I have a stressful Friday at work. Georgie is being potty trained and has had seven so-called accidents that day. I head home full of intent to look for a new job that very weekend. It’s the same plan I have every Friday, but by Saturday morning I’ve always forgotten how bad my job really is. Until Monday again. I walk over to the fridge to see what I can scrape the mould off for tonight’s tea. Hmm, Lasagne? Either it’s now hairy mouldy all the way through or I made it with Verdi pasta. Not sure, best not risk it. I quickly dispose of it in the bin before turning to an oblivious Mike and Becky snuggled on the sofa.
‘Takeaway, anyone?’
‘Sure. Nick round tonight, Luce?’ asks Mike.
‘Yeh, in about an hour,’ I answer from inside the fridge. I have decided to venture into its depths and have a clear-out. ‘Gads! Is that last month’s Chinese I was going to take to work?’ I ask. No reply. Looks like it is. My mobile rings. I wipe my hands on my jeans, which are covered in wee and poo anyway thanks to Georgie. I don’t recognise the number. Normally, I wouldn’t answer an unknown number but something about this one looks vaguely familiar. Hope it‘s not a mad ex, I think. Too late, I’ve hit answer.
‘Lucy Ramsey,’ I say, warily. Pause. Scottish accent.
‘Lucy? Hi, it’s Ellie.’ Oh my God, my old senior from the Care Home. If she asks me to go back, I’m going.
‘Ellie. Hi! How are you? So good to hear from you.’
‘I’m good, Lucy. How’s the job?’
‘Oh Christ, crap. I hate it. Are you calling to beg me back, because I can be on the next train,’ I laugh.
‘No, Lucy, though of course you’re welcome anytime,’ laughs Ellie. ‘Anyway, do you remember Maisie?’
‘Yes, how is she? Have Social Services found out she doesn’t have Dementia yet?
‘Yes, they did, Lucy. She moved into sheltered housing six months ago. Hated it. But it’s turned out be to your benefit.’
‘How so?’ I enquire.
‘Well, otherwise, as a Dementia sufferer, any changes to her will would be null and void if they were made within five years of diagnosis. And because she was of sound mind, well… they are not.’
‘I’m not with you, Ellie.’
‘Lucy… Maisie has made you sole benefactor in her will. She died two weeks ago. We attended the hearing, as she has no family. She has left you just over £63,000.’ I sit down heavily on the floor.
‘How did she die?’ I ask, stupefied.
‘In her sleep, lovey. Trust you to care about that and not think about the money. You’ll need to come to Edinburgh and see her solicitor in the next week if you can.’
‘OK, yes, I can do that. Why though, Ellie? Why me?’
‘I think you perhaps underestimated how we all touch their lives, Luce. She always did have a soft spot for you. You never treated them like they were a waste of space, like I’ve seen a lot of people do with the elderly. They already feel that way a lot of them, they don’t need a reminder.’ Ellie sighs: ‘But I obviously don’t know for sure. Maybe she knew she was on the way out and that you would get bugger all unless she ‘fessed up to being of sound mind. Anyway, give me a call back to let me now when you’ll be up. You probably need time for it all to sink in.’
My Maisie. Gone. I stare at my phone as if I have just dreamt the last five minutes. I feel sick. Too many people I have cared about, gone. I do, of course, appreciate the money she has left me. But to me, money is a means to an end.
‘Can’t take it with you,’ Gran’s voice pops into my head.
I’d give it all back to have just five minutes with all those that I’ve loved, who aren’t here anymore. What a blast we’d have in those five minutes.
‘What is it?’ Becky asks cautiously. I explain. Nick arrives, and I start over.
‘Bloody hell,’ he states, incredulously. ‘What are you going to do with all that money?’
‘Tell Sylvia to shove her job up her arse, for a start,’ I say.
‘Well, here’s where my plan comes in,’ Mike says cautiously. ‘I was going to ask you anyway, it’s not about money.’
‘Yes, we were going to ask you tonight. Both of you,’ Becky agrees emphatically.
‘I have around fifteen grand saved,’ Mike explains ‘Remember on the train at Christmas, Lucy. What we discussed? The plan?’
‘Tenerife?’
‘Yes, well, Becky and I,’ Mike takes her hand, ‘were going to ask if you and Nick want to make
a go of things with us? Have our bar stroke restaurant thing?’
‘Yes,’ I nod slowly, mulling the idea over. ‘But with Maisie’s money too, we have an even better chance. Mike, you’re a genius.’ I fling myself onto his knee and give him a squeeze. Nick and Becky look at each other in surprise, shrug and then share an awkward hug.
‘Wait, get off,’ shouts Mike, from somewhere underneath me. I remove myself from him. ‘Luce, don’t invest all that money, just match me – and only if you want to,’ he adds quickly.
‘Don’t be silly! It’ll be a great success with us four. I’ll be investing in our future. I look around at my three smiling new colleagues and feel elated. I can finally get out of the job I hate and live the dream I thought would never become a reality.
Chapter Thirteen
Morning arrives. I feel my head pound from last night’s celebratory three bottles of wine – of which, I reckon, I sunk at least half due to shock. Nick is sitting on the edge of my bed, looking thoughtfully out of the window.
‘What’s up?’ I ask sleepily. The effort of attempting to sit up is just too much. I slump back onto the pillow feeling like my skull will shatter at any second.
‘I don’t know,’ he sighs. ‘This plan of yours and Mike’s. Long hours, no time to actually enjoy where we are.’
‘That’s the whole point, though,’ I attempt to sound enthusiastic. ‘We work all summer and then take the whole winter off. Go wherever we want and not work for a few months. My mate Janey’s out there working in a bar; the pubs in Tenerife are making a killing.’ ‘What would my role be?’ asks Nick.
Mike’s voice shouts from outside the bedroom: ‘With me, on the bar! And the girls in the kitchen, where they should be…’
Mike dodges what sounds like a blow from Becky, and laughs.
‘Lucy, obviously, will need to do a food hygiene course, judging by last month’s Chinese takeaway on the worktop. But her actual cooking is up to scratch.’
‘What the hell are you doing eavesdropping outside my bedroom? Pervert!’ I shout, then groan, immediately regretting it as my brain pounds.
‘Nothing, was just passing and overheard. Come have a coffee so we can talk properly.’
An enthusiastic discussion is taking place downstairs. I’m feeling a bit better, two coffees and three slices of toast later. We discuss menu planning, cocktail evenings, themed party nights and quizzes. Becky types furiously on the laptop and then prints the results.
‘Now,’ says Becky, officially. ‘Location.’
‘Well, obviously, we will have to visit Tenerife to look around for a place to rent. Are we agreed on Tenerife then?’ Mike asks, looking around hopefully at us all. ‘Big business on tourists from the UK. Immediately after landing, they head straight for the nearest pub selling fry-ups and other Brit food. Different crowd in Greece, they seem to actually want to try Greek food and, sorry Luce, your Moussaka is shit.’
‘Oh, I can’t wait to tell Sylvia to ram her job!’
‘A month’s notice, Lucy,’ says Nick. He had to burst my bubble.
‘Shit, I need to get up to Edinburgh next week too, to claim my inheritance.’ ‘Bless you, Maisie,’ I smile at the ceiling.
I’ll come with you,’ says Nick. ‘I’ve never been to Edinburgh.’
‘Great! I’ll need to call in sick for a couple of days.’
Monday morning arrives, all too soon as it always does. I don’t have my usual feeling of hoping to be hit by a bus rather than go in to work. Not hurt badly, y
ou understand. I’m not suicidal! Just enough to perhaps break a leg or something. No head injuries though, and something that will heal without a limp. But, oh how I’ve dreamt of six weeks off that job, even if it was in plaster.
I arrive early to work. How I hate that. Ten minutes of my life spent hanging around outside their house that I will never get back. I hover and read my Metro ‘til thirty seconds to start time. It takes me twenty-six seconds to open the gate, walk up the path, put my key in the lock and hang up my coat. That leaves four seconds for Sylvia to look at the clock and realise that no, actually, I am not late. I have synchronised my watch with their kitchen clock to the milli-second. Like something out of Mission Impossible – or was it The Matrix?
‘Morning, Lucy,’ Sylvia gives me a look of contempt, ‘how are you?’
Of course, she doesn’t care. She also never listens. I suspected this all along until one Monday morning when she enquired how my weekend had been; I joked that I’d spent all day Saturday and Sunday on a bad comedown from some dodgy crack.
‘Lovely,’ she replied, while Henry exploded and laughed like a donkey for ten minutes.
‘Oh, just a quick word, Lucy. When you do my laundry, can you make sure it is separate from the children’s, please? Katie’s ballet leotard has colour run into my favourite Donna Karan blouse. I know it’s last season, but it was a particular favourite of mine. Oh, and also, you forgot to put the bin out last Friday when you left. Do be a dear and ensure it doesn’t happen again.’
My brain and mouth fight each other. Mouth wants to scream:
‘Go fuck yourself, you arrogant cow!’
Brain reasons:
‘You have two weeks of holiday pay to claim, don’t blow it.’ Brain wins.
‘Sure.’ I smile.
I make up two packed lunches. Henry leaves with Sylvia to be driven the 200 metres to school – in the jeep, naturally. I dress Georgie and we leave to drop Katie off at her school. On the way out of the door, I grab some notepaper from the bureau. What better insult than to hand in my resignation on one of her favourite scented, poncey notelets I know they cost the equivalent of what I’d spend on a spree in Topshop. I head with Georgie to the Soft Play centre and settle down to write. He throws himself into the ball pit, ready to growl at and terrorise anything smaller than him. Occasionally, a mother or a posh nanny from a ‘proper’ nanny school will say:
‘Who is that child with? He is being just beastly to Florence and Gertrude.’ I shrug and shake my head in understanding, pointing to the nearest cute little toddler – today’s choice, a sweet little girl with bunches, sucking her thumb and clutching a teddy.
‘No idea, that’s mine there,’ I smile sympathetically.
Backfired on me once though. Turned out ‘chosen child to be mine’ on that day actually belonged to the complaining mother. She clutched her to her bosom and gave me a look as if to accuse me of child snatching.
‘Don’t worry, believe me the last thing I want is my own kid, let alone yours,’ I informed her with a reassuring smile.
‘Time up for George Wilkington-Jones,’ says the bored, pimply youth in charge of soft play. I pretend not to hear.
‘Scuse me, Missus, your kid’s had his forty-five minutes,’ he says, louder this time. I take £5 out of the kitty purse.
‘Forty-five more and this is yours,’ I wave it towards him.
‘I don’t accept bribes!’ he splutters, looking around nervously. Sure you don’t. A pustule on his neck throbs ominously. Maybe it’s a self-defence thing, like those lizards that can drop off their tails. Get too close and splat!
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll just head down to reception and pay my fiver to them, then we’ll stay here all day.’ I smile sweetly.
‘You wouldn’t!’ he stares.
‘Wanna watch me?’ I raise my eyebrows defiantly.
‘OK, fine.’ He snatches the fiver with bad grace. I go back to my letter of resignation. I have done two. One horrible and truthful, just to entertain myself; the other – the one I’ll give them – is a polite version, and without a hint of truth.
I read through the joke one.
Dear Sylvia and Simon,
It is with pant-pissing pleasure (Get me! Alliteration! Unlike you thought, I’m not on an intellectual level with a badly trained chimp after all. Woohoo!) that I give you my one-month notice to quit. I have decided that I have had enough of being treated like a hired help and have decided to bugger off with my current shag and two best mates to run a bar in Tenerife. Where I intend to get completely legless every night and flirt with horny Spanish waiters. Safe in the knowledge that I will never see you or your brats again since Spain is beneath you – and just isn’t Barbados, Jamaica or Antigua, dahhhling. Lucky for me, a wonderful friend from a Care Home, (real people – they do exist!) has left me a hefty sum in her will. It would almost be on a par with what you paid for your garden shed. Yes! That much.
I am now in the most fortunate position of being able to tell you to stick your job up your arse and to let you what I really think of you. Simon (crashing bore), Sylvia (so far up your own backside that you’d need to open your mouth to wipe it), Henry (perv, needs restraining order and shares in Kleenex), Katie (see Sylvia), Georgie (an ASBO waiting to happen).
So, from one month and ooh, let’s see, seven and a half hours, you can find some other skivvy to run about after you all like a blue-arsed fly.
Yours (no more),
Lucy Ramsey
PS: It is not acceptable for a nanny to have to unload your clean weekend crockery from the dishwasher, before refilling it with your dirty breakfast ones, take out the overflowing bin bag – again, from the weekend – and spend six hours a week doing you and your husband’s laundry and ironing. Note: nanny, not maid!
PPS: With knickers like Simon’s, I am quite frankly amazed you would want me to handle them. He can make it to position of Managing Director, but he sure as shit (pun intended) has never learnt to wipe his own arse.
I cackle like an old witch as I read it back. Pustule-boy gives me a wary look. I stare him down and begin the real letter.
Dear Sylvia and Simon,
It is with great reluctance that I am giving you my one-month notice to terminate my employment. I have, thanks to a very kind elderly friend, received an inheritance and have decided to pursue my dream of being a chef. I will from next month be moving to Spain with my partner and friends to run our own restaurant business. I have thoroughly enjoyed my time spent with your family and feel blessed that you have allowed me to help in the raising of your children. I will genuinely miss them all. I would love to see you all should you ever consider a trip to Spain and, of course, I hope the children will keep in touch.
Many thanks again. The next nanny is a very fortunate girl. I hope she has as many happy hours as an employee of yourselves as I have.
Kindest regards,
Lucy Ramsey.
I find Georgie lying in the bottom of the ball pit and put on his coat and shoes.
‘Me troll,’ he says, menacingly.
‘You sure are,’ I say. ‘Was that why the little girl was crying?’
‘Yes, me bad monster,’ he laughs.
‘Come on, Chucky, let’s go.’
We walk back towards their house, stopping off to collect some brochures from the travel agent. I need to see blue skies and sea. Not slate grey, with a soupcon of drizzle, and the filthy canal, with attractively placed shopping trolley, that I see now. I put Georgie in the cot for his nap and start unloading the washing machine. Nooo! Red sock, new white Dior top. Sylvia’s. Shit! Bleach. One hour. Now yellow Dior top. Not nice yellow, patchy, piss-stained and still streaked with bits of red from sock. Bin. Sock and top.
Imagining how much top cost. Probably equivalent to a fortnight’s Caribbean holiday for a family of four. Feel sick. Fuck it! Leaving. Never saw it anyway.
I take the bin bag out and place it in next door’s bin. Hiding the evidence. They really aren’t sma
rt enough to think of that. Actually, that’s not quite true, but they wouldn’t think that I was smart enough to think of it.
The rest of the day passes remarkably quickly. Henry has football practice and Katie disappears to her room to play Cyber Pets with the girl from next door. Thirteen and a bit old if you ask me. But, apparently, she’s a good influence on Katie, according to Sylvia. I think she is actually ‘grooming’ her to be a future babysitter. Free child labour and definitely wouldn‘t let the little ones eat five Easter Eggs, like Henry did when Sylvia popped out for the weekly shop.
Before I know it, I hear a key in the lock and Sylvia walks smiling down the hallway. Katie takes the wine out of the fridge and Georgie opens the cupboard to fetch a glass.
‘Oh, my babies,’ she smiles, ‘so good of you to look after Mummy. Not the crystal though Georgiepops.’
‘Lucy, you pop off home early. The traffic is terrible out there.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ I say, surprised. This is how brainwashing affects nannies. Like a kicked dog, they immediately forgive one hundred acts of bitchiness for one act of kindness. I have a momentary pang of guilt thinking of the letter in my bag. I hover in the vestibule while I place the letter in the envelope.
‘Georgie! Psssht. Over here, honey,’ I whisper.
He continues to wheel his truck along the bottom stair and blatantly ignores me.
‘Georgie,’ I cajole. ‘Want a sweetie? Don’t tell Katie.’
Immediately he lumbers towards me on chunky legs. I hold out a chocolate orange square, complementary from our Indian restaurant and definitely less than a week old, though it’s hard to tell with my handbag. I’m sure there are lost ancient tribes lurking in the bottom there.
Crappily Ever After Page 13