The Nanny Part 42

"Bill," said Hilda.

"Well," said Bill. "I'm speaking on your behalf, too, I know that." He turned to Jo.

"You're a sensible girl, Josephine-"

"Too sensible-"

"No such thing. It's going to London that's put stupid ideas in your head."

"No," said Jo firmly. "I've always wanted to go to university."

"Well," he said, "we all have silly dreams. I've always wanted to play for England."

"It's not a silly dream! How can it be so silly if so many people do it, Dad?"

"Because not everyone's as sensible as you!"

Jo fought hard to keep her thoughts on track.

"Dad," she said finally, "I love you, I respect you; but I'm not asking you, I'm telling you."

There was a silence.

She sat forward in her chair. "I'm twenty-three years old, and I'm not asking for permission," she said. "I'm just letting you know. And please don't make me feel that knowing my own mind is an act of betrayal. I won't need any money from you, I haven't had money from you for years-"

"Just a roof over your head."

"Well," said Jo. "I won't be asking for that because I'll try and study in London while I'm earning my own keep."

"Will you!" bellowed Bill, standing up. Hilda started moaning. "Look! You've upset your mother now."

"No, Dad," said Jo. "I think you getting angry is upsetting her much more than me."

"Don't you get smart with me, university girl!" He turned to Hilda. "Look at that, already answering me back, and she hasn't even gone there yet."

"Is that what it's about then, Dad?"

"What?"

"Scared I'll know more than you?"

"Don't you dare take that tone with me."

"I'm not taking any tone, I'm just trying to work out why you want to stop your only child doing what she wants to do with her life."

"Don't you see? It's because you're my only child that I want to stop you making a mistake."

"Why?" asked Jo. "Mistakes are part of life. Why can't I make any?"

Hilda chuckled.

"Don't you take her side," Bill told his wife.

"Leave Mum alone, you bully," said Jo. "She can think whatever she wants to think."

"She thinks what I think," said Bill.

"Oh yes?" asked Jo. "Shall we ask her?"

They both looked at her.

"Hill?"

"Mum?"

Hilda closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

"Bogdon-over-Bray," she murmured.

There was a long pause. Then Bill sighed heavily. "That's a cheap shot, Hill," he murmured.

"What was that?" asked Jo.

Bill sat down on the sofa again.

"Dad? Tell me."

"It's the bus stop where I met your mother. Jesus wept!" he laughed. "I'd forgotten all about that."

"And?" asked Jo.

Bill forced himself to speak. "I was only there because I'd got on the wrong bus and had to get off it and wait for the 24b to take me back the way I'd come."

"So?" asked Jo.

Bill sighed. "For someone smart enough to go to university, you're being rather slow on the uptake." He gave Hilda a long look before turning back to Jo. "I always used to tell your mother that if I hadn't made that mistake, I'd never have found the best thing in my life."

There was a long silence. Then Jo went over, hugged her mother, and left the room.

Eventually Hilda looked at her husband and found him staring at her. "Hmm?"

He looked uncomfortable. "I'm not a bully, am I, Hill?"

She laughed and lifted her right arm to stroke his cheek.

Diane, Vanessa's mother, was playing with her grandchildren in the garden. Jo had been back with her own family for nearly an entire month. And still they hadn't hired a new nanny. Diane didn't trust Josh with them-what on earth was a grown man doing spending his time with children, she wondered, as she heard him prepare the tea.

"Can we go in the playhouse, Grandma?" asked Tallulah.

"I don't think Grandma can fit inside, darling," said Diane. "I'll stay out here in case the door gets stuck. You know what it's like after it's rained. I tell you what! I'll watch you from here. Don't close the door tight." She sat in the tiny hammock and started flicking through a glossy magazine.

"I'll ask Ca.s.sie," said Tallulah. Ca.s.sandra was doing her homework at the garden table.

"Ca.s.sie?" asked Tallulah.

"Mm."

"Will you come and play with me in the playhouse?"

Ca.s.sie tore her eyes away from her math problems.

"What are we playing?"

"Mummies and daddies."

"Okay."

As they walked toward the playhouse, Zak zoomed across the lawn, carrying his cyberdog in his arms.

"My cyberdog's broken!" he cried.

"How come?" asked Ca.s.sandra.

"There were sparks coming out of his bottom, then he just stopped working!"

"Did he fart?"

"No he did not fart!" exploded Zak.

"We were just about to play in the playhouse," said Ca.s.sandra. "Do you want to play with us?"

Zak sniffed. "What are you going to play?"

"Mummies and daddies."

"No!"

"You can be the daddy," said Tallulah.

"Can I bring my cyberdog?"

They hadn't been in the house together for years. They'd forgotten how thrilling it was.

"I'm going to bed," Tallulah told Ca.s.sie. "You have to say good night to me."

"Why do I have to be the mummy?" asked Ca.s.sie.

"Because you're the oldest."

"I don't want to be."

"Zak!" ordered Tallulah. "You be the mummy."

"Okay."

"Who's the daddy then?" asked Ca.s.sie.

"You are."

"I don't want to."

"Why not?"

"Because daddies are boring."

"We could have two mummies," said Tallulah.

"That's gross," said Zak.

"No it's not," said Ca.s.sandra. "A girl in my cla.s.s has two mummies."

"I bet she's gross."

"Zak, if you're not going to play properly," said Tallulah, "you'll have to leave."

"I know!" exploded Zak. "Lula and I are identical twins, separated at birth, Ca.s.sie's our baby sister, and Mummy and Daddy have gone on holiday without us," he started to whisper, "and Grandma's Hannibal the Cannibal prowling outside."

There was a pause.

"Are you alright in there?" called Diane.

When they all screamed with delicious terror, Diane tutted and returned to her magazine.

Dusk thickened into evening, the air echoed with the sound of setting car alarms, and d.i.c.k wandered home alone.

He pa.s.sed streets full of houses just like his own: Victorian brick dividing him from mothers unable to hear the white noise in their heads over crying babies and demanding toddlers, in their self-imposed luxury prisons. When they needed a community, each one would switch on the radio and be traumatized by dramatic news stories of death and destruction. When they needed company, they'd turn on the television and be confronted with images of perfection and ads created to make them feel overweight, ugly, smelly, and sad. And when it all got too much, they'd pop Prozac and keep it to themselves.

d.i.c.k shut the front door behind him and trod over various toys in the hall. Putting his briefcase in the corner of the kitchen, he sifted through the post, sighing over every brown envelope. Without looking up, he made his way to the drinks cabinet, opened the door, and went straight for the whiskey.

"My, my," said Diane. "Whiskey before dinner?"

d.i.c.k swirled round. "h.e.l.lo, Diane."

"h.e.l.lo, d.i.c.k."

d.i.c.k smiled weakly.

"Drink?"