A Nanny Named Nick

The unexpected sight of a very still Madge lying at the bottom of the stairs was self-explanatory. Nick sucked in a shocked breath then raced to see to the inert figure’s plight.

A pulse reassured him she was still alive. Her colour wasn’t good, however. He wondered if she’d had a fall or a coronary. He was about to start resuscitation procedures when Madge groaned, her eyelids fluttering open.

‘What happened?’ Nick asked swiftly.

Her eyes closed for a moment, then opened painfully again.

‘Fell,’ she rasped. ‘Dizzy. My side hurts. I think I might have broken something.’

‘I’ll call an ambulance straight away,’ he said, glancing around. ‘Where’s the phone? Right, I see it. Hang on, Madge. We’ll have you in hospital before you can say lickety split.’

‘Rory,’ she croaked weakly as the baby’s cries heightened even further, if that were possible.

‘Is he in a cot?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Then he’ll live. You come first, Madge. After I’ve rung the ambulance I’ll go get him.’

‘All right,’ she agreed, sighing.

Nick dialled the emergency number and was assured an ambulance would be dispatched immediately. Then he dashed up the stairs, following the racket to a bedroom where a red-faced infant of perhaps twelve months was standing in his cot, screaming and shaking the sides as though the hounds of hell were after him. Nick took one look at the fury of the child’s tantrum, at his big liquid dark eyes and thick mop of black curls, and decided his father must have been in the Mafia.

On sighting Nick, Rory stopped mid-scream for a split second, as though assessing this stranger who didn’t look at all like his mother or Madge. And then he found his second wind and began to bawl again, even more fortissimo than before.

Nick shrugged, walked over and scooped him up, balancing him on his hip and ignoring his piercing protests.

‘Do shut up, Rory,’ he said sternly. ‘Madge is hurt and the last thing she needs is to listen to your infernal wailing.’

Rory fell silent a second time, round eyes inspecting this person who knew his name and who spoke with such authority. Nick noticed there wasn’t a real tear in sight on his chubby cheeks.

He smiled wryly. ‘You old faker, you.’

Rory suddenly smiled back, a gloriously brilliant smile which showed the beginnings of a tooth just breaking through his gummy mouth.

Nick felt something curl around his heart, then squeeze tight. The sensation shocked then annoyed him.

‘Not on your life, you little con man,’ he muttered as he carried the child from the room. ‘You can’t get round me as easily as that.’

But it seemed he could.

As could Madge.

Nick found himself promising her all sorts of things—the main one being that he would stay and look after Rory till his mother got home.

‘If you think you can manage, that is,’ Madge added faintly.

Unfortunately, Nick had already shown how well he could manage during the fifteen minutes it took the ambulance to arrive. In that short space of time he’d made Madge comfortable on the floor, changed Rory’s nappy and given him some orange juice. The child had really taken to him, too. Either that or he liked playing with his hair, which, though not really long, was a darned sight longer than Madge’s tight frizzy curls.

Whatever, there was not a peep of further protest from his rosebud mouth, which was apparently unusual. Rory, Nick was beginning to appreciate, had a reputation not dissimilar to Linda’s—he could be...difficult.

Unfortunately, however, his mother could not be contacted before Madge’s departure. Her work number was engaged. So Nick’s promise to stay with Rory till his mother got home looked like being more than a simple half-hour of emergency babysitting. Madge said Linda should be home by five at the latest, but that was a couple of hours away.

Still, what else could he do? Madge was in pain and had enough to worry about. Luckily, he’d been able to contact Madge’s eldest daughter, who lived on the North Shore and said she’d go straight to the hospital.

After the ambulance left, Nick carried Rory outside where with one hand he wheeled his much valued bike inside the walled-in front yard. He didn’t mind playing knight to the rescue, as long as he didn’t lose his trusty steed. Tossing his equally trusty rucksack over his spare shoulder, he went back inside and set about filling in the time till Rory’s mother came home.

He found a television in a family room upstairs, and sat watching a football match with Rory on his lap. By half-time Rory was beginning to droop, so Nick put him back in his cot and was gratified when those big dark eyes closed.

He watched the sleeping child for a while, fascinated by the way his baby lips made little in-and-out movements as he slept. He wasn’t twelve months old, as he’d first thought. He was just on nine months, Madge had informed him.

‘Cute little beggar,’ he said as he turned and tiptoed from the room.

Nick tried Linda’s number again. Still engaged. Frustrated, he rang Sister Augustine and explained he might not arrive tonight after all, giving him plenty of leeway. He didn’t explain what he was doing, for fear of all the wrong conclusions she might come to. Sister Augustine had for too long tried to talk him into settling down, and Nick did not want to give her false hopes. He just told her he’d been held up on the road with mechanical difficulties.

After he hung up, he tried Linda’s work number again. Still engaged. He bet it was an office full of women. Women sure liked to talk. Sister Augustine would rattle on for hours whenever he visited, questioning and probing, wanting to hear about everything he’d done since his last visit. But she wasn’t content with finding out the whats and wheres; she always wanted to know the whys and the wherefores.

And she always asked him how he was feeling these days. Didn’t females know a man liked to keep his feelings to himself? Why did they always have to chip away at you till you either exploded or simply walked away?

Nick was scowling as he marched back upstairs to check on Rory. But his scowl softened to a smile when he peeped over the side of the cot. Sleeping like a baby. All that yelling must have tired him out.

Nick’s watch showed three-twenty—still ages away from Linda’s anticipated home time. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. A shave was called for, he decided. And a shower. He couldn’t have the lady of the house thinking he was some kind of yobo.

But first he did a swift reconnoitre of the top floor. There was a bathroom right next to Rory’s room, separating the nursery from a large bedroom which opened out onto a back balcony with an even better view of the harbour than downstairs. On the other side opposite the nursery lay a third, smaller bedroom plus the family room where Nick had already spent some time and which also led out onto that same back balcony.

The decor upstairs was cosy and comfy as opposed to the starkly modern look of downstairs. Wall-to-wall smoky grey carpet covered all the floors. The spacious family room was especially relaxing, and very functional.

A huge wrap-around sofa covered in royal blue velvet faced the large entertainment unit which contained a television, video and sound system. There was a large grey granite-topped bar in one corner which doubled as a kitchenette. Besides the small built-in fridge, there was a long counter against the wall behind, carrying all sorts of cooking equipment from a microwave to a kettle and a toaster. Spacious under-counter cupboards carried a supply of drinks, glasses. crockery, cutlery, coffee, tea, biscuits and baby foods.

Nick assumed there was another. larger kitchen downstairs—he hadn’t looked around down there properly yet. But for now this one sufficed his and Rory’s needs. If Linda didn’t come home by dinner time he might have to go down and see what other food supplies were in stock. But he figured she would be home long before then since she was planning a dinner party tonight.

Another glance at his watch showed three-thirty. Time for that shower, he thought, and headed for the bathroom.

Nick had a tendency to sing in the shower. Opera. mostly. Or one of those old Mario Lanza numbers the good sisters had fed him on during his growing-up years. Especially the religious ones.

He had a good tenor voice too, and launched into one of his favourites while he soaped and shampooed. He entirely forgot about Rory, and was still in full voice when he snapped off the water and heard the baby’s cries.

The next line of his song was immediately replaced by an expletive which would have made both Sister Augustine and Mario Lanza blush. Nick swiftly wrung out his dripping hair, wrapped a navy blue bath sheet around his hips and strode from the steam-filled room.

‘Keep your nappy on!’ he called out as he reached for the doorknob to Rory’s room. Once again, Rory shut up the second Nick appeared in the doorway.

Nick halted, his big hands finding his hips. His mock glare was accompanied by glittering black eyes. ‘I have a feeling you need some discipline, young man. I’ve a good mind to leave you there while I go and get dressed.’

When Rory gave him one of those glorious grins of his, Nick relented. ‘You’re worse than even the most beautiful woman,’ he said, shaking his head as he came forward to scoop the child up again. ‘I just can’t say no to you. Come on; you can watch me make myself respectable for your mother.’

Once settled on Nick’s hip, Rory immediately picked up a wet lock of Nick’s hair and stuffed it in his mouth, sucking on it as if he were dying of thirst.

‘Oh, so it’s a drink you’d be wantin’, is it?’ Nick teased in an Irish accent as he made his way from the room. ‘It wasn’t more of me fine singin’?’