Danielle Steel - Fine things

“Shall we give her a try for a few days, and if we don't like her, boot her out?” Jane nodded at him, relieved that nothing was being forced on her. Forever. It was difficult for all of them. And Anna drove them nuts in the next few days. She continued to borrow Liz' clothes, and even Bernie's sometimes. She turned up in some of his favorite cashmere sweaters, and once even borrowed his socks. She never washed, the house smelled terrible, and when Jane came home from school in the afternoon, she found Alexander with dirty pants, running around the house in drooping diapers and an undershirt, with dirty feet and lunch all over his face, while Anna talked to her boyfriend on the phone, or listened to rock on the stereo. The food was inedible, the house despicable, and Jane was taking care of Alexander almost full-time herself. She bathed him when she got home from school, and dressed him up before Bernie got home, she fed him and put him to bed at night, and went in to him when he cried. Anna never even woke up. The laundry wasn't done, the beds weren't changed, the children's clothes weren't washed. Anna drove them crazy, and in less than ten days they kicked her out. Bernie announced it to her on a Saturday night, as the steaks burned in a large filthy cooking pot, and she sat on the kitchen floor talking on the phone, and she had left Alexander alone in the tub. Jane found him there, slippery as a fish, attempting to climb over the side, and she rescued him, but he could have drowned, which terrified everyone except Anna. Bernie told her to pack her things and leave, and she did, with barely an apology, and wearing Bernie's favorite red cashmere sweater.

“So much for that.” He put the pot full of burnt steaks into the sink and ran hot water over them. “Can I interest you in a pizza tonight?” They had been eating pizza a lot, and they decided to invite Tracy to join them.

When she arrived, she helped Jane put the baby to bed. They all cleaned up the kitchen together. It was almost like the old days, except that someone very important was missing and they all felt it. And to make matters worse, she told them she was moving to Philadelphia. Jane looked stricken. It was like losing her second mother, and she was depressed for weeks after they saw her off at the airport.

And the next nurse didn't help. She was Swiss and had been trained as a baby nurse, which sounded perfect to him in the interview, but what she didn't say was that she must have been trained in the German army. She was rigid and inflexible and unkind. The house was immaculate, the dinners were small, the rules were ironclad and plentiful, and she slapped Alexander all the time. The poor child cried constantly and Jane hated to come home from school and find her there. Milk and cookies were not allowed, nor were treats of any kind, and they were not to speak at meals, except if their father was there. Television was a sin, music was a crime against God. Bernie decided that the woman was half crazy, and when Jane laughed at her inadvertently on a Saturday afternoon two weeks after she'd come, she walked across the room and slapped Jane hard across the face. Jane was so stunned she didn't even cry at first, but Bernie was trembling when he stood up and pointed at her. “Get out of this house, Miss Strauss. Immediately!” He took the baby from her, put an arm around Jane to comfort her, and an hour later, with an enormous bang, the front door slammed behind her.

And it was discouraging after that. He felt as though he had interviewed everyone in town, and he wouldn't have trusted any of them. The first thing he did was get a cleaning lady, but even that didn't help. His big problem was Alexander and Jane. He wanted someone to take care of them properly. They were beginning to look unhappy and bedraggled to him, and he was desperate to find someone to help him. He was beside himself as he ran home from work every day to take care of Alex and Jane. He had a daytime sitter temporarily, who could only stay until five o'clock. And his mother was right. It was difficult working all day, and then taking care of the children and the house and the laundry and the groceries and the cooking and the ironing and the backyard all night.

Their luck changed six weeks after school began. The agency called him again and he listened to the usual tale. Mary Poppins had turned up and she was waiting for him. According to the agency, she was perfect for the job.

“Mrs. Pippin is perfect for you, Mr. Fine.” He looked bored as he jotted down her name. “She's sixty years old, British, and was ten years in her last job, with two children, a boy and a girl. And”—the woman at the agency sounded victorious—“there was no mother.”

“Is that something to be particularly proud of?” It was none of their goddamn business.

“It just means that she is acquainted with this kind of situation.”

“Wonderful. What's the hitch?”

“There is none.” He had not been an easy client, and they were frankly annoyed at how suspicious he was of everyone they sent him. In fact, the woman made a note to herself as she hung up, if he didn't like Mrs. Pippin, they were not sending anyone else after that.

Mrs. Pippin rang the doorbell at six o'clock on a Thursday evening. Bernie had just gotten home and taken off his coat and tie. He had Alexander in his arms, and Jane was helping him start dinner. They were going to have hamburgers, for the third night in a row, with potato chips and buns and lettuce. But he hadn't had time to go to the store since the weekend, and somehow the rest of the meat had gotten lost on the way home, or they'd never brought it home in the first place.

Bernie opened the door and found himself staring down at a tiny woman with short white hair and bright blue eyes, in a navy hat and coat, and sensible black shoes that looked like golf shoes. And the woman at the agency was right. She did look like Mary Poppins. She was even carrying a tightly furled black umbrella.

“Mr. Fine?”

“Yes.”

“I'm from the agency. I'm Mary Pippin.” Her accent was Scots and he grinned to himself. It was like a joke. Not Mary Poppins. But Mary Pippin.

“Hello.” He stepped back, with a smile, and waved her to a seat in the living room, as Jane walked out of the kitchen, with a roll of hamburger in her hands. She was curious to see what they had sent this time. The woman was hardly taller than she was, but she smiled at Jane and asked her what she was cooking.

“How nice of you to take care of your dad and your little brother. I'm not much of a cook myself, you know.” She grinned, and almost instantly, Bernie liked her. And then he suddenly realized what the shoes were. They weren't golf shoes. They were brogues. She was Scottish through and through. Her skirt was tweed, her blouse was white and starched, and when she took her hat off, he saw that she even wore a hatpin.

“That was Jane.” Bernie explained as she went back to the kitchen. “She's nine, or will be soon. And Alexander is nearly eighteen months old now.” He set him down on the floor as they sat down and he took off at top speed for his sister in the kitchen, as Bernie smiled at Mrs. Pippin. “He doesn't stop all day, he wakes up all night. So does Jane.” He lowered his voice. “She has nightmares. And I need someone to help me. We're alone now.” This was the part he hated, and usually they just stared at him dumbly, but this woman nodded sensibly, with a sympathetic look. “I need someone to take care of Alexander all day, to be here when Jane gets home from school, to do things with them, to be their friend”—it was the first time he had said that, but somehow she seemed that kind of woman—“to cook for us, to keep their clothes neat… to buy their school shoes if I don't have time …”

“Mr. Fine”—she smiled gently—“you want a nanny.” She seemed to understand completely.