Rosie Dixon - Confessions of a Babysitter

‘Right!’ says Penny. ‘Now it’s my turn on the hot seat.’

‘Surely we’ve done the job?’ I say.

Penny shakes her head. ‘You can’t be too sure in this kind of case. Look, it’s come back again.’

‘Of course it’s going to come back if you do that!’ I say. Really! I don’t know where to put my face sometimes – which is not something you can say for Penny. She behaves in a way that would make you feel uncomfortable if you saw your pet Sealyham doing it to a bone.

‘Bang! Bang! Bang!’ No, it is not just the back of Franco’s head bashing against the floor. It is somebody beating on the door of the cabin.

‘Are you all right in there?’ shouts a gruff voice. Before we can reply, Franco twists like an eel and springs to his feet. Without a word, he darts across the room and dives into the ventilation shaft. Can the voice outside be that of someone checking that he is on the job?

‘No staying power,’ says Penny with a sad shrug of the head. ‘It’s the old, old story.’ She pulls on a robe and starts to open the door. ‘Let’s see what new supplies have arrived.’ But the men who burst through the door do not appear to be – thank goodness! – interested in hanky panky. They rush across the room and start shining torches up the ventilation shaft.

‘Has a man come in here?’ grunts one of them.

‘Better ask her that question,’ says Penny, nodding at me.

‘Only an Italian ventilation engineer,’ I say.

The man snorts. ‘That’s what he told you, is it? He’s no engineer. He’s been on the run from the brig ever since we put to sea. That was Franco Wanco, the Italian Army’s number one deserter. He’s been inside more times than you’ve had hot dinners.’

‘I can believe it,’ says Penny, wistfully. ‘Well, gentlemen, I expect you wish to sit down and wait for him to return. May I suggest that you make yourselves comfortable? Take off your jackets and loosen your ties. Maybe you’d even like a shower? It’s a bit crowded but – ’

It is at this point that I slip out of the cabin and go and sit in the toilet until we reach Aden. It’s not very comfortable but at least I am pretty certain to have it to myself.

Breakfast at 47 Pretty Way, West Woodford – or Chingford if you insist. Four pairs of Dixon jaws munch their way through assorted packets of breakfast cereal. Dad is complaining because they design the packets in such a way that they won’t stand up, and because my precocious little sister, Natalie, has plunged her hand into the cornflakes in order to seize upon a plastic hair grip which is this month’s free offer.

‘Now look what you’ve done!’ he says. ‘They’re all in the sugar. Why can’t you wait? You never use a hairgrip anyway. Why don’t you speak to her, Mary?’

Dad’s last words echo my sentiments exactly. Natalie gets away with far too much and somebody ought to make a stand with her. She uses far too much make-up for a girl of her age and is always trying to flaunt her figure in a very common fashion. Mum says it’s a phase she’s going through but I think it’s there for keeps unless somebody does something.

‘You heard what your father said, dear,’ says Mum. ‘It’s not very nice.’

‘It’s unhygienic,’ I say. ‘I don’t want them after her filthy hands have been grubbing through them.’

‘My hands aren’t filthy,’ says Natalie provocatively. ‘I wash them as often as you do,’

‘That’s true,’ I say. ‘I can tell by the marks on the towels. When are you going to learn to use your own?’

‘I didn’t think you had a towel,’ says Natalie. ‘You’re here so seldom, I don’t see the point.’

‘You use the place like a hotel,’ says Dad. I might have guessed he would team up with Natalie. She has always been his favourite. I take a mouthful of Sugar Puffs and try to look hurt. It is not easy because I spill some of them and can feel one of them sticking to the corner of my mouth.

‘Don’t be unkind to the girl, Harry,’ says Mum. ‘She only came home last night.’

‘I suppose we should be thankful for that,’ says Dad. ‘It’s usually first thing in the morning.’

Natalie sniggers and I could kill her. She has such a vulgar laugh. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I say angrily.

‘You know what I mean,’ says Dad. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me, my girl. It won’t wash.’

‘Now, now,’ says Mum. ‘Let’s have no unpleasantness. I’m very happy that Rose is home again. I don’t know why she always wants to leave us.’ She sniffs and dabs her eye with her apron.

‘I don’t want to leave you , Mum,’ I say. ‘It’s everybody getting at me that I can’t stand.’

‘Nobody’s getting at you,’ says Dad. ‘I’m just commenting on a matter of fact, that’s all. You’ve always kept unreliable hours. It’s a symptom of your whole way of going on. Look at the jobs you’ve had. Not just jobs – professions most of them. Nursing, teaching. You couldn’t make a go of any of them. Then that escort business.’

‘I was never in favour of that,’ says Mum. ‘I think that’s where she made her mistake. She should have stuck at the teaching. They need teachers.’

‘I don’t think she had a chance to stick,’ says Dad, coming over all malevolent. ‘Redundant is a word you hear a lot of these days but never more so than from our little Rose. I think she gets the push for reasons that have nothing to do with the plight of this once great country of ours – well, not directly anyway.’

‘I don’t know what you mean, Dad,’ I say.

‘Oh yes you do!’ says Natalie. ‘I remember when we had that coach party here. I saw what was going on in the bathroom.’

‘You nosy little slut!’ I say – what was going on in the bathroom was unpleasant as readers of Confessions of a Lady Courier will recall, but it is even worse if you have your kid sister revealing the lowdown on the distressing details. A sensitive nature can stand so much.

‘Watch your language, young lady!’ snaps Dad. ‘You may think you’re grown up, but you don’t have leave to talk like that.’