Like that was a loop they really wanted to be part of.
I then had to figure out what to do with all my stuff. I couldn’t arrive, purporting to be a nanny, with six months’ worth of business clothes, a laptop and several How-to-be-the-best-accountant-in-the-world books.
No, I had some decisions to make, the first of which was easy – there was no way I was being parted from my laptop. It just wasn’t an option – no matter how crazy a nanny sporting a shiny MacBook Air looked.
I folded my suits carefully, for a moment wondering what in God’s name I was going to replace them with. I had two pairs of jeans, neither of which were designed with housework in mind but they, alongside my four pairs of yoga pants, would have to do.
In the end, I packed everything I deemed to be surplus to requirements into three cardboard boxes. Now, what could I do with them? Again I considered ringing Kelly but now that the ridiculous plan was underway I was less enthusiastic about getting her involved. Chad lived in Foxrock – he was another option but, again, a plausible explanation would be required. So, instead, I rang the only gullible person I could think of:Seán. And told him I’d ring him in a month’s time to instruct him what to do with them at that stage.
Poor Seán – he’d taken the boxes, all parcelled up with my new address on them, without question.
My new address: Meadowlands.
It had a nice ring to it. Heavily influencedby Fenton Harper’s stud-railed paddocks, I’d imagined it might be a similar sort of Pemberly-type country pile, where giant friendly dogs loped on the lawn. The same lawn where I would likely indulge in picnics with the children, bedecked in florals, assorted pastel cupcakes haphazardly arranged on mismatched china.
I toyed briefly with the notion of a quick trip to Laura Ashley on Saturday morning to acquire some suitable floral dresses but I was too afraid of bumping into anyone. At this stage, I definitely needed no further complications.
True to his word, Harry collected me at 3p.m. Again, my paranoia required that he pick me up in the underground car park of the hotel.
“Ha, you haven’t chickened out then?” he said as I sat in beside him.
“Several times,” I confessed, “but beggars can’t be choosers.”
“You’ll be fine. Mark’s not that bad. Well, if you’re not related to him, that is.”
“You two don’t get on then?”
“Ah, we get on okay, better now than we used to, to our mother’s relief. Our dad died when I was twelve and Mark was fifteen, and really the problems started then.”
“Well, that would be a hard time for anyone, I suppose.”
“True but, to be honest, Mark was always intense.” He sighed. “Becoming the man of the household was never going to help that. He thinks I’m a waster. He was always the brain-box who got enough A’s to do veterinary – I was the budding computer-hacker who found someone foolish enough to employ me.But anyhow, enough about our dysfunctional family – tell me about this Oliver guy and why you are not, right now, living it up in ole New York.”
I settled back in my seat. Harry was easy to talk to – in fact, as I began my tale it occurred to me that this strange man was the first person I’d confided in, in a long, long time. It was nice to talk and it certainly helped that he wasn’t the type of person that would judge me.
It was a far more pleasurable journey than the one of the previous evening. In no time at all he pulled into a small housing estate just outside the village of Duncane. I was confused. What were we stopping here for?
Then I saw the pretty granite plaque on the verge that read, very clearly, Meadowlands Close. By the time we pulled up to No 12, all notions of escaping to a country retreat had well and truly evaporated. It was all too evident that Mark was the junior partner in the whole veterinary arrangement. I looked in dismay out the window at the row of pretty semi-d’s that fanned out around a small green. And then I looked at No 12, which was definitely the least pretty in the row. The garden looked like it might have been picturesque at one stage, but now the beds were overgrown with weeds and the window boxes cracked and broken.
“So, here we are,” Harry announced cheerfully as he swung his nifty Golf in behind a mud-spattered Land Cruiser whose giant wheels straddled the narrow driveway, digging into the straggly lawn on either side. “I’ll see you Friday then!”
“What – you’re going?”
“Ah, well, you see, I’vegot to be back in town by five.” He made a point of looking down at his grossly over-sized diver’s watch. “So I’d best be on the road.”
“Gee, thanks,” I muttered sarcastically.
I nervously got my bag from the back seat and swung my laptop bag over the other shoulder. There was nothing for it but to pull myself together, assume my best straight-backed Mary Poppins pose and ring the doorbell.
A clean, un-blood-spattered Mark answered the door. He looked beyond me at Harry’s rapidly disappearing Golf.
“I see he didn’t hang around.”
“No. He – he had, important business back in town.”
“I bet he did. Very important, I’d say.”
Harry was right; the brotherly disapproval was obviously mutual. Just then Mark’s telephone rang and he disappeared down the hall, allowing me to have a nervous look around.
It was – different. The hall had a terracotta-tiled floor, a wise decision given the assortment of giant work-boots and Wellingtons that were lined up along one side. However, it would have looked better had the walls not been painted a deep ox-blood red which only served to make the small area very dark indeed. On top of a small rickety hall table, which appeared to be carved out of some kind of bog oak, lay a stack of unopened post. Children’s toys littered the floor and a strange smell permeated the air, a blend of joss sticks, surgical spirits and something else. Nose twitching, I looked down. At my feet were two small plastic bags labelled Leinster Stud – Stool Samples. Something about the smell emanating from them told me that the labels weren’t referring to anything of a furnishing nature.
Then he was back.
“Right then, your room is on the third floor – it’s a partially converted loft – you can’t miss it and I’ll be back around nine.”
I almost choked. “Excuse me?”
“Well, you’ll be okay,won’t you? The kids are with our neighbour Mrs Murphy. She said she’d drop them over around half six, to give you time to settle in.”
“Oh, I see.”
Clearly there wasn’t going to be any small talk, let alone the grilling I had been dreading. This was most bizarre. As I stood there, abandoned by a second Fielding brother within ten minutes, I couldn’t help thinking that they’d more in common than they thought.
Chapter 10
I paused for a second outside the nursery door in the vain hope that the wailing had stopped and that by some rare miracle Amber had gone back to sleep, but no, and to make matters worse, I could now hear stirrings from the room next door as five-year-old Jamie started to make his presence known.
However terrifying meeting their daddy for the first time had been, meeting his two precious children had been infinitely worse.
Throughout the whole decision-making process leading up to this point (which, granted, had not been the most thorough) I’d kind of overlooked the whole having-to-actually-mind-children aspect. I’d just decided that it couldn’t really be that hard. After all, my mother had raised four of us and she was definitely a few sandwiches short of a picnic.
It was only when the doorbell rang that first eveningand I realised that I was about to come face to face with my new charges, that the first goose-bumps started to rise on my arms.
Mrs Murphy was a rotund, middle-aged woman who clearly looked like she knew what she was doing as she shepherded the two children through the front door.
“You must be Holly. Mark’s told me all about you.” She proffered her hand politely.
“Em, y-yes,” I stuttered, wondering what he could possibly have tol
d her, given his limited interview technique. Then I hastily pulled myself together and added with a giant fake beaming smile, “And this must be –” I stopped as it occurred to me that I’d no idea of their names.
“Jamie and Amber,” said Mrs Murphy.
“Of course! Hi guys, it’s lovely to meet you both.”
The little boy looked up – a nervous-looking five-year-old, who seemed so afraid of me I decided that he just might be manageable. He had the same colouring as his father, blond hair and blue eyes, but where his father’s eyes had been vacant and cold, his were huge pools of worry.
His sister, on the other hand, was a lively-looking toddler, with cheeky brown eyes and a tangle of golden curls. At just over two years of age, the seriousness of the situation had clearly swept right over her head. Her eyes held none of the worry of her brother’s, quite the opposite in fact. She smirked at me as if she knew exactly what I was up to.
Could this be the first child to ever actually scare the crap out of me?
In front of the pleasant Mrs Murphy I decided to adopt a kind of jolly-hockey-sticks approach, having already ruefully accepted that my plan of adopting an English accent for the duration of my appointment was obviously not an option.
“So,” I said brightly, clasping my hands together, “here we all are!”
The children looked at me blankly.
I was in serious trouble.
“They’ve had their tea,” Mrs Murphy interjected helpfully.
Oh Christ, it had never occurred to me that I was going to be expected to feed them. Let’s hope they weren’t too fussy.
“Great!” I beamed.
More blank looks.
I could feel Mrs Murphy’s eyes bore into me and under her eagle-eyed scrutiny I couldn’t breathe. There was nothing for it, she had to go.
“Rightyo, Mrs Murphy, I’ll take it from here.” My firm tone belied my panic. “Thank you very much for your help. Say thank you to Mrs Murphy, children.”
Jamie mumbled something under his breath.
“No!” Amber said, and giggled.
I gave her a look that I hoped implied I would deal with her later.
Just as soon as I figured out how.
I walked Mrs Murphy to the door. When we were out of earshot of the children, she turned to me.
“It really isn’t my place to say –” she started.
My heart stopped. It was never good when a sentence started that way.
She was on to me.
“But I’m very glad those children finally have a professional to look after them.”
She definitely wasn’t on to me.
“Jamie is a little dote but he has taken the whole business very hard,” she continued, clearly not noticing my discomfort. “Amber, on the other hand, is –”
“Wilful?”
“Spirited.”
“Lively?”
“Bold,” she finished. “She definitely needs someone with a strong hand, she’s at that age. I’m sure you’ve seen it before.”
I nodded sagely.
“And it’s just that her daddy, well, with the hours he works . . .”
I placed a reassuring hand on her arm, hoping she wouldn’t feel it shaking.
“I understand, Mrs Murphy – you just leave it with me.”
As a very relieved Mrs Murphy left the house I took a deep breath before heading back to the children.
Jamie was sitting on the couch, staring vacantly into space. Amber was nowhere to be seen.
“Jamie, where’s your sister?”
He shrugged, looking as if he might burst into tears.
I moved quickly back out to the hall. No sign. Throwing a quick eye up the stairs I ran to the kitchen.
Christ!
She’dclearly scrambled up a strategically placed chair, and was now wobbling precariously on the counter top, one foot on an upturned pot, one chubby arm stretched out towards an open press.
“Amber!” I screeched, lunging towards her.
“Choc-choc!” she gurgled, just as the pot started to slip from under her foot.
I reached her just in time and swung her down to safety.
And then it started.
When I say that the child went ballistic, I mean ballistic times ten. She flung herself on the ground and screeched and kicked and stamped.
I was stunned. The golden-haired cherub was nowhere to be seen and in her place was a Tasmanian Devil.
“Amber! Amber!”
I knelt down and tried to placate her but she kicked and punched like a she-devil. As I struggled, I hoped to God that there wasn’t a hidden camera in the room. But, amateur and all as I was, I knew that giving in could prove fatal.
“Amber, stop that right now!” I desperately injected an attempt at authority into my tone.
The screeching continued.
Two minutes later I was kneeling, spread-eagled, vainly attempting to pin her two flailing arms in cruciform on the floor, while she delivered kick after kick to my gut.
“Shit!” I cursed as her knee made contact with my forehead.
Just then, Jamie quietly entered the room behind me. Wordlessly he went over to the chair, climbed up on to the counter, reached into the open cupboard and took out an open packet of biscuits. He then climbed back down, as if this kind of activity was perfectly normal, and handed one of the biscuits to the shrieking toddler who instantly stopped her histrionics.
“That’s what Daddy does,” he said.
Then he reached into the under-the-counter freezer, pulled out a well-battered bag of frozen peas and gave it to me.
“For your head,” he said, before turning and leaving the room just as quietly as he’d come in.
I sat there holding the peas. Speechless. This was going from bad to worse.
It was by now seven o’clock and I started to tentatively make noises about bedtime, though to be honest my motives were mostly selfish. I badly needed to regroup before Daddycame home and saw what a mess I was in.
Again, Jamie was no trouble. He silently went upstairs and came back down in his Spiderman pyjamas, got himself a glass of milk and then, whispering “Goodnight” padded back upstairs again.
I looked at Amber.
“Right – bedtime,” I said firmly.
“No,” she said. Just as firmly.
“Yes.”
“No.”
Christ.
It took exactly forty-five minutes to get her undressed and into her pyjamas and up the stairs. It took another hour and fifteen minutes before she finally passed out, exhausted, in her cot.
I trudged wearily back down the stairs, and sank down on the bottom step. Taking out my mobile phone I stamped in Harry’s number.
Funnily enough, there was no answer.
Harry Fielding, I am going to kill you.
Just then I heard a key in the front door. I shot to my feet and pushed my hair back behind my ears, hoping the exertion of the previous hour and a half didn’t show too much on my face.
Mark Fielding looked at me.
“They’re both in bed?” he asked, clearly surprised.
“Eh, yes, they’re in bed.”
“Oh.” He looked at his watch. “Right, that’s early, isn’t it?”
Is it?
“They were exhausted,” I said firmly.
“Right. I see. Well, I brought back something to eat.” He held up a brown-paper bag with giant grease stains on the side. “Have you eaten?”
I thought about saying no just to get up to my room away from this uncomfortable situation, but the fact that I was starving prevented me. And so, despite being slightly sceptical about what could be lurking inside such unappetising packaging, my stomach overruled my head.
“Eh, no, I haven’t actually.”
“Well, you can’t be expected to cook on your first night,” he smiled.
I surely wasn’t expected to cook for him too?
I followed him into the kitchen. He dumped the paper bag on t
he table and got out some plates and cutlery. I hovered trying to help, but his huge frame didn’t leave much room.
“Sit down,” he said as I bumped into him for the third time.
I sat.
Now that I had a chance to look at him properly, he didn’t look quite as scary as he had earlier. For one thing, there was no blood visible on his person. In fact, he was quite good-looking in a kind of Army-Marine kind of way.
Definitely not my type though.
Not like Oliver, tanned, brown-eyed, silky-haired Oliver.
“Ketchup?”
I jumped in my seat as he put a giant plate of what appeared to be proper chipper-chips in front of me. My eyes widened. There was no way I could have eaten that many carbohydrates in two years, let alone one sitting.
“Eh, no, thanks,” I stuttered.
“Mayonnaise?”
Just in case there’s any room left in my arteries after the chips?
“I’m fine.”
“Fair enough.” He squirted a large blob of mayonnaise on his plate.
I sprinkled mine with salt and vinegar, then tentatively picked up one of the giant, greasy chips and put it in my mouth.
Mmmm . . . Goddamn but they were good.
“Onion rings?” He held out a small white bag from which the most delicious odour was seeping.
“Oh, okay,” I nodded. I was fast remembering that I hadn’t really eaten properly in days.
“So your last boss was a heart surgeon?” he asked.
“Um, yes.” I almost smiled. I’d expected that the fake reference from Marsha would impress him.
“In New York?”
I nodded, glad my mouth was still full of chips.
“I hope you won’t find it very boring around here.”
I shook my head.
“As I said yesterday, I work a lot,” he said.
No shit, Sherlock. Arriving home at nine thirty on a Saturday night kind of gave that away.
“So that’s why I need someone like you. Of course the main problem is I can’t give you set hours. I’m on call every second evening and every second weekend, but an emergency can happen at any stage. Obviously that’s why your pay is a bit higher than the normal rate – you know, to reflect the inconvenience.”
Between You and Me Page 8
