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,
