Confessions of a Babysitter. Rosie Dixon
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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.’
‘Where did you get all that from?’ I ask him.
‘From the book that Daddy reads us.’ Benedict hands me a thick volume entitled Nursery Stories with a Modern Message.
‘All right,’ I say, thumbing through it. ‘What about How Cinderella hit the Big Time?’
In the end we settle for Ali Baba and the Forty Investment Analysts and by the time that Ali Baba has been boiled in North Sea oil and the investment analysts have drawn up a tentative, outline, provisional, non-binding contract with a pilchard packaging plant, the children’s heads are beginning to droop. I pause in the narrative, wait a few moments until I hear the sound of regular breathing and then tiptoe out. Phew! Thank goodness for that. Those stories were so gruesome I was beginning to frighten myself. I am quite glad that I have got the remains of the strong gin that Mr Wilkinson gave me, to buck me up. I have just glugged it down and am reaching for the Radio Times when the telephone rings. It takes me some time to find it because it lives under the flared skirt of a knitted woollen doll and I am slightly flustered as I raise the receiver to my ear. ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘Er – Chingford four three two one.’
‘Rosie, is that you?’
The breathless catch to the voice is immediately known to me.
‘Geoffrey!’ I gasp. ‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I rang up your mother,’ says Geoffrey. ‘Or rather – I rang up you and your mother answered the phone. Home on leave, are you?’
‘Er – no,’ I say. ‘I’ve finished with the army.’
‘I am glad,’ says my old beau. ‘I never thought the WRACs was really you.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Well, Geoffrey, it’s nice to hear your voice. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?’ I cannot help feeling a slight tremor of excitement as I await the answer to my question. My bitter-sweet romance with Geoffrey has waxed and waned over the years and I have never been able to truly analyse my feelings for the man. When he is attentive, I don’t want him. When he is not about, I do. I suppose all women are a bit like that.
‘I’d love to see you,’ says Geoffrey eagerly.
‘Not tonight, surely,’ I say. ‘You know I’m babysitting.’
‘I could pop round for a bit – I mean, for a little while,’ says Geoffrey. ‘Nobody would mind. There’s no need why they should know.’
‘Well – – ’ I pause, waiting to be persuaded. Geoffrey does not say anything. Oh dear, I do wish he would display a little more gumption sometimes. Not enough to do anything untoward, of course, but just enough to be told not to. Sometimes I wonder if anything really did take place behind the heavy roller at the Eastwood Tennis Club after somebody put something in the punch.
‘If you don’t think it’s a good idea I quite understand.’
‘It’s terribly impulsive of you, Geoffrey,’ I say trying not to sound sarcastic. ‘Just for a little while then. You know the address, do you? Fifty-seven, Glastonbury Gardens.’
‘Got it,’ sings out Geoffrey. ‘Super! I’ll be round as soon as I’ve finished marking my balls.’
I put the telephone down and stare thoughtfully into the artificial flame effect of the plastic-bronze cowled simulated teak surround Magi-Glo Gas Fire. One of the buttons on the lilac plastic padding has dropped off but it still throws out a cheerful, heart-lifting glow. It will be interesting to receive Geoffrey in the Wilkinsons’ home. I will be able