The Male Nanny

Bum Chums

It is Saturday morning. I am taking the five-year-old to a dance class.

“Do you want me to watch or can I hang out in the café?” I ask her.

“Watch,” she demands.

The kids speed up and down the gym while the parents sit, bag-laden, grey, miserable, on the surrounding benches. I wearily take my seat next to one of them and contemplate an escape.

Then something beautiful floats through the swing doors.

She wears white leggings and a pink tank top. She is tanned, small, olive-eyed and has a voice that betrays her South American roots.

I am captivated as she tip toes around, her pony tail swinging like a rudder, as she slaloms between the children, organising them into groups. She has muscly thighs and a slim waist and soft arms. And suddenly she turns, revealing her bum to the benches.

It’s a wondrous thing; round, firm and taut. It announces itself with a dramatic protrusion beginning at the base of her spine. The way it concludes by cutting sharply back into her hamstring makes me shiver.

I am hypnotised. When I finally take my eyes off it, we are half-way through the lesson. Worrying my leering may have been noticed, I glance to the man on my left. Our eyes lock.

“Ridiculous, innit?” he says.

“Sorry?”

“That arse. Bloody ridiculous.”

He puffs out his cheeks and slowly exhales.

“Yeah”, I agree, “It’s quite something.”

He puffs out his cheeks and exhales again, this time slowly shaking his head.

“The things I’d do…” he says, dreamily.

He puffs out his cheeks and exhales and shakes his head again, this time biting his bottom lip.

“So… which one’s yours?” I ask, interrupting his fantasy.

“What?”

“The kids, which one’s yours?”

“Oh, None. My daughters doing swimming next door. I’m here for the arse.”

The Male Nanny

The Apprentice

Since burning his friend’s Bar Mitzvah invitation, the thirteen-year-old has had his allowance suspended. For this reason, I’m intrigued when I see him flashing a fistful of fivers.

“Where’d you get that money?” I ask.

“I got a job.”

“Doing what?”

“Something” he says, as his Blackberry pings, “that’s work. Gotta go. I’m on call.”

He remains on call for several days. His phone doesn’t stop pinging.

But as business booms and his collection of fivers thickens, his energy and enthusiasm wanes. He looks tired and no longer welcomes the ping that prompts his industry.

“The money’s great, and so are the perks, but it’s too much for me to do on my own”, he announces wearily, “I want to hire an assistant. Are you interested?”

“Yes.”

“You’re hired.”

“What is it we do exactly?”

“We’re editors.”

“Okay.”

“You can start with Sophie Simpson in year 9. She wants thinner thighs and bigger tits on her Facebook Marbella beach album. And a smaller forehead.”

The Male Nanny

Star

“I’m going to be on TV”, the five-year-old tells me, “6pm on Tuesday on BBC One.”

She really is going to be on TV. Some footage of her class taking part in a reading exercise is to be featured on a news item.

She is excited by her pending fame and tells everyone: Grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, great-aunts, uncles, great-uncles , cousins, second cousins, family friends, postmen, shop workers, bus drivers and passers-by.

Everyone knows that the five-year-old will be on TV at 6pm on Tuesday on BBC One.

It is Tuesday, 6pm and the TV is tuned to BBC One. An assortment of relatives, friends, friends of relatives and relatives of friends gather in the TV room.

Nibbles are shared around. There is an eerie calm, the kind that tends to precede great occasions.

“I’m going to be famous” declares the five-year-old, as the news begins. She is sitting on the chaise lounge with a Kit-Kat.

The tension builds as the headline stories are disposed of.

A grandma proclaims her pride.

An aunt announces her approval.

An uncle expresses his envy.

The five-year-old leans her head back and drops the last chunk of Kit-Kat into her mouth, crunching smugly as the report featuring her begins.

A hush grips the room. The thirteen-year-old looks up from his Blackberry.

The camera focuses on the teacher. A mini gasp.

The camera begins to pan across the class. A medium gasp.

The camera stops and focuses on the entire class. A large gasp.

The camera zooms in on the five-year-old and two friends: A seismic gasp, followed by clapping and whooping and cheering, accompanied by statements such as “There she is!” “She looks adorable!” and “A little celebrity!”

But, before the camera pulls away, something happens.

Our lives are defined by moments. We will have scores of these in our life-time, maybe more, and the manner of our response shapes our identity. This was one such moment for the five-year-old, here, on BBC One at 6pm on a Tuesday.

This is what the five-year-old does with the first moment life throws at her: she takes her index finger and places it deep in her nostril and wiggles it around.

The gasps and whoops and claps of admiration die.

Sighs of disapproval follow. And then, worse, raucous laughter, bouncing off the walls and ceiling, creating a tangible energy. Pandemonium ensues as people rise to their feet and began pointing at the screen and heckling and high-fiving and clutching their stomachs.

I look for the five-year-old, but can’t see her through the chaos.

Once the news item is finished and the room regains its composure, my eyes find her. And here, life offers me a moment.

Tears are rolling down her cheeks. The thickest her ducts have ever produced. They don’t belong to a bruise or a bump or a graze, but to something deeper. They belong to shame.

I go over to the chaise longue and place a hand upon the shoulder of the shell of sadness she has become. I use my other hand to create a cup beneath her chin, to catch the bodily manifestation of her pain. I use my voice to quell her humiliation:

“Hey, it’s okay, shhh, it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter. Shhh.” I soothe.

“No, but it really does matter”, she sobs, before collapsing into my chest.

The Male Nanny

Strange Clouds

I am play-fighting with the five-year-old when the fire alarm goes off. I tell her to wait in the garden, and I go to investigate.

On the first floor there is no evidence of a fire.

On the second floor there is no evidence of a fire.

On the third floor there is no evidence of a fire.

On the fourth floor I smell smoke.

I cautiously ascend to the fifth floor, where the stench becomes more pungent.

I spot the source of the smoke; it drifts out from beneath the thirteen-year-old’s bedroom door.

My heart leaps and gathers speed. I grab a phone, dial 999 and hover my thumb over the call button.

My hand trembles as I push the door open and enter the room.

The smoke is thick. I rush to the window and heave it open, gasping at the fresh air.

I scan the dense mist and espy a flame flickering in the corner of the room.

I dash to the bathroom and dampen a towel, return to the bedroom and smother the flame. As the fire dies, the smoke gradually clears to reveal the thirteen-year-old, lying indolently on his bed.

“What the fuck are you doing!?” I screech.

“Burning Hershey’s Bar Mitzvah invitation.”

“Why!?”

“Because he blocked me on BBM.”

The Male Nanny

Divided Wii Fall

A Wii has been purchased and installed in the playroom.

“Right, what shall we do first; archery, bowling, sailing, table tennis, boxing or golf?”

“Table tennis”, say the thirteen-year-old and five-year-old, simultaneously.

I hand them each a controller.

“Okay, first to six wins.”

They adopt a ready-for-action stance and begin.

The thirteen-year-old takes the lead: 1-0.

“Ha”, he scoffs.

2-0

“You suck”, he mocks.

3-0.

“This is so easy”, he teases.

4-0.

“Boooring”, he yawns.

5-0.

“Time-out”, I say.

I grab the five-year-old by her shoulders, look deep into her eyes and tell her, coach-style, that the next point is crucial:

“If he gets this point, you lose, so focus. Are you ready? You can do it!”

She looks over to her brother, who pokes out a smug tongue, then to me, who offers an encouraging nod, then down to her controller, and says:

“What do I press to shoot him in the face?”

The Male Nanny

Don’t Let Me Fall

The thirteen-year-old has composed a speech, for his friend’s Bar Mitzvah. He is reading it to me:

“When I was asked to write this speech, I thought: Great, I’ve got three minutes to embarrass Max…”

“Ha! Good…”

“Max is my best friend. I have had the pleasure of knowing him for most of my life…”

“Nice…”

“He is the most charming person I have ever met. Whenever we are late back from lunch, he just flashes a smile at Mr. Myers and all is forgiven…”

“Awww…”

“That smile makes him successful with the girls too. Every week, he seems to have a different ‘project’…”

“Haha! Good…”

“Max has a great sense of humour, but never pushes things too far. If he feels that someone has pushed it too far and upset someone, he will always defend that person…”

“Lovely…”

“I remember when I was really sad because I got dropped from the football team at school. Some of the other boys were laughing, so Max put his arm around me and told them all to shut up and they did…”

“Excellent…”

“Max is a really good sportsman. Whenever he comes to my house he smashes me at ping pong and basketball!”

“Good…”

“The word that sums up Max more than anything is loyal. Loyal to his friends, his family and his playstation…”

“Haha!”

“And Loyal to the football club he loves: Arsenal. But, not when they lose…”

“Haha brilliant…”

“But seriously, his mum, Natalie, and dad, Nigel, should be very proud of him. And they should be proud of themselves. They have clearly done a very good job as parents and Max is proof of that…”

“Very nice…”

“And in Natalie you can see where Max got his good looks…”

“Ha!”

“I always tell Max how jealous of him I am that he got to spend nine months inside Natali-”

“Whoa!”

The Male Nanny

When

The fourteen-year-old has experienced an epiphany: She has become aware of the futility of our existence. This flash of reality has exposed her susceptible soul to the wolves, who are circling.

 

“What’s the point?” she says, when I suggest she eat her vegetables.

“To be healthy and live longer.”

“We’re going to die. It doesn’t make a difference when.”

She scrapes her carrots into the bin.

 

“What’s the point?” she says, when I suggest she do her homework.

“So you get good grades and a well-paid job.”

“Wealth isn’t freedom. Look at my dad.”

She sticks her headphones back in.

 

“What’s the point?” she says, when I suggest she make her mother a birthday card.

“It’ll make her happy.”

“A card can’t make a person happy.”

She wanders down the hall.

 

“What’s the point?” she says, when I suggest she reconcile with a friend.

“Because being alone is miserable.”

“Not if you accept yourself.”

She stares into her book.

 

“What’s the point?” she says, when I suggest she watch TV with me.

“Desperate Housewives is on.”

“Really?”

 She follows me downstairs and her budding nihilism is bludgeoned by a dose of drab TV.

The Male Nanny

Familiar Melody

When I’m at work, my phone never leaves my side. The tech-savvy teenagers would discover my Twitter and Tumblr in seconds. The protectiveness I exhibit arouses a curiosity in them.

I sit on the sofa watching Waterloo Road with the thirteen-year-old. In a rare display of carelessness, I place the phone on my lap and rest my hands in my jean pockets. The boy seizes his moment – he snatches the handset and flees. I leap up nimbly and give chase down the hall. He is heading for the bathroom, in which he could lock himself, but I am confident of catching him before he reaches his destination.

I close the gap quickly, but my attempt to take a corner with speed ends disastrously. My socks slide along the varnished floor, my balance is lost and I crash to the ground. The bathroom door closes and the lock slides shut. Shit.

“Open the door”, I shout, bashing my fists against the door.

“No”, barks the thirteen-year-old, gasping for air.

“Open the door, now.”

“No. What’s on here that you don’t want me to see?”

“Nothing. It’s just private. Open the bloody door.”

“No.”

“You’ve got five seconds and I’m kicking the door in.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Five…”

“Ohhh, interesting texts”, he says.

“Four…”

“Sexy pictures!”

“Three…”

“Ohhh you have Twitter.”

I don’t even reach ‘two’. I take three steps back, perform a mini run-up and smash my foot into the door. It swings violently open. The lock and its screws dance on the marble floor, tapping out a contrapuntally jolly melody. Splinters fly in all directions. The thirteen-year-old screams.

I stand tall as a tree, chest puffed out, thighs like barrels and feet like bullets. I glare at the teenager, cowering in the corner. He gawps, terrified, throws me the phone and says:

“I was only teasing. Your phone’s so crap I couldn’t figure out how to unlock it. You’ve fucked up that door.”

The Male Nanny

Damaged

I am watching football clips on the iPad with the five-year-old, when I hear a scream.

I sprint toward the source of the sound. I discover the thirteen-year-old lying on the kitchen floor, clutching his foot.

“Fuuuck!” he shouts.

“What happ-”

“Fuuucking cuuunt!”

“Calm down. Have you hurt your foot? Let me see.”

He releases his foot, which has begun to swell.

“Blimey.”

“Fucking shit it’s broken isn’t it? Do something!”

“What did you do?”

“I dropped my fucking laptop on it!”

“How did you do tha-”

“Just fucking help!”

“Alright! Give me your hand. See if you can stand up.”

He grabs my hand for support and tries to stand. He collapses in a heap.

“I can’t fucking stand you dick! Call me a fucking ambulance.”

“I’m not calling an ambulance. We’re two seconds from the hospital. I’ll carry you, come on.”

I sling him over my shoulder and call the five-year-old down.

“Come on, your brother’s hurt his foot. We’re taking him to the hospital.”

“He’s fine.”

“I’m not fucking fine you bitch!”

“He’s not fine, come on. You can bring the iPad.”

“He called me bitch!”

We wait for an hour in A&E, the thirteen-year-old cursing, the five-year-old iPadding. They eventually x-ray his foot and a fracture is revealed.

I call the mother.

“Hi, don’t panic, it’s nothing too serious, we’re just in A&E because _______ dropped his laptop on his foot. He has a fracture, but the nurse says he’ll be fi-”

“What laptop?”

“Huh?”

“What laptop did he drop?”

“Er… I dunno. I think his Macbook thing.”

“Shit. That’s not insured.”

The Male Nanny

Dad

Every evening, at 8pm, the father returns home from work. He says “hello”, then trots upstairs to “answer emails”. Last night, for the first time, I quietly followed in the footsteps of his curious nightly ascent.

It is said that we fill voids. We work or watch TV or go on the internet or chat or exercise. Nothingness has been misidentified as modern man’s predator, and we escape it by letting it dress in beautiful language: People describe a ‘passion’, as if the word possesses the strength to lift their hobby from a chasm and place it on the cliffs of necessity.

The father has always struck me as someone who fears voids more than most. He goes to an office and does work, he returns home and does work, then repeats it all the next day. Nothingness scares him so much that he can only confront it semi-consciously; in his sleep.

I tread lightly behind him and hear the door to his office creak open as he steps in. I hear him settle on his chair and I hear him sigh.

But I do not hear typing or the shuffling of papers; rather, the sound of my heart and breath. I get closer and peer through the crack in the door and the line of light transmits an unexpected kinship, an affinity…

He stares straight ahead, blankly, at the wall. His arms flop down by his sides and his mouth hangs open. His chest rises and falls with my own. Like me, he is a void-seeker. He craves one every evening and here, in his office, he finds one. It is not a peripheral void he is confronting, but one within himself, and he is embracing it.

He sits like this for ten minutes, before grabbing a beer and heading downstairs to chat to the children.

The Male Nanny

The Morning Paints the Bedroom in a Shade of Grey

On Monday, the five year old says:

“Guess what I am thinking about.”

I guess cars.

“Wrong.”

I guess football.

“Wrong.”

I guess trees.

“Wrong.”

On Tuesday, the five year old says:

“Guess what I am thinking about.”

I ask if it’s the same thing she was thinking about yesterday. She says yes.

I guess Shops.

“Wrong.”

I guess gymnastics.

“Wrong.”

I guess Cheestrings.

“Wrong.”

On Wednesday, the five year old says:

“Guess what I am thinking about.”

I ask if it’s the same thing she was thinking about on Monday and Tuesday. She says yes.

I guess lions.

“Wrong.”

I guess sweets.

“Wrong.”

I guess school.

“Wrong.”

On Thursday, the five year old says:

“Guess what I am thinking about.”

I ask if it’s the same thing she was thinking about on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. She says yes.

I guess TV.

“Wrong.”

I guess dressing up.

“Wrong.”

I guess karate.

“Wrong.”

On Friday, the five year old says:

“Guess what I am thinking about.”

I ask if it’s the same thing she was thinking about on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. She says yes.

I guess tadpoles.

“Wrong.”

I guess flowers.

“Wrong.”

I guess drawing.

“Wrong.”

“Just tell me!”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Hammers.”

The Male Nanny

All Innocence and Sin

Someone has removed the laces from my shoes.

“Where are my shoelaces?” I ask the five-year-old.

“I don’t know”, she says.

“Where are my shoelaces?” I ask the thirteen-year-old.

“I don’t know”, he says.

“Where are my shoelaces?” I ask the fourteen-year-old.

“I don’t know”, she says.

Hmmm.

“You haven’t seen my shoelaces, have you?” I ask the housekeeper.

“No”, she says.

“You haven’t seen my shoelaces, have you?” I ask the cleaner.

“No”, she says.

“You haven’t seen my shoelaces, have you?” I ask a man installing some speakers.

“No”, he says.

I turn the five-year-old’s room upside down, fruitlessly, and feel guilty.

I scour the mansion, looking in drawers, cupboards and boxes. I check the attic and the basement. I even look in loos. Nothing.

I sit with the kids eating dinner.

“So, none of you know where my shoelaces are?”

“NO!” they snap, simultaneously.

Hmmm.

I finish the five-year-old’s bedtime story.

“If you know where my shoelaces are, please tell me”, I plead.

She looks at me with guilt and pity. She knows where they are.

“Come on, it’s raining outside. You don’t want my feet to get wet, do you?”

She sighs and loosens her lips:

“They’re in the freezer. They’ll snap when you tie them.”

The Male Nanny.

Out-foxed

The sun darts through a poky window and bathes a small section of matte granite surface in the kitchen. This is where I choose to stand, to make lunch. Through the portal also comes sound; a shrill shout from the five-year-old, who is playing outside:

“There’s a fox in the garden!”

I tell her to be nice to it and I slice the bread.

“It’s eating the plants!”

I tell her to move slowly towards it, so that it will move on, and I butter the bread.

“I moved towards and it ran onto the trampoline!”

I tell her that’s fine and I cut the cheese.

“It did a wee on the trampoline!”

I tell her it’s probably scared and I slice a tomato.

“Now it’s in the hammock!”

I tell her to leave it alone and I grab some cling film.

 “Oh my God! It’s eating the frog spawn!”

I tell her foxes don’t eat frog spawn and I wrap the sandwich.

“They do! Come quick!”

I tell her I am coming.

I make my way to the garden, squinting as my feet encounter the warm grass.

On the concrete slabs, surrounding the pond, lay squished frog spawn. On the lawn lay uprooted daffodils and beetroot. On the apple tree hangs a disconnected hammock, like a lynched ghost. Seeped into the trampoline is a liquid that I smell and identify as juice.

I cock my head to the heavens, in resignation or plea, and that’s when I see it, in the poky window of the tree house, a pale little blob of darkness.

“It went that way”, it says, pointing an earthy finger.

The Male Nanny

Naive

I am to take the fourteen-year-old to see a psychiatrist.

“Why do you need to see a psychiatrist?” I ask her, as we leave.

“Apparently because I’m disorganised… and have a bad attention span.”

“Okay.”

“It’s bullshit.”

“Okay.”

“It really is bullshit.”

We trudge up the hill. She has been learning about communism at school. She is opposed to it because she believes humans are intrinsically selfish and that such a societal model suppresses this pure human impulse. I say I think we are intrinsically cooperative and that competitiveness and individualism is fostered by skewed cultural values. She calls me naïve. I call her fourteen.

We arrive at what looks like an ordinary house. A little block of anonymity, a sorry symbol of the stigma attached to mental illness. Imagine a discreet and unmarked A&E unit.

“Do you want me to come in with you?” I ask her.

“No”, she says.

The door closes and I turn away. I have descended a couple of metres down the hill, when I hear her voice again:

“The appointment’s at half-six, not half-five.”

“Oh, oka-”

“I’m bored. Can we get a milkshake?”

The Male Nanny.

Gob-smacked

I am a spitter. I spit in gutters, I spit on pavements, I spit on tarmac. I spit when I run, I spit when I walk. I had, however, managed to avoid spitting in front of the five-year-old, until recently…

In hindsight, I blame the sun – it had dulled my senses and exacerbated the productivity of my salivary gland. I regretted the expulsion, before my phlegm hit the road.

“Did you just spit?” she queried, her faced contorted in illustration of her disgust.

“No”, I lied.

“You did, I saw you.”

“I didn’t.”

“You just spitted.”

“Nope.”

“I am going to tell everyone you spitted.”

“No, don’t do that. I didn’t spit. I… erm… got a fly in my mouth, I was just getting rid of it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“So it’s okay to spit if something nasty gets in your mouth?”

“Ummm”… I considered the potential exploitation such an unspecific law might facilitate, but I was tired and sweaty, and so I said: “Yes.”

She nodded. I interpreted the nod as an innocent and endearingly naïve acceptance of my word, her elder and guide in, amongst other things, the pernickety realm of etiquette.

Later as the kids and I ate dinner, the five-year-old’s face contorted once again.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

But she didn’t answer. Instead, she gobbed a gooey mush of food onto her thirteen-year-old brother’s plate. It left her mouth with a snap of wind and landed on the plate with a plop. 

A repulsed and disbelieving pause gripped the table.

The five-year-old smiled, shrugged her shoulders, looked at me, and said:

“Some cabbage got in my mouth.”

The Male Nanny