Confessions of a Babysitter

Ping pong! Ping pong! The tasteful warble of the doorbell announces that the man of destiny has arrived. Perhaps everything will be revealed when I face him. It is at moments like this that one can really tell. I glance into the frosted gilt mirror with the musical notes in one corner of it and see that my neck and shoulders are flushed. Is it the gin or am I more on edge than I care to admit to myself? I wonder whether to do up the buttons of my blouse and end up by undoing another one. Let it all hang out as I believe they say in America. Just because I have scruples, it does not mean that I have to be ashamed of my body.

I pat my hair into place and go out into the hall just as there is a long blast on the chimes. Impetuous Geoffrey! The signs bode well. I throw open the door and am taken aback to find myself face to face with Mr Wilkinson. His eyes travel from mine down to my breasts and then back again.

‘Hi!’ he says. ‘I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you.’ His eyes go back to my breasts again and I raise a nervous hand to my throat.

‘Mr Wilkinson! I wasn’t expecting you for hours.’

‘Just thought I’d nip back and see that everything was all right.’ He takes a deep sniff. ‘Uuuum! That perfume is fantastic. You must tell me what it’s called so I can buy some for my wife.’ He holds my arm lightly and presses his nose to my hair. ‘Whew! I don’t expect it would smell the same on her, though.’

‘Very likely,’ I say. ‘How’s the play going? You don’t want to miss an exciting bit.’

‘I realised I’d seen it,’ says Mr Wilkinson, heading for the lounge with me trailing after him. ‘The minute the curtain went up I said, “I know, the butler does it.” That’s the trouble with having them all on the telly. You’re robbed of any suspense. Drink?’

‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘But won’t your wife be expecting you to be there?’

‘I’ll roll up at the end,’ says Wilkinson, half filling two tumblers with gin. ‘She won’t notice the difference. She doesn’t like me back stage between acts. In fact, to tell you the truth, she doesn’t like me very much anywhere.’

‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘I am sorry.’

‘There’s nothing to be sorry about,’ says Mr Wilkinson. ‘We’re modern people living in a modern world. We respect each other’s freedoms. I don’t mind her theatricals – and all that goes with it – and she doesn’t mind if I have the occasional fling.’

‘That’s – er, probably very sensible,’ I say. Oh dear. It is going to be so embarrassing if Geoffrey suddenly turns up.

‘I think so,’ says Mr Wilkinson shoving a glass into my hand. ‘I mean, let’s face it, you are drawn to people in this life, aren’t you? It doesn’t matter if you’re married or not. People are only human.’

‘Very true,’ I say. Maybe I had better mention Geoffrey. It would be much easier if I did. I wouldn’t feel so guilty. ‘Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘Would you mind if I had my boyfriend here?’

My client’s eyes widen in interest. ‘I see you think about these things too,’ he says. ‘No, I wouldn’t mind. Not as long as you respected the place and tidied up afterwards. I don’t like to find anything that would embarrass the children.’ It occurs to me that Mr Wilkinson might have misunderstood my question but I don’t have time to correct any wrong impressions. ‘Better have a look at the little chaps, hadn’t we?’ he says. ‘Bring your drink.’ I glance at my glass and am surprised to see that I appear to have drunk half of it. Just shows how nervous I am.

‘I’m quite all right,’ I say. ‘Everything’s under control. Don’t feel you have to stay on my account.’

‘You’re a girl it’s very easy to stay with,’ says Mr Wilkinson, taking my arm. ‘I believe we think alike, you and I. If we want something enough, we take it. We don’t hold back.’

Is it my imagination, or do I hear the squeal of brakes outside the house? The last car that Geoffrey owned had very squeaky brakes.

‘Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘I’m worried about your wife – – ’

‘You needn’t be,’ says my client, steering me up the stairs. ‘She hasn’t finished the second act yet. She’ll be out of the way for hours.’

‘I mean, I’m worried about her not having your support.’

‘I don’t wear one. Anyway, what good would it be to her?’ Mr Wilkinson chuckles at his joke and I begin to despair – especially when he marches me into the double bedroom. ‘Ooh!’ he says. ‘That scent. It belongs in the boudoir, it really does, I hardly know how to control myself.’

‘But you must control yourself, Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘Your little children may be stirring restlessly down the corridor.’

‘They sleep like logs once they go off,’ husks my client. ‘Oh, you’re beautiful. I really do fancy you.’ Just in case I do not believe him, he pulls me towards him and attempts a clumsy embrace. Of course, I struggle with every ounce of strength I possess but it is amazing how strong he is. All I succeed in doing is causing us to fall across the bed. ‘That’s better,’ he says. ‘Oh yes. You’re really something.’ I can’t answer because his mouth is suffocating mine like a chloroform pad – or, in Wilkinson’s case, a bathmat soaked in gin. What a terrible moment to feel myself going suddenly dizzy. I should never have bolted back those gins.

Mr Wilkinson is clearly not a man who beats about the bush and one of his hands plunders my panties like a gorilla fumbling in a Christmas pudding for a silver threepenny bit.

‘Mr Wilkinson!’ I exclaim, wrenching my mouth free. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? What about the children?’

‘If you stop wriggling about they won’t hear anything, will they?’

Wilkinson’s words fill me with a new fear. I can just imagine the effect on the deadly duo of seeing me grappling with their father on the family bed. There have already been unfortunate references to Aunty Brenda – whoever she may be. Exposure to such a sight could cause untold psychological damage and possibly affect their whole lives. It might even turn them into sex maniacs – everybody has to start somewhere. In the circumstances, is it fair for me to resist? Could it perhaps be said that I was self-centred if I brought my knee up sharply into Rex Wilkinson’s soft centre? While I ponder these important points I have declared a ceasefire on the resistance front and my client’s fingers take the opportunity to make considerable inroads into that most intimate of garments which a girl may wear to protect her most precious possession. If I don’t make up my mind soon, there will be nothing left to decide except whether to include a service charge on my bill.

‘For the last time, Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘Please stop!’ You can’t be much firmer than that, can you? Not without being rude.

But Mr Wilkinson does not stop. He pushes me back against the bed with his head between my half exposed breasts and begins to make a noise like someone ducking for apples in a vat of treacle. Impulsive is certainly one of the words that springs to mind for his behaviour. Both hands are now gripping my panties and I feel the elastic snap as Wilkinson wrenches them down to my knees. If the children saw this it would be most unfortunate.

‘For the last time – – ’ I gasp.

‘You said that last time.’ Mr Wilkinson kneels upright and pulls my panties over my heels. He tears off his jacket and fumbles with the front of his trousers. Oh dear, I think I know what I am going to see next. Yes. A murderous love truncheon primed for violence. Not long, but thick and ribbed like the fuselage of a model aeroplane kit. Mr Wilkinson launches himself between my legs and I notice that his bow tie has come adrift again. At the moment that must be the least of either of our problems. Every second, my situation becomes more fraught. To resist is to blight two young lives. To surrender is – too late! Mr Wilkinson’s beastly thing has invaded my pelvic pouch. It must be radar-controlled and shows considerable promise as an air-to-ground missile. I close my eyes and try to think of the nice lady who led the children through China. Nothing like this ever happened to her – of course it wouldn’t, being played by Ingrid Bergman. I often wish I was played by Ingrid Bergman. Mr Wilkinson has now exposed my breasts and I can feel his pencil moustache drawing pictures on my nipples. It is quite nice in a disgusting sort of way. Thank goodness I am not responsible for my actions. I would never be able to forgive myself if I was enjoying this in the normal course of events – or perhaps I should say, coarse of events. Thank goodness, also, that I must have been mistaken about Geoffrey. It clearly was not him outside. Not that I would be worried now. After the way Mr Wilkinson has behaved he can hardly grumble about my boyfriend turning up. Perhaps if the doorbell rang it would put an end to my ordeal.

I had thought that Mr Wilkinson was going to be one of those people who comes to the boil quickly – I find that most of the men who attack me are like that. When they are not trying to impress you, they like to get it out of their system as quickly as possible. However, he seems keen on making a meal of it – and I am not only referring to where his naughty moustache is tickling me now. After doing that – it is so awful that I don’t like to think about it, let alone try and describe it – he shuffles forward with his knees between my thighs and positions his gleaming love shaft at the entrance to my deepest dimple. The look in his eyes tells me that release is close for both of us and I am bracing myself for the final onslaught when I hear a board creak outside the bedroom door. Oh no! Don’t say that my sacrifice has been in vain.

‘Did you hear that?’ I whisper.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s funny the way it makes that noise, isn’t it? It must be some kind of air lock.’

‘I didn’t mean that!’ I hiss. ‘There’s someone outside the door.’

Mr Wilkinson stiffens – quite an achievement in his present condition – and cocks his head. ‘One of the kids going to the toilet,’ he says. ‘It’s a good sign. They usually use the wash basin in their room.’ When he says that, I wonder if my sacrifice has been worthwhile. By no stretch of the imagination can Benedict and Courtenay Wilkinson be called nice little boys. Mr Wilkinson is not very nice either. He enters me again and rocks backwards and forwards while still turning his head to one side.

‘I can’t hear the chain,’ I say.

‘You never do with them,’ says my client. ‘Right, stand by for the grandstand finish.’ He slides his hands round my bottom and has just delivered two ferocious thrusts when the sound of the squeaking bedsprings is augmented by a child’s scream. Mr Wilkinson delivers a third thrust that deposits me on the pillow and half scrambles, half falls off the bed. The air is now full of screams and shouts. Mr Wilkinson lets out an exclamation of concern and starts to run towards the bedroom door. His trousers are round his ankles and he trips over and sprawls full length. The door flies open and Geoffrey runs in pursued by Benedict and Courtenay. They are poking at him with swords – not toy ones by the look of it.

‘Rosie!’

That is the last word Geoffrey utters before he trips over Mr Wilkinson and hits his head on one of the bed legs. Courtenay raises his sword.

‘Mind how you stab him,’ says Benedict. ‘You don’t want to hurt Dad.’

I panic and leap off the bed screaming. Whatever happens, I must get out of this madhouse. I run out on to the landing and race down the stairs. Everything is hanging open and I have left my panties behind, but I don’t care. I have got my shoes and I will put them on when I get outside the front door. That very same front door which is now opening before me. An over made-up woman comes in wearing a fur coat and carrying a bunch of flowers. She is flanked by two men and another woman also wearing what I realise is stage make-up. The two men are carrying bottles. Clearly, Mrs Wilkinson and some fellow members of the cast have returned to celebrate at home. The woman I take to be Mrs Wilkinson grits her teeth and takes a menacing step forward.

‘So!’ she hisses. ‘This is what he’s been up to, is it? You dirty little slut!’ She slaps my face and makes a grab for my hair. Quite what would happen next I don’t know because, as I duck and turn, there is a scuffling noise behind me and I see Mr Wilkinson trying to retreat up the stairs. He is holding his trousers up with one hand and looks understandably worried. ‘You dirty rat!’ Mrs Wilkinson grabs a bottle from one of her escorts and charges the stairs. I take my opportunity and slip out of the front door. I have just reached the front gate when I hear the sound of shattering glass and an anguished scream. What a disappointing end to an evening which had started out with so much promise.

CHAPTER 3

‘The door was on the latch, so I came in,’ says Geoffrey.

‘Why didn’t you ring the bell?’ I say. ‘Oh, Geoffrey, you are a fool!’

Geoffrey scratches the bandage round his head and tries to move his leg. It is not easy when it is strung up in front of him on a pulley. ‘I didn’t want to wake the children,’ he says. He starts to laugh and then gives up because it is obviously too painful. The other visitors in the ward stare at him and I help myself to some more grapes to cover my embarrassment.

‘Why didn’t you wait in the lounge?’

‘I thought you might be reading them a bedtime story or something. As it was …’ His voice tails away.

‘Yes,’ I say firmly. ‘There’s no need to go into that. Your thoughtless intervention made a mess of everything. After all I’d gone through to spare those little children. I can’t bear to think of it.’

‘I don’t like thinking about it very much, either,’ says Geoffrey. ‘You know they nearly killed me, don’t you? The consultant said that if the blade had passed a quarter of an inch nearer – – ’

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