Confessions of a Babysitter

‘Now, now, both of you,’ says Mum, twisting the tea towel into knots. ‘Let’s have no more of that. Rosie’s back in the bosom of the family – ’ she breaks off and smiles nervously. ‘You know what I mean?’

‘Yes, Mary,’ says Dad irritably. ‘Well, I must be on my way. Time and tide wait for no man. We can’t get Britain back on her feet if we spend all day loafing round the breakfast table.’ He looks at me pointedly when he says that. ‘Perhaps I may be permitted to ask what form of employment you are next thinking of indulging in?’

When he does his Mr Sarky-boots bit I feel like emptying the Sugar Puffs all over him. ‘I’d like to do something with kids,’ I say.

Even Mum looks surprised and Dad stares at me like I have suggested a career as a child molester. ‘Looking after them?’ he says.

‘That’s right,’ I say.

‘Good heavens,’ says Dad. ‘You can’t look after yourself. Who’s going to employ you as a nursemaid?’

‘I happen to have had a very good offer already,’ I say loftily. ‘With an Italian family on the Po.’

‘Blimey, they must need some help,’ says Dad.

I raise my eyes to the ceiling and try to indicate how he lowers himself when he makes jokes like that.

‘The Po is an Italian river, Dad,’ I say patiently.

‘Oh yes?’ Dad’s new-found perkiness tells me that another terrible funny is on the way. ‘I always thought the Po was in China!’

Creeper Natalie laughs heartily and I seek Mum’s eyes for a sympathetic exchange of glances. ‘All this reminds me, Natalie,’ she says. ‘You haven’t forgotten that you’re babysitting for the Wilkinsons tonight?’

Natalie’s face clouds over. ‘Do I have to, Mum? It’s Folk Night at the youth club.’

‘It’s what?’ Dad sounds worried.

‘Folk Night,’ says Natalie.

‘You should have thought when I asked you,’ says Mum. ‘It’s Mrs Wilkinson’s amateur dramatics tonight. She’s appearing in Howard’s End.’

‘I’m surprised it isn’t vice versa, knowing her,’ says Dad. ‘They’re very free and easy, those Wilkinsons.’

‘You can’t back out now,’ says Mum. ‘She asked me specially. It’s the first night, and her husband wants to be there.’

‘Oh, Mum,’ whines Natalie. ‘Do I have to?’

‘Why don’t I go?’ I say. ‘I’ve got nothing else to do. The Wilkinsons have got a couple of little boys, haven’t they?’

‘That’s right, dear,’ says Mum. ‘Courtenay and Benedict. Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘Thanks, Rosie,’ says Natalie grudgingly. ‘I charge a quid up to midnight and 50p for every hour or part of an hour after.’

Just like when I was working for an escort agency, I think to myself. And then – BANG! – the germ of an idea hits me. Maybe this is what I should be doing. A babysitting service. I know that Natalie is always being asked if she will oblige and if people are prepared to have her dropping cigarette ash all over their carpets and necking with her ghastly boyfriends – not to mention all the other terrible things I am certain they get up to – then I am certain that an efficient and wholesome babyminding service would be much in demand. I will use tonight as a trial run and then talk to Penny about the idea. We could probably recruit other girls and take a commission. After working for so many crummy organisations which have exploited me it seems a good idea to start one of my own. I don’t mean a crummy one, of course. The Dixon Night Guard Service will be above reproach and reflect all its founder’s principles and ideals. Maybe, one day, people will think of me in the same breath as Flora MacNightingale and Madame Puree.

The Wilkinsons live in a detached house a few streets from us. Mr Wilkinson works with Dad, though a few rungs higher up the management ladder and our families are not what you would call close. Whenever Mrs Wilkinson beams at me in the street I know that she is going to ask if Natalie can babysit. Otherwise, she just passes by as if she has not seen me. I ring the doorbell and listen to the chimes dying away into the far corners of the house. I can hear a child screaming which is not a good sign and when Mr Wilkinson opens the door he looks harassed. He is wearing dinner jacket trousers and is obviously having trouble tying his bow tie.

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Good. It’s – er – – ’

‘Rose,’ I say. ‘I’ve come instead of Natalie. I hope that’s all right?’

Mr Wilkinson looks me up and down and strokes the front of his shirt absentmindedly. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Very definitely. Come in. My wife’s gone on because she has to be made up. She’s appearing in a play, you know.’

‘Howard’s End,’ I say. He is a good-looking man with a thin moustache and a lot of lines round his eyes. There is a little flesh under his chin but he is quite well preserved. I suppose he must be about forty.

‘That’s right. Come into the living room. Would you like a drink?’ He leads the way into a comfortable lounge with a lot of leather-backed chairs and nods towards a well-stocked bar that takes up one corner of it.

‘Well,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to hold you up.’

‘You won’t have to hold me up if I only have one drink,’ he says with a laugh. How refreshing to be in the company of a witty man after Dad. ‘A quick gin won’t do any harm.’ He pressed a switch and a pottery figurine of a drunk leaning against a lamp post lights up and says ‘Bar’s open’.

‘That’s clever,’ I say.

‘I’ll show you some of my other knick knacks when I know you better.’ Mr Wilkinson winks at me. ‘Ice and lemon?’

‘Er – yes,’ I say registering with some alarm that there seems to be quite a lot of gin in my glass. ‘Is it all right to let the child scream like that?’

Mr Wilkinson chinks his glass against mine. ‘Cheers! Oh yes. Exercises their lungs. Benedict always has a good bawl before he settles down.’ He listens for a moment. ‘Or maybe it’s Courtenay.’

‘Nice names,’ I say.

‘Mine’s Rex,’ he says. ‘You know, Sexy Rexy.’ He winks at me again and waggles the flapping ends of his bow tie. ‘Do you know how to tie one of these?’

‘It’s not like a bootlace, is it?’ I ask.

‘No, you have to bring the end back somehow. It’s a nuisance. I’ve got a clip-on one upstairs but it’s not velvet.’

‘Perhaps you could take that apart and see how they do it?’ I suggest.

Mr Wilkinson shakes his head admiringly. ‘You’re not just a pretty face, are you darling? Come upstairs and I’ll introduce you to the kids.’

I had formed an impression of Courtenay and Benedict as being two golden-haired little mites with their hair cut in fringes. The reality is somewhat different. A hulking twelve-year-old is emerging from the toilet as we hit the top of the stairs. ‘What has your mother told you, Benedict?’ says Mr Wilkinson wearily.

‘I haven’t done it on the floor!’ shouts the child like it has been unjustly accused of murder.

‘Pull the chain!’ bellows Mr Wilkinson.

‘I was just going to do it,’ says Benedict.

‘Don’t lie to me, boy!’

‘I was, Dad!’

‘You were walking away from the toilet, you bloody little liar! The lady saw you!’

‘Maybe he just remembered,’ I say, trying to pour oil on troubled waters.

Mr Wilkinson sticks his head inside the toilet. ‘What do you mean you didn’t do it on the floor!?’