The Male Nanny

Lord, Make Me A Rainbow

Every week, I pick the five-year-old up from swimming. When I arrive this week, there is an unfamiliar face on reception. It is wrinkly, sprinkled with bleach-blonde hair and adorned with gold-rimmed glasses. It has a slither of a top lip, with no discernable bottom, and the mouth is taut and pouty, like an anus.

“Hello”, I say, “I’m here to pick up *****.”

“And who are you?” asks the face, quickly pointing its pupils at me.

“I’m ****, I… look after her.”

“Right, well I wasn’t told you were coming to get her, so…”

“So…?”

“So you can’t take her.”

“Really? I pick her up every week.”

“That’s irrelevant. I can’t let you take her unless I talk to her mother.”

I am now the focus of the foyer. People are looking at me, accusatorily, over the tops of their broadsheets.

I call the mother. She doesn’t answer.

“She’s not picking up her phone”, I say. The face ignores me.

The five-year-old appears.

“How did you get out?” the face barks.

The five-year-old rolls her eyes and points to the door she emerged through.

“How was swimming?” I ask.

“Let’s go”, she responds, tugging my sleeve.

“You can’t leave with him”, says the face, suddenly floating officiously towards us.

“Why not?” asks the five-year-old, bemused.

“Because I don’t know who he is”, says the face.

“He’s my manny.”

Sniggers are omitted from behind the broadsheets.

“Well, I’ve never seen him and your mum didn’t mention him.”

The five-year-old sighs, grabs my arm and drags me to the door. The face seizes my other arm and pulls in the opposite direction. I am being fought over by two matriarchal morons from opposite ends of life’s rainbow. It is a visual metaphor for the stasis in my own life; caught between age and youth, unsure whether to flee or stay.

“Give him to me!” shouts the five-year-old.

“No!” shouts the face.

I escape both their clutches.

“Look”, I say, “her mother is playing tennis and won’t be available for a couple of hours. So what do we do in the meantime?”

“Well, she’ll have to wait with me at reception”, says the face.

“That is more than fine by me.”

I pop my headphones in and spend the afternoon in Starbucks, reinforcing neither my age nor my youth, neither fleeing, nor staying: Stasis.

The Male Nanny

Fucking Faggot

I am in the garden, playing football with the five-year-old, when the thirteen-year-old comes over to introduce his friend.

“This is Matthew”, he says.

“Hi Matthew, nice to meet you”, I smile.

“Alright, faggot”, he responds, “can you take a punch?”

Before I can answer, he punches my arm.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Punching you, faggot.”

He swings his fist again and connects with my chest.

“Don’t do that”, I say.

“Shut up, faggot”, he snarls, punching me again on the shoulder.

“That hurts, stop it”, I say, grabbing his arms and pinning them to his side.

“Get off me, faggot.”

“No, you keep hitting me.”

“So? What are you gonna do about it, faggot?”

“Well, If you do it again, I’ll… I’ll…”

I look at his pristine white trainers.

“… I’ll dunk you in the pond.”

I release him. As soon as my back is turned, he thumps my spine.

I look into the five-year-old’s eyes, and I know what I have to do.

I chase him, catch him, and dip him in the pond.

“Fucking faggot”, he mutters, as he squelches off.

The Male Nanny

Blood in my eyes, for you

“What is this stuff?” asks the five-year-old, plunging a stick into the pond.

“What stuff?”

“This stuff. Like bubbly jelly. I’m squashing it.”

I look into the pond.

“Oh no, don’t squash them, they’re alive!”

“What are they?”

“Frogspawn.”

“What?”

“Frogspawn.”

“Huh?”

“Frogspawn.”

“What’s that?”

“Like, frog eggs.”

“I hate frogs”, she says, thrashing them once more with her stick.

I confiscate the stick.

“Why do you want to kill everything? We can watch them grow. It will be interesting.”

“What are they called again?”

“Frogspawn.”

We watch the frogspawn.

“They’re not growing”, she observes.

It is bed time. We are reading Robinson Crusoe. The mother pokes her head around the door.

“Hello, darling! How was your day?”

“Fine”, sighs the five-year-old, “we watched frog porn.”

The Male Nanny

Alarm

“What’s this?” asks the five-year-old, proffering her palm.

“Christ, where did you get that!?”

“I found it. What is it?”

“Where did you find it!?”

“In someone’s coat.”

“Whose coat?”

“Someone’s”

“Give it to me.”

“No”.

“Hand it over, now.”

“No.”

“You stole it, it’s not yours, give it to me.”

“No. What is it?”

“This is your last chance, hand it over.”

“No.”

“Right.”

I walk towards her.

“I’ll press the button!”

“No no no, don’t press the button!” I plead, stopping in my tracks.

“Why? What does the button do?”

“Nothing, nothing, just don’t press it.”

“I really want to press it.”

“Please don’t press it.”

“Does it explode something?”

“No.”

“It must do something. I’m going to press it.”

“NO NO NO!”

She assesses my reaction with a furrowed brow, strokes the button, and asks:

“Can I have a Kit-Kat?”

She chows down the Kit-Kt.

She hovers a finger over the button and asks:

“Can we watch a DVD?”

We settle in front of the TV.

She sellotapes the device to her wrist and asks:

“Can I have beans on toast for dinner?”

After six threat-induced recitals of Eloise in Paris, she falls asleep. Sweat has loosened the tape and I delicately peel the device away from her skin. I sigh deeply and pat my damp forehead with my sleeve.

A while later I am dozing off on the chaise-lounge, when the thirteen-year-old crashes into the room with a smile.

“Look, I found a rape alarm. Be my bitch or I’ll set it off.”

The Male Nanny

Grenade

“Don’t forget to take the fourteen-year-old to the hairdressers”, says the mum, as she leaves.

“I won’t”, I reassure her.

She spins around and regards my hair curiously.

“You could get something done too, if you like, just put it on our account.”

“Thanks.”

I look in the mirror. It could do with trimming, smartening up. The fourteen-year-old bounds down the stairs.

“Stop looking in the mirror. You are always looking in the mirror”, she observes.

“I might get a haircut, too. What do you think?”

“I think you’re vain. Let’s go.”

We make our way to the hairdressers.

“What would you like done today, Sir?” asks the fat blonde woman hovering over me.

“I’m not sure. Just a trim, I think.”

She closes her eyes and begins fondling my hair, like it’s brail.

“Textured crop?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Graduation on the sides, take some weight off the top?”

“I don’t know what that means either.”

“We could keep the weight on top, depends how you want it to sit.”

“Ummm-”

“How do you normally wear it?”

“Just like this.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, how it is now?”

“Yes!”

She raises an eye-brow and begins cutting.

“How’s that?” she asks, when she is done, circling me with a mirror.

“Good, thanks”, I nod.

“Would you like some product?”

“Sorry?”

“Would you like some product?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

She dollops some guff onto my hair and starts sculpting.

The fourteen-year-old and I make our way back to the mansion.

“Your hair looks nice”, I say.

“Thanks.”

“What do you think of mine?”

She regards it curiously.

“You think you’re Bruno Mars. You’re not Bruno Mars.”

The Male Nanny

Bell: End

I am on the bus with the five-year-old, when she presses the bell.

*DING*

“Don’t do that, we’re not getting off yet.”

*DING*

“Hey, stop it. That will really annoy the driver.”

*DING*

I sigh and cover the bell with my hand.

*DING*

“How did you do that!?”

She points to the bell behind her. I attempt to cover that too, but it is an awkward stance to maintain.

“I can’t hold both bells, so just stop it, or we’ll get off and walk. Okay?”

“Okay.”

*DING*

“Right, we’re walking.”

We trot down the street, buses whizzing by.

“I don’t want to walk”, she protests.

“Nor do I, but I can’t trust you on the bus.”

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“I won’t press the bell again.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I promise”

“You promise?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

We board the next bus.

“So what shall we have for din-”

*DING*

The Male Nanny

Low Blow

“Grab me by the throat”, demands the fourteen-year-old.

“What?”

“I’ve been learning self-defence. Grab me by the throat.”

I tentatively place a hand on her neck.

“Both hands, tighter!”

“Are you sure-”

“Yes!”

I wrap my hands tightly around her neck.

“Okay, this might hurt”, she warns, before attempting to undo my hold with an elaborate arm movement. My grip remains. She looks perplexed and shouts:

“Get off!”

I release.

“Okay, grab my throat again.”

“But we just-”

“Grab my throat!”

I grab her throat. The five-year-old is now watching, transfixed. Again, the fourteen-year-old tries, and fails, to escape my clutches. She shouts:

“Get off!”

She wanders over to her school bag, pulls out a self-defence pamphlet and studies it.

“Okay, last time, grab my throat.”

I sigh and oblige.

This time, she swings her arm, like a wrecking ball, and crashes her fist into my groin. I release my grip, omit a groan and collapse to the floor. She leaps on top of me, like a leopard coveting its kill.

“Oh God! What are you doing!?” I fume, clutching my crotch.

“Detaining you, until the police come”, she explains.

“What? Get off!”

“No.”

“Get off!”

“No.”

“This isn’t self-defence, this is revenge!”

The pain in my groin increases.

“I need ice!”, I beg.

“The police aren’t here yet.”

I feel faint.

“You look really white”, she laughs.

“It’s not funny!”

“Shall I call the police?” asks the five-year-old.

“NO!”

“YES!”

She obeys her sister, and makes her way to the phone.

I stagger to my feet with the fourteen-year-old attached to my back, her hands clasped around my neck. I wrestle the phone off the five-year-old. She starts kicking me.

“What are you doing!? Stop.”

“I’m helping.”

“But I haven’t done anything!”

“You are the attacker”, she reasons, before snatching the phone and running upstairs.

I chase her, my thighs burning with the burden on my back, my balls still aching. My long legs enable me to take two steps at a time and I gradually close the gap. I am close enough to hear the buttons clicking as she frantically dials. Her pony tail is in reach, but I decide against grabbing it. Instead, I dive for her, rugby style, and manage to tap her foot, tripping her up, sending the phone flying. As I land, the fourteen year old’s teeth crash into the back of my head, causing a sharp pain.

There is a moment of calm, as we scan the floor, panting.

I spot the phone and seize it. The fourteen-year-old begins pulling my hair and gouging my eyes. The five year old punches at my stomach. I blindly flail my legs in retaliation. I manage to remove the battery from the phone, and fling it to safety. I dig my fingers into the fourteen-year-old’s ribs and she releases herself with a yelp. I rub my head, open my eyes, and I scream:

“Enough!”

The Male Nanny

Faith In Blue

I like the kid’s guitar tutor. She has mellifluous blonde hair, aqua-blue eyes, fleshy lips, taut skin and milky teeth. She is a dinky doll with snap-able limbs.

I like her most in winter, because the bitter cold blushes her skin, and her blue eyes look bluer.

She arrives this evening, in a black beret sprinkled with snow. And those eyes, inviting vortexes.

“It’s cold out there. Snowing a little”, she smiles.

I call the thirteen-year-old and escape.

When the lesson is under way, I peak in. She has neglected nails, the dungeon of her aspect. Probably because she doesn’t use a plectrum, just plucks away, rawly. She spots me staring.

“Would you like a drink… tea?” I blurt

“Tea would be lovely, thank you”, she smiles.

I forgot to ask her how she takes it, I think, as I watch the kettle. Be safe: one sugar, splash of milk.

I taste it. Perfect. Perhaps she’ll sip from the same section of the cup, then we’d have kissed.

I place the cup beside her and she makes me a smile in return.

I sit on the stairs and listen to the rest of the lesson. She says very little to the thirteen-year-old; she prefers to demonstrate. When she does speak, she whispers.

“Would you like to borrow an umbrella?” I ask her, as she wonders back into the snow.

“Do people use umbrellas in the snow?”

“I don’t know. I think they were invented for the sun, originally.”

“No, thank you”, she smiles, and disappears.

Later, as I lie on the chaise lounge with the iPad, I espy her cup of tea. There is a layer of lip-gloss on the rim, signalling her sample, and an indented sheet of music beneath the cold tea-laden vessel, illustrating her disappointment.

The Male Nanny

FFD

FFD (noun, abbr. Fostering of False Defiance): A tactic I frequently employ to elicit cooperation from the five-year-old. E.g.:

“Put your cup in the dishwasher.”

“No.”

“Please don’t put your cup in the dishwasher.”

“Haha, look, I am putting my cup in the dishwasher!”

It is short term solution that ultimately feeds her disobedience, but I don’t give a shit. Sometimes, things just need to get done.

I am trying to get her to karate on time.

“Shoes on.”

“No.”

“Please don’t put your shoes on.”

“Haha, look, I am putting my shoes on!”

“Please don’t put your coat on.”

“Haha, look, I am putting my coat on!”

“Please don’t leave the house.”

“Haha, look, I am leaving the house!”

I drop her off at karate.

An hour later, I am back, standing in the changing room, averting my eyes from the naked kids.

“Clothes on”, I say, timidly.

The five-year-old ignores me and performs a handstand.

“Come on, clothes on”, I repeat, imploring through gritted teeth.

She ignores me and begins sprinting, in circles.

“Please don’t put your clothes on”, I snap, assertively.

Silence ensues and the suspicious stares of protective parents fall on me.

“FFD?”, I plead, hopelessly.

The Male Nanny 

Re-energizzzzed

It’s Wednesday. I’m on my way to pick up the 12 year old, from a massage session. “She has an entrance exam on Friday”, explains the mum, “I want her to feel re-energised, but relaxed, you know?”

I enter the massage parlour. I shout the 12 year old’s name at a deaf Chinese lady on reception, and she points me to a seat.

I wait.

The 12 year old emerges, shuffling, dreamy, her eye-lids heavy. She doesn’t acknowledge me, and heads straight for the door.

I follow behind her as she sleep-walks back to the mansion, meandering, shoes flapping, unbuckled.

“How did she seem after the massage?”, asks the mum.

“Invigorated”, I say.

Thursday. I arrive at the massage parlour. I shout at the deaf Chinese lady and she points me, sternly, to a seat.

I wait.

The 12 year old emerges, and collapses onto a chair.

“Are you okay?”, I ask.

“Tired”, is the only word she can muster from her mouth. I give her a piggy-back ride home.

“How did she seem after the massage?”, asks the mum.

“Revitalised”, I say.

Friday, a couple of hours before the exam. The deaf Chinese woman points me, reluctantly, to a seat. She is sick of me.

I wait.

Out comes the 12 year old, shoulders hunched, head hung, limbs loose, eyes red.

“Let’s go”, she says, slurred, lethargic, like a drunkard.

I remind her that she hasn’t put her shoes on.

We trudge in dozy silence, back to the mansion.

Later that evening, as she slouches wearily over her dinner, her hair dangling, tickling the steak, I ask her: “How was the exam?”

“I failed”, she replies, “I was really sleepy. I think it was the massage”.

And I smile, and I hope, beyond hope, that she is state-school bound.

The Male Nanny

Por-NO!

I need a new laptop, but they are expensive. My employers are very wealthy. If the five-year-old were to spill something on my laptop and break it, they would buy me a new one, right?

Right.

I stuff the laptop into my bag, and head to the mansion.

“What’s in your bag?” asks the five-year-old.

“My laptop. I have to send an email”.

I plonk it on the table.

“Would you like a drink?”

“No. Shall we fight on the trampoline?”

“Okay”.

We fight on the trampoline.

“Right, I better send that email. Would you like a drink?”

“No. Shall we play prison?”

“Okay”.

We play prison.

“Right, I really need to send that email now. Would you like a drink?”

“Yes”.

Excellent.

I put a glass of water by the laptop, and begin ‘emailing’. The five-year-old puts the glass to her lips. I gently nudge her elbow. Water cascades down her arm, missing the laptop.

Fuck.

“Idiot”, she says, shaking her head. She puts the drink to her lips once more. I nudge her again, harder. The glass slips from her hand and lands on the floor, missing the laptop.

“What is wrong with you!?”

“Sorry”.

“Nevermind. Football quiz?”

“Okay. Who plays at Anfield?”

“Easy. Liverpool”.

 “Good…”

Dinner-time comes, like always, always. I scream “DINNER!”, shrill and angry. I hate myself a little bit more each time I do it.

The thirteen-year-old doesn’t arrive. I go up to his room. He is sitting on his bed, with my laptop.

“What are you doing with my laptop!?”

“Just transferring some of your porn to my memory stick. You’ve got some great stuff on here”.

The Male Nanny.

XXX-MAS

We tumble into the house, giggling, glove-clad, breathy. We slam the door on the dark and the cold. We are welcomed by the warmth of the mansion.

We work as a team to get the tree into the drawing room. We huff and puff and settle it into its stand. We high-five. We stand back, proud, and assess it. It is beautiful, but bare. It is a shame; we must dress it.

The fourteen year old takes her place at the piano and plays. The housekeeper hands out hot chocolate. “Lovely. Thank you”, I say. I wrap my fingers around it and sip. It warms my chest. Laughter warms my ears. Smiles; my soul. Milky and sweet.

It is a painfully perfect scene. I cannot enjoy it, because it reminds me of what I don’t have. This is the dream that is sold to us. This is the end, the goal. Beyond this, there is nothing.

What if I never get ‘this’?

The fourteen year old begins singing Let It Be. She has a lovely voice that is slightly raspy, owing to lack of use. Only when she is comfortable, and trusting of those within ear-shot, does she sing.

The housekeeper rubs my arm and nods admiringly.

The five year old is playfully decorated by her siblings. She chuckles as they hoist her up, and say she shall be the angel at the top.

Baubles are hung. Tinsel is draped. Home-made snowflakes are balanced.

The love in the room needn’t be hung, nor draped, nor balanced. It lingers, independently - palpable without promotion. Milky and sweet.

As the fourteen year old drifts, seamlessly, into the penultimate bar of Chopin’s nocturne Opus 9, the lights are switched on. Spots of white suddenly stutter within the needles, like wild wakening eyes, deep in the thick fur of a beast.

The piano stops.

The walls gasp.

We take it in.

Glorious.

 

The thirteen year old begins laughing, at odds with the occasion.

“Look”, he says, pointing, “I made dick and bollocks out of two baubles and a twirly thing”.

The Male Nanny

Puzzle

The parents return home at midnight. The mother heads straight upstairs. The dad addresses me:

“Before you go, could you help me with something?”

“Sure”.

I follow him down to the bowels of the building. He is unsteady on his feet and his eyes are bloodshot.

We arrive in the play room, where a massive TV is waiting to be unboxed and mounted.

“How’s life?” he asks, as we lift the TV from its box.

“Good, thanks. How are you doing?”

“Fine. How’s it going with that girlfriend of yours?”

“We broke up.”

We plonk the TV on the table.

“Why?”, he asks

“I think she got bored. Everything eventually bores us, doesn’t it?”

“Not everything, some things last. But people, people, will always end up boring us”.

The TV comes with a stand attached, that needs to be removed. We assess it, looking for where it might be unscrewed. There appear to be no screws.

“One sec”, says the dad.

He returns, sweating, with two hammers. “Let’s just bash it off”.

We begin bashing.

“As I was saying before”, continues the dad, as we dismantle the stand, “It’s easy to get bored of somebody. We become boring when we reveal ourselves, when we remove our mystery. Never do it. That’s my advice to you. Always keep something locked away, off-bounds, and be vague about it. No-one ever loves anyone in their entirety, they like bits of them, so they can construct their own puzzle”.

“Okay”, I nod.

Having removed the stand, we must now mount it to the wall. It takes a few attempts, and some huffing and puffing, but we succeed. It is slightly wonky.

“Good job”, he says, and fumbles for his wallet. He attempts to give me a £50 note.

“No, don’t be silly. See you tomorrow”.

“Very well, goodnight”.

 

The Male Nanny.

Ballet

After ballet, I take the 5 year old to the sweet shop, where she is allowed to choose a small treat. She doesn’t like ballet, prefers rugby, so it is essentially a bribe.

She chooses, as she usually does, a Kinder Egg. She eats it while walking home, in her pink tights and tutu, shoving the chocolate into her face with one hand, clasping the toy in the other.

When we get home, she immediately rushes up to her room. I have noticed this habit before. I follow her up, quietly but swiftly making my ascent. I poke my head around her door.

She carefully removes, from her pocket, a lolly, and places inside a pig puppet. She puts the pig puppet beneath a stack of toys and calls my name.

“What are you up to up here?” I ask, casually, pretending to be out of breath.

“Nothing. Can we play the police game? I’m police, you’re criminal”.

Later, while she is eating dinner, I go up to her room and unearth the pig puppet. It is packed full of sweets. I decide to confront her.

“What are these?”

“My sweets”, she says, with a mouth full of pasta, “Put them back”.

“Where did you get them from?”

“I took them from the shop”.

“You stole them?”

“Took them”.

“Stole them”.

“Took them”.

“You can’t do that”.

“I can”.

“Well, you’re not meant to”.

“Well, you’re not meant to give me Kinder Eggs”.

“Why?”

“It’s meant to be a small treat. Kinder Egg is a big treat”.

“Stop stealing”.

“Stop giving me Kinder Eggs”.

 

The Male Nanny

Rocks

The five year old and I are on our way to the Natural History Museum.

“This is exciting, isn’t it?” I prompt.

“Yeah, I can’t wait to see the rocks”, she replies, sincerely.

“Well, there’s lots of other things to see, like-”

“I want to see the rocks.”

When we arrive, a security man asks to check my bag.

“There’s nothing in there, just sandwiches”, says the five year old.

The man ignores her, plunges his fat fingers in and rummages around.

“See, just sandwiches. Do the zip back up”, she snaps.

The five year old ignores the colossal T-Rex skeleton that dominates the main entrance, and heads straight for the donations deposit. I hand her a ten pence piece. She slips it in at the wrong angle and, rather than spiral down mesmerically, the coin takes an anti-climactic suicidal plunge.

“One more coin”, she pleads.

“I don’t have any more change.”

“You do, you have a two pound coin.”

“How do you know that? Anyway, a two pound coin is not change.”

“It is change.”

“It’s not change.”

“It is change.”

“You know, they have a mechanical dinosaur here that is the size of a bus.”

“Really?” She says, “Show me.”

There is a queue to see the mechanical dinosaur. Camera flashes dance in the distance, teasing us. We can hear the creature roaring, but cannot see it. Other kids in the queue squeal and jump, venting their excitement. Adults tut and push and arrange their necks at weird angles, so that they might catch an early glimpse of the beast. The roaring gets closer as we shuffle eagerly forwards. The camera flashes are now trembling on our skin. We are bathed in blue flickers.

Finally, we are at the front of the queue, and we turn the corner, and we meet it. It is huge. It moves and smells and stomps. It has sharp teeth and menacing eyes and tough-looking skin and, such is it’s resemblance to reality, people stand back when they take its picture. Even its breathing is threatening – heavy and slow and contemplative.

“It’s smaller than a bus”, blurts the 5 year old, tugging me towards the rocks.

The Male Nanny