“He loves you, you know,” Hilda told her daughter.
“I know.”
“Don’t be a stranger. It’d break his heart.”
They hugged, then Jo turned away and got on the train. She busied herself, getting out her book and finding her seat. When she sat down, she looked out and could still just see her mother slowly following her father down the platform.
Chapter 4
When Jo’s train pulled out of Stratford-upon-Avon station she was a brave, strong adventurer with hope in her soul and a song in her heart. By the time she arrived at the Fitzgeralds’ she was a gibbering wreck.
The London Underground had changed since her visit just a month before. When she’d used it for the interview, she’d been a tourist. Its sights, its sounds, tempo, smells, idiosyncrasies, delays, anonymity—everything was quirky and exciting.
This time was different. This time was for real. People moved to a rhythm she couldn’t follow. She felt like the new girl at the front of a ballet class in a mirrored room. As the escalator took her deeper and deeper down, a great heaviness expanded inside her chest like she was drowning from the inside, a feeling she assumed must be loneliness. When an advertisement on the walls talked about coping with loneliness she had to turn away.
She tried to ignore her feelings and adopt the air of a seasoned traveler; after all, she’d made the journey to Highgate once already, she knew exactly where she was going. How hard could it be, she asked herself. She answered herself pretty succinctly by arriving in High Barnet.
Half an hour later, she arrived in Highgate, a stressed, traumatized nobody, aware of the ultimate meaningless state of existence and wearing the “Come any nearer and I’ll pull the cord,” glint in her eye.
Reaching ground level at Highgate, she waited to feel the recognizable smell, taste, and texture of fresh air. When she didn’t, she almost wept. London had different air! Of course. She could almost feel pollution plugging up her pores.
As she walked up the hill toward the village, her rucksack assaulting her back at every single point of contact, head like a cartoon hammer and feet proving themselves once and for all to be a major design flaw, she wondered if Vanessa Fitzgerald would mind if she greeted her with “One hot bath, bitch, or three dead babies.” Then she realized that she would be unable to form such a complicated sentence.
She needn’t have worried. Vanessa wasn’t in, as it was the first Sunday in the month,
Dick was in sole charge of the children. Only one generation ago that would have meant a day of discipline. Now it meant someone else who wanted to watch crap TV and eat junk food.
“Good journey?” asked Dick as he took Jo’s suitcase from her hand and placed it two feet away from her in the hall. He ignored the multicolored rucksack coming out of her head.
“Oh, you know,” she said, forcing a smile. “No.”
“Good,” he said. “The children are upstairs—”
“DA-AD!” yelled one of them.
Dick smiled helplessly at Jo, tutted happily, and left her to it, bounding up the stairs two at a time.
Feeling like an uninvited guest at the party from hell, Jo stood for a moment getting her bearings. Having got them, she decided she wanted very much to change them. Then at the sound of Dick bounding back down the stairs, she mindlessly picked up her suitcase and lumbered through to the back of the house, through the kitchen, and into her suite of rooms.
There she dropped her suitcase and slowly collapsed onto her back, landing on the rucksack. She wriggled her body out of the straps, where, instead of it floating up to the sky as she imagined it would, it refused to budge. There she stayed, like a beetle dying on its back, for a considerable while.
When she felt her eyes well up, she heaved her body into what could loosely be termed a sitting position. Once up, she forced her body into a vague approximation of a standing position. Once standing, she conquered her inner fear, invoked her fighting spirit, and placed one foot in front of the other. She tripped over her suitcase, swore and stamped over it to her other room.
She stood in the doorway and took it all in. An enormous wardrobe dominated the far corner, a vast television squatted in the middle, and a dressing table perched in the near corner. Opposite them all was a funky futon-cum–double bed.
If I had the energy, she thought, I’d bring all my stuff in here and unpack it next month.
Instead, she walked in and opened the vast wardrobe, half-expecting to find herself in Narnia. She stared sadly at the solid back of the empty wardrobe. It was absolutely enormous. She frowned and stared at it some more. Hmm, she considered. I’ll need more clothes.
She walked back through her bedroom, tripping briefly over her luggage, into the en suite shower room. It was also enormous. Unfortunately no bathtub (Jo’s parents had never had a shower installed), but the shower took up almost as much room as a tub would, and there was a toilet, sink, and a floor that could have doubled as a small dance area.
If I had the energy, she thought, I’d bring my stuff in and leave it in the middle of the floor for a month. Instead, she washed her face and looked at herself in the mirror. “This must have been how Lady Di felt when she arrived at the palace,” her reflection seemed to say. Suddenly a small voice sounded behind her.
“It’s teatime.”
She spun round and looked down to face Tallulah. “Hello!” Jo knelt and grinned at her like a long-lost friend.
Tallulah inspected her gravely. “Hello,” she said politely.
“How are you?” asked Jo.
“I’m fine, thank you,” answered Tallulah. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” said Jo.
There was a lull in the conversation.
“It’s teatime,” announced Tallulah.
“Ooh, lovely,” said Jo. “Thank you.”
“Daddy says will you be wanting brioche or focaccia?”
Jo thought for a moment, trying to work out if the little girl had just sworn at her. She repeated the sentence in her head a few times. “I’ll come and find out, shall I?” she said eventually.
Tallulah frowned. “If you don’t know now, you won’t know then.”
“Oh!” said Jo. “Is that what you think, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Well then,” said Jo, gently taking Tallulah’s hand in hers, “you’ll just have to decide for me.”
“I can’t do that,” said Tallulah, leading Jo back through her bedroom.
“Why not?” asked Jo.
“Because I can’t.”
“Of course you can. I trust you completely.”
In the kitchen, Tallulah blinked contemplatively up at Jo. Just before the other children advanced toward the front line, Jo thought she caught the glimmer of a smile on the little girl’s face.
“I’m having chocolate spread,” announced Toby, leaping onto one of the velvet-cushioned iron thrones, almost squashing the two cream cats, who leaped out of the way and cast him looks that would have shrunk a lesser man.
“It’s Nutella,” corrected Cassandra, plonking herself opposite him.
“I’m having chocolate spread, too,” announced Zak.
“It’s Nutella!” repeated Cassandra.
“I’m choosing Jo’s tea for her,” Tallulah told them all.
“It’s chocolate spread, smarty-pants,” Zak told Cassandra.
“It’s Nutella, poo pants,” Cassandra told Zak.
“Now, now,” Dick told them all.
“And I’m not having chocolate spread on bread,” said Zak, “I’m having it on chocolate digestives.”
“Hummus, anyone?” asked Dick.
“Bleagh!” spat Toby.
“Yes please!” said Tallulah.
“Hummus tastes like sick,” explained Toby.
“I love hummus,” Tallulah quietly informed Jo.
“It’s made with chickpeas,” Cassandra told them.
“Oooo-oo-ooh,” mocked Toby. “It’s made with chickpeas
!”
Zak collapsed in hysterics.
“It’s made with chickpeas!” he repeated.
“Well it is!” said Cassandra, frustrated.
“Well it is!” repeated Toby.
“Now now,” said Dick. He turned to Jo. “There’s mixed salad with balsamic vinegar and sun-blushed tomatoes—the children find sun-dried a bit too salty—and focaccia with hummus, tzatziki, or guacamole. Or if you have a sweet tooth there’s brioche, butter, and chocolate spread or raw honey—most of it organic. I’ll grind some coffee when the kids are sorted. Half-decaffeinated, organic, Brazilian, hope that’s okay.”
After deciding that Dick was being serious, Jo looked down at Tallulah. “Tallulah’s choosing for me,” she said. “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”
Without further ado, Tallulah poked her little pink tongue neatly out of the corner of her mouth and started making Jo’s tea.
“Chocolate spread! Chocolate spread!” shouted Zak, victorious.
“It’s Nutella!” cried Cassandra. “Look at the label!”
“Dad said chocolate spread!” shouted Zak.
“Da-ad!” wailed Cassandra.
“Now, now,” said Dick.
Tallulah chose buttered toasted brioche with lots of chocolate spread and hummus. Luckily, homesickness seemed to be temporarily numbing Jo’s taste buds.
“I like the cats,” she said, hoping the act of talking would distract her body from the act of having a minibreakdown.
Dick smiled.
“They’re Molly and Bolly,” said Tallulah, solely to her. “Molly’s the boy, he’s the bigger one, and Bolly’s the girl.”
“Molly’s a strange name for a boy,” said Jo.
“It’s short for Molière,” said Tallulah. “Mummy’s favorite playwright. He’s French.”
“I know. I studied him for French A-level.”
The table went quiet.
“Bolly’s short for Bollinger,” continued Tallulah. ‘It’s Mummy’s favorite champagne. Bolly’s always busier than Molly but doesn’t eat as much as him. They’re Burmese, but they don’t have a funny accent.”
The conversation was then drawn to a close as the table started arguing about what sort of accent the cats would have if they could speak, Dick playing as active and passionate a role in the argument as his children.
While they were eating, Jo became vaguely aware of the sound of the telephone breaking into the cacophony around her. She waited for someone to answer it, and when no one did, wondered briefly if it was only going on in her head. But no, Dick was starting to notice it, too. He kept frowning at it and tutting. Was this a test? To see if she was able to take responsibility? Was it Vanessa calling? Or could it be her parents checking that she had arrived in London safely? She hadn’t had a moment to call them. The longer it was ignored, the more frantic she started to feel. Eventually, unable to contain herself any longer, she said to Dick, “Would you like me to get that?”
“Oh yes, please,” he answered eagerly.
As Jo approached the ringing phone, the family as one became silent. Jo realized she didn’t know the phone number, yet didn’t feel she could answer informally, as if she were mistress of the house, especially if it was Vanessa on the other end. She also realized she had no idea how to answer the tiny chrome instrument. She grew suddenly self-conscious. She picked up the phone and heard herself say, in a stilted voice, “The Fitzgerald residence. May I help?”
“Press the green button!” cried the suddenly hysterical Fitzgeralds.
Jo managed not to throw the phone in the air and pressed the green button. “Speak!” they yelled at their new nanny.
Jo turned her back on them.
“The Fitzgerald residence,” she said brusquely. “May I help?”
There was a long pause. She could feel the entire family staring at her back. The pause continued. She could hear someone breathing at the other end of the phone.
“The Fitzgerald residence, may I help?” she repeated.
Another pause. She turned away from the family a bit more.
“Or not?” she whispered pointedly.
“Hello,” came a warm male voice.
“Can I help?” she repeated.
“Help who?” came the grinning voice. “You’re the one who sounds like you’ve got a poker up your arse.”
Jo’s body underwent a thermal flush.
“Thank you,” she said. “To whom would you like to speak?”
“Dick. Is…of whom I would like to speak. To.”
Jo tried to hand the phone to Dick as if it was a hot bomb, but Dick was having none of it. He shouted into the mouthpiece, “Who the hell is disturbing my Sunday tea?” Jo took a deep breath, gritted her teeth, and turned her back again.
“Who shall I say is calling?”
There was a pause.
“You shall say Josh is calling.”
“And what’s it about?” yelled Dick across the kitchen.
This must be a test, she decided. No wonder their nannies don’t last long.
“Will he know what it’s concerning?” Jo said into the phone.
“No,” said the voice. “I don’t even know what it’s about yet,” it said. “Let’s just live dangerously and see what happens, shall we?”
Jo wondered how on earth she had become a figure of fun for someone who hadn’t even met her yet. She felt a stab of longing for home and yearned for the chance to be the one mercilessly ridiculing others and not the other way round. Was she ridiculous to the Fitzgeralds? Were they all laughing at her? She turned to face them. They were all grinning, and Dick was stuffing his face with salad. She felt a sudden need to be back in her neighborhood pub with Shaun, getting her usual without asking. She handed the phone to Dick and, imagining Shaun, Sheila, and James were listening, found a spark of her former self and said, “It’s Josh. He doesn’t have a strategy for the conversation, but is willing to live dangerously if you are.”
The Fitzgeralds burst into happy laughter, and all tried to grab the phone.
“Firstborn!” shouted Dick into the phone. He held the phone out to his children, who all yelled their greetings.
Jo pretended not to hear Dick repeatedly say into the phone, “Did she? Did she?” punctuated by hearty laughter.
She contented herself with the knowledge that whatever Josh was saying about her was clearly puerile, and, anyway, she felt the same about him times infinity, with knobs on.
Josh, via the telephone, was handed round to every child, and she had to hear every single one laugh at something he said, then say, “No, she’s really nice,” until she wanted to scream.
“He called you Mary Poppins,” explained Tallulah eventually. “And did an impersonation of your voice on the phone.”
Jo was so impressed that a four-year-old knew what the word “impersonation” meant that she hardly had time to be mortally offended.
Zak and Toby laughed.
“Don’t worry,” Cassandra whispered. “I love Mary Poppins.”
Jo smiled at Cassandra. “Thank you,” she said.
“It’s alright,” shrugged Cassandra. “Josh is just”—she looked at her brothers—“a boy.”
As the boys cheered, Jo, Cassandra, and Tallulah all shared a moment of mutual understanding.
Before tea was over, Vanessa arrived home. She wandered into the kitchen, put various shopping bags on the floor, and amid the screamed questions, “Did you get me anything?” “What’s in the blue bag?” “Why’s your hair a different color?” assessed the situation fairly accurately.
Hands on hips, she stared at her family until they all shut up, then said quietly, “I thought I heard a bomb while I was in Hampstead, but I had no idea it had hit my own kitchen.”
The children, including Dick, laughed at this, so it was Jo alone who took in the scene through Vanessa’s eyes. The kitchen was a disaster. She felt a pang of pity for Vanessa until Vanessa said to her, “I’m sure Dick’ll give you a hand with th
is lot,” when she felt a much bigger pang of pity for herself. Vanessa was still talking, “Then when you’ve finished, we can go through the week’s schedule. Right!” She turned to her family. “I’m having a hot bath. Approach at your peril.”
And before Jo had time to cry, “Wait for me!” she was gone.
By the time Jo had cleared away the mess in the kitchen, learned from Dick where everything belonged, and had just enough time to open her suitcase and look at it for a while, Vanessa felt like a new woman.
They met at the kitchen table for Jo’s first Sunday evening debriefing. Vanessa was in her fluffy bathrobe, her hair in a towel, and her face cleansed. Jo was in a foul mood, her hair in a mess and her face clenched.
“Right,” started Vanessa, taking a big breath. “Zak goes to St. Albert’s in Hampstead—I recommend beating the rush hour, otherwise, you’ll be in traffic all morning. Cassie goes to St. Hilda’s on the way in Highgate, doesn’t mind being dropped off halfway up the hill if there’s traffic. Tallulah goes to the local Montessori, but we do like her to walk, so we’d rather you drive her back home after dropping the other two off and then walk her up there please. It’s wonderful exercise, one big hill! Lulah gets picked up at midday. Once a week she does Tumble Tots and once a week she does ballet, her tutu’s on the back of her bedroom door, don’t forget it please, she has been known to cry until she turns blue. The other two are out at twenty past three, Zak first, because Cassie’s old enough to start walking home with a friend or doesn’t mind waiting—always find out which in the morning, she often forgets to tell you. After school Zak does Beavers and karate and has tutors for math and English at home, in the dining room. Cassie does drama and music at school, Brownies, ballet, tap, and jazz outside school in Muswell Hill, she can change there, address on the fridge, A-Z with the cookbooks by the kitchen door.
“The two older children practice piano and recorders once a week each at least, in the dining room. (The local pharmacist has very good earplugs.) Zak needs his recorder for school on Monday, Cassie—treble and descant—on Friday.
“Their weekly schedule is on the fridge calendar—off the top of my head I can’t remember which day is which. All I do know is that we had a nanny once who took Cassie to karate, Tallulah to Beavers, Zak to ballet, and she was back in the bosom of her family in Norfolk that night. Oh! And of course, whenever she can squeeze it in, my mother, Diane, pops in to see the children—they adore her. All you really need to remember is that Tuesday’s the nightmare day when it’s so stupid you have to make packed teas for all of them as well as lunches—oh that reminds me, Zak’s packed lunches must always have cheesey straws in them, otherwise he literally doesn’t eat anything else. All day. He also has every pair of pants ironed. Otherwise, he won’t wear them. Tallulah’s lunch box is Tweenies—Zak’s is Superman—Cassie’s is Buffy. Please don’t mix them up or they will be bullied.” Vanessa frowned suddenly. “Any questions?”
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