Читать книгу Confessions of a Lady Courier - Rosie Dixon - Страница 5

When I return to Chingford, or West Woodford as Mum calls it because it sounds posher, it is with a heavy heart. I know that my decision to change jobs will not pass without unfavourable comment from Dad and that my man-mad younger sister, Natalie, will do all in her power to pour troubled waters on troubled waters. Natalie and I are not as close as sisters are supposed to be and if she was one of my friends I would hate her. The situation is not helped by the way that Dad always favours her when it comes to the pinch – eg when she pinches my tights, make up and boyfriends. Yes, distressing as it is to relate, Natalie did manage to inveigle the susceptible Geoffrey Wilkes into her baby doll clutches. The man has a lot to answer for.

Incidentally, I did not see him before I left Chedworth Place because he was attending a lecture on his ‘Whither Capitalism?’ course. I did see Sammy Fish again, but only for a second before the ambulance doors closed on him. He was taken to hospital suffering from severe shock. I think the shock got worse when he opened his eyes and saw Mr Green lying on the stretcher opposite. He took a shot at himself in one of the mirrors and got cut by the flying glass.

It is early evening when I arrive at 47 Pretty Way, and the family are preparing to do justice to Mum’s spaghetti bolognese. She has already dished it out and they are waiting for the parmesan with forks and spoons poised. I say that I will happily settle for a cup of tea and a couple of digestives but Mum won’t hear of it.

‘We’ll all give up a little bit,’ she says cheerfully. ‘Come on, Harry, Natalie.’ She holds out a plate and in no time the middle of the table is a mass of spaghetti. It is very difficult stuff to move around in mid-air.

‘I don’t want mine, now it’s got all the fluff from the tea cosy on it,’ whines Natalie.

‘I wish you’d come in before your mother put the mince on it,’ says Dad.

‘I told you not to go to any trouble,’ I say.

‘Just home for the weekend, are you?’ says Miss Sourpuss, evilly.

I take a deep breath. ‘I’ve decided that you were right about that job,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t very nice, really.’

Dad puts down his spoon. ‘You haven’t chucked in another job? Blimey! How many is that?’

‘That’s the third,’ prompts my ever-loving sister.

‘Precisely three more than you’ve had,’ I say.

‘What does that mean?’ says Natalie. ‘I’m still at school, aren’t I? How can I get a job?’

‘I’m very glad that Rose has decided to change,’ says Mum. ‘I was never happy about her in that line of work. You read such nasty things, don’t you?’

‘You read such nasty things,’ says Dad. It is a fact that Mum keeps a watchful eye on all published material relating to white slaving, drugs, and allied forms of human bondage.

‘Have you thought what you’re going to do next?’ asks Natalie.

‘Why? Do you want to move into my room?’ I ask.

Natalie looks at Mum, who looks at me nervously. ‘We thought – since you were away, you wouldn’t mind –’

‘She has moved into my room!?’ How typical. I only have to turn my back for a few weeks and I am practically homeless. ‘You might have asked first.’

‘I didn’t know where you were.’

‘That’s not true –’ I began.

‘Don’t let’s have an argument about it,’ says Dad, sucking in a huge mouthful of spaghetti. ‘It’s done now.’

‘Your father’s going to redecorate Natalie’s room – I mean, your room, aren’t you, Harry?’

‘When I can find the time,’ says Dad.

‘Don’t bother, Dad,’ I say, coldly. ‘I can take a hint. I should be able to find some job that will prevent me being a strain on you all. What a pity the French Foreign Legion doesn’t take women.’

‘Rosie, dear. Nobody wants you to leave home.’ Mum stretches out an arm to pat me on the wrist. Unfortunately, she rests her elbow on the plastic tomato that contains the ketchup and it squirts all over Dad’s lap.

‘I want to leave home,’ I say. ‘I want a complete change of scene.’

Nobody takes any notice because they are all hopping about trying to sponge the front of Dad’s trousers. Dad hops about more than most when Natalie inadvertently holds a Spongelette under the hot tap and applies it to one of the more sensitive areas of his anatomy.

‘I might even join the WRACs,’ I say, seeking to strike terror into their hearts.

Dad pours a milk bottle full of cold water down the front of his trousers and I start rifling through a pile of newspapers. ‘There’s usually an advertisement in here,’ I say, very matter of fact.

‘Are you all right, Dadsy?’ simpers Natalie.

‘Ruined!’ says Dad. ‘Ruined!’ I think he is referring to the trousers.

I have just found an advertisement saying ‘It’s a man’s life in the WRAC’ when I notice a much smaller announcement below it. It says ‘Girls! See Europe in style and get paid for it. Climax Tours want lady couriers. Foreign language an advantage but not vital.’ I put down the paper thoughtfully. This could be just what I am looking for. I don’t speak any foreign languages but I have had lots of experience with people – I mean, of course when I was a nurse, gym mistress and professional escort. All this should stand me in good stead. Working abroad would be wonderful too. I like Britain but it does get a teeny bit gloomy sometimes, doesn’t it?

‘Oooooooh!’ Dad’s soaked trousers are clinging to his legs and he is clearly in no little discomfort.

‘Take them off, dear.’ Mum proffers a tea towel which Dad snatches and starts to peel off his C&A lightweight special summer offer. Unfortunately, he meets more resistance than he bargained for and sits down on the plastic waste bin which shatters with a noise like a small explosion. Tea leaves spread across the floor and Dad’s face registers pain which may, or may not, be caused by the fact that his trousers have split down to the knee.

‘Are you all right, dear?’

Dad does not answer but feels between his legs and produces an empty tin of cat food – ‘Pussy loves it’ emblazoned across the label. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Would you children mind leaving the room?’

We leave Mum inspecting the damage and it does not take Natalie long to start apportioning blame. ‘It’s always the same, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Whenever you turn up, there’s trouble. It’s been lovely and peaceful here up till now.’

I am about to say something very unsisterly when there is a loud scream and the telephone rings. The two events are not connected. I think the scream has something to do with Mum ministering to Dad’s predicament.

I pick up the phone. ‘Rosie?’ says a familiar voice. ‘Penny here. I just thought I’d ring up to see if you’d got home safely.’

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘How is Chedworth Place?’

‘Very quiet at the moment,’ says my friend. ‘Daddy has given Sandra the boot and moved in with Sonia. I don’t give her very long. I should think that the last Nicetime employee will be off the premises by tomorrow. I’m bored already. If it wasn’t for all those men I don’t know what I’d do. It’s such a drag competing against your own stepmother, though.’

Harriet Green is the latest in a long line of Mrs Greens and seems to have much in common with her old man when it comes to instant relationships. I am glad I don’t have a mother and father like that. Natalie is the nearest to what you might call being promiscuous in our family.

‘I know just what you mean,’ I lie – Penny is so ‘with it’ that I don’t want her to think that I am as natural and unaffected as I really am. I am certain that she thinks of me as being very dull. ‘I’m finding it very boring here,’ I say. ‘In fact, I’m already thinking of becoming a lady courier.’

I do not expect Penny to be very enthusiastic but she jumps at the idea. ‘Sizzling privates!’ she exclaims. ‘What a top hole wheeze. Give me the particks and I’ll flash them my credentials. Mumsy was always bemoaning the fact that I never did anything with my French.’

‘You speak French?’ I say, wishing that I had kept my mouth shut.

‘Only fluently,’ says Penny modestly. ‘It’s not as good as my Italian. I was finished on the continent, you know. In fact, I started there. Did I ever tell you about the man who rented out the parasols at St Trop?’

‘The one with the hairy wrists and the big – er, the big –’

‘Yes, that’s the one,’ says Penny cheerfully. ‘Beginner’s luck I always called it – though I wasn’t so certain at the time. It comes as a bit of a shock when you’re thirteen. Just as well I’d done a lot of riding.’

‘Quite,’ I say. Thirteen! Just think of it. I was eighteen when Geoffrey Wilkes first took advantage of my condition behind the heavy roller – or tried to. I’m still not quite certain what really happened.

‘Why are you blushing?’ hisses Natalie at my elbow. ‘Is it an obscene telephone call? Just breathe right back at them, that’s what I always do.’ In the end, I give Penny the particulars and rush upstairs to make quite certain that my letter of application gets in the post first. I am a little surprised that Climax Tours operate from Dalston High Street but I suppose that they can’t all have smart West End offices. Probably just as well when you think about it. It could be why so many of them go bust. All these overheads and ritzy brochures and things.

Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg is the name of the man I have to write to and I find it very reassuring when I see it written on an envelope. He sounds like a real gentleman, doesn’t he? I expect that he has travelled extensively and visited all the hotels we will be staying at. I don’t want to sound too unkind about Sammy Fish but he was not what Mum refers to as ‘being out of the top drawer’. I must take after her, I suppose, because I always have this hankering after someone smooth and well bred who will sweep me off my feet and introduce me to a world of elegance and luxury. Maybe Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg will turn out to be the ‘Mr Right’ I have been saving myself for – spiritually, that is. As I have said many times, virginity is a state of mind and nothing that happens to the body can affect one’s untainted status provided that one’s will is not a party to it. I have found myself in many unpleasant predicaments but never one, thank goodness, in which I have felt my Everest-high principles to be in danger of compromise. I pop the letter in the post and spend a couple of nerve-racked days waiting to see what the reply will be. I should think that such a glamorous sounding job will encourage a lot of girls to write in and my fear is that quite a few of them may share Penny’s proficiency in foreign languages. I carefully study the parts of the sauce bottle label that have not been obscured by Dad’s sloppy pouring – ‘cette sauce est de haute qualité. Une mêlange, etc’ – but in my heart of hearts I know that I have left it too late.

On the fourth day the appearance of a lilac-coloured envelope on the front doormat coincides with the sound of our neighbour’s dog trying to rip the back out of the postman’s trousers and I know that the moment of truth has arrived. With faltering fingers, I tear open the envelope and dart my eye over its contents: ‘Thank you for … letter. Hope you can … attend … interview. … 11.15 Monday. Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg.’ My heart leaps. The first hurdle overcome. Now all I have to do is make a good impression at the interview.

On the appointed day I take a bus down to Dalston and make my way along the High Street. It certainly gives you a reassuring feeling of ordinariness. There is nothing sharp or flashy about it. I am wearing my blue wool interview suit with a yellow blouse that has just the trace of see-throughs about it. I don’t want to be brazen but on the other hand, my breasts are one of my best assets. There is no point in being over-prim. I have no difficulty at all in seeing the ‘CLIMAX’ sign. It projects out into the street and flashes on and off. Mr Rafelson-Bigg is obviously switched on to the benefits of advertising. Below the sign is a large expanse of coloured glass with the drawing of a man and a woman on it. They are stretched out in a position that can best be described as horizontal and don’t appear to be wearing any clothes. I suppose they are meant to symbolise the sense of freedom you experience when you book a Climax holiday but it does seem a bit near the knuckle.

I take a quick look at myself in the mirror of my compact, make a few last minute repairs, and push open the door. The interior is not what I had been expecting. There are a lot of counters and at first glance it looks like the interior of a rather posh Woolworths. Perhaps Mr Rafelson-Bigg shares the premises with another firm.

‘How can I help you?’ The voice at my elbow is warm and reassuring and belongs to a pleasant-faced woman of about thirty.

‘I’m looking for Climax,’ I murmur.

The woman shakes her head admiringly. ‘If only everyone could be so frank. It would be so much easier to help them.’

‘Yes,’ I say, wondering what she is getting at.

‘Do you want something you can use with your partner?’ She moves towards one of the counters and I follow her, feeling more and more confused.

‘I don’t have a partner,’ I say. ‘There is my friend, Penny. She may be coming. I’m not quite sure.’

The woman stops and looks at me strangely. ‘Penny?’ she says after a pause. ‘I see. And you’re not quite certain whether she’s coming. Have you asked her?’

‘Not in so many words,’ I say. ‘I sent her all the particulars in a letter. She was very interested.’

‘That’s half the battle,’ says the woman. ‘But you must be careful. If you get too interested, too overwrought, then tension can set in. You must try and maintain a balance between freedom and control.’ She smiles at me sympathetically and I gulp. What is she talking about? She picks up a box from one of the counters. ‘Have you ever thought about a Cosiprobe Vibro-Massager?’ The woman is obviously labouring under some misapprehension about the purpose of my visit.

‘I’m – er looking for – er something – Bigg,’ I splutter. I always forget names when I get flustered.

‘Something big!?’ The woman’s face registers amazement. ‘This is the biggest we do. I don’t think there is a larger size. Maybe if you teamed it up with one of our slip-on Sensation Builders? Have you ever tried the Tweaker? Or the Stroker? Or the Squidger?’ She holds up something that looks like a finger stall with varicose veins and I take a step backwards.

‘I’m looking for the Managing Director of Climax Tours!’ I say, noticing that a degree of strain is creeping into my voice. ‘Can you please direct me to him. I do have an appointment.’

‘Climax Tours?’ Now it is the woman’s turn to look bewildered. ‘You’re looking for Climax Tours?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You mean, I’ve come to the wrong place?’

‘This is Lovecraft,’ says the woman, shedding the charm like it is an old skin. ‘You want the top floor flat next door.’

‘Lovecraft!?’ I squeak. ‘You meant that – oh no!!’ I start to retreat towards the door and knock over a pile of books entitled Eros Blows His Horn. The picture on the cover is – well, I just can’t bring myself to describe it. It certainly has nothing to do with playing the trumpet. When I get out on to the street I am still blushing. How silly of me not to notice the big sign saying Lovecraft. It is certainly a lot easier to see than the dog-eared card pinned under one of the bell pushes next door. ‘Climax Tours’ it says, plus the name of an outfit called ‘Sunfun’ which has been crossed out. There are also two other names beside that of Rafelson-Bigg which have an untidy biro line through them. I can’t really be certain but one of them looks like Sidney Noggett. Changes have obviously been made in the organisation since the cards were printed. Whilst I look and ponder, two figures appear beside me and start to scrutinise the column of names eagerly.

‘That’s him, Henry!’ says one of them triumphantly. ‘You get up there and sort him out.’ The speaker is a large suntanned woman wearing a plastic mac and a determined expression. Her companion is male and less forbidding, but equally suntanned. He stretches out his hand, gulps, and presses the bell.

‘Don’t do that, you fool! You don’t want to let him know you’re coming.’

‘I’m sorry, Edna,’ says the man, meekly. ‘Don’t you think it would be best to try and achieve retribution though the medium of a solicitor?’

‘Don’t weaken, Henry,’ says the woman, seizing him by the elbow. ‘That’s not what you were saying in Timbuktu. You were going to tear him limb from limb.’

‘I know, dear. But I was a bit overheated.’

‘I’m not surprised, it was a hundred and twelve degrees in the shade!’

While the couple argue, I wonder about the reason for their suntans and the fact that the man is wearing one of those burnous things that Omar Sharif used to dress up in before he became an all-round entertainer. Could it be that they are dissatisfied customers of my, hopefully, future employer?

‘We were told not to leave the camel train,’ says the man meekly. ‘I never thought that there was going to be a short cut across that desert.’

‘Don’t weaken, Henry!’ says the woman. ‘We would never have had to go on those camels if the coach hadn’t broken down. The only thing that kept me trudging along under that merciless sun was the thought of this moment. Now, get up those stairs!’

Henry is still protesting as he makes his way up the narrow staircase but he clearly knows who wears the baggy trousers. I follow, eager to catch my first glimpse of Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg and see how he deals with what could, potentially, be a ticklish situation. The staircase winds up and up and I am quite exhausted by the time I see the fanlight. Edna and Henry have obviously been hardened by their experiences and their breathing shows no signs of having quickened as they pause by the final flight of stairs. At its head is a door with a frosted glass panel bearing the legend ‘Climax Tours – where the other people don’t take you’.

‘You can’t argue with that,’ says Henry, wryly.

‘Don’t just stand there,’ says Edna. ‘Get in there and have it out with him. We want our money back and compensation for all the hardships we’ve suffered.’

Henry swallows hard and edges his slight frame towards the door, brushing the pyjama cord round his burnous out of his eyes. I shrink back into the shadows.

‘Miss Dixon?’ The voice is barely a whisper and comes from directly behind me. I turn and see a sign which says ‘Please leave this toilet as you would be amazed to find it’. The suave, upper crust whisper has come from behind the door which is slightly ajar.

‘Yes,’ I murmur. ‘What –?’

‘Sssh!’ A jacketed arm revealing one and a half inches of crisp white cuff appears round the door and a long finger oozing character and decisiveness beckons to me. I watch Edna follow Henry through the door of the Climax office, and do as the finger bids me.

Standing in front of the toilet is a tall, elegantly dressed young man carrying a briefcase. I am glad to be able to report that everything about his clothing is as it should be. He draws me towards him and closes the door.

‘Sorry about this,’ he says. ‘I’m Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg. It must seem a bit strange, interviewing you in the loo.’

‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘That’s quite all right. I mean, well – I suppose it is a bit unusual.’

‘Going through a very trying time at the moment,’ says Jeremy, offering me a cigarette and nonchalantly tapping one against the cistern. ‘The trouble with this business is that you’re at the mercy of other people. Hotels, drivers, mechanics –’ he pauses and looks me up and down – as much down as he can in such a confined space ‘– couriers, even. It’s a swinish responsibility trying to tie up all the loose ends.’

‘It must be very difficult,’ I say.

‘And of course, you know who carries the can? Old muggins, yours truly. Sssh!’ He applies a cornflower blue eye to a crack in the door. ‘They’re still up there.’

‘Who are they?’ I whisper.

‘Our North African tour. They’re the first ones back.’ Jeremy shakes his head. ‘I suppose it was a bit ambitious really. Forty-eight tribes in seven days. Half of them had blood feuds against each other. I got a ransom note the other day.’

‘How awful!’ I murmur. ‘Are the family going to pay?’

Jeremy taps his briefcase. ‘They already have. I’m going to handle the drop myself – eventually. That’s why I’m in here. I don’t want anything to happen to the money.’ He nods towards his office. ‘Of course, I have tremendous sympathy with those people but I think my first duty is towards Abdul Ben Schmuk.’

‘Abdul Ben Schmuk?’ I say. ‘That sounds like an Arab name.’

‘It is an Arab name,’ says Jeremy. ‘He’s the one whose being held to ransom. Some of the people on the coach turned very nasty and said that they wouldn’t give him back unless we flew them home. We get some shocking troublemakers, sometimes, you know.’ Jeremy brushes the hair from his eyes and I feel really sorry for him. It must be a terrible responsibility running an organisation like this.

‘I know I’m very stupid,’ I say. ‘But how does the ransom money get to be in this country?’

‘It’s all invested here,’ says Jeremy, peering through the crack again. ‘It’s oil money. A lot of the Arabs invest over here, you know. Damn! They’re still not going. We’ll have to climb out of the window.’ He turns to me almost as an afterthought. ‘I take it you want the job?’

My heart leaps with excitement. Can he be serious? Jeremy misunderstands the reason for my hesitation. ‘You won’t have to go to North Africa. I was a fool to try and compete with those safari boys – especially with a double decker bus.’

‘It must have been very handy for looking over the sand dunes,’ I say.

Jeremy shakes his head admiringly. ‘I believe it was,’ he says. ‘Damn clever of you to pick up on a detail like that. You’d be a real asset to the company. It’s not often one comes across your mixture of extravagant beauty and stunning brainpower.’

I blush and look down into the toilet bowl before raising my eyes swiftly. Nobody has ever paid me a compliment like that before. I warm to the man immediately.

‘I’ll have to think it over,’ I say, ‘But I’m very interested.’

‘Capital!’ says Jeremy. ‘Stand on the seat and I’ll help you out on to the ledge. The fire escape is just round to the left. Don’t look down and mind out for that thing the window catch slots on to – oh, sorry!!’