Confessions from an Escort Agency. Rosie Dixon

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СКАЧАТЬ awfully sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ll get you another one.’

      I can see the whites of Dad’s knuckles as he clenches his fists. ‘Don’t leave the head lying there,’ he says. ‘It looks like John the Baptist saving Salome the trouble.’

      ‘Oh very good,’ says Geoffrey. ‘Did you hear that—?’ His voice trails away when he reads the expression on Dad’s face. ‘Sorry again, Mr Nix–Dixon. I’ll–er—’ Geoffrey trips over the brick edging to the garden path and throws his arms forward so that the cherub’s head describes a graceful semi-circle and shatters a cucumber frame.

      ‘Come on, Geoffrey. We must be going or we’ll miss the train,’ I say helpfully.

      ‘Get out!’ screams Dad. ‘Get out!!’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ says Geoffrey. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’ He tries to close the garden gate behind him and the catch snaps off.

      ‘Don’t touch anything!’ I beg him. ‘Whatever you do, don’t touch anything!’

      Geoffrey is shaking when he gets in the car and he tries three keys before he finds the right one for the ignition.

      ‘She’s a bit stiff,’ he says. ‘I wish that damn fool hadn’t boxed us in behind.’

      ‘Careful,’ I say. ‘That’s—’ I am going to say ‘Dad’s car’ but after Geoffrey has backed into it there doesn’t seem much point. I don’t want to upset him unnecessarily.

      ‘Are we all right on that side?’ asks Geoffrey. I wrench my eyes away from the water seeping out of Dad’s radiator and shoot a quick glance at the car in front. Dad has heard the crash and is coming down the garden path – fast.

      ‘I think so,’ I say. As it turns out, I am wrong, but we only catch the car in front a glancing blow before pulling out into the middle of the road. ‘What’s the acceleration like?’ I ask. Fortunately, Geoffrey is able to show me, just as Dad lunges for the door handle.

      ‘Very good,’ I say.

      Geoffrey glances in the rear view mirror. ‘Why’s that chap lying in the middle of the road, shaking his fist at us?’ he says.

      ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Mind out, you’ll hit this milk float!’

      ‘Which milk float?’

      ‘The one you’ve just hit,’ I say, looking over my shoulder. Honestly, I have never left Chingford with a greater sense of relief. If we are going to have an accident I would much rather we had it somewhere other than on my own doorstep.

      It soon becomes clear that Geoffrey is in a terrible state and not at all at ease at the wheel of the mighty Daimler. He is crawling along and at this rate it is obvious that we are going to miss the train. The rush hour traffic doesn’t help, either.

      ‘Don’t you know any short cuts?’ I say, beginning to get desperate. ‘You’ll find it easier in the side roads anyway.’

      As it turns out, I am wrong. With cars parked all over the place it is very difficult to manoeuvre and we soon find ourselves going slower than ever. I am rather angry with Geoffrey for accepting my suggestion but I try and control myself.

      ‘We’ll have to get back on the main road,’ I say. ‘Pull out now! Come on!!’

      ‘But it’s a funeral,’ says Geoffrey.

      ‘It 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, СКАЧАТЬ