Confessions from an Escort Agency. Rosie Dixon
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doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘Come on, Geoffrey! We’ll be here for ever if you don’t get a move on.’ Still grumbling, he does as I tell him and we fall in behind the car which has the coffin in it.
‘Lovely flowers,’ I say. Geoffrey must be sulking because he does not say anything. Five minutes later, the hearse takes a sharp right turn and we carry on.
‘Try and make a bit of speed now,’ I say. ‘Surely you can overtake him.’
Geoffrey says something about back-seat drivers but he does as I say – Geoffrey always does as I say – and puts his foot down.
‘Well done,’ I say. ‘I think maybe, next time, you’d better do it on the outside.’
‘I thought he was going to turn right,’ says Geoffrey. ‘Ooops!’ We get past the fire engine all right and I look back to make sure that we have not given any of the men clinging to the side the brush off. I am most surprised when I see another Daimler clinging to our tracks – and another – and another!
‘Geoffrey!’ I say. ‘How awful. They’re following us.’
‘The police?’ Geoffrey stands on the brakes and I see the whites of the driver behind’s eyes as he tries to avoid going into the back of us.
‘No, the funeral party.’
Geoffrey looks over his shoulder and shares my view of the black hats, veils and sombre expressions.
‘Gosh! We’d better stop and tell them.’
‘There isn’t time,’ I squeak. ‘It’s touch and go as it is. Keep going and I’ll attract their attention.’
I should have said try and attract their attention. I have never met such a load of zombies. I wave my arms about and shake my head and point to the side streets and there is no reaction at all – apart from one woman who bursts into tears. The others just stare at me.
‘Here we are,’ sings out Geoffrey. ‘Damn! There’s a great queue of cars.’
‘Go up where it says “Taxis Only”,’ I say. ‘This is an emergency.’
Well, I must say. I am very disappointed in the attitude of the taxi drivers. I had always thought them such a bluff, cheerful lot, hadn’t you? The kind of people who would give you the shirt off their back in an emergency. The lot we bump into outside the station would not give you an old surgical support. I suppose it is unfortunate that five Daimlers follow us into the taxi rank but it is not our fault that people with suitcases start wrenching open the doors and climbing inside the minute they have stopped.
‘West London Air Terminal and step on it!’ I hear one of them shout.
‘’Ere! What do you think you’re doing!?’ says a large man with a red face and a luggage label fastened to his lapel. Before Geoffrey can open his mouth, the man starts dragging him out of the car and shouting ‘Bleeding minicab drivers!!’ Mini cab, I ask you! It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? The Daimler is built like a furniture van.
I am trying to say goodbye to Geoffrey when a very agitated woman dressed in black runs up to me and says, ‘Where’s my Dick?’
For a moment I don’t know what to say. I mean, I am a little overwrought and there are some very funny people about. Then it dawns on me. Dick must be the deceased.
‘I think he went up to High Holborn,’ I say. ‘You shouldn’t have followed us. We’re nothing to do with the funeral.’
For some reason the woman reacts very badly to this and tries to hit me with her umbrella. I know she is under strain but, really, it is a bit much with all the problems I have. Geoffrey is sinking to his knees under a rain of blows and all around me there are scuffles breaking out as the funeral party refuse to leave their cars, people try to scramble into them with suitcases, and cabbies assault the drivers. Sometimes I think that all this stuff about the British remaining cool in emergencies is blooming rubbish.
CHAPTER 2
In which Rosie visits an Oxford college and endures some disgusting experiences at the hands – and other things – of the Hon. Ward-Virgins and his friends.
Of course, the culmination of the whole sordid business is that I miss my train. I am absolutely furious about it and can hardly wait for Geoffrey to regain consciousness before telling him what I think of him.
‘I’ve tried to ring through but the phone is out of order and the next train doesn’t leave for an hour,’ I say. ‘Geoffrey, how could you? You sit there calmly bleeding into that handkerchief and my world has collapsed in ruins.’
I must say that Geoffrey is very good about it. When I have calmed down and the bleeding has stopped he gives his name and address to the police, collects all the pieces that have been broken off the car, and suggests that he drives me to Oxford.
‘You’ll probably be able to catch up with your friend at this party,’ he says. ‘Where is it? St Peter’s Hall?’
I am slightly worried by the prospect of Geoffrey cramping my style but on the other hand, beggars can’t be choosers, can they? Better to arrive encumbered than not at all. The journey to Oxford is quite remarkable in that we do not have any form of accident on the way. Not one teeny-weeny prang. Maybe it is this that lulls me into a sense of false security. I close my eyes and try to sleep but all the time I am thinking of the hundreds of years of tradition and noble breeding that I will shortly be part of. I do hope that I do not feel out of my depth and that Geoffrey does not say anything to let me down. Although he plays tennis for Eastwood Tennis Club and watches ‘Aquarius’, Geoffrey is not as intellectual as he would like people to think. We ask the way in Oxford and find that St Peter’s is between Woolworths and Mothercare and I begin to get goose pimples. Soon I will be setting foot on those flagstones mellowed by contact with the great minds of history. Who knows? – Perhaps Dudley Moore went here?
‘There it is.’
Geoffrey slows down and I suck in my breath. It is just as I imagined it would be: the gold-topped railings, the warm brick buildings, the window boxes full of flowers, the man with shoulder-length hair and a placard saying ‘The Senior Tutor is a Stupid Old Fart.’ – wait a minute! How did he get here?
‘Good, isn’t it?’ says Geoffrey. ‘Where shall I park?’ Half an hour later we have walked back to the street containing the college.
‘Just look at those windows,’ I say. ‘What beautiful sashes.’
‘They are nice,’ agrees Geoffrey. ‘I like the ones with the little dogs and the horseshoes.’
Would you believe that the stupid fool is looking in the window of Woolworths? Oh dear, I feel that he is going to be completely at sea once we get inside the college. We get back to the front gate of the college and Geoffrey puts down my suitcase.
‘Do you know where to go?’ he asks.
I do not answer at once because I am busy looking at a line of men lying against the wall. One or two are reading but most are staring into space. Very odd. We go into a little office and there is a middle-aged man with a bowler hat standing behind a desk.
‘I’m looking for a party,’ I say.
The man behind the desk looks at my suitcase. ‘Are you Fi Fi La Knocker?’ he says.
‘Most definitely not!’ I say. ‘What would a person like that be doing here?’
‘The cabaret for the Rugby Club smoker,’ says the caretaker.
‘That’s what you might call a party.’
‘I don’t think my friend would be going to that,’ I say. ‘She’s not very sporty.’
The caretaker laughs. ‘Neither are the Rugby Club. They haven’t won a game in three years.’
‘Are