Confessions of a Physical Wrac

Contents

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

About the Author

Also by Timothy Lea and Rosie Dixon

Copyright

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

If I am going to be honest with myself – and I do try to be, most of the time – I must confess that the idea of joining the Women’s Royal Army Corps only seriously occurs to me when the police arrest Reginald Parkinson – alias Nicholas Bendon, Justin Cartwright, Benedict Jollybags and Jeremy Rafelsen-Bigg – I never do find out what his real name is.

Regular readers will recall that he is the boss of Climax Tours and that my friend Penny Green and myself have been at full stretch all over the Continent – and the incontinent, sometimes – wrestling with the many problems that arise when you are in charge of a package tour party.

Penny says that she is not surprised to find the police waiting at the bottom of the fire escape when we flee from the Climax London office which is being besieged by angry clients wanting their money back (see Confessions from a Package Tour for enthralling details) and I suppose, of late, I have begun to entertain suspicions that all is not well with the running of the Climax operation. When a company has so many different headings on its notepaper and is run from a suitcase packed with wads of banknotes and deposited in new accommodation every week it is difficult to think of it as having quite that permanence and dependability which are the hallmarks of great British commercial institutions.

What does surprise me is the violence that is resorted to at the bottom of the fire escape. No sooner have Reggy and his colleague, William Nostromo ‘Nosher’ Bustard – alias Count Sergio di Ponsi – thrown the bulging suitcase into the Jag and started to scramble after it – very bad manners not to have waited for Penny and myself – than a policeman steps out of the shadows.

‘Leonard Arthur Brown,’ he says, ‘I have a warrant for your arrest. Anything you say will be taken down –’

‘Knickers!’ snarls my employer.

I don’t know if that is what gives the constable who grabs me the idea, but his hand goes up underneath my skirt in a very arresting fashion. Perhaps he is attached to the squad that breaks up pop festivals. Anyway, it is a most disquieting experience. Especially as I haven’t done anything.

‘Let me go!’ I say, struggling to remove the man’s hand from the rim of my panties. ‘This is an outrage! I’ll write to my MP!’

‘You can write to Jimmy Young about it for all I care,’ says the coarse copper man handling me – and how – towards a police car.

One thing that the awful experience does reveal to me is that policemen carry two truncheons. I can feel both of them pressing against me at various stages of my ordeal. Interesting, isn’t it? I suppose they carry a spare one for emergencies or for serious riots when they have to whip them both out and wade in swinging. I would like to ask about it but I am so angry with the beast who has interfered with my underwear that I preserve a stony silence all the way to the station. Penny is travelling with me and Reggy and Nosher are in a second car with six policemen – about half the number it took to overcome them. Honestly, I have not seen such violent goings on since Dad came back unexpectedly and found my younger sister Natalie and one of her disgusting boyfriends practising limbo dancing – well, that is what they said they were doing. I have my own view of why they were half naked and underneath the dining-room table.

‘What’s going to happen to us?’ says Penny. ‘We’re just employees, you know.’

The policeman shrugs. ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask the Super. He’s the one who’ll decide whether you’re going to be charged.’

‘Is that the distinguished looking man with an air of the young Gary Cooper?’ says Penny. ‘The one with the dinky little silver clasps on his shoulders?’

The policeman looks as surprised as I am. The man I recall as being in charge of the operation was overweight and had an air of the young Martin Borman. ‘Er – I don’t know,’ says the constable. ‘You’ll find out soon enough, I expect.’

No more is said before we get to the station but Penny turns and gives me a big wink. I wonder what she is up to?

When we arrive at what Penny persists in calling ‘fuzzville’ we are separated and put in cells. At least it is not one big cage full of junkies and tarts like you see in American films but it is still pretty awful. The thought of what the neighbours would think if they could see me fills me with horror. And as for Mum and Dad –! The shock might kill them. I am still trembling when I hear the sound of a key turning and the cell door opens. It is the Superintendent who made the arrest. He is carrying his hat under his arm and it looks as if he has just combed his fast receding hair. He peers behind him carefully and comes into the cell, closing the hatch over the peephole before he does so. It may be my imagination but his state of discomfiture seems to match my own.

‘Hum,’ he says, ‘It’s funny but my name is Gary.’

For a moment I can’t think what he means. Why should he think it necessary to visit my cell and impart this information?

‘Gary Nuttley.’

I am on the point of saying that from the look of his hairline I thought it might be Gary Baldy but I control myself. I seldom think of the police as having a highly developed sense of humour. Especially these days when they have so much on their minds.

The man clearly senses my bewilderment. ‘Not Gary Cooper,’ he says with an uncomfortable laugh that breaks in the middle.

Then it comes to me. Someone must have told him what Penny said and he has got the two of us confused. ‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t –’, I am about to say that it was not me who thought that he looked like Gary Cooper and then I decide against it. There is no point in risking antagonising the man. Quite the reverse, in fact. ‘It wasn’t that which made me hesitate,’ I say. ‘It was – er your uniform. It’s very becoming, isn’t it?’

Superintendent Nuttley looks down at the stained worsted as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Yes,’ he says after a pause. ‘I suppose it is really. Quite manly.’ There is a moment’s uncomfortable silence and then he clears his throat and rubs his hands together briskly. ‘This is a bad business,’ he says.

‘You mean, the Police Force?’ I say. ‘Oh, I am sorry. The advertisements speak very highly of it. Rewarding and –’

‘I was not referring to a career as a police officer,’ says Nuttley. ‘That is indeed – er – what you said. I was referring to obtaining money under false pretences, fraud and extortion. All offences with which I am charging your partners.’

‘Not partners,’ I say. ‘Mr Parkinson was my employer but I hardly ever saw him. I still haven’t had my salary.’

Nuttley gives a sort of snorting laugh. ‘You can kiss that goodbye,’ he says. Oh dear, I had a nasty feeling that something like this might happen. I bet Reggy didn’t stamp my cards up to date either. ‘You’ve been very foolish, haven’t you?’ says Nuttley.

‘Yes, I suppose I have,’ I say. ‘Gracious. What is going to happen to me?’

A slight blush colours Nuttley’s cheeks and he glances at the still-shut peephole before speaking. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘That’s up to you. Of course, I have my duty to do and I should prefer charges, but, not to put too fine a point on it, I’d prefer something else.’

For a moment I think that Superintendent Nuttley has put too fine a point on it. What is he getting at? ‘I am innocent,’ I say.

Superintendent Nuttley is now breathing heavily and I can see beads of perspiration on his temples. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I believe that. That’s why I’m giving you this chance. And because you like Gary Cooper, don’t you?’

‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘I never miss High Noon every time it’s on the telly. I don’t think the small screen spoils it at all. “Do not forsake me oh my darling, on this our –” ’

‘Yes.’ The pressure of Superintendent Nuttley’s hand on my wrist cuts short my nervous rendition of the captivating ballad from what should be one of his favourite films. ‘What I’m trying to say is that I’ll release you if you give me release. Do I make myself clear?’ Before I can properly assemble my scattered senses, the brute has clutched me to him and is attempting to invade my lips. ‘Think of it!’ he breathes. ‘No nasty publicity. No having to stand up in court and admit that you were Brown’s mistress.’

‘That’s a lie!’ I shout.

‘Do you deny that you slept with him?’ says Nuttley, pausing in mid-maul.

‘The man plied me with strong liquor and took advantage of me,’ I explain. ‘It only happened once or twice.’

‘Huh!’ says Nuttley. ‘That won’t stand up in court – not like this will!’

So saying, the shameless guardian of law and order takes a step backwards and lets his hands drop to the top of his trousers. Fortunately, if such a word has a place in a recital of such harrowing events, frequently lamented exposure to this kind of situation has prepared me for what is likely to happen next and the shock is bearable. The zip of Superintendent Nuttley’s trousers plunges southwards and his erect pussy pummeller pops into the open like a pet that has been dying to be let out for walkies.

‘Super –’ I begin.

‘Thank you,’ says Nuttley. ‘Lie down on the –’

‘Superintendent,’ I repeat. ‘Please allow me to finish! Do you realise that as a result of this, I hope, isolated lapse, your future career could be in jeopardy – or some other even more distant part of the fast shrinking British Empire? Tuck yourself away before it is too late.’

‘Stop teasing,’ says Nuttley, pressing himself against me again. ‘Just imagine that it’s the real Gary Cooper.’

‘But he’s been dead for years!’ I say, recoiling from the thought. ‘Keep your hands to yourself!’

Yes, once again, the boys in blue seem intent on being the boys in bloomers. Nuttley’s fingers swarm over the top of my panties like a junkful of Chinese pirates – they are short, squat and yellow with nicotine stains – and I prepare to take desperate measures.

‘If you don’t stop, I’ll scream,’ I say. ‘Then you’ll be back pounding the beat. It’ll be back to the wanks – I mean ranks!’

‘I wouldn’t open your mouth if I were you – your legs but not your mouth,’ says the coarse love bandit. ‘I could make it very sticky for you.’ This possibility has never been far from my own mind. ‘How would you like to look down from the dock and see your mother and father sitting in court, the tears streaming down their faces?’

The minute he speaks those words, my resolution wilts and my grip on the thrusting wrist slackens. How would I like it indeed? I have already answered that question. Nuttley has touched me on a soft spot. I allow him to continue unhindered whilst I consider my best course of action. If I let him have his way with me, Penny and I will doubtless be released and my mother and father spared unthinkable suffering and embarrassment. Having established that side of the matter, is it worth examining any other? The man is, of course, a disgrace to the uniform he wears but have I in all consciousness any alternative but to comply with his demands? The answer must be no. At least my principles will not be compromised.

The raising of this last point makes me feel that a word of explanation may be necessary to any new readers. It is easy, for male minds in particular, to think that a girl who finds herself in a compromising situation with a man must be, to some extent at least, responsible for her situation and therefore tainted. I would not like to think that such a charge might be levelled at me. I always have been, and always will be, determined to save myself for my one-day Mr Right. I fear that I must make a further digression to explain the meaning of that last phrase. Certain unkind persons have suggested that it refers to the likely length of my relationship with my Mr Right. In reality, of course, it is merely a way of saying that one day I will come upon the right person and that from that moment on our lives will be indissolubly mixed. Anyway, to get back to the main point I was making. I consider it very important to preserve my virginity – the most precious gift that a girl can give to her betrothed on their wedding night – and to this end I have resisted all kinds of temptations, even when quite fond of people.

However – and there always seems to be a however, these days, doesn’t there? – it is important to understand what I mean by virginity. Basically, it is intending to give yourself to someone. There are occasions in any girl’s life when things happen over which she has no control. She was intoxicated, or subjected to emotional blackmail, or trying to protect a dear friend from a similar fate – there are many circumstances in which the event can take place. What is important is that if she did not want what happened to happen then she did not lose her virginity. Virginity is purely a state of mind. I mean, you can lose your virginity riding a horse but no one would suggest – no, the very idea is too painful!

I hope all this makes my position clear and explains why I can view the unsavoury attentions of Superintendent Gary Nuttley with something approaching a relaxed mind. Goodness! He may be devious and underhand but nobody could call him a bent copper. His night stick is stiff as a ramrod and only slightly shorter. It has occurred to me before in this kind of situation that Mother Nature is very haphazard with her gifts. It is often the most unprepossessing men who carry the largest armaments – not of course that size has any relation to satisfaction. That resides solely in the mind of the receiver – at least, that is what I imagine to be the case. In order to protect my principles I have always shut myself off from sensation when impaled upon the end of an uncalled-for jolly lolly. I try to think about freshly mown grass or something wholesome and British. My friend Penny supplies most of my information concerning sexual matters – both by example and description. Regular readers will not need reminding that she is rather fast and outspoken though I think she does it mainly for effect. I have concluded that she is the product of an unsettled home life and that underneath she is little different from me. She is also rather upper class, which makes a difference. They seem to want everybody to know about things the rest of us would like to keep private, don’t they?

Anyhow, what I am trying to say is that Superintendent Nuttley has a big one. It is also a very naughty big one and it is pushing itself up underneath my skirt like one of those embarrassing dogs that always appear when you are having tea with the vicar – they usually belong to the vicar, too. In fact, Nuttley is rather like a big, clumsy Airedale and I wonder whether it is altogether wholesome to proceed with the thought as he slips his hands round to the back of my panties and begins to force them down.

‘You’re taking advantage of me,’ I say. ‘You’ll regret this afterwards.’

‘I doubt it,’ says the crude creature, puffing as he bends to help my frillies over my heels. ‘I’m just trying to do what’s best for both of us. You help me and I’ll help you. After all, that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?’ He looks around for somewhere to put my panties and ends up by draping them over the peephole. ‘That’s better. Now we can be nice and private.’ So saying, he rips the threadbare, grey blanket off the bed and spreads it out on the floor with a flourish. For some reason the gesture reminds me of Sir Walter Raleigh and Queen Elizabeth – though obviously not in similar circumstances. She would hardly have granted him the patent to make all those bicycles if he had been about to do what Superintendent Nuttley is clearly about to do. ‘Come on, there’s a good girl,’ he says. ‘Lie down and enjoy it. Think what it would be like if you were on probation and you had to come round here every week.’

The remark is presumably meant to offer me some comfort but it fails miserably in its objective. It is with heavy heart and bra lightened by the removal of my breasts that I reluctantly allow myself to be drawn down to floor level. Nuttley continues to snuffle amongst what many consider to be my best feature and again the unhappy analogy with the Airedale invades my mind. I reject it and bite my lip as I feel my skirt being tugged upwards and crude hands forcing my thighs apart. ‘Right,’ says my attacker. ‘Let’s see if the fuzz can tickle your fancy.’

‘Please!’ I say. ‘Suspend your jocularity.’

‘I haven’t worn one since I gave up playing rugger for the Metropolitan Police,’ says the stupid fool. ‘I was a scrum half in those days. Always putting it in. Stand by: “Coming in left, police. Coming in now!” ’

I close my eyes. Why does it always have to be me? I’m certain other girls don’t go through what I go through. Flashers hitchhike half the length of the country to expose themselves to me. If there was a sex maniac on the loose he would end up hiding under my bed. There is clearly something about me that attracts the wrong type of man – and, I fear, vice versa. I do have a habit of falling for rotters. There is obviously something not completely above board about Reggy, or whatever his name is, and I know that he deceived me with Penny. You don’t seem to be able to trust anyone these days.

The only man who has always played the white man with me is my old boyfriend, Geoffrey Wilkes – well, when I say ‘always’ I mean nearly always. There was that occasion behind the heavy roller at the Eastwood Lawn Tennis Club dance but I don’t think that anything happened. They don’t come much whiter than Geoffrey – in fact, he is almost slug-like. I know that he wants to marry me. He told me so after he had made love to me at Penny’s house – oh yes. I suppose there was that occasion as well. Though, of course, I was drunk and did not know what I was doing. I probably imagined it in fact. Perhaps I should settle down with Geoffrey?

It is strange, but no sooner has the thought occurred to me than the gross organ straining inside my narrow love channel becomes the harbinger of something not totally unakin to pleasure. (You can tell who got the form prize for creative writing, can’t you?) It is as if some outside force is trying to tell me something. Every probing thrust is saying ‘Geoffrey Wilkes! Geoffrey Wilkes!’ I have noticed something like this happening before but never in association with a specific name. Fate, taking pity on me as I lay writhing beneath the onslaught of some unwanted love lance, has allowed me a taste of the pleasure that will one day accrue when I am cohabiting with my Mr Right – a sort of trailer for the big feature to come, so to speak.

‘How are you liking it?’ pants Superintendent Nuttley. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it?’

I hurriedly remove the careless hands that have been guilty of pulling Nuttley’s power unit closer to me. I would hate him to get the wrong idea. This depravity has gone on long enough and even though I am transferring my feelings to the distant Geoffrey they are too strong for comfort. I tap Nuttley on the shoulder and pretend to see something behind him.

‘Someone’s coming!’ I hiss.

A long shudder passes through the Superintendent’s body and emerges in a region I would prefer not to to mention. ‘Too true, darling,’ he groans. ‘Too t-r-r-r-r-ue!’

CHAPTER TWO

‘Phew, I never thought we’d get out of that so easily,’ says Penny after Nuttley, true to his word, has released us and we are scuttling down the steps of the police station.

‘Easily?’ I say, trying to stop a note of hysteria from creeping into my voice.

‘Yes,’ says Penny. ‘I thought the only thing that would work would be a sweetener. That’s why I tossed in that bit about Gary Cooper. I thought it might get him going but he didn’t bite.’

‘He didn’t bite you!’ I say, feeling the side of my neck which must look like a piece of uncooked steak.

‘Rosie! You don’t mean –?’

‘Yes, dear! You dropped me right in it. He thought I was the one who fancied him. I had to bear the brunt.’

‘Bare the what –?’

‘The brunt, Penny! Do listen. I had to bare the other thing as well but that’s not what I was referring to.’

‘I bet he had a big one,’ says Penny.

‘Is that all you can say?’ I scold. ‘After what I’ve just been through. “I bet he had a big one”. Is that all the sympathy you can dredge up for a close friend who has given her all to get you out of prison?’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Penny. ‘I just wanted to see if I was right, that’s all. Did he have a big one?’

‘I didn’t really look at it,’ I say.

‘So you didn’t go down on him?’ says Penny losing none of her interest for the unspeakable details.

‘Penny!’ I say, feeling my cheeks redden. ‘I’m not certain I know what that means, though I’m certain I don’t want to find out.’

‘I was referring to a blow job,’ says Penny as I might have guessed she would. ‘Otherwise known as “chewing the fat”, “gnawing the nunga”, “slurping the gherkin” or “pork without talk”.’

‘Please!’ I say. ‘I can assure you that nothing so uneatable – I mean, unspeakable – took place. To answer your first question, my tortured senses do suggest to me that the base member was one of the larger variety. Now let us leave the subject alone!’

Penny shakes her head ruefully. ‘You’re a quiet one and no mistake. There I am, trying to find something worth reading in a back number of the Police Gazette, and you’re getting outside another champion marrow arrow. Tell me, what is the secret of your success with men?’

‘I wish I knew,’ I say. ‘Then I could do something about it. You don’t think I seriously get any pleasure out of all these awful things that happen to me, do you?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Penny. ‘You puzzle me. I’ve never met a girl quite like you. You seem innocent but –’

I wait hopefully but nothing happens. ‘Go on,’ I say.

‘Well,’ says Penny. ‘It’s not easy to put my finger on – not like some other things – but I think you sort of ask for some of the things that happen to you. Maybe it’s fate or something like that.’

‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘I think you’ve hit on it. Without really knowing it. I’ve been crying out for a permanent attachment and my senses have got all jangled up.’ I can see Penny looking bewildered and I start talking faster. ‘But don’t worry, I’ve sorted myself out now and I think I know what I should do. There’s a boy at home called Geoffrey Wilkes, I don’t know if I’ve talked to you about him?’

‘From what you said he sounded a bit of a drip,’ says Penny.

‘If that’s what I said then I wasn’t being very fair,’ I say. ‘He’s not fantastically exciting but he’s got lots of good qualities. He’s dependable and – and –’

‘And what?’ says Penny.

‘And he’s awfully good at tennis,’ I say, after racking my brains. ‘He won the mixed doubles at the Eastwood Lawn Tennis Club last year.’

‘All by himself?’ says Penny. ‘My, that’s what I call an all rounder.’

‘You can sneer,’ I say. ‘But I think that his homespun values are what I’ve been looking for all this time without really knowing it.’