out.”

“But you’ve only just been and come in,” says the jovial yokel. His simple country wit is not much to my liking but at least it is better than some of the things you see on T.V.

“Ho, ho. Very good,” I say. “What I meant was, can you mend this for me?”

“Expecting snow, are you?” he asks.

“It’s a tennis racket.” I explain. Knowing St Rodence he has probably never seen one before.

“Dang my withers. I thought it was a snow shoe.”

“It is a bit old,” I say. “It used to belong to my aunt.”

“Use it for catching butterflies, did she?”

“You’re in good form today, Mr Hardakre,” I say soothingly. “Do you think you can still do something with it?”

Ruben looks at me in a funny sort of way. “You want to ask your friend, Miss Green, that question.”

“What did you do for Miss Green?” I ask.

“Ah! That’ud be telling, that would.” Ruben laughs like someone clearing a blocked up drain.

“I haven’t got time to play guessing games,” I say. “Can you restring this thing for me, or not?”

Ruben strokes his whiskers. “I can do. But it’s going to cost ’ee summat.”

“How much?”

Ruben beckons me closer. “Have a glass of molderberry wine and we’ll haggle over it.”

“I haven’t got time to haggle,” I say.

“Then just have the wine.”

“About how much?” I say.

“A couple of glasses should be enough.” An evil grin flickers across Ruben’s face.

“I didn’t mean that,” I say, trying to keep patient. “About how much is it going to cost to repair the racket?”

“Well, to anyone else it would be best part of three sovereigns. But to you—if you’ll take a glass of wine with me—it’ll be done for less than two, and there’s my hand on it.”

“Please take your hand off it, Mr Hardakre!” I say. Really he is the most incredible old man! Give him an inch and he takes a liberty. Not that he isn’t attractive in a funny sort of way. I have always had a soft spot for the outdoor type.

“Just a glass. It’ll put some flute into your snaffers. You need something after your walk.”

I know I shouldn’t, but it seems the easiest way of escaping from the old rogue. One doesn’t want to give offence, does one?

“Just a drop, then,” I say.

“Right you are, young missee.” He scuttles across the room and shakes a couple of wood lice out of a glass before wiping it against his sleeve. “Can’t be too careful, can ’ee?” he says. I smile weakly and watch him prising the top off a battered oil can. “The old Molderberry sticks a bit when it’s maturing,” he explains. At first I think he says “stinks a bit”. I have never been exposed to anything like it since Mum shut the next door’s tom in our kitchen overnight.

The smell is bad enough but the green fumes are the things that really turn me off.

“Are you sure it’s all right?” I ask.

“Course it is. Lovely drop of molderberry, this. It’ll put hairs on your chest.”

At the risk of sounding ungrateful it seems necessary to point out that I do not want hairs on my chest. My one day Mr Right will hardly be overjoyed if our wedding night reveals a pair of shaggy boobs.

“Just a taste,” I say.

“That’s what your Miss Green said,” sniggers the rustic Romeo. “It were amazin’ how she found a hankering for it.”

“Penny has always been partial to a stiff drink,” I say.

“Not just a stiff drink,” says Ruben. I have no idea what he is talking about but it is very strange how his eyes glisten.

“Here we are, my dear.” Ruben hands me half a tumbler full of the steaming brew and I notice that there were in fact three wood lice in the glass. The one now floating on top is lying on its back and has turned white. It is not moving. I remove it, hoping that this does not give offence, and raise the tumbler to my lips—

“Stop!!” Seth Hardakre towers in the doorway, his giant frame blocking out the light. “Are you trying to wimble her gwinnies, Father?” The old man starts to mumble but is cut short by his son’s furious onslaught. “You can’t give a young maid that! You might scradge her nadgepoles! I told you about that after the floddymoddling. Spat my fibes but you’re a contrary old grummock!”

“Don’t ’ee talk to me like that, my lad, or I’ll take my guzzyprodder to you!” Father and son collide in the middle of the floor and I can sense that unpleasantness is in the air. Ruben is trying to strike his offspring with an instrument that I later learn is used to despatch moles and I take the opportunity to make for the door. I do hate family scenes. I have taken about a dozen paces into the autumn sunshine when Seth appears at my elbow.

“Sorry about that, ma’am.” he says, doffing the corduroy cap that sits jauntily atop his forest of curls. “Come Micklemucking, and he becomes fair fazed by the lady-kind.”

“Think nothing of it,” I say. “No harm was done. Perhaps, when he’s feeling himself—”

“He’s always doing that,” says Seth, shaking his head. “Dirty old goatstuffer!”

“I meant, when he’s calmed down, perhaps he could do something with my tennis racket?” I say, blushing.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” says Seth. “He’s done things with most things.”

This is obviously not a very profitable topic of conversation and I am glad when I think of a way of changing it.

“What are you doing now?” I ask.

“I’m going up to Spangler’s Copse to chop logs. You want to take a stroll up there?”

It is a lovely day and I jump at the chance of a little light exercise. Especially in the company of bluff, honest Seth. Strange how a son can be so unlike his father.

“We have a hut up there,” says Seth as we trudge through the drifts of leaves. “I go there sometimes when I want to be alone with my fidgets.”

I nod understandingly. I have no idea what he is talking about but I love this old country language that he and Ruben share. It sounds as if they are making up each word as they go along but it must be some rustic tongue handed down over hundreds of years from father to son—or Gitfodder to Nastrel as they put it.

“It’s beautiful,” I say as we enter the thick woods. “All these trees.”

Seth looks at me and there is respect in his eyes. “You notice things, don’t you, Miss Dixon?”

I blush. I am pleased that he noticed that I noticed. “I’m a country girl at heart,” I say, demurely.

“Would you like to see inside the little house?” he says. “It’s very simple.” He looks at me again in that special way of his.

“I understand simple things,” I say.

Seth nods sympathetically. “We’re two of a kind, you and me, Miss Dixon.” He leads the way through the trees and I see ahead what looks like a small log cabin. There is a great pile of logs by its side and an axe sticking up from a stump.

“What a big chopper,” I say.

Seth is clearly glad that I noticed his equipment. “Thank you,” he says. “But it’s how you handle it that counts.”

“I don’t think I could lift it,” I say.

“It’s just a knack,” says Seth. “It comes.” He opened the door of the hut and steps to one side.

“It’s charming,” I say. “And what a big bed you’ve got.” It is the first thing I see and seems to cover half the floor area. “I was expecting a little bunk.”

“Were you, now?” says Seth, his face splitting into a friendly smile. “We’ll have to try not to disappoint you.” I look around but I can’t see anything that looks like a bunk. It must be folded away somewhere. Either that or Seth misunderstood me.

“It’s very nice,” I say. “I like the chintz curtains. You can see the place has benefited from a woman’s touch.”

“There’s been a bit of that,” agrees Seth. “I expect you’d be grateful for a glass of lemonade after your walk?”

“That’s more my scene,” I say gaily. “I’m not a girl for the hard stuff.” Seth looks disappointed and I hope I haven’t offended him. Perhaps he was going to offer me another local brew to accompany the cooling draught.

“A few sips of this will see you all right.” Seth hands me a glass and I raise it to my lips.

“Don’t touch that!” Ruben hobbles in with one hand raised in warning and the other clutching the area in which his fly buttons spend most of their lives.

“Get out of here, you old stoatnangler!” Seth springs forward.

“It’s only lemonade,” I explain, trying to make everybody calm down. I take a sip to prove the point and—urgh! I wish I hadn’t. It tastes sharper than any lemon.

“Now you’ve done it!” scolds Ruben. “You’ve durvilled her divots.”

“No more than what you were trying to do.”

“I would never have used girdjuice.”

“Rubbish! I’ve seen you spattleharness a wench, in my time. And her with only one flobby.”

I wish I could keep pace with what they are saying but suddenly I am feeling very sleepy. It must be all the fresh air. I just have time to put the glass down before it falls from my fingers. I have not felt like this since I last watched Crossroads. I stagger back and feel my shoulders press against the soft down.

“She be fainting, poor little mite.”

“Loosen her crossthwaites.” I am dimly conscious of horny hands tugging down my underclothes.

“She’s still-trolled, you dummock! We’ll have to mudjer her chuff pennies.” It must be my imagination but I suddenly feel as if my blouse buttons are being popped open.

“Champfer her cherygourds.” A delicious tingling warmth spreads through my breasts. It is almost as if they are being—

“Do ’ee fancy first lob of the twatty cudgel?”

“Age before beauty, father. I know ’ee won’t tarry too long.”

“Impertinent young cub. I’ll show you that an old thigh-scuffer still has a few tricks up his smock.”

These strange voices ring in my ears and I hear them as if under an anaesthetic. Ah! Surely that was a booster jab? I feel the drowsy drops sliding into me and my whole system is agitated by the size of the dose. I am being shaken about like a marble on a tin tray. Half asleep yet at the same time, deliciously aware of a hundred strange sensations not unconnected with size and vigour.

“Unhitch yourself, you old prat strangler. It’s my turn with the maypole.”

“Hold hard, son!”

“I’ve tried, father and ’tis not the same.”

I hear the sound of blows being struck, and a groan as a heavy body slumps to the ground. My distress is heightened by a sudden loss of sensation—as if a drinking straw had been dashed from my lips.

“Worry ’ee not, little goosey parts. Succour be at hand.”

The speaker is absolutely right, although I have no idea where he gets his information from. The ecstasy leak is plugged and new waves of sensation bathe me from head to toe.

“Frap your own father would you, you gruntsnitch!”

“Stop your pooking and get the camera!”

“Be we going to need the tripod?”

“Course we be! Don’t ’ee say it be used for hanging vermin, again, or I’ll smite thee with my thonk! Fine art photography, that’s what those fine city gennilmen say they want and that’s a what they be going to get.”

I don’t know what they are talking about but it is good to know that someone cares about quality control these days. I keep my eyes tight closed and continue my journey into hitherto uncharted realms of physical ecstasy. It is difficult to be certain of the reasons for my present happy condition but I suspect that the drink I was given contained some mild form of stimulant.