Confessions of a Babysitter

But Mr Wilkinson does not stop. He pushes me back against the bed with his head between my half exposed breasts and begins to make a noise like someone ducking for apples in a vat of treacle. Impulsive is certainly one of the words that springs to mind for his behaviour. Both hands are now gripping my panties and I feel the elastic snap as Wilkinson wrenches them down to my knees. If the children saw this it would be most unfortunate.

‘For the last time – – ’ I gasp.

‘You said that last time.’ Mr Wilkinson kneels upright and pulls my panties over my heels. He tears off his jacket and fumbles with the front of his trousers. Oh dear, I think I know what I am going to see next. Yes. A murderous love truncheon primed for violence. Not long, but thick and ribbed like the fuselage of a model aeroplane kit. Mr Wilkinson launches himself between my legs and I notice that his bow tie has come adrift again. At the moment that must be the least of either of our problems. Every second, my situation becomes more fraught. To resist is to blight two young lives. To surrender is – too late! Mr Wilkinson’s beastly thing has invaded my pelvic pouch. It must be radar-controlled and shows considerable promise as an air-to-ground missile. I close my eyes and try to think of the nice lady who led the children through China. Nothing like this ever happened to her – of course it wouldn’t, being played by Ingrid Bergman. I often wish I was played by Ingrid Bergman. Mr Wilkinson has now exposed my breasts and I can feel his pencil moustache drawing pictures on my nipples. It is quite nice in a disgusting sort of way. Thank goodness I am not responsible for my actions. I would never be able to forgive myself if I was enjoying this in the normal course of events – or perhaps I should say, coarse of events. Thank goodness, also, that I must have been mistaken about Geoffrey. It clearly was not him outside. Not that I would be worried now. After the way Mr Wilkinson has behaved he can hardly grumble about my boyfriend turning up. Perhaps if the doorbell rang it would put an end to my ordeal.

I had thought that Mr Wilkinson was going to be one of those people who comes to the boil quickly – I find that most of the men who attack me are like that. When they are not trying to impress you, they like to get it out of their system as quickly as possible. However, he seems keen on making a meal of it – and I am not only referring to where his naughty moustache is tickling me now. After doing that – it is so awful that I don’t like to think about it, let alone try and describe it – he shuffles forward with his knees between my thighs and positions his gleaming love shaft at the entrance to my deepest dimple. The look in his eyes tells me that release is close for both of us and I am bracing myself for the final onslaught when I hear a board creak outside the bedroom door. Oh no! Don’t say that my sacrifice has been in vain.

‘Did you hear that?’ I whisper.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s funny the way it makes that noise, isn’t it? It must be some kind of air lock.’

‘I didn’t mean that!’ I hiss. ‘There’s someone outside the door.’

Mr Wilkinson stiffens – quite an achievement in his present condition – and cocks his head. ‘One of the kids going to the toilet,’ he says. ‘It’s a good sign. They usually use the wash basin in their room.’ When he says that, I wonder if my sacrifice has been worthwhile. By no stretch of the imagination can Benedict and Courtenay Wilkinson be called nice little boys. Mr Wilkinson is not very nice either. He enters me again and rocks backwards and forwards while still turning his head to one side.

‘I can’t hear the chain,’ I say.

‘You never do with them,’ says my client. ‘Right, stand by for the grandstand finish.’ He slides his hands round my bottom and has just delivered two ferocious thrusts when the sound of the squeaking bedsprings is augmented by a child’s scream. Mr Wilkinson delivers a third thrust that deposits me on the pillow and half scrambles, half falls off the bed. The air is now full of screams and shouts. Mr Wilkinson lets out an exclamation of concern and starts to run towards the bedroom door. His trousers are round his ankles and he trips over and sprawls full length. The door flies open and Geoffrey runs in pursued by Benedict and Courtenay. They are poking at him with swords – not toy ones by the look of it.

‘Rosie!’

That is the last word Geoffrey utters before he trips over Mr Wilkinson and hits his head on one of the bed legs. Courtenay raises his sword.

‘Mind how you stab him,’ says Benedict. ‘You don’t want to hurt Dad.’

I panic and leap off the bed screaming. Whatever happens, I must get out of this madhouse. I run out on to the landing and race down the stairs. Everything is hanging open and I have left my panties behind, but I don’t care. I have got my shoes and I will put them on when I get outside the front door. That very same front door which is now opening before me. An over made-up woman comes in wearing a fur coat and carrying a bunch of flowers. She is flanked by two men and another woman also wearing what I realise is stage make-up. The two men are carrying bottles. Clearly, Mrs Wilkinson and some fellow members of the cast have returned to celebrate at home. The woman I take to be Mrs Wilkinson grits her teeth and takes a menacing step forward.

‘So!’ she hisses. ‘This is what he’s been up to, is it? You dirty little slut!’ She slaps my face and makes a grab for my hair. Quite what would happen next I don’t know because, as I duck and turn, there is a scuffling noise behind me and I see Mr Wilkinson trying to retreat up the stairs. He is holding his trousers up with one hand and looks understandably worried. ‘You dirty rat!’ Mrs Wilkinson grabs a bottle from one of her escorts and charges the stairs. I take my opportunity and slip out of the front door. I have just reached the front gate when I hear the sound of shattering glass and an anguished scream. What a disappointing end to an evening which had started out with so much promise.

CHAPTER 3 (#ua66862f6-0629-5556-bbf9-5874ea222063)

‘The door was on the latch, so I came in,’ says Geoffrey.

‘Why didn’t you ring the bell?’ I say. ‘Oh, Geoffrey, you are a fool!’

Geoffrey scratches the bandage round his head and tries to move his leg. It is not easy when it is strung up in front of him on a pulley. ‘I didn’t want to wake the children,’ he says. He starts to laugh and then gives up because it is obviously too painful. The other visitors in the ward stare at him and I help myself to some more grapes to cover my embarrassment.

‘Why didn’t you wait in the lounge?’

‘I thought you might be reading them a bedtime story or something. As it was …’ His voice tails away.

‘Yes,’ I say firmly. ‘There’s no need to go into that. Your thoughtless intervention made a mess of everything. After all I’d gone through to spare those little children. I can’t bear to think of it.’

‘I don’t like thinking about it very much, either,’ says Geoffrey. ‘You know they nearly killed me, don’t you? The consultant said that if the blade had passed a quarter of an inch nearer – – ’