Confessions of a Babysitter

‘That wasn’t me, that was Courtenay!’

The crying that has continued unabated from the moment I crossed the threshold ceases instantly. ‘Dad! Dad! He’s lying. I haven’t been to the toilet since I got home.’ An even less appealing version of Benedict appears at the top of the stairs. He is wearing pyjama trousers with the front gaping open.

‘You liar! Whose toy soldier is that down there, then?’

‘Dad! Dad! He put my toy soldier down the toilet!’

‘Liar! You were playing glacier skiing and he slipped.’

‘Ooooh! You rotten liar!’

There is a thunder of bare feet and two bodies lock in the middle of the stairs. ‘Go to your room, both of you!’ shouts Mr Wilkinson. ‘Your mother will have something to say about this.’

‘He’s a liar!’

‘Shut up!’

‘I hate you!’

‘Bully!’

Mr Wilkinson picks up the bundle of flailing arms and legs and throws it through the door at the top of the stairs. He closes the door firmly and dusts his hands together.

‘They won’t give you any trouble,’ he says, sounding as if he would like to believe it. ‘Just normal high-spirited kids.’ He rips open the door and I see the veins at his forehead bulge like burnished worm casts. ‘One more word and I’ll swing for you!’ In the silence that follows you could hear a nappy pin drop. Mr Wilkinson closes the door with a wry smile. ‘It’s just a question of knowing how to handle them,’ he says, flexing and unflexing his fingers. ‘Let’s have a go at that bow tie.’

But despite the fact that we undo the clip-on bow tie and lay the pieces out all over the large double bed in the Wilkinsons’ bedroom we do not make any progress. They obviously make clip-on bow ties in a different way.

‘Now we’re got a problem,’ says Mr Wilkinson. ‘We’ve destroyed the clip-on bow tie and we can’t tie the velvet bow tie. What am I going to do?’

‘I feel awful about this, Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘The whole thing was my idea and I’ve let you down. Let me have a go at tying the velvet bow tie. It can’t be too difficult.’

But it is difficult. Especially when I am facing Mr Wilkinson. There is something about the smell of his after-shave lotion being right under my nose and the half smile on his lips as he looks into my eyes. ‘I think it would be easier if I got behind you,’ I say. ‘Then I would feel as if I was doing it, if you know what I mean.’

‘Righty-ho!’ says Mr Wilkinson. ‘I’ll try anything once. Where do you want me?’

‘Sit at the dressing table,’ I say. Rex Wilkinson does as I suggest and I kneel down behind him and slide my arms round his neck.

‘Ooh, that’s nice,’ he says, wriggling his shoulders.

‘Please, Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to concentrate. I can’t remember whether it goes over or under.’

‘Let’s try both,’ says my client, rubbing his hands together.

‘Dad. What you doing?’ The voice is shrill and accusing and belongs to Courtenay Wilkinson who is watching us from the door.

‘Er-hem. Rose is helping me tie my bow tie,’ says Mr Wilkinson, sounding uncomfortable. He removes my arms from around his neck and stands up. ‘Go back to bed!’

‘Daddy can’t do it,’ I say with a bright friendly smile. Courtenay looks at me with distrust and loathing in his eyes and then turns his gaze on his father.

‘Are you going to teach her to do press-ups like Aunty Brenda?’ he asks.

Mr Wilkinson turns scarlet. ‘Back to your room!’ he shouts. ‘I don’t want another word out of you. Rose will be along to tuck you up in a minute.’

‘Don’t want Rose. Want Mummy.’ Courtenay’s lip is trembling.

‘You heard what I said!’ Mr Wilkinson strides across the room to confront Courtenay and receives an expertly delivered kick in the shins – Courtenay Wilkinson must be one of the only children in the country with steel toe-caps in his slippers. There is a brief struggle and Courtenay is overpowered and carried from the room. A door slams and the sound of his screams and curses becomes more muffled. Mr Wilkinson returns looking even more harassed.

‘I knew those bloody karate lessons were a mistake – excuse my French,’ he says. ‘Teaching those two unarmed combat was like issuing the Manchester United fans with flame throwers.’ He realises that he may be creating the wrong impression and pounds his hands together briskly. ‘Not that there’s anything basically wrong with the boys, of course. Just normal high-spirited lads.’ He has to raise his voice so that I can hear the last bit over the rising tide of Courtenay’s screams. Benedict appears to be howling as well. Mr Wilkinson looks at his watch. ‘Good heavens! Is that the time? I’m going to miss the curtain if I don’t hurry.’

‘What about your tie?’ I say. ‘Do you want me to have another – – ’

‘No.’ Mr Wilkinson shoots a worried glance towards the boys’ room. ‘I don’t think so. They get funny ideas in their heads sometimes. I’ll do it on the way. Help yourself to a drink if you want one. The telly is straightforward and everything is where you’d expect to find it in the kitchen.’ He squeezes my hand and lowers his voice confidentially. ‘You’re a very attractive girl, do you know that? I hope we have you again.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘What time will you be back?’

Mr Wilkinson looks thoughtful. ‘Well, let’s see. There’s usually a celebration in the dressing room after the first night. It could be a bit late – say, after midnight. That won’t be too late for you, will it? I expect you’ve stayed up that late before?’ He gives me another Wilkinson wink and I assure him that any time will be all right with me. ‘Don’t worry about the boys,’ he shouts. ‘They’ll settle down in a few minutes.’ He has to shout because that is the only way I am going to hear him. Honestly, I would hate to live next to the Wilkinsons.

I wait hopefully for five minutes after Mr Wilkinson has left the house but the noise level is still unbearable. I will have to do something. ‘Now, now,’ I say, nervously sticking my head round the bedroom door. ‘What’s all this noise about, then? This isn’t going to help us grow up big and strong, is it? You know what they say about sleep before ten?’

Benedict’s tear-filled eyes glow red over the sheets. They look as if they have got a lot of tears left in them. ‘No,’ he says.

‘Oh.’ I try and remember what they do say about sleep before ten. ‘They say it’s very good for you,’ I proffer, lamely.

Courtenay makes a rude noise which just may be natural. ‘I want a drink,’ he says.

‘Water?’ I say.

‘Coca-Cola.’

‘You can’t have a Coca-Cola now,’ I say. ‘It’s very bad for your teeth just before you go to sleep. And all those bubbles will give you the colly-wobbles.’

‘What’s colly-wobbles?’ says Courtenay.

‘Diarrhoea,’ says Benedict. ‘You’ve got that.’

‘No, I haven’t!’

‘Yes, you have!’

‘No, I haven’t!!’

‘How about a nice story?’ I say. ‘Do you know the one about Little Red Riding Hood?’

‘She gets rubbed out by the CIA,’ says Benedict smugly.

‘Not in my version,’ I say. ‘There’s this nasty old wolf – – ’

‘He’s not a wolf, he’s an FBI man,’ says Courtenay contemptuously. ‘He figures that Riding Hood is a subversive misappropriating funds earmarked for underdeveloped countries so he liquidates her.’